Nefarious | review by Douglas J. Ogurek

Possessed, mentally ill, or deceiving? Strong acting propels new twist on serial killer mind games horror/thriller.

Even before Edward Norton’s Oscar-nominated and career-defining performance in Primal Fear (1997), the character suffering (or pretending to suffer) from multiple personality disorder (now called dissociative identity disorder, or DID) has been a means for actors to showcase their versatility. One only has so much capacity for this type of character, and I’m close to being filled up on it. In Nefarious (2023), Sean Patrick Flanery gives it a go as convicted serial killer Edward Wayne Brady and another identity who claims to be a demon. 

A few minutes into the film, directed by Chuck Konzelman and Cary Solomon, I was sceptical. Beyond the DID strategy, here was yet another horror movie whose singular adjective title is a synonym for “bad” or “evil”. Additionally, our protagonist – this time it’s hotshot psychiatrist Dr James Martin (Jordan Belfi) – is about to interview a supposedly brilliant convict. Haven’t we seen this before? 

Martin must determine whether Brady is sane and therefore eligible for execution (at 11 p.m. that night). Otherwise, the serial killer goes back into the system. The warden warns Dr Martin that his interviewee is a master manipulator; could that be why the convict’s previous psychiatrist died?

I assumed that Martin would confront a smooth and eloquent Hannibal Lecter type – I was wrong. Instead, Flanery portrays a stuttering and twitching, albeit sharp inmate claiming to be a demon named Nefarious. Despite the oversaturation in the DID subgenre, Flanery plays the character well. He shifts from the wily provocateur toying with Martin and commenting on the world’s problems to the weepy, helpless victim unable to control the demon.

Thus, Nefarious offers a cocktail of uncertainty: not only do we question whether the self-injurious Brady is truly afflicted with DID, but we also wonder if he is possessed. How and why, for instance, does the demon know certain personal things about Martin? It’s a technique often used in possession stories.

To further draw the viewer into the film’s outcome, the demon tells Martin early on that by the time he leaves that day, the psychiatrist will have killed three people. Belfi is convincing as Martin, though one might question whether a top-tier psychiatrist would so easily lose his composure and allow the demon/convict to get into his head. 

The film also has a classic religious undertone, with the demon frequently mentioning his master and “the enemy”. Moreover, the supposed demon has some discouraging things to say about mankind. In one scene, for example, Martin argues that humanity has evolved and keeps getting more morally advanced. To this the demon laughs and spews back dismaying statistics. 

Although the film’s conclusion, which brings in right-wing political commentator Glenn Beck, feels a little preachy and silly, Nefarious is worth a watch. When the two main characters are in the interview room (the majority of the film) it’s hard not to be entranced by Flanery’s performance. Douglas J. Ogurek ****

Troy | review by Rafe McGregor

Much more than sword and sandal.

The literal meaning of Iliad is ‘poem about a lion’, where the lion is Troy, an ancient city in what is now Çanakkale, a province in northwestern Turkey. The work is attributed to Homer, about whom very little is known except that he was Greek, probably born in the eighth century BCE, and inaugurated European literary heritage with the Iliad and its sequel, the Odyssey, a pair of epic poems about the Trojan War. Bearing in mind that the Iliad comes from an oral rather than written tradition, it was performed in twenty-four divisions of dactylic hexameter, which became twenty-four ‘books’ when it was translated from the Ancient Greek original and written down. There are multiple English translations, some of which are prose and others poems, and multiple adaptations of the narrative into a wide variety of art forms from plays to operettas to graphic novels. Given its epic scope, dramatic intensity, and historical significance, there is a sense in which it is very surprising that there have been only six cinematic adaptations (excluding three television series). The most notable of these are the first, The Fall of Troy (La caduta di Troia, 1911), a short, silent Italian film directed by Giovanni Pastrone and Luigi Romano Borgnettoof; The Fury of Achilles (L’ira di Achille, 1962), an Italian feature film directed by Marino Girolami; and Troy (2004), a Hollywood blockbuster directed by Wolfgang Petersen.

In another sense, however, the lack of cinematic adaptations compared to, for example, films about the Romans, is not so surprising. The Iliad is nearly three thousand years old, narrates events that may or may not have happened four to five hundred years before it was first performed, and depicts a culture that is not only remote from modern Europe but from Classical Greece itself (dated to the fifth and fourth centuries BCE). I remember my bitter disappointment on first reading it, which must have been about thirty years ago: every time there was a bit of excitement (or ‘peril’ as the British Board of Film Classification calls it), one of the gods stepped in and saved the hero from injury or death. In this respect, I found it very similar to contemporary superhero films, where everyone knows none of the protagonists are ever going to die (because Hollywood couldn’t afford it). I was expecting a recognisable narrative in an unrecognisable setting from a remote culture, but the agential element that is so crucial to story as we know it now is almost entirely absent. The actions of the heroes and other characters make almost no difference to the outcome, which is predetermined by the gods and by fate. Petersen, who is best known for The Boat (Das Boot, 1981) and The Never Ending Story (1984), made several very shrewd creative decisions before he began filming.

First, he removed all the divine interventions and all the supernatural elements. Strictly speaking this is a war film set three thousand years ago rather than a fantasy film, like Clash of the Titans (1981, 2010). The gods are, in fact, mocked, by Achilles (played by Brad Pitt) in particular, because although most people have absolute faith in them, they never intervene and battles are won by soldiers rather than priests. Various characters make various prophecies, but they are hit and miss, just like in reality. Petersen also ignored features of Ancient Greek culture that would be confusing for many contemporary audiences (and, sadly, offensive to some), such as bisexuality being the norm and Achilles being both Patroclus’ (played by Garrett Hedlund) lover and the junior partner in the relationship (in spite of his superior skill at arms). The removal of the supernatural elements and the cultural changes mean the film is not very true to the original poem, but it also opens the oldest surviving literary work in Europe to a broad audience and makes for a genuinely epic narrative that is as gripping as it is moving.

I’m not going to say much about the sequence of events of the film here because it follows the Iliad (which takes place in the last few weeks of a ten-year siege) and its precursors quite closely: Agamemnon, the Achaean (Greek) king, is set on conquering as much of the Mediterranean as he can and uses the elopement of Helen (played by Diane Kruger) with Paris (played by Orlando Bloom) as an excuse to invade Troy. The cinematic narrative condenses Helen’s elopement and the decade-long war into a few weeks or months, which is another shrewd choice by Petersen because very little happens in the first nine years of the war in the legend (the reason the Iliad takes place at its end). His version of the Iliad is very much the story of Achilles, who is the world’s greatest warrior but prone to vanity, rage, and an existential ennui that comes with having killed so many men without remorse or regret. There are at least two great aspects of this film as cinematic art, the first of which is casting. Pitt is perfect for the role of Achilles and so is almost everyone else for their own respective roles, from Eric Bana as Hector to Sean Bean as Odysseus, Rose Byrne as Briseis, Peter O’Toole as Priam, and even minor characters, such as Julie Christie as Thetis (Achilles’ mother). The second aspect is the action sequences. From the opening duel between Achilles and Boagrius (played by Nathan Jones) to a Saving-Private-Ryan-style amphibious landing to several large-scale battles and single combats that are either part of those battles or discrete duels, every scene with a sword or a bow is perfectly filmed.

I’d normally worry about over-egging the pudding after writing something like that, but it’s hard to find fault with either the cast or the action, even if you don’t enjoy the film as a whole. Troy is also unique in my experience in that I preferred the theatrical cut to the director’s cut, which was released in 2007 with an extra thirty-three minutes of footage. The Director’s Cut is still a very good film, but I thought the extra half hour slowed the pace too much and part of what I love about Troy is that it is such a lean, lithe narrative, with no scene or even shot wasted. Why the interest now, twenty-two years later? The Odyssey, which is directed by Christopher Nolan, is due for release next month. I must admit to having all sorts of reservations about it, including the casting, particularly but not exclusively Matt Damon as Odysseus. Bean was perfect as the wily warrior whose brain matches Achilles’ brawn, who can fight when he needs to, but prefers to win by guile rather than by strength. I just can’t see Damon bringing this subtlety to the role and what I’ve seen in the trailers hasn’t allayed any fears. Time, and Nolan’s predilection for playing with it, will tell.****           

Star Wars: The Mandalorian and Grogu | review by Stephen Theaker

When I came out of The Mandalorian and Grogu, I said to Mrs Theaker that it was the perfect film for little boys – which is not to say little girls won't enjoy it too. And according to the Hollywood Reporter this was exactly what the exit polling showed – boys under 13 rated it more highly than anyone else. I said that in part for the obvious reasons – the blasters, monsters, spaceships, etc – but also because it's a film about a little boy (albeit a little boy in his fifties) travelling with a man he admires, and learning about honour, duty, ethics and (when needed) fighting.

Some have suggested that the film will baffle those who haven't seen the tv show and its spin-offs (The Book of Boba Fett and Ahsoka) but I think that's an unfounded fear. The only confusion might come from people thinking the Mandalorian is Boba Fett, since they wear very similar armour. He's not, he's a new character, Din Djarin. The film tells you all you need to know – a bounty hunter is hunting bad guys – and in fact it would work very well as a direct sequel to Return of the Jedi.

This film is set shortly after Jedi. The New Republic is a scrappy little upstart, struggling to prevent a resurgence of the Empire. The Mandalorian (voiced and at times played by Pedro Pascal) has been tasked with capturing (ideally) or killing (more likely) former Empire officers who are now setting themselves up as local warlords. It's work that he enjoys and he is good at it, and his orders come directly from Sigourney Weaver (playing a new character, Colonel Ward of the New Republic).

The first part of the film shows how this typically goes: the Mandalorian tracks down his target, then starts killing people and blowing things up until the target is dead. This time it involves running down a hill in a scout trooper and taking on three AT-ATs at once. It's a thrill-a-minute stuff, closer to George Lucas's dream of resurrecting the spirit of the old film serials than Star Wars (the original one) itself.

The rest of the film sees the duo take on a second mission. This one doesn't go quite so smoothly, and isn't as ethically clear-cut. To learn the identity and location of an Imperial bigwig, the New Republic has agreed to help two Hutts, huge slug-like crime lords, to find and rescue Rotta (Jeremy Allen White), their nephew, and the son of Jabba the Hutt. But what if Rotta doesn't want to be found by them – is the intel so important that his feelings don't matter?

One complaint has been that the film is essentially the same as the tv show, which seems unfair, since the show was so cinematic, each episode reportedly having a budget big enough to pay for an entire season of Doctor Who. Like the tv show, The Mandalorian and Grogu is full of spectacle, weird landscapes and alien creatures, and balances that with lots of character moments, not least during a memorable sequence when the Mandalorian is incapacitated and the camera comes down to Grogu's level.

If there's any criticism to be made, it's perhaps that there isn't much progression in the stories of our main duo – we don't learn any more about their origins. Also, it might have been nice to see more of their old allies, like Cara Dune (Gina Carano) and Migs Mayfeld (Bill Burr) – season three was also poorer for their absence. But other old friends make little cameos, and I can't really complain about a Mandalorian and Grogu film focusing on the Mandalorian and Grogu.

An enthusiastic four stars from me. To put it in movie-poster terms, it's a rip-roaring outer-space adventure, fun for all the family. Stephen Theaker ****

The Wish List by Eoin Colfer (Penguin) | review by Douglas J. Ogurek

Battle for a soul: reluctant perpetrator reunited with victim in touching young adult novel that examines resentment, vengeance, friendship, and the relationship between young and old.

A teen fantasy tale bursting with creativity, The Wish List introduces a world in which Satan commands his number two, Beelzebub – or “Bub” as the dark lord calls him – to capture the soul of 14-year-old Meg Finn after she dies following a botched robbery. Meg’s mother is dead, and the devil is particularly interested in Meg because of something awful she did to her ne’er-do-well stepfather. 

In this domain, dead people have auras: blue if they’re good and red if they’re bad. Meg’s happens to be purple. 

After the explosion, Meg’s unsavoury co-conspirator Belch gets merged with his pit bull and goes straight to hell. Meg, however, gets another chance on Earth, where she decides to help Lowrie McCall (the pensioner they tried to rob) fulfil four long-held wishes ranging from reclaiming lost opportunities to seeking vengeance on those who’ve wronged him. 

Beelzebub enlists the now-dead 16-year-old Belch to stop Meg from helping Lowrie (and therefore doing good). A computer whizz named Myishi uses an often-annoying holographic demon to accompany and advise Belch. If Beelzebub and Belch stop Meg from doing good, she goes to hell; if they don’t, they’re going to be in hot water. 

While the structure of the novel is familiar, the creativity of the setting and the coming together of two flawed and initially antagonistic protagonists earn the reader’s buy-in. Eoin Colfer’s version of hell and its denizens is entertaining. Satan and Beelzebub nonchalantly dole out punishments. The latter even has a direct line to Saint Peter, from whom he attempts to extract information about Meg. Interestingly, whereas the bad guys are pursuing Meg, the good guys are mostly detached and letting her do her own thing.

Additionally, the omniscient point of view in which the author flips between characters’ thoughts in the same scene works. Meg’s ability to get into Lowrie’s head to see his past or invite him into hers paves the way for extended backstory scenes that help the protagonists sympathise with one another because they’ve both been through some difficult times. 

The Wish List offers an experience where reinvented biblical characters engage in captivating contemporary dialogue, technology has made its way into hell, an act of love can embody God and banish evil from the room, and old and young can learn from each other. And it all leads to a poignant ending that uses an unexpected sensory impression to tug at the heartstrings. Douglas J. Ogurek ****

Mr. Tilling’s Basement & Other Stories by Edward Lee (Deadite Press) | review by Douglas J. Ogurek

Old pervs collide with young floozies in extreme horror collection that considers aging and self-perception amid gratuitous sex and violence

Holding back? Not here. Subtlety? Nah. Leaving sexual encounters or violence to the reader’s imagination? Read something else!

One of the four tales in Edward Lee’s Mr. Tilling’s Basement & Other Stories describes a painting that depicts spectator benches surrounding a hellish landscape where people are being tortured in the most gruesome ways. This collection gives readers a seat on one of those benches. 

Several stories involve nubile young women who are not only willing but also eager to have intercourse with an older, and in some cases, physically unattractive man. What distinguishes this from pornography is that Lee provides a reason why these women are so aggressive. And it’s usually a duplicitous one.  

In the titular story, college professor Herman Tilling takes over the dilapidated home of a man suffering from dementia. A potty-mouthed albeit beautiful Native American woman shows up and reveals that there is some secret associated with the basement — it involves cryptic text, smoking herbs, and an incantation. Throughout, Tilling remains focused on the woman’s physical endowments such as her thin stomach (and other traits). 

At one point, Lee throws plot out the window and moves from one brutal scene to the next, but with its inventive torture scenes and wordplay, the story entertains. Moreover, the work explores aging: an academic past his prime questions his self-worth and his authority as a bearer of knowledge when this young woman (whom he can’t help but sexualize) suggests his entire way of thinking is flawed. 

The reclusive older male protagonist in “The Night-Sitter” also encounters a sexually aggressive young woman. This time, it’s a webcammer who is staying up at night to keep an eye and ear out for any oddities. Seeing him as a cash cow, she’s more than willing to indulge his fantasies, but he doesn’t want that. Once again, we’re taken to a place where horrific things are described in vivid detail. 

Part history book and part slasher, “An American Tourist in Poland” is about a horny, overweight man. The unnamed narrator, an acquaintance of Mr. Foster Morley (also referred to as “our protagonist”) recounts the horrific thing that happened to Morley during his second trip to Poland, a trip fuelled by both cultural curiosity and lust. One fascinating aspect of this story is its strange juxtapositions. The style and vocabulary, for instance, feel like it was written a hundred years ago. Old-fashioned words such as “balderdash” and “gads” mingle with vulgarities. Geographic landmarks and historic events coexist with graphic depictions of violence in everything from tapestries to snuff films. Morley’s appreciation of Poland’s architectural highlights competes with his focus on women’s breasts and genitals. 

The final and much shorter story, “The Statement of Sgt. Justin Jessop of the Innsmouth Police Department”, is clearly influenced by H.P. Lovecraft’s Cthulhu mythos. Somebody is interviewing a police sergeant about the horrific incident that he experienced. It has to do with cosmic creatures and because this is Lee, there’s a sexual component. It all started when the sergeant saw a legless guy dragging himself across a field… 

I once heard Lee, the godfather of extreme horror, state that extreme horror stories, with their over-the-top violence and debauchery, are supposed to be humorous. And in this case, they are. 

Sometimes, when the Kindle shows I have an hour left in a story, I dread it and just want to get it over with. In the case of Mr. Tilling’s Basement & Other Stories, I was glad when I had an hour left. 

What makes Lee’s work so compelling is his ability to keep the reader wondering: what hellscape awaits within that closet… or in that basement… or on that SD card? Whatever it is, it’s going to be grisly and imaginative, for there is no hellscape like that depicted by Edward Lee. Douglas J. Ogurek ****

Mad Max: Fury Road | review by Rafe McGregor

Heavy with metal, heavy with meaning

Douglas J. Ogurek’s excellent review of George Miller’s Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (2024) reminded me that I’d been planning to review its sequel, Fury Road, ever since using it as an example in my short essay, The World Ecology of Climate Change Cinema, in 2023. So here it is, three (or eleven) years late…Mad Max: Fury Road (2015) is the fourth instalment in the Mad Max film franchise, following Mad Max (1979), Mad Max 2 (1981), and Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (1985). All four of the films are directed by George Miller (the third in partnership with George Ogilvie), set in Australia, and follow the eponymous protagonist, Max Rockatansky (played by Mel Gibson in the first three and Tom Hardy in the fourth).

Mad Max introduces Max as a police officer in Victoria’s Main Force Patrol in a dystopian future ‘A FEW YEARS FROM NOW’ and pits him against a particularly vicious motorcycle gang. Mad Max 2, which was released as The Road Warrior in the US (after Max’s nom de guerre), opens with a narrated introduction that establishes the context of the original as the collapse of global civilisation in the aftermath of a Third World War in which nuclear weaponry was deployed. The sequel is set in a post-apocalyptic Australia in which isolated communities and marauding gangs compete for the remaining fossil fuel, the production of which was destroyed in the war. Although the police no longer exist, Max fulfils a similar function in Mad Max 2 and Beyond Thunderdome, highway patrol replaced by cross-country driving as he protects the weak from death and slavery at the hands of the marauders.

Fury Road also opens with a voiceover, which concludes with Max stating: ‘Once, I was a cop, a road warrior searching for a righteous cause. As the world fell, each of us in our own way was broken. It was hard to know who was more crazy…me or everyone else.’ The voices interrupting Max suggest that the Earth can no longer support human life and that human life has become half-life, i.e. subject to radioactive decay, which is evinced by the majority of the characters in the narrative, who appear diseased, deformed, or disabled. The global ecological collapse is mirrored in Max as an individual, his psychological breakdown involving a paradoxical combination of obsession with those he failed to save and paranoia that everyone intends him harm. He is thus no longer the road warrior defending prey from predator, but a solitary scavenger haunted by failure.

Fury Road is 113 minutes from opening to closing credits and has the five-act structure characteristic of Hollywood blockbusters: exposition, complication, climax, crisis, and resolution. The exposition and resolution are brief (seventeen and seven minutes respectively) and the three acts that constitute the bulk of the film all involve an extended motor vehicle chase across the Wasteland, putting Fury Road very firmly in the action thriller genre. The exposition introduces Max, the despot Immortan Joe (played by Hugh Keays-Byrne), and Joe’s War Boys, the most capable of whom is Imperator Furiosa (played by Charlize Theron). The complication begins when Joe realises that Furiosa has rescued his Five Wives from sexual slavery in the Citadel and sets off in pursuit, with Max (who was captured earlier) being used as a living blood bag for Nux (played by Nicholas Hoult), an ailing War Boy. Furiosa and Max meet and flee together while remaining mutually hostile. The climax begins when the two join forces (48 minutes in to the film) and ends with Max convincing Furiosa that she must reverse the chase, charge the War Boys and their allies, and take control of the Citadel. The crisis is a prolonged battle between the two groups and the resolution depicts…well, I won’t spoil the ending just in case anyone reading this hasn’t seen it yet.

As such, the plot of Fury Road seems straightforward, moving from an inaugural condition in which Furiosa flees from the Citadel to her acceptance of Max as an ally to a retrospectively inevitable condition in which she and Max fight Joe and the War Boys. The superficial narrative is, however, enriched by an alternating focus on the two protagonists. The title of the film and its place in the Mad Max franchise suggest that it is primarily about Max, like the three prequels, and the exposition follows suit, concentrating on his capture, attempted escape, and enslavement as Nux’s blood bag. The complication changes direction, however, suggesting that the narrative’s exploration of women’s emancipation in the face of hegemonic masculinity is of much more significance. The clash between female liberation and male supremacism – represented by the conflict between Furiosa and the Wives on the one hand and Joe and the War Boys on the other – leaves little room for Max, who is neither female nor a War Boy. This exploration continues to take centre stage through the climax and it is not until the crisis, when Max leads a motley band of women against the combined forces of the Citadel, Gas Town, and the Bullet Farm, that his importance once again rivals Furiosa’s.

The narrative tension between Max and Furiosa, the question of whose story matters the most, is successfully resolved in the conclusion. Fury Road – or Furiosa’s road – is really about Furiosa and her struggle to free the oppressed in the Citadel. While Max’s role in the represented sequence of events is less significant than Furiosa’s, the role of those events in the franchise is crucial to Max in that it restores him to his former status of road warrior and, in so doing, facilitates a future continuation of the franchise. Screenwriter Nick Lathouris describes this development in thematic terms, as Fury Road being ‘about a man running away from his better self, and his better self catches up to him’. He’s right, of course, but only in part because if Furiosa is the first Mad Max film without Max (cameo appearance excepted), then Fury Road is the first Mad Max film where he is displaced as the protagonist. This is her story and that story is a perfect blend of high-speed action and abundant allegorical depth.****

Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga | review by Douglas J. Ogurek

Basic plot, basic tech, sophisticated filmmaking 

A girl gets kidnapped by desert-dwelling motorcycle thugs. They kill a loved one. The girl sets out to exact vengeance on their leader without revealing her utopian homeland. There’s the plot of Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga, the 2024 prequel to Mad Max: Fury Road (2015). We’ll leave the rest of the details to the film nerds.

Furiosa reveals the protagonist’s early ingenuity, how she gets involved with Immortan Joe (a villain from previous installations), and even how she lost her arm – it makes sense given the tenacity of her character. 

The guzzoline that drives the film is the beautifully choreographed action sequences. Most memorable is the scene during which Furiosa (Anya Taylor-Joy) joins part father figure/part potential lover Praetorian Jack (Tom Burke) on a “war rig” – it looks like a giant gasoline truck – headed to Bullet Town to collect ammunition. The “war boys” stationed throughout the vehicle use a variety of weaponry (including their own bodies) to fight off a motorcycle hoodlum cavalcade. Thanks to the giant fans attached to their backs, some of the enemy can take flight and attack from above while still connected via cords to the cyclists on the ground. Attackers enter the fray in sequence, like dancers coming onto a stage.

With its desert setting, accelerated movements, distinctive vocabulary, and unrestrained characters – Immortan Joe’s bumbling and adrenaline-fueled sons Rictus Erectus and Scabrous Scrotus are prime examples – the film stays true to the Mad Max brand. Moreover, it retains the visual splendour of its predecessor. Hit the pause button at any point and there’s a good chance you’re looking at an image iconic enough to decorate a movie poster. And for evidence of writer/director George Miller’s focus on details, look to the scenes embossed in the metal of the war rig. 

While casting Taylor-Joy as Furiosa is like using a Lamborghini to deliver pizzas — the heroine does not have much of an emotional range — placing Chris Hemsworth in the role of Dementus proves a strong choice. From his big movements to his vocalizations, Hemsworth delivers as a chatty (but not annoying) and power-hungry villain who all but steals the show. When the dirty-faced antagonist, with his teddy bear, tarp-like cape, and unHemsworthian teeth and nose, comes onto the scene, the viewer tunes in. 

Another fascinating aspect of Furiosa is the creative use of basic technologies. Dementus’s chariot, for instance, is drawn by a pair of driverless motorcycles that he controls with attached ropes. And when he addresses an elevated Immortan Joe and comrades from the desert floor, Dementus uses a grimy microphone. Well worth the watch. Douglas J. Ogurek****

Hemlock Grove: A Novel by Brian McGreevy (FSG Originals) | review by Douglas J. Ogurek

Cheap beer in a crystal glass: gifted slackers from different sides of the tracks hunt for a monster.

Two high school senior boys, one a werewolf and the other a vampire, team up to hunt a thrill kill werewolf whose victims are girls. It sounds like another famous vampire/werewolf teen duo, but these two are slackers who bumble around and get into trouble with the law. Gypsy Peter Rumancek lives in a trailer with his pot-smoking mom, and “walking god complex” and human roofie Roman Godfrey, heir to a massive steel mill fortune, lives in a palatial home. They both think the other could be the murderer, so they start a quest to figure out who really is. 

Roman’s sexy mother Olivia has sustained a decades-long affair with her deceased husband’s married brother Norman Godfrey, a psychiatrist at Hemlock Acres Hospital. Peter’s girlfriend Letha, also Godfrey’s daughter, claims she’s been impregnated through divine intervention. Then there’s Shelley, Roman’s seven-foot-five-inch sister who wears boots that resemble milk crates. She is mute and born with physical differences but by no means stupid. Also, she tends to glow. Shelley will come to have a critical role later in the book. 

Dr Pryce is the slick and soulless director of the Godfrey Institute for Biomedical Technologies, also known as the White Tower. He’s involved in something called Project Ouroboros – an ouroboros, by the way, is a symbol of a snake eating its own tail. 

What makes Hemlock Grove so unique is that author Brian McGreevy gives an intense literary treatment to teenybopper subject matter. The result is at times brilliant and at others maddening. Some scenes are highly entertaining: Peter’s recollection of encountering some vampires, for instance, or Roman’s taking over the minds of police officers referred to as “Nose” and “Neck”. And the novel features one of the best werewolf transformation scenes this reviewer has read.

On the other claw, McGreevy gets carried away with elevated language. Doing so may have been permissible and even welcomed at the advent of the monster genre, but this has been done thousands of times since then. Maybe we don’t need to take that subject matter that seriously any more. Examples of other distracting elements include a character reading poetry, a character thinking what it would be like to have a female’s hand on his face, and tangents aplenty. 

As the dispassionate duo attempts to solve the mystery, the story flaps along like a fish taken out of water. Still, despite the showboat sentences and extravagant vocabulary, it can be captivating. 

Hemlock Grove keeps the reader in a semi-haze, which may be intentional. Material is delivered in a variety of formats: traditional third-person narration, erudite emails from Shelley, newspaper articles, psychiatric transcripts, dictation of an autobiography. Also interesting is how Roman treats his sister: always patient and loving… and woe to those who would do her harm. 

Another thing I like: sometimes when one character poses a question to another character, that other character doesn’t respond or ignores the question and moves to another subject. That’s some Seinfeld-level authenticity.

The subject matter is immature and not earth-shattering. Even back in 2012, this stuff had already been done before, but the way the story is told… it’s like putting common beer in an expensive crystal class. Not saying that’s a bad thing. Douglas J. Ogurek ****

Kindle Scribe (2024 Release, 64GB) | review by Stephen Theaker

I always regretted not buying the Kindle DX, for its big e-ink screen, so when the Kindle Scribe came out I was tempted. But I already had a Boox Note 2 (“BN2”), which does all the same things and much more besides, being an Android e-ink tablet rather than just an ereader. So I didn’t buy a Scribe until its second edition came along, it was on sale, and I was offered a substantial discount in return for trading in my Kindle Oasis. The Oasis was nice to read on in summer, but it got too cold on winter nights, so off it went.

The most important aspect of any ereader is the screen, and the clarity of text, and on the Scribe text looks pristine at larger sizes, backlight on or off, and also at smaller sizes in two columns to create a more bookish reading experience. Comics look terrific too, especially if you pick out a black-and-white book with nice square panels, or with a small enough page size to be readable a page at a time. I’ve read dozens of manga books this year as a direct result (the highlights have been Nina the Starry Bride, Witch Hat Atelier and Space Brothers).

Dead Scalp by Jasper Bark (Crystal Lake Publishing) | review by Stephen Theaker

James Briggs is on the lam, with most of Arizona on his tail, and Mexico is out of reach. But he’s heard about a portal to a magical place where the law can’t reach. So he slices up a rabbit, takes a running jump at a portal, and after a bit of argy-bargy hands over the price of entry to a pair of bearded thugs: Clem and Bart. Clem has been in Dead Scalp forty years, though he looks about thirty. No one ages here, and they don’t get sick, but they can be killed, and the only thing that grows here is hair.

To make up for bashing Bart, James has to do some work for Bill Baldwin, the boss of Dead Scalp. He’s a real villain, a slave-owner who has had children murdered, and women kidnapped from the outside world to be raped in the town brothel. He is brutal with his punishments for those who step out of line, and the worst of these punishments is called “ingrowing”. There’s a reason all the men in town have beards: something terrible happens when they shave, or when Bill shaves them.

A Head Full of Ghosts by Paul Tremblay (William Morrow Paperbacks) | review by Douglas J. Ogurek

Questioning possession: inventive novel swerves horror trope in new direction. 

While getting accustomed to Paul Tremblay’s Bram Stoker Award-winning A Head Full of Ghosts, I kept asking myself: do I like this, or don’t I? The more I read, though, the more I moved towards the “like this” option. 

Like many Tremblay novels, this one takes a common horror subject – this time it’s possession – and gives it a twist. A Head Full of Ghosts swerves from the expected, steps back, and, in a way, explores what a possession story is. It starts silly with young sisters Meredith (Merry) and Marjorie telling each other stories about molasses floods or things growing in their house, but the book gradually reels the reader in as things start to go wrong in the Barrett family’s Massachusetts home. 

The story hinges on the question of whether Marjorie is possessed or mentally ill. When the girls’ father John loses his job and has trouble finding another, he turns to prayer and becomes a religious zealot. To alleviate their growing financial difficulties, the Barretts become the subjects of a reality show called The Possession. A film documents the family and especially Marjorie, the one who claims to have the ghosts in her head. 

As the novel builds towards an exorcism event, Tremblay plays with opposites (e.g. cold and hot, fiction and nonfiction) to suspend the uncertainty. Father Waverly, the aptly named priest involved with the family, talks about the financial gain coming from the TV show. And fourteen-year-old Marjorie seems to enjoy the limelight. Perhaps this is all a moneymaking and/or an attention-getting scheme. But then again, how is Marjorie accessing the knowledge that she confidently spews at the priest? What are these strange things happening in her room? She could just be a precocious kid, or maybe there’s something else going on. 

Tremblay also flips around in time and narrative format. While much of the story plays out through the perspective of eight-year-old Merry, the novel also contains passages in which a woman planning to write a tell-all book interviews a twenty-three-year-old Merry to get her side of what happened on the show. Additionally, excerpts from The Final Last Girl blog reinforce the ambiguity of the situation. Blogger Karen Brissette, writing fifteen years after the show, rips it apart, commenting on its amateur cast, lewd imagery and clichés. She references everything from The Exorcist and Lolita to more recent works like The Ring and a “lukewarm parade of possession movies” from the 2000s. The blog is most interesting when its chatty author breaks down scenes from the show. Some readers might not like getting pulled out of the story for this deconstruction. I happened to enjoy it. 

Beyond a possession novel, A Head Full of Ghosts comments on contemporary media and art and their ability to manipulate actors and yes, even readers and viewers. Typically, revisiting worn-out horror tropes would be anathema to good storytelling, but in Tremblay’s hands, everything you’ve come to expect moves in a new direction. Douglas J. Ogurek ****

The Creator by Aliya Whiteley (NewCon Press) | review by Stephen Theaker

Phillip Corbus is an artist, a profession which suits him because post-war headaches make it difficult for him to work in a sustained way in other jobs. His father Thomas was a famous adventurer and inventor, and his brother Reynolds became an inventor too. He created the ThinkBulb, which can be built into the structure of rooms – such as his basement laboratory – and supposedly helps people to think better. He’s now working on a new project, Ceredex.

Phillip is very fond of his lonely sister-in-law, Patricia – he tells us that this is her story. She dotes on her husband Reynolds, but he emerges from the lab infrequently, leaving her to raise their son Buckingham (Bucky for short) mostly on her own. In the summer of 1958, when Bucky is just seven years old, Patricia phones Phillip to say that Reynolds has committed suicide. But there’s rather more to the story than that, as the lack of a body suggests.

I think this is essentially a novella about envy, and the grass looking greener through a jaundiced eye. Phillip quietly envies his brother’s marriage, and is frustrated to see it so neglected. Reynolds, despite his own achievements, envies his brother’s artistic creativity, and seeks to artificially unlock similar talents within himself. He lets his frustration at being unable to create great art ruin his life, never understanding the joy of creating a work of art, even if it’s bad.

This novella is the third book I’ve read by Aliya Whiteley, after The Beauty and Three One Eight, and although it couldn’t be more different from them in plot and setting and tone, it’s of a similarly high quality, thoughtful and thematically rich. Cyril Connolly described the pram in the hall as the enemy of good art; The Creator reminds us that there’s a person in the pram, and asks if art is worth sacrificing his or her happiness.

The book is part of the 2025 NP Novella series, and so it is available in paperback and in a signed and numbered hardback direct from the publisher, while the ebook is available to buy on Kindle, and Kindle Unlimited subscribers can read it for free. I recommend that they do. The reader may be unhappy that it leads to such a strange, dark place, but it’s an ending that sticks with you long afterwards, and feels inevitable when you look back. ****

Game of Thrones | review by Rafe McGregor

Game of Thrones, HBO, 8 seasons, April 2011-May 2019, £9.99 (monthly subscription rate)

Fantasy at its finest.

I’ve been wanting to write about HBO’s Game of Thrones (2011–2019) for a while now, but kept putting off what seemed like a mammoth task. I came to the series late, somehow insulating myself from all the hype for nearly a decade. Then COVID-19 arrived and (like many people, I later learned) it seemed the perfect time to tackle all 73 episodes (which run to just over 70 hours in total). I watched it on my own during the first lockdown, then with my wife, and then we watched it together again during the second lockdown. I had heard, as one does, that GOT was yet another case of diminishing returns and that fans were particularly outraged at the final season. The former accusation is complete nonsense and the final season was just as good as the rest and even better than some. One of the reasons for its poor reception may have been the slightly longer wait (two years instead of one) creating unreasonable expectations. Another is probably the fact that the television series had overtaken the novels on which it was based, George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire (five of seven novels published from 1996 to 2011, the rest as yet unpublished), and readers were dissatisfied with the direction it had taken. Which is fine…but no one is forcing you to watch the series and personally I sometimes avoid cinematic or televisual adaptations if I really love a novel or series of novels. The only justified accusation of anticlimax is that there is a Lord of the Rings-like sense in which the biggest and most desperate battle takes place before the final battle, but the final battle is between the protagonists and the antagonist so the narrative is perfectly in keeping with what we expect (and, indeed, desire) as audiences. To stay with LOTR for a moment, I loved both the films and the books, but read and watched them as two separate works rather than expecting the latter to slavishly imitate the former and I recommend the same approach to GOT. (I read Martin’s novels after watching the series and enjoyed them too, but they are very different.) On the point of giving audiences what we desire, two of the great triumphs of GOT are the way in which it both deploys and undermines the mythic mode of storytelling (which has been the Hollywood norm for the last fifty years) and combines that mode with a rich architecture of allegorical meaning.

GOT is an incredibly complex narrative with a multiplicity of interwoven plotlines, all of which revolve around the struggle among the Houses of Lannister, Stark, and Targaryen for the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros. The plotlines involve hundreds of characters, dozens of main characters, eight great noble houses in addition to the pivotal three (Arryn, Baratheon, Bolton, Frey, Greyjoy, Martell, Tyrell, and Tully), and at least eight leading characters. The leading characters are an older generation of three Lannisters (Cersei, Tyrion, and Jamie), a younger generation of four Starks (Jon, Sansa, Arya, and Bran), and Daenerys Targaryen (played by Emilia Clarke). These leads can be distilled to two protagonists and an antagonist, one from each house, as follows: Jon Snow (played by Kit Harrington) from House Stark, Daenerys, and Cersei Lannister (the antagonist, played by Lena Headey). Each of the 73 episodes runs from 50 to 82 minutes and they are distributed across the seasons as follows: 1-10 (Season 1, 2011), 11-20 (Season 2, 2012), 21-30 (Season 3, 2013), 31-40 (Season 4, 2014), 41-50 (Season 5, 2015), 51-60 (Season 6, 2016), 61-67 (Season 7, 2017), and 68-73 (Season 8, 2019). The series also employs the five-act structure popularised by Shakespeare, although the acts do not follow the series exactly. Having watch it four times now, I’d say the overarching narrative goes something like this: exposition (episodes 1-9), complication (episodes 10-29), climax (episodes 30-50), crisis (episodes 51-67), and resolution (episodes 68-73).

In addition to following this structure, the overarching narrative is structured as what the late Fredric Jameson calls a ‘genuine allegory’, which I first mentioned in TQF when reviewing another television series, Amazon Studios’ Carnival Row (2018; there’s a review of the second and final season here). Genuine allegories have four distinct levels of meaning that combine in interesting and sometimes unique ways to provide audiences with especially memorable and meaningful experiences (and are well-suited to the television series because of the length of the form). The literal level of meaning of GOT is revealed in the title, the deadly game played by the Houses of Lannister, Stark, and Targaryen – as well as the other eight – for the Iron Throne, which bears the weight of many a different noble bottom as the seasons progress. The symbolic level is the Night King (played by first Richard Brake and then Vladimír Furdík), his army, and his winter as transparently representative of climate change. Significantly, the first episode of the series is titled ‘Winter is Coming’ and it is an oft-repeated phrase used by the inhabitants of Westeros to refer to a particularly lengthy cold season that occurs across the continent on an intermittent basis. At the existential level of meaning, GOT appears to establish a fairly simple moral axis, with Cersei almost completely selfish and vicious, Jon almost completely selfless and virtuous, and Daenerys somewhere in between, for the most part well-intentioned but prone to egotism and hubris. Given that Jon has no desire to rule the Seven Kingdoms, the Kingdom of the North, or even the Night’s Watch, it is Daenerys and Cersei’s constructions of subjectivity that drive the overarching plot, in a particular and peculiar play of difference and identity that draws attention to sexual violence, femicide, and systemic sexism. The anthropic level is primarily concerned with the relationships among the three levels of war that threaten to destroy the Seven Kingdoms. The micro level is the internecine conflicts within individual kingdoms or noble houses, such as Stannis Baratheon’s (played by Stephen Dillane) wars against first his brother and then his nephew. The meso level is the conflict among the Lannisters, Starks, and Targaryens and the macro level the war between the living and the dead, between the armies of Westeros and Essos (the continent to the east of Westeros) and the Army of the Dead. This is the only war worth fighting and quite obviously the most momentous, but it is the war that the noble houses are the most reluctant to fight, content to dismiss the Night King as a legend and to believe that the imminent winter is natural rather than supernatural.

GOT is, as my brief summary suggests, an incredibly complex narrative consisting of layer upon layer of plots, meanings, protagonists, characters, and conflicts, all of which are eventually – and masterfully – tied together in a resolution as rewarding as it seems retrospectively inevitable. While the combination of myth and allegory is, as already mentioned, exemplary, my particular fascination with the series is the way in which it succeeds in replicating rather than representing the experience of living through an – or perhaps the – apocalypse. In his long essay, Capitalist Realism: Is There No Alternative? (2022), Mark Fisher discusses one of the few other narrative fictions to achieve the same end: ‘The catastrophe in Children of Men is neither waiting down the road, nor has it already happened. Rather, it is being lived through. There is no punctual moment of disaster; the world doesn’t end with a bang, it winks out, unravels, gradually falls apart.’ As T.S. Eliot wrote before him (influenced by if not explicitly reflecting on the mass destruction of World War I) in ‘The Hollow Men’ (1925), ‘This is the way the world ends, This is the way the world ends, This is the way the world ends, Not with a bang but a whimper.’ For all the fire and ice in GOT, deadly dragons and unstoppable undead, humanity is petering out slowly, person by person, most by starvation and disease rather than blade or bow. It is, another words, a world very much like our own, where humanity faces existential threats from multi-polar conflicts, artificial intelligence, and climate change that most of us are able to ignore most of the time. I have only had such an experience twice before, with Octavia Butler’s Earthseed series, which consists of the novels Parable of the Sower (1993) and Parable of the Talents (1998) (about which I wrote here) and with Alfonso Cuarón’s feature film, Children of Men (2006). Read and watch them all: I guarantee you won’t be disappointed and you might just find them resonating with you in the same way I did. ****

Haunted House by J.A. Konrath (independently published) | review by Douglas J. Ogurek

Figging and maniacal ghosts: horror/thriller uses well-developed characters and strong plotting to bring life to haunted house trope.

Everybody knows that you don’t go to Butler House, a supposedly haunted mansion on a former slave plantation in South Carolina. It’s also the perfect setting for a fear experiment conducted by Dr. Forenzi. Haunted House, the sixth twisty instalment in The Konrath Dark Thriller Collective, brings together characters from throughout the country (and from the previous books). Each of them is offered a monetary award plus a bonus in exchange for participating in the experiment: the alcoholic mother will get reunited with her child, the disgraced molecular biologist will get his old research job back and so on. All of it seems a bit shady. 

Konrath effectively delays conflict by building suspense as he delves into characters’ backstories and problems to align the reader with them. The novel also explores the history of Butler House and how its sadistic owners psychologically and physically tortured slaves. Additionally, each fear experiment participant has already faced a hellish ordeal ranging from being locked in a basement with a maniac to being trapped on an island with a cannibal who files his teeth. You’re with these characters, and you want them to escape. 

When the key players arrive at Butler House, they encounter other, more typical horror characters: a skeptical author, a specialist in debunking paranormal phenomena, and of course, a medium. They also meet the boisterous prostitute-turned-dominatrix call girl Moni, a major source of comic relief. Participants are allowed to bring one weapon; Moni brings a plunger full of heroin. She repeatedly refers to something called “figging” that she does with her male clientele. Konrath plays with the reader by withholding the definition of this term – can you resist looking it up until the novel ends?

The participants find themselves in a 13 Ghosts type of environment, with the spirits from the house’s sordid past supposedly rising up to terrorize them. A giggling, bare-chested guy who wears a gas mask, smells like meat and enjoys cutting himself with a cleaver. A slave driver who uses a whip and has a patch over one eye. A vengeful slave with four arms stemming from a Civil War-era experiment. Konrath keeps the reader wondering: is what is happening real, or is it a trick to frighten the subjects? The dangers escalate, and the prospect of escape decreases. All the while, the reader roots for the underdogs. 

The cop Mankowski seems the most grounded of the characters. In one scene, there’s a fascinating interaction with a serial killer in prison. The killer relishes telling Mankowski the awful things he’s done to his victims. 

A group of strangers getting trapped in a threatening environment has been done many times but rarely so entertainingly. Douglas J. Ogurek ****

The Gingerbread Girl by Stephen King (Simon & Schuster Audio) | review by Douglas J. Ogurek

Novella mixes grieving mother with giddy maniac and turns up the heat.

Emily, whose relationship with her husband has soured after the loss of a child, travels to her father’s beachside residence on the fictitious island of Vermillion Key, Florida. She takes up running – a near obsession that will play into the story later – with hopes of healing. Soon, however, a murderous brute will engage Em in an extended cat and mouse chase.

Em first learns about villain Jim Pickering from a friend of her father’s. Each year, she is informed, the wealthy tech guy arrives in his red Mercedes and brings a young, attractive “niece” (eyeroll) to his place. At the end of their stay, they leave via boat. 

Because The Gingerbread Girl is a novella, King acts quickly. Thus, this isn’t the typical scenario in which a gullible female falls for a dapper gent who eventually turns on her. Pickering is bad news from the start. Thus, Em gets drawn into the villain’s clutches not through his charm but rather by witnessing something he doesn’t want her to see. The story then sprints along at an exhilarating pace. Survival for Em means leveraging her strengths and her pursuer’s weaknesses. 

Mare Winningham’s audiobook narration endows Pickering with a cheerful bordering on giddy – listen for the yapping laugh – disposition. He finds unpleasant things funny, talks to himself, and has zero concern for Em.

Despite his story’s fairy tale-inspired title and straightforward narrative, King manages to inject depth into the work. Yes, Em is fleeing a madman, but she’s also trying to run away from her pain. Perhaps Pickering is even an embodiment of that pain, a pain that must be confronted to be overcome. Will the Gingerbread Girl crumble? Or will she prove herself a tough cookie? Douglas J. Ogurek ****

Sole Survivor (Bantam) by Dean Koontz

An entertaining read… if you can survive the onslaught of details.

A year after his wife and two daughters are killed in an airplane crash, LA crime reporter Joe Carpenter has all but given up. But then, while visiting the cemetery on the one-year anniversary of their deaths, he encounters a mysterious woman who claims to have survived that flight. She then disappears. 

After a series of strange events, Carpenter sets out to find this Dr Rose Turner, who seems to have some knowledge that will help him (and quite possibly change the course of the world). But others with more malicious intents are after her as well. 

Carpenter begins to question things: Was the crash due to a mechanical error? Or were there deeper, more nefarious forces at work? The danger intensifies as he gets closer to an answer. He will encounter beachfront cultists, a potential suicide craze, a tech geek who’s also a thug, and a powerful tech company. 

Koontz doesn’t skimp on details. The reader must endure ridiculous similes, philosophical ramblings, character descriptions including everything but blood type, and sundry plot deviations. One can take only so much about breezes, flowers, the ocean and the sky. 

When Koontz is on, however, the reader gets some phenomenal stuff. Men betting on a dying roach in a beachside restroom. A boy referring to couple of young ladies in bikinis as “bitches”. A guy with “sensuous lips” and an alcohol-ravaged nose stabbing at pieces of gouda with a switchblade while calmly and relishingly threatening someone’s family members (including an unborn child) with detailed descriptions of physical and psychological torture. Koontz also touches on Carpenter’s backstory, including how something that happened to his father instilled a sense of fight that propels the protagonist as he unrelentingly pursues answers related to the flight.

Koontz also has a knack for jacking up tension, for instance in one scene where a pivotal character is about to reveal something critical while pursuers close in. Douglas J. Ogurek ****

Harrow County, Vol. 1: Countless Haints, by Cullen Bunn and Tyler Crook (Dark Horse) | review by Stephen Theaker

This short review previously appeared in TQF67 (July 2020).

Teenage Emmy lives on a farm, close to the tree where the townsfolk killed a baby-killing witch, eighteen years ago. The newborn calves aren’t right, Emmy has awful dreams of a burning tree, and sometimes thinks she sees ghosts when she wakes up. Her father tries to ignore the signs, but after she meets the skinless boy the truth becomes undeniable. Collecting only the first four issues, this still tells a complete story. Tyler Crook uses watercolours to striking and atmospheric effect. Stephen Theaker ****

M3GAN | review by Douglas J. Ogurek

Screen time leads to scream time: AI gone haywire tale zeroes in on impact of technological surrogacy on child development.

A common restaurant scenario: Mom and Dad look at their phones while Timmy or Sally stares at an iPad. The problem of technology encumbering the parent-child dynamic continues to worsen. M3GAN, directed by Gerard Johnstone, reveals how artificial intelligence might compound the difficulty. The film not only explores the potentially catastrophic effects of substituting technology for human interactions but also investigates how AI might stifle the grieving process.   

When Cady’s (Violet McGraw) parents are killed, she moves in with her hitherto child-free (and parentally inept) Aunt Gemma (Allison Williams), a development whiz at a high-tech toy company called Funki. Motivated by her new ward, Gemma overcomes some hiccups to develop the Model 3 Generative Android, or M3GAN (Amie Donald/Jenna Davis), a prototype AI doll that her boss calls the biggest invention since the automobile. The doll is programmed to learn from Cady, educate her, and above all, keep her safe. Gemma, assuming she’s now free of her guardianship duties, hands the doll to Cady and figuratively claps her hands. There. You two go play while I work. 

Two problems emerge. First, M3GAN begins to bend and eventually break rules to meet her primary goal of protecting Cady. That’s the expected part. The more interesting matter, however, is the impact M3GAN has on how Cady mourns the loss of both parents. When something like M3GAN imprints on a grieving child, warns a psychologist, that can be a difficult thing to “untangle”. 

In one poignant scene, Cady explains to Gemma that M3GAN helps her avoid feeling bad about the loss of her parents. Gemma, showing insight that is arguably out of character, explains that Cady is supposed to be having bad feelings. And she’s right.

The film also succeeds on the horror front. M3GAN, with her abnormally large eyes and superhuman physical abilities, keeps the viewer on edge. When Gemma commands the doll to turn off, one cannot be sure the figure is obeying. Moreover, the viewer occasionally gets to see from the doll’s perspective: a digital screen reminiscent of the Terminator’s gauges humans’ emotional states and bodily reactions. M3GAN uses these measurements to make her decisions.

Despite its silly ending, the film is still highly recommended — and it might make you more reluctant to throw an iPad in front of your kid the next time the temptation arises. Douglas J. Ogurek ****

Wight Christmas: Holiday Horror & Seasonal Subversion, ed. Martin Munks (TDotSpec) | review by Douglas J. Ogurek

A solid collection of horror stories to ring in the Christmas season.

A winter slaughter mars a Kentucky swampland. A murder unfolds at Santa’s workshop. Methamphetamines benefit mankind. This anthology, with stories ranging from silly yet entertaining to grim and frightening, offers many manifestations of the figure in red. One is scaly and crude, some are vicious murderers, one is connected to an ancient deity, and some enjoy burning corpses. One even hitches rides on spaceships.

A few stories seem solely spurred on by their surprise ending; everything that builds up to that ending seems weak. Others suffer from an avalanche of details, while a few are as clear as the slush that accumulates on city streets in winter. Some authors appear to be inspired by Lifetime movies, and some try too hard to sound like a writer. Using onomatopoeia to describe the sounds of bells? Dinga-linga-dumb.

Fortunately, there are only a few coal lumps in the anthology. Overall, it makes a great stocking stuffer… provided the recipient likes horror. Most of the stories entertain and several achieve excellence. Editor Martin Munks places the stories in a sensible order, and unlike many horror anthologies, this one has few mistakes. Following are some of my favourites. 

Jude Reid’s “(Everybody’s Waitin’ for) the Man with the Bag” has everything one would want in a horror story: plot twists, people getting their comeuppance, a decorative flair for blood and guts, and much more. 

“All Alone on Christmas” by Chris Campeau stands out as a sanctification of loneliness. A divorced man staying in a chalet and missing his son encounters an ugly, frostbitten, pus-ridden, naked bearded figure (a possible personification of loneliness), but it’s hard to tell whether this somewhat familiar visitor has a malicious intent or would rather just chill. The story comments on the often conflicting values of work and family.

David F. Shultz’s “The Santas” is inventive, funny and, at times, sad. After a botched suicide attempt, a man gets a crass visitor with an unexpected gift. Shultz smatters the story with just enough detail to create an atmosphere. We discover that Santa Claus is just one of many Santas, each of which has a different appearance. The only thing I didn’t like about this story was facing the fact it had to end. 

In “A Christmas Cake” by Kara Race-Moore, the narrator goes all out to bake a traditional Irish christmas cake for her tactless boyfriend, who abruptly breaks up with her and shatters her view of the relationship. He refers to her as “Christmas cake” – an old-fashioned Japanese term for a single woman over 25 – and accuses her of being desperate to get married and have babies. A meeting with a familiar elderly woman leads to a surprise ending that leaves a few loose threads. 

Olin Wish’s “Have a Holly, Jolly Nuclear Winter”, one of the collection’s scariest stories, involves a husband and a wife doing something involving physics, drugs and mirrors. It has a voyeuristic tone, with the bulk of the activity involving them standing at a window. They attempt to avoid drawing attention to themselves as they witness a halcyon European scene transform into a ghastly activity. 

“The Naughtiest” by John Lance is part Christmas cartoon and part cozy mystery. Santa’s elves investigate a murder and kidnapping at the workshop. We learn what’s in Mrs Claus’s kitchen and even get to explore the mines Santa used for coal before he closed them down because of health concerns. The protagonist is Bobkin, an elf with a strong focus on following the rules. It’s a cute story – there’s even a plunger detonator bomb. The story shows how if a child is continually punished and never rewarded, that behaviour may result in long-term problems. 

In Shelly Lyons’s “Ho-Ho-Nooo!”, main character Tony Flores is a meth addict with a gig as a Santa at a Spencer’s Gifts store in the ’90s. Because of something that happened with a ship that crashed, he is determined to save his friend and fellow Santa Mike Cheebers, working at the Sears in the same mall. It’s humorous, it’s light, and it’s nostalgic. Douglas J. Ogurek ****

Kaijumax, Season Two, by Zander Cannon (Oni Press) | review by Stephen Theaker

This review originally appeared in TQF64 (March 2019).

Kaijumax is a prison island for kaiju (giant monsters), a lot like the one in Destroy All Monsters, one of the greatest films of all time. Fans of the Godzilla films and their like will see lots of fun references to them, from the use of giant mecha to fight them down to using little round monster icons on the cover, like those on Godzilla dvds. Season one looked adorable but was in places extremely grim, even for those of us who got through all of Oz. I bought every issue as it came out, so it didn’t put me off, but be warned that the series is totally unsuitable for children – which is a shame because they would love the art. As the author accurately said in a season one letters page, it has “a cartoony style, a jokey high concept, a pitch-black sense of humour, and an undercurrent of dread”. A note at the back of this book expands on the author’s thinking about the book, giving the impression that people have taken issue for example with the slang the monsters use, which can risk sounding like a parody of African-Americans. He admits that the book leans on stereotypes, but asks readers to bear in mind its preposterous premise.