Being Disappointed By Giant Blue Men...

Why are films featuring giant blue men so dreadful? Admittedly, there's only two I can think of: the execrable film adaptation of Alan Moore's Watchmen (see here for further thoughts on this) and Avatar, James Cameron's 3D epic, which I watched last night. While the visual effects were very fine (and owed a lot to 70s illustrator Roger Dean) the story was so resoundingly awful that it depressed me inordinately. I mean, $280 million dollars was spent on this! Here are a few of the more immediate problems:

1) Our hero. Like Captain Kirk in the recent Star Trek movie, he is an impulsive, irresponsible idiot who never does what he's told. Teenagers across the globe may sigh and murmur, "oh, what a free-spirited rebel!", while older curmudgeons like me may point out that, outside of movies where they are protected from all harm by the script, which proclaims them to be The Hero, guys like that are a bloody nuisance, and in a war zone are an active threat to everybody around them. And they certainly don't prosper in the military, where the most important rule is "do what you're told!"

2) The aliens. Aren't they just a gigantic compendium of every single cliche that's ever been concocted around ethnic peoples, a kind of pick'n'mix of the most admirable features of American Indians, aborigines, and whoever else, while totally ignoring any negative aspects of their culture? And like a lot of "noble savage" movies (Dances With Wolves is a good example) the filmmakers seem intent on showing that they still need a white man to show them the way to rebel!

3) The music. What's with that stupid bloody new-age fake world-music drivel that played every time something spectacular involving the aliens was happening? I love music from all over the globe, but this aural pablum bears as little resemblance to decent world music as a cardboard cut-out does to a human being. It was about as predictable as:

4) The alien heroine. She's feisty! She's independent! She can't stand our feckless hero on first acquaintance! But as sure as night follows the sunset, she ends up loving him for his free-spirited charm! They fall out of love when he reveals that he betrayed her people to the military! He redeems himself in her eyes, and they're more in love than ever! I throw up!

5) The evil corporations. I love films produced by huge multinationals which tell us that corporate greed is evil, and we need to abandon our technological ways to get more in touch with nature. Especially a film that is made using cutting-edge computer techniques and equipment, and continually fetishises hardware and technology, in an industry that wastes huge amounts of energy, in a city that's a model of unsustainable growth (LA). Will the producers of this film adopt the communal, innocent ways of the aliens in Avatar? Will James Cameron leave his mansion for the jungles of Central America and a more simple life? What do you think?

6) The heavy-handed political subtext. Films like Avatar, which pretend to be, like, y'know, making a point, but are instead simplistic drivel, are worthless as political commentary. Some reviewer wrote of how it was an achievement to get middle American audiences cheering the defeat of the US military, but the aliens are so impossibly nice and admirable and wonderful in every possible way that there's no way such an audience will mistake them for any real-life situation. Or do the Afghani warlords remind you of the Nav'i (or whatever the blue creatures are called)? One could see it as a metaphor for the European settlers' treatment of the native Americans, except:

7) The ending. The aliens, armed with bows, arrows, and lashings of pluck, drive the technologically advanced humans off the planet? Exactly like the way the native Americans drove the settlers back to Europe and set up their own idealistic state! Which never produces dreck like Avatar! (Wait, have I got that right?)

8) The climactic battle. Another piece of evidence that Our Hero is a simpleton. Basic rules of combat state that, when attacking a more heavily armed and better-equipped enemy in a jungle setting, you don't charge them head-on a la Braveheart (unless you're the kind of general who enjoys killing his own troops for no reason). Instead, you use the cover to launch sudden guerilla attacks from the trees, and riddle the jungle with tripwires and spear-traps. A few kids with stones, sling-shots, and a good aim could break the advancing soldiers' helmets (humans can't breathe the air in the forest) without getting near them. One doesn't need to be a military historian to know this; it's the technique used by the VC in South East Asia, and even by the bloody Ewoks in Return of the Jedi! Without the deux ex machina (that he had no way of predicting), his strategy was pretty poor. (How about dropping thick wooden poles through the rotors of the helicopters, for one thing?)

9) The lazy writing. The aliens' giant home tree just happens to sit on a vast store of the mineral the humans are mining? One of the scientists helps our hero escape from the military stockade, yet nobody can figure out who it was? One of the aliens is psychic, but doesn't know what our hero is up to when he first comes in contact with them? The fact that some of these incredibly hostile aliens can understand English whenever it suits the plot? The fact that every twist in this film can be predicted from half a mile away? Sigourney Weaver reprising her role from Gorillas in the Mist (the tough scientist who cares)? The body-armour suits reprised from Aliens? The feisty ethnic woman who dies in a blaze of glory (reprised from Aliens)? Enough! Enough!

10) The length. Two and a half hours of this? The 3D visuals are amazing for the first 90 minutes, but then the novelty wears off, the better to concentrate on the bad writing.

As I said before, watching this film is so depressing because, in spite of the huge budget, nobody seems to have put even the tiniest bit of thought into the script. The characters are lifeless and formulaic, the plot is predictable, it's a lazy smorgasbord of new-age cliches about ethnic stereotypes, and it's far too long. And these flaws will be even more glaring when watched on a small TV with no 3D. Here's a cartoon from 1928 that's a lot more imaginative, considering the nature of animation at the time:

An Amusement (XXI)

This is one of those filler posts when I can't think of anything to write, yet feel the need to put something up here to show that I am still floating about the place. I'm working more on my "crumpling paper" stuff and on my art, so I've not a whole lot to say here. I've been watching a lot of the very silly yet intriguing Aeon Flux cartoons; they're nonsense, but weirdly compelling and enjoyable nonsense, up there with Sapphire and Steel in the "what the hell is going on here?" stakes. Yesterday, as I wandered through Gorey, I spotted a perfect photo op: in the gardens of a hospital was a white statue of Jesus, arms raised, and on each hand perched a black crow. Unfortunately, I had no camera with me. Ah, life... But if you're looking for something interesting, I suggest you click here. Or watch this:

And here's some music to go with the above (play both videos together; they're about the same length!). Enjoy!

One Of Those "No Way!" Moments (IV)

I read recently on Northern Irish news website Slugger O’Toole that Enniscorthy, a town not 20 minutes from where I currently rest my head in County Wexford, has unanimously passed a motion to erect a memorial to the Edentubber Martyrs (see here). When I mentioned this to my partner, her reaction was quite possibly what yours would be; she said: “Who?” Well, during the IRA’s disastrous border campaign in the late 1950s, these five guys accidentally blew themselves, and the cottage they were in, to pieces with the bomb they were planning to plant in the North. As two of them were from Wexford, Enniscorthy Council have decided that they are worthy of a memorial. Seeing as I have serious problems with the IRA’s actions in Northern Ireland – whatever their reasons, it was, in my view, little more than a brutal murder campaign which achieved nothing bar filling graves and increasing hatred and grief – I believe that we should, at the very least, think twice about putting up monuments to men who were members of a still-illegal organisation, and whose actions were in direct violation of the laws of this state, then and now. Especially as such activities are mythologised by Republicans in order to recruit the next generation of volunteers (or, if one were being cynical, cannon fodder). Would the council be so keen to remember these men if their bomb had actually gone off where it was supposed to, and had (maybe) killed an RUC officer? Or a civilian? Not only that, but shouldn’t even a hardened Republican think twice about erecting a monument to guys whose only accomplishment was to accidentally kill themselves? Will they erect a monument to Gorey IRA man Edward O’Brien, who accidentally blew himself up on a bus in London in the nineties, killing himself and injuring three others (see here)? If an IRA man was on going on his way to shoot an RUC man, but got killed by a lorry while crossing the road, is he a martyr?

The only difference between the border campaign in the fifties and the vastly more prolonged, violent, and destructive campaign in the seventies and eighties was down to a question of timing; in the fifties, the conditions weren’t right for bloody mayhem, whereas by 1969 the chaos in the province was an ideal launching ground for paramilitarism (students of the period: I know this is a simplistic analysis, so if you disagree, please let me know). Therefore, in my opinion, a memorial to the Edentubber dead (they certainly weren’t martyrs!) is a tacit vote of approval for the bloody struggle which made Northern Ireland the jolly place it was for over thirty years (before the opposing factions decided that blowing up and shooting people wasn't an effective way of getting things done). If these men had survived, it's quite likely they would have stayed active and perhaps organised planting more bombs, in places such as Enniskillen. Rather than celebrating the Edentubber dead, we should be hoping that, in the future, measured discussion rather than murder is seen as the option of choice, and that their day is firmly in the past. I just have a problem with seeing men who are willing to kill others in cold blood (including me, and you, and anyone else who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when the shrapnel is flying) as heroes, no matter how supposedly noble their motives.

Besides, before we consider uniting Ireland, we should take a long hard look at the 26 counties first. I would say that, thanks to Fianna Fail’s catastrophic stewardship of our economy, we couldn't afford a united Ireland even if it was offered to us. Yes, let’s have one nation under the gombeen! Citizens of Northern Ireland, welcome to NAMA-land! Join our pathetically badly run little state, and share with us our incompetent government, intent on making the poor and low-paid pick up the bill for the recklessness of property developers and bankers! Enjoy our shambolic health service, our awful roads, our worthless telecommunications infrastructure, and our overpriced goods and services! Share with us our corrupt banks and golden-circle business elite, not to mention our schools, still controlled by an organisation that protected paedophiles for half a century! Shoppers of the South: give up the bargains to be had north of the border, and take pleasure in being ripped off in a nation once agin! Let’s have a united Ireland that our young people can emigrate from! Hmmm, perhaps we should sort out the problems down here first before adding Ulster to the equation...

Anyway, here's a piece of music:

Wexford Sights (VII) and An Amusement (XX)

I suppose it's a little deceptive to call this a Wexford Sight; what is pictured in the above image, a close-up of a frozen puddle outside our driveway, was only a "sight" for a handful of days before someone drove over it (and eventually, of course, it melted). And such an ice composition was probably replicated all over the country. But I like the above image, and it's my blog, so there you have it. And if, like me, you're a sucker for fun geometric things, you won't want to miss out on this; I plan on doing hours of exploring there! And finally: my first proper 'crumpling paper' article has been posted here. Enjoy!

This Week's Blinding Thought (VIII)

As I wandered along the beach recently (the first time I've been able to get there since the ice that made the road lethal finally melted) I saw something lying in the sand that, in the fading light, looked like a deformed skull. Closer inspection revealed it to be, not the controversy-sparking remains of a visiting alien whose saucer was brought down by the recent cold spell, which froze his navigation system (or something), but a burst and mangled football. It seems an apt image for what I'm about to write, though!

Last night I watched Dorian Gray, the contemporary retelling of Oscar Wilde’s classic novel (which I’m currently reading). All in all, it was pretty poor; Ben Barnes was an epicene and prissy Dorian (it occurred to me while watching that, in appearance alone, a fantastic Dorian would be Noel Fielding from The Mighty Boosh) and the storytelling was clumsy and hamfisted, a parody of Wilde’s elegant original (curiously, the filmmakers jettisoned both the blatant homoeroticism of the original, as well as its intellectualism, as if scared that too much talk about ideas might scare away the punters; as with A Rebours, the dandy’s search for pleasure and sensation is more about aesthetics and the flaunting of restrictive social mores than simply getting your leg over a lot, something the film ignores entirely as far as I can see). Colin Firth is a passable Henry Wooton, but his relationship with Dorian is reduced to saying “g’wan, lad” while Basil Hallward (the painter who executes the eponymous Picture) says “careful, now...” (It’s hilarious the way Henry’s seduction of Dorian to the Dark Side of Life begins with offering him a cigarette; I knew it! First a cigarette, then you’re an absinthe-swilling opium fiend getting the arse whipped off you by a transvestite midget in an East End dive! They’re evil! Eeeeeee-vil!). The ending is also a travesty, but at least the portrait itself, when revealed, isn’t too ridiculous (although the bits where it growls and maggots fall out of it are laughably silly) and Rebecca Hall is both charming and attractive (I quite like the 1945 version of this film, and the portrait in that is better too!). But the most idiotic moment in the film comes when, at a high society party, Dorian plies a wealthy young woman with drink and has his wicked way with her upstairs, then does the same with her mother while the young woman hides under the bed. What’s most interesting about this is how it fundamentally misunderstands just how Victorian society functioned, and does this so badly that it renders the film worthless. Ignoring the effect that an unwanted pregnancy would have on a young heiress’s life, and the fact that at a society party, with respectable adults everywhere, it would be impossible to ply her with enough drink to make her consent to rumpy-pumpy (especially with her mother present!), I ask you to read the following extract from Stefan Zweig’s The World of Yesterday (published in English in 1943, two years after the author killed himself while fleeing Hitler’s Europe and on his way to South America) about the sexual climate in 19th Century Austria (and I imagine that Victorian Britain would have been the same):

“While [social morality] winked one eye at a young man and even encouraged him with the other to ‘sow his wild oats’ [with shopgirls and other lower-class women whom the toffs didn’t give a toss about] ... in the case of the woman it studiously shut both eyes and acted as if it were blind. That a man could admit desires, and was permitted to experience them, was silently admitted by custom. But to admit frankly that a woman could be subject to similar desires ... would have transgressed the conception of the ‘sanctity of womanhood’. In the pre-Freudian era, therefore, the axiom was agreed upon that a female person could have no physical desires as long as they had not been awakened by man, and that, obviously, was officially permitted only in marriage. But even in those moral times, in Vienna in particular, the air was full of dangerous erotic infection, and a girl of good family had to live in a completely sterilised atmosphere, from the day of her birth until the day when she left the altar on her husband’s arm. In order to protect young girls, they were not left alone for a single moment. They were given a governess whose duty it was to see that they did not step out of the house unaccompanied, that they were taken to school, to their dancing lessons, and brought home in the same manner. Every book which they read was inspected ... A girl of good family was not allowed to have any idea of how the male body was formed, or to know how children came into the world, for [she] was to enter into matrimony not only physically untouched, but completely ‘pure’ spiritually as well. ‘Good breeding’, for a young girl of that time, was identical with ignorance of life ... [M]iddle-class usage strove frantically to uphold the fiction that a well-born woman neither possessed sexual instincts nor was permitted to possess any as long as she remained unmarried – anything else would have made her an ‘immoral person’, an outcast from the family...”

I Haven't Felt This Way Since "Funky Town"! (X)

I first heard Tim Buckley's Happy/Sad album over ten years ago in England, on a winter's night not unlike this one. While I dislike the second side intensely, the first side, featuring 'Strange Feeling', 'Buzzin' Fly' and the following song, captivated me immediately, and a decade later, still do. For me, the following song is the purest, most haunting, musical poetry, and I don't feel like saying anything else about it. Enjoy...

Wexford Sights (VI): Hoarfrost

As the roads around my house were too dangerous to drive on this morning, I was unable to go to work and was thus at something of a loss. As I stood outside the door of our shed, watching the sun rise on this, the shortest day of the year (and from tomorrow on it's acceptable to say that there's a grand stretch in the evening!), I noticed that the top of the old wooden fence that separates our house from the field behind us was covered in a fine topping of hoarfrost that glittered in the early morning light. Not wishing to waste an opportunity, I ran indoors and grabbed the camera. What fascinated me was the way that the lines of frost followed the grain and irregularities in the wood, creating an eye out of knotted whorl and a delicate coconut bonbon out of an exposed nail-head. Underneath is the nail-head in the third photo above, after the frost had melted in the weak light of the sun, and hoarfrost in the undergrowth behind our house.

And while we're at it, seeing as we're looking at photos of ice (and as an icy fog is descending on Wexford even as I type this), here's a rather challenging piece of piano music by an underrated Russian composer:

Wexford Sights (V): Sunsets in December

It may be bitterly cold here in County Wexford (by local standards, of course; when it drops to below +5C here in Ireland, we complain furiously about the chill in a temperature that probably would barely register with the average Scandanavian) but the sunsets recently have been breathtakingly beautiful. Of course, it's so difficult to capture a sunset in a photograph, but here are my attempts (taken on Tinaberna and Ballinesker strands). Such glory (the sunsets, not the photographs) is a welcome distraction from the sickening story from Listowel that has dominated headlines here in Ireland (see here and here for more details). And finally, here's a picture of our faithful hound being his usual demented self!

And here's a piece of music I quite like:

It's An Odd Boy Who Doesn't Like Sport!

The whole noisy controversy surrounding the recent France vs Ireland match, which has certain excitable types on the web and beyond worked up into a veritable frenzy, puts me in the mind of the whole sweaty, repetitive, tracksuit-wearing topic of exercise. Not that I care about the result of the match – I’ve never had the slightest interest in soccer and the weird tribal activity that surrounds it – but this week sees me starting an exercise regime in our local gym and I felt that, in addition to providing a contemporaneous opening to my little article, it demonstrates the total indifference towards sport that has coloured my perception of exercise since my teenage years, and which has left me the physically feeble and puny specimen that I am today. My energy levels are so low that it is affecting my work, and seeing as I have no underlying health problems that could otherwise explain my lassitude, I’ve come to the conclusion that twenty-plus years taking no serious exercise have left me as weak as a rotten twig. This must change. Above pictured is the Egg digging his small vegetable patch, a little garden of plenty to keep all at Chez Doubtful fed next year (for at least a day or two, anyway), the sort of physical activity which, like exercise, has been foreign to me until recently. But no more, as I have transformed from the kind of indolent aesthete who disdains any activity which doesn’t have a fluffy, delicate pastry at the end of it, to a weight-lifting, jogging, sweating, “feel-the-burn” type of keep-fit enthusiast that would bring Charles Baudelaire out in a rash by his very presence.
You know, in school, those guys who are always picked last when teams are being selected for football (or whatever)? That was me, back in my teens (and the end of every year is a celebration for me as it is 365 days further away from secondary school). I was small, frail, wore glasses, read science fiction, and couldn’t see why the hairy hell I should be interested in charging around a muddy field after a ball while some stubbly, hungover adult with a grubby tracksuit and a whistle shouted at me. Doing it was pointless and uncomfortable, while watching other people do it was tedious in the extreme. I also hated the whole competitive aspect of sport; in any match that I did end up watching, I would always take the side of whichever team happened to be losing, and I always felt sorry for whoever didn’t win in the end. So once I shook the dust of my school off my heels, burned my uniform, and flung myself into the boozy, badly dressed, bearded, anarchic world of art college, the part of my time devoted to physical exercise (never that large even in school) shrank down to a tiny point and imploded. And this remained the state of affairs for nearly two decades.
Of course, the side effect of this neglect of the body was a conspicuous lack of energy. My endurance was pitiful, my physical strength laughable, and work colleagues found it hilarious that the most frequently uttered phrase on my lips was “I’m tired!” But my contempt for exercise was such that it never occurred to me that this could aid me in increasing my vitality; besides, working as a waiter kept me on my feet, and cycling around the town no doubt gave me the bare minimum of aerobic exercise needed to prevent total collapse (I am also blessed with a naturally slim physique, so I rarely put on weight). However, as I proceeded into my thirties, and especially once I fled, laughing, the by-then tiresome world of catering, this disregard for my body’s condition began to take its toll on my constitution, and certainly within the last two years it has combined with anxiety and depression to seriously affect both my work and my life. When I read accounts of other people’s lives, I marvel both at their achievements and at their energy, and I began to seriously ask myself: why can I not maintain such a work rate? Why do I get headaches and exhaustion after the slightest exertion? I went to several fine physicians, who prodded me and bled me and gazed knowledgably at various fluids that I produced; they concluded that, slightly high cholesterol aside, I’m as healthy as a well-fed flea. But the real shock was when I went to the gym in a nearby town and did a fitness test, which revealed that I am (unsurprisingly) grossly, even dangerously, unfit; testing my lung capacity, they pointed out that 80-year-old men could do better than I. This clearly cannot stand!
The reason I went to a gym is because exercise is a tricky thing to do down the country. Communal sports (like football) are impossible, as I hate the competitive, tribal behaviour that accompanies them and my endurance is such that I wouldn’t last ten minutes in such a fast-paced environment. Jogging is both excruciatingly boring and hard to do safely, as well as being conditional on the weather; the torrential rains we’ve seen recently add little to the experience. Cycling, which I’ve always enjoyed, is too dangerous on Irish country roads; one quite literally takes one’s life into one’s hands amid the tyre-bursting potholes, hurtling lorries, and careless speed-freak drivers. Besides, for someone as unfit as I, a trained assessment of my capabilities and limitations was necessary before embarking on any life-changing courses of action; I could just picture jogging for six months on the nearby beach and due to my appalling jogging techniques, my kneecaps one day exploding off my legs like mortar shells and greviously injured a passing walker. And so, finally, after several years of prevarication and dawdling, I began my set programme of cardio-vascular exercises, weights, and stretches, which should, in a few months, have me on the road to full fitness, increased vitality, and the ability to crush bowling balls to powder between my thighs (one never knows when that skill could come in handy!). So, as this is my absolute priority for the next few months, I hope y’all wish me luck. And, after two sessions this week, my first response is: “Damn, I’m knackered!” My feeling about sport hasn’t changed, of course, and here’s a song I particularly like on the subject:

Wexford Sights (IV)

I've not been writing much recently, due to personal circumstances, so here's a few photographs of a small river near a hydroelectrical station, taken on a forest walk near Castlebridge in Wexford. Some were taken with a long exposure, which I feel captures the velocity and force of the water, which I have rarely seen as turbulent as it was today, due to the extraordinarily heavy rainfall we've had recently. Of the photos below, the top is a delightful (and accidental) shot of my partner's parents' new puppy, and the bottom is of a dead fox washed up on a beach near me. I could make a point about this, life and death and all that folderol, but I'm too tired... (A Doubtful Egg apologises for being such a sour old git, and promises that, once my new regime of healthy exercise (a first for me) and proper eating begins to pay off in terms of both more energy and a sunnier outlook on life, posts here and over at the neglected "... crumpling paper ..." blog will contain more substance and entertainment.)

The NAMA Vote

Seeing as NAMA is one of the most important (and grotesque) pieces of legislation to appear before our Dail, I think it's important to make a list of those who weren't able to make the time to be present to vote, a list I haven't yet seen anywhere else (at the time of writing; if it does exist, please let me know, and do likewise if I've made any mistakes, so I can make the necessary correction).

On the government side, Martin Cullen (FF), Beverley Flynn (FF), Jim McDaid (FF) and Michael Moynihan (FF) didn't vote, nor did Noel Grealish (PD) or Finian McGrath (Independent). All the Green Party were present, and voted in favour.

On the opposition side there was a breathtaking 10 members absent from Fine Gael, including party leader Enda Kenny (!) and George "Economic Superstar" Lee. Other FG non-voters were Sean Barrett, Michael Creed, Lucinda Creighton, John Deasy, Olwyn Enright, Charles Flanagan, Olivia Mitchell, and Alan Shatter. Also missing were three members of Labour: Kathleen Lynch, Brian O'Shea, and Ruairi Quinn. All (four) members of Sinn Fein were present, and voted against. The Ceann Comhairle Seamus Kirk also didn't vote, but he's not supposed to unless there's a tie.

Those who voted in favour: 81.

Those who voted against: 65.

Those who were absent on the government side: 6.

Those who were absent on the opposition side: 13.

Ceann Comhairle: 1.

Total: 166.

The list of those who voted is here. The bill now goes to the President to be signed into law, and once that's done the real fun commences. And to get that unpleasant taste out of my mouth, here's a really enjoyable and entirely irrelevant pop song.

Two Songs

Where are protest pop songs (such as those presented below) today? Cthulhu knows we need them! (This isn't a rhetorical question, by the way; seeing as I'm hopelessly ignorant about a lot of contemporary pop and rock, I'm genuinely curious. The UB40 song is included because it might be the first politically aware pop song I ever heard.)

A Very Belated Accompaniment

This time nearly a year ago I wrote a short piece about Sappho and walking in moonlight (here). I only wish that I had had the following photo (taken this evening on Morriscastle Strand) to illustrate it with back then, but better late than never. (I hope this displays properly on your computer; it's quite dark!)

Here's the same scene without the shadowy figure (my partner, who was very obliging about having to stand still quite a few times while I cursed and tried to get the shot right).

And finally, here's a jolly pumpkin in the window of Chez Doubtful! (I'm off to watch some more horror films now...)

As It's Halloween...

Seeing as it's Halloween, and therefore everyone's blathering on about 'orror, I felt that I should stick my oar in and make a list of a few interesting films for the discerning fan of cinema's dark side. However, my definition of a good horror film is based on its power to unsettle or disturb me rather than by its ability to frighten me. After all, anyone can yell "boo!" in your face and make you jump; for me, the really good stuff gets under your skin and stays there, like a bad dream. This is why I found The Exorcist or The Silence of the Lambs laughable rather than terrifying; they were so overwrought, obvious, and just plain silly that these days I couldn't even sit through them. But the following ten films have a real sense of flair and imagination, a genuine brush with the downright eerie and disturbing, and/or a nightmarish descent into the dark depths of the soul, and are highly recommended for those who haven't yet seen them. And if you have seen them, why not watch them again? (These are just off the top of my head; this list could change as I rifle through my video collection!)

1) The Haunting (1963 version)

Definitely the best haunted house film ever made, and one of the spookiest, most intelligent horror films of all time (which was remade as a ludicrous atrocity by Jan de Bont in the 1990s; for shame!). 

2) Carnival of Souls (1962).

This is one of the oddest B-movie horror films from the era and a wonderfully imaginative, strange little film. Often touted as an influence on George Romero, but I can imagine that a certain D. Lynch was also paying attention when this little gem first appeared.

3) Night of the Living Dead (1968).

The original, and still one of the best, of the modern-era horror films, as well as being the best zombie film ever made. Thought-provoking, visceral, and with the most audacious endings in the genre. 

4) Deep Red (1975).

Everyone's favourite Italian madman/auteur, Dario Argento, has been off the boil for some time now (since the late seventies, many would say, and even then his ouevre was an acquired taste: lots of style and nightmarish imagery, but let down by terrible acting, preposterous plots, and gaps in logic excessive even for the seventies) but if you're only going to watch one, make it this one: a very weird and convoluted murder mystery with some extremely startling moments and a general atmosphere of twisted decadence. May be too grisly for some, though.

5) Vertigo (1958).

Some might argue against including this as a horror film; however, I've always seen Vertigo as a ghost story (which just happens to have no real ghost). Certainly, it has moments which are truly haunting, and is one of the bleakest, darkest, and most disturbing films I've seen. (It also makes no sense whatsoever...)

6) The Innocents (1961).

This film version of The Turn of the Screw scared the bejaysus out of me when I saw it one evening many years ago, and it ranks up there with The Haunting as one of the best ghost stories on film.

7) Witchfinder General (1968).

Michael Reeves' extraordinarily dark and pessimistic tale of nasty doings in the Cromwellian era remains the best film Hammer never made, and has the performance of a lifetime from Vincent Price (although I have a great fondness for the Corman Poe films as well).

8) Brain Dead (1992).

The ultimate zombie splatter comedy, with possibly the best line ever from a kung-fu priest ("I kick arse for the Lord!") and a no-holds-barred approach to zombie dismemberment that's both utterly revolting and totally hilarious. The best horror comedy since The Evil Dead II ("groovy!"). Strong stomachs are definitely required for this one!

9) Black Sunday/The Mask of Satan (1960).

A wonderfully filmed Gothic tale has atmosphere so ripe you could slice it with a cheese knife and serve it on crackers, and the deathly beautiful Barbara Steele. The other best film that Hammer never made...

10) King Kong (1933).

Need I say more? (The original Kong, like Frankenstein, might not be scary any more, but they're still the best monster films ever. And I hated the recent remake of Kong, which was three times as long and, despite 70 years' worth of special effects' advances, still lacked the charm and pathos of the original (insofar as that which can be possessed by a film about a giant gorilla). When 1933 Kong falls to his doom, I still get a lump in my throat; when 2005 Kong finally plunges to earth, I yell "About bloody time!" )

Having recently watched The Devil Rides Out, with a magnetic Christopher Lee fighting the forces of Satan, I'm keeping the horror vibe going by watching the little-known but recommended Night of the Eagle (from 1962, I think, and about witches) and The Haunted Palace with Vincent Price (based on Lovecraft's Charles Dexter Ward). Happy Halloween, y'all! And here's a suitable song and video:

Turning 100...

One hundred posts here at Chez Doubtful ... If you're in the mood for something interesting, please watch the following and see what you think (be warned that it's 18 minutes long). I think it's fascinating, and more information can be found here. (The Dailymotion video isn't as good as the one found at the link, but that video wouldn't embed properly, and the YouTube videos have an annoying habit of putting the title onscreen, thus spoiling any surprise.)