Category: Essays and Thoughts

I’ve alluded to my love of John Carpenter’s work, as well as the enjoyment I get peeling back the layers of inspiration behind books and film. I’ve also been getting more into exploring old British television serials, so this would be the most opportune moment to touch on the works of Nigel Kneale, one of the most famous British screenwriters of all time – and surely the most famous Manx screenwriter in history. All in all, it has been a highly enjoyable experience investigating his work. It’s a testament to his skill that I refer to it as “his” work, or at least a testament to the times. These days it seems that most screenwriters work via committee, and on the whole seem to be the most loathed members of the television profession, always the first to get the blame when a shows plot starts to go off the rails. I have to admit it does seem that writing is considered an “extra feature” in Hollywood currently, rather than the foundation of good television. And while I never condone bullying, I’d really rather see screenwriters held to account than watch poor actors who had little say in the matter bear the brunt of viewer ire. Needless to say, it was refreshing to watch television where you could see that even if the script had been worked on by more than one person, there was a clear, concise and clever idea making up a strong foundation.

Despite the association of their works, Carpenter and Kneale did not have the best of relationships it seems, with Kneale’s foray into Hollywood being short and disastrous. John Carpenter was a fan of Kneale’s Quatermass series and so recommended him as a scriptwriter for Halloween 3, which Carpenter was producing. As the story goes, Kneale wrote a very ‘psychological’ script, with all the careful restraint found in his serials. Producer, Dino De Laurentiis, always a fan of excess and spectacle, immediately demanded more visible horror and gore, having director Tommy Lee Wallace rework the entire screenplay. In response, Kneale requested his name be removed from the film. In the end Halloween 3 may have been doomed regardless of script. Carpenter envisioned the film series to be a horror anthology, but fans demanded more of the iconic slasher villain Michael Myers from the first two films. (Myers was therefore condemned to return again and again, before finally being beaten into unconsciousness by Paul Rudd. Then the series was rebooted and Myers was finally defeated – again – by Busta Rhymes. He was then reimagined by Rob Zombie, before being rebooted yet again into an ongoing trilogy. You need a diagram to understand Halloween continuity, but for the purpose of this writing all you need to know is that Halloween 3 was a standalone film.)

This interaction would seem to have coloured Kneale’s opinions on Carpenter from then on. When told that there were similarities between his The Stone Tape and Carpenter’s Prince of Darkness, Kneale responded in writing:

“For the record I have had nothing to do with the film and I have not seen it. It sounds pretty bad. With an homage like this, one might say, who needs insults? I can only imagine that it is a whimsical riposte for my having my name removed from [Halloween 3]”

I must object! Prince of Darkness is admittedly flawed but underrated! I’ll have to touch on Prince of Darkness at some point in the future, and I’ll return to this comparison in a bit. In any case, we’ve seen how Quatermass and The Stone Tape relate to Carpenter – but how are they as works on their own?

There was an original trio of Quatermass serials, the crown jewel of which is most certainly Quatermass and the Pit. I’ve had experience with serials of that era often having issues with pacing, an understandable concern when faced with a limited budget and schedule. While this is not necessarily a deal breaker, it still is striking how tight the writing and pacing are with The Pit compared to other serials of its era. The premise is that a London construction crew uncovers ancient hominid remains and the titular Pit becomes an archaeological site. There are more eerie discoveries to be made besides just mysterious bones, however. The serial plays out like the archaeological dig itself – layers of the mystery are peeled back, steadily and in detail. The escalation is done superbly, as theories of science and the supernatural slowly intertwine as the danger increases.

The serial also does restraint very well – there are some ant-like aliens, but it only ever shows them as desiccated corpses, or as brief nightmarish glimpses in dreamlike telepathic recordings. Someone with less moderation might have had them jerkily walking around, or worn as suits, but relegating the aliens mostly to the mists of darker human history, and our repressed racial memory, makes them much more unsettling. The restraint also carries into the script itself. Kneale claimed to not be a fan of “science fiction”, but he is careful to frame everything within the script in the realm of plausibility. Indeed, as he would do again with the Stone Tape, in The Pit plausibility is used to make the events more unnerving, as human superstitions are given a tangible, albeit alien, explanation.

If the Pit used realism well, then The Stone Tape flat out weaponized its plausibility. In this television movie, researchers and engineers based out of an old property discover that one of the rooms, an ancient stone tower, appears to be haunted. Instead of simply taking the haunting at face value as a ghost, or as a fabrication, they instead start to study and analyze it, picking apart the haunting from a purely rational standpoint. There is very little of the regular sort of hysteria and purposeful ignorance one finds in such a horror movie set up. Indeed, most of the excitement occours when the group deduces that the “haunting” is simply an imprint upon the very walls of the tower – and promptly start to find a way to replicate the process for commercialization. We are lulled into a false sense of security with the idea that the haunting is “solved”, which makes the grim ending all the more disturbing. Just because we understand something scientifically does not mean we understand the full scope, or the ramifications of what we have uncovered.

The theme of mankind’s inability to maintain our ethics in the face of rapidly advancing scientific and industrial progress is apparent in both of these works. In The Pit, protagonist Quatermass is introduced trying to prevent his peaceful rocketry program from being taken over by the military, who seek to put a missile stockpile on the moon. Throughout the serial he has to fight as much against a stubborn military presence as against alien influence. Inspired by race riots ongoing in England at that time, the serial ends with mass madness and violence dubbed a “Wild Hunt”, man’s pointlessly tribal nature on full display. In The Stone Tape, the British engineers overwork themselves and blunder into supernatural dangers to try and keep up with the unstoppable juggernaut (at the time) of the Japanese electronics industry. In both, human failings are just as danger, if not more so, than the strange and supernatural.

Needless to say, I’d highly recommend both works if you’re into more old-school horror. Lastly, before I forget  –  what’s the verdict on Prince of Darkness as a Stone Tape rip-off? Was it theft? A homage? A parody? I’ll admit that Prince of Darkness does seem to hold some similarities to Kneale’s style, most obviously the fact that something that would normally be handled in a supernatural manner is approached more scientifically by the experts. However, Prince of Darkness, while it has its problems, does have Carpenter’s signature directing flair and is closer in line to his own canon of films. Indeed, I’ve often joked that Prince of Darkness is like The Thing without a budget. Beyond having scientist type characters in an old building, there really is little difference to The Stone Tape, which is overall something of a cozier experience, with the thrills slowly building until the horror at the climax. Prince of Darkness is much more about survival, both for the researchers, and the fate of the human race, and there are plenty of solid horror moments scattered throughout. Both works end up being very different experiences, and I feel they can’t properly be compared.

All in all, I highly enjoyed dipping into British television history. They move with a different pace and style than we may be used to now, but if you want tight and engaging scripts, I do recommend checking out both works, or anything else that Kneale worked on. I think that in this day and age, a little bit more appreciation for the toil of the screenwriter could go a long way.

I’d like to have more content on this site that’s not related directly to marketing and copywriting, and give a bit of a better view of myself and my interests. I think I’d like to start putting down some book reviews here to collect my thoughts. Review actually sounds like too formal a word – I’m not interested in slapping scores or ranks on material, simply giving my thoughts and possible recommendations. I am, in particular, a big fan of what is colloquially known as “genre fiction” – science fiction, horror and especially fantasy. It will also become fairly apparently that my tastes are, to put it kindly, antiquated. I’m not exactly sure how I managed to be turned into a grumpy old man of fantasy in my 20s, but I think I partially have to blame the practice of turning people’s names into adjectives. When I was younger and started to be interested in science fiction and fantasy I kept hearing the term “Lovecraftian” tossed about. When I was in school, since I was no good at athletics, and admittedly not quite social, it was decided that I would be a “smart” child. I wasn’t actually able to live up to the standard of being “smart”, but attempts to do so left me with a deep and terrible fear that I’ve internalized and hold to this day – a fear of not knowing something. So when I heard the term “Lovecraftian” I determined that I needed to get to the bottom of this mystery. What I found there intruiged and delighted me. Jumping back to the pulp era wasn’t as difficult as it might have been. My father has always had a love of pulp as well (I ruined a copy of Princess of Mars he gave me),  and I’d always had a fascination with history as well. Rather than finding older materials dated, it seemed to me more like a wonderful window into another time – not just into the facts of that time, but into the thoughts and imagination of the people who lived them.

This petty curiosity also caused me to become a serial backtracker. Whenever I read or watched anything I liked, the first thing I wanted to know is where it came from – what was its genealogy?  This gave me a broad scope of the history of genre fiction, and a particular love for works that often feel sadly forgotten. I did find that this exploration had some limits, however. While the 19^th Century has some excellent gems for genre fiction, it is clear why Lovecraft is considered such a benchmark. You can see all the future history of horror laid out in his work, as well as many concepts for science fiction and fantasy. Indeed, that is one of my favourite parts of reading pre-Tolkein work. Not everything had been put into neat little boxes of “Sci-fi”, “fantasy” and “horror” and the three often were blended together into a wonderfully delicious mixture simply labled “weird”.

Needless to say, this all meant that I was fascinated while recently reading the works of William Hope Hodgson, an author who wrote before, and influenced, Lovecraft. Hodgson had an unfortunately short, if interesting career. Bullied as a cabin boy after taking to the sea at a young age, he decided to, in the best tradition of Charles Atlas, bulk himself up and become a body builder and personal trainer, only to find little money in this. Inspired by Poe, Wells and Verne, he would take to writing instead, starting to publish his short stories and other works in 1904 – he would die in 1918 at the age of 40, having signed up for WWI despite his age.

While somewhat known for his sea-themed horror short stories, and his tales of the “occult detective” Carnacki, he is best known for his two novels, The Night Land and The House on the Borderland. The Night Land in particular stands out as a story shockingly ahead of its time, despite its attempts to be a story before its time. The idea behind the story is that a 17^th century gentlemen, distraught over the loss of his love, starts to project his consciousness forward in time, pining after her, eventually imagining himself in a time when their souls are reunited. (The simple projection of one’s self to another time reminded me of A Princess of Mars – no need for fancy spaceships). However, the time where he and his lover both exist is in fact, far in the future, when the sun has gone out and all is cloaked in darkness. This setting is clearly inspired somewhat by the brief section in Wells’ The Time Machine wherein the narrator escapes the Morlocks by travelling millions of years into a dismal, dying future.

The Night Land, however, takes that concept and introduces a heavy dose of pure “weird fiction” horror, as well as truly imaginative science fiction, to a wonderful result. In the future the narrator finds himself in, humanity still exists, but inside a giant pyramidal megastructure, the Last Redoubt, each “floor” of which contains a city’s worth of people, a concept that feels positively cyberpunk. The sun isn’t just dying, but dead, and eternal night stretches in all directions outside the glow of the Last Redoubt. One of the best parts of the book is simply the second chapter where the Narrator stands at the top of the Redoubt with observational tools, and relates the things he sees in all directions – giant watching monsters, places of ominous fires where dark things scuttle and structures whose terrifying purpose can only be imagined. Long before the post-apocalypse genre took off, Hodgson presents a world that absolutely wants every last human dead, and humanity as a whole only survives through science and tenacity. Other science fiction concepts include the psionic ability of the main character, and the weapon he uses – essentially a staff topped by a shining buzzsaw, something that would seem more in place in modern takes on science fiction.

The work easily incorporates its fantasy and horror aspects as well, with the terrifying forces arrayed against humanity ranging from hideous monsters to forces that seem more supernatural and unknowable in nature. For a story mostly about a hopeless protagonist doing his best to simply survive the world he traverses in search of his lost love, there are also some very evocative bits of action. The work does have its weaknesses, however. The choice to use a narrator with a very archaic voice can lead the prose to plod at times. The second half also is slowed by constant romantic interludes between the main character and his love interest – though it was somewhat fascinating to see a female character get so much proverbial “screen time” in a book from this time period – its interesting to consider the work was released the same year that A Princess of Mars started to be serialized. Overall, it was clear why Lovecraft gave the book such glowing reviews, and it truly is astonishing in its imaginative trailblazing. While the 17^th Century narration does cause certain parts to slow, they also give a severe majesty to the most dramatic sections. If you’re a big fan of Lovecraft and want to investigate his own inspirations, and don’t mind the angle of the narrator, its definitely worth a look.

I’ve always been a big fan of old action, science fiction, horror and (as rare as they may be) fantasy films. Partially this was a case of going to college in California, where being a film buff is someone expected – partially its due to a shared passion with my dad. At the risk of sounding too pretentious, or like a terminally old soul, it’s also because I find that genre films today tend to be disappointing to me. While we’ve certainly got slicker special effects (not actually something I care about, but the charm of practical effects is another essay entirely!) and many talented actors, directors and cinematographers, I find that the writing leaves much to be desired. While there are those who will always turn their noses up at scripts written for horror, sci-fi and fantasy, I’m not arguing over the quality of those scripts compared to anything else – rather I’m simply making a statement about the quality of the old compared to the new. I think what I miss most about older genre films is the simplicity. So many of those stories are based on the extrapolations of a very simple “What If?” premise. What if people were trapped with a predatory alien on a spaceship? What if soldiers from a future war tried to alter the past to secure victory? What if a whole city were made into a prison? Even if the characters and concepts are not wholly original, they can be given an original spin. What if we mixed old serials with WWII and samurai films? What if someone is out for revenge on characters we know and love?

Many newer films, conversely, seem to have no central conceit or concept, instead being a strange mess of references, ironic self-awareness, plot holes, unfinished concepts, non- conflicts, false starts, hand waves, and mandatory advertisements for other films by the same studio, all editing in such a way to hopefully make you lose your train of thought in trying to string all of this together. In short, it seems fairly obvious that writing by committee is in vogue.

There are many more essayists and podcast preachers who can do a better job than I of dissecting the issues that plague modern writing. One odd, and slightly worrying trend I often see, however, is the assumption that one of the most significant factors in the deterioration of writing quality is the desire to make films more “politically correct” – that the inclusion of a more diverse cast is as significant a factor as the issues I laid about above. Many take it into the realm of paranoia (not really surprising given the times) and assume secretive political messages. While I do understand that sometimes the push for inclusion manages to stumble over its own feet and become a push for exclusion (or a push for the ridiculous) this seems to be a bizarrely out of place complaint for the reason that I feel that older films often handled more diverse casts better than we do today. Often times, a studio attempting to make a “diverse” movie ends up looking preachy or buffoonish – just look at the marketing for a film like Captain Marvel to see how absurd this can get. (Of course, this isn’t an issue with all modern films. Sadly eclipsed by the aforementioned film was a wonderfully charming, if imperfect, adaptation of Battle Angel Alita, with a fantastic female lead character.)

This contrasts heavily with how effortlessly older films often pushed the boundaries of what was expected in the genre. Few female lead characters manage to capture the imagination like Ellen Ripley or Sarah Connor. Heck, the lead for Night of the Living Dead, the definitive zombie flick, was black. One of the best action films of the 70s, Assault on Precinct 13, starred a black police officer and a female secretary. The only white male lead in that film was a death row convict – not exactly conventional.

Once again, before I start rattling off too many examples, I should point out many people have covered this topic much better and more extensively than I have. The actual thought I have had is an addendum of sorts to the ones above, inspired by a news article that caught my eye on the topic of diversity in film. The article in question (the source of which I cannot recall), was bemoaning the fact that while casting has begun to be more inclusive, it has left behind a large segment of the population – the disabled.

This instantly made me think that, once again, the classics had already been there and done it better. While there’s a few examples I could bring up, the film that instantly popped to mind was Silver Bullet. It’s a film that’s not very widely known outside of horror circles, which makes some sense. It is an adaptation of a Stephen King story collection based around a werewolf killing every full moon for a year (originally the stories were going to be paired with horror art for a calendar). The film can be a bit odd in its mixing of drama with the intentionally campy, but this gives it what I feel is a wonderfully hysterical tone. Never has a film made me burst out laughing at a hard cut to a funeral before.

However, what makes it rare among movies in general, not just in the horror genre, is the fact that its main character, the young Marty (played by Corey Haim), is paraplegic. On the one hand, Marty’s disability is never ignored by the script. Getting around is shown to be a chore. And yet despite this, or perhaps because of this, Marty is one of the most determined and likeable horror movie protagonists I can think of.

Marty never takes too much time to worry about his lack of ability to walk. Not that the script ignores it, as some of the more ignorant adults around the comment on the fact. However, Marty traverses the town in a truly amazing motorized wheelchair made by his uncle (portrayed hilariously by Gary Busey), shows great upper body strength in climbing, and when finally confronted with the werewolf, shoots out its eye with a firecracker. In a show of assertiveness that is almost comical, after identifying who the werewolf is around town, he sends the monster cut-out letters firmly requesting that he off himself to stop the killings. And in an exciting finale, Marty pulls off a win against evil worthy of any horror movie star.

Silver Bullet rides a line between comedic and creepy that might not click with everyone, particularly today, but I think its worth a look for horror fans. While I can think of a few science fiction, action and horror films with disabled protagonists, they are often more niche. (Ask someone to name a Romero movie and they’ll never say Monkey Shines first, for example). I’m curious now if we might get an underrated film with such a protagonist coming out soon. Hopefully it will be done well, and hopefully we’ll give it more than just a second glance.

I want to note down some of my thoughts on the video game Disco Elysium while it is fresh in my mind after finishing – though I have a feeling this is going to be one that I will revisit sooner rather than later. There’s already been an outpouring of praise for the game, so I think another lengthy panegyric would not add much. The most I will say is just how happy this game made me in its existence. Interactive media can be a difficult topic to have discourse in because of how frustratingly imprecise of a term it is, and because it means so much to so many people. A book exists as a book, and a film as a film. But a video game can take on the role of a sport, a hobby or a social activity. People will argue constantly over whether video games are an artform or not, which seems like far too broad an argument to me. Do video games that try to be an artform exist? Absolutely, and to state otherwise is categorically false.

I don’t begrudge any of these differing but connected forms of media. I myself enjoy video games for their social and hobby aspects. But when speaking from a purely entrepreneurial standpoint, it is hard not to see games as a storytelling medium feeling a little snubbed of late. What really puts a spark in the eye of most studios is the ideas that games can become no longer a single form of media, but a “service”, becoming essentially a second job with its own demands, despite being something that is paid for. It’s the media equivalent of a wage job I suppose. You give your time and your money. This can be fulfilling, of course, like any job, but that is the way the relationship with the player is structured.

That was why it was such a joy to play through Disco Elysium and be reminded that there exists a space where that relationship was different, where a video game can give as much to a player as a reader or watcher receives. And this is a game that gives plentifully. I tend more and more to judge media by how much it lingers – how often my mind keeps coming back to it and the impact it had on me. How much, essentially, that it pushes back against the concept of disposability. Even in this consideration, parts of my experience are drifting back to the surface.

Piecing together the life of an elderly housewife from her tiny apartment as I try to find the best way to explain to her the stupid and pointless death of her husband.

Singing karaoke in the grungy cafeteria of a grungy hotel, a little emptier than it normally was due to my own failings in the face of human violence.

A very strange but playfully foreshadowed ending, where empathy from the oddest place pushes you through to the end of a satisfyingly meandering detective story.

And those are just some particular moments, all of which are surrounded by gorgeous music, hilarious and evocative writing, and an art style that feels like, well, art, resembling a painting in motion. As I said before, it’s a generous game with plenty to give. I couldn’t shake the feeling while playing it that it was something of a thesis statement on the industry as a whole, with an equal measure said about what a video game should and shouldn’t be.

There’s a lot to unpack, but this was meant to be a short reaction, so I’ll focus in on one aspect I thought was handled in an interesting way. Like so many video game protagonists beforehand, the lead character of Disco Elysium (who I will not name to reserve spoilers) begins as an amnesiac with no real memory of who they are. This is not uncommon in games and generally is used for two reasons. Firstly, it can be done to make the character a blank slate for the player to project onto either themselves or a roleplayed identity. Secondly, it can be used to add mystery to the plot, concealing information for a later reveal or plot twist.

However, in Disco Elysium, these purposes are more played with than used straight. The main character may start off with some pieces missing, but he most certainly has a character of his own. He is less a character that you build from scratch, and more one that you can attempt to steer. Despite having a fractured psyche, he is still his own person and his own character. The game would be significantly affected with a differing character in his place. And while his amnesia is used to conceal certain facts, they are not the usual sort of revelations you would expect. Traditionally it is a massive aspect of character, world or game that is kept in the shadows. (An excellent example of all three at once would be in Bioshock.) What we slowly pull out from behind the amnesia in Disco Elysium is in turns hilarious, heartbreaking and humanizing. Our main character wasn’t the villain all along, nor an integral part of some massive plot, or an outlandish element of the world. He was just a person who probably wanted to forget a lot of things.

Too often when the “human element” is brought up in discussion of video games its in the context of trying to crack the psychology of what makes people give up their time and money. It meant a lot to me to instead have a game give this human element a respectful and thoughtful presentation. I wish the studio the best and I’m hoping to see more from them soon.