What the first film suffers from in my mind is the same thing any film adaptation of a TV or Comic Book series suffers from: initial introduction of the characters and rules of their world massive information download. Given the complexity of any Fantasy / Horror / SF / Alternate Reality landscape, if you are approaching the making of the film–or book, or whatever–as it being the first of several, the result is that at least the first third of your initial movie–or volume, or whatever–is going to be akin to reading out a set of rules and regulations at the start of the school year. Remember that bit in Monty Python’s The Meaning of Life at the start of the classroom lecture which involved a long list of instructions about things to do if you were getting your haircut, but your older brother’s clothes were already on a lower peg and he wasn’t… Oh never mind, here it is, and watch it until just past the minute mark for what I’m talking about.

Right, got that? That’s my point, you see. Welcoming people into the world of Hellboy or Batman or The X-Men or The Lord of the Rings or whatever, is–if you’re not careful–just like that. Sadly, it’s also entirely necessary. While not every rule about the world is required straight off, you do need to know, for instance, that Harry Potter has been orphaned and left at the door of someone’s home, and that he’s not entirely a normal boy. That way, when you learn he’s a wizard, then the world of wizardry can be introduced to you the reader of the book or the viewer of the film along with our little lightning-bolt bearing laddie. This is also the advantage when adapting something in which the ‘rules of the world’ are actually being introduced to someone in the story, along with the readers or watchers.

Hellboy (2004)

The world of Hellboy, however, almost entirely exists before you get there, were it not for the ‘new guy’, John Meyers (played by baby-faced cuteness Rupert Evans), who is a recent graduate of FBI training supposedly reporting for his first assignment, which is at some place he’s never heard of and neither has the rest of the World (which is how the US Government wants it, thank you very much). Thus, in a sense, he becomes our way into this bizarre land of huge red men who use belt sanders to control the length of their horns the way normal people clip their finger nails.

The problem is that we’re introduced to so damned much here that the actual “doing of stuff” is so limited in opportunity that you really don’t have much foreplay before penetrating the actual adventure story itself. Not only do we first have to understand the initial discovery of Hellboy by the Nazis, we also have to meet his new protector and adoptive father Professor Broom, and the US Army Unit he’s with; plus Rasputin and Ilsa, who have opened-up a portal to another dimension and awakened forces known as “The Seven Gods of Chaos” on a tiny island off the coast of Scotland (you know, the way the Nazis were always doing); then have some time pass and we meet a much older Professor Broom (John Hurt); plus The Man Now in Charge, Tom Manning; plus a fish-like guy named Abe Sapien, who is a sort of empath; and then we meet the titular character. But a crisis occurs and we go and save the city. Meanwhile we get Hellboy’s flame Liz Sherman introduced as well, who has her own oddities, and that’s when the story really starts.

So… confused yet?

Honestly, it’s a damned heavy bit of lifting getting into the mythos of this world, especially given 99% of the people we meet in the opening sequence are seemingly erroneous once we’re past the titles, barring their responsibility for Helboy’s existence, and even the one who we do follow suddenly gets 60 years older. Coupled with the fact the opening’s visuals are so explosive and exciting–for most films this would qualify as SFX worthy only for a climax–it’s damned tough to have anything follow it at all. The only way to have gotten around that false climax would have been to get our boy to the secret base right at the start, then meet Professor Broom, chat for a few minutes, and then have Meyers get a briefing told in flash-back, so that we can have him reacting to the whole thing as we also do. I’m not sure there’s much to be gained through that, although it might seem far to superior to those who prefer things that way. Neither is actually better, it’s simply a matter of preference.

Anyway, Hellboy goes off with Fish-Guy and the ancient, underground city is ultimately saved after Hellboy gives in to Rasputin demand that Hellboy use his “Right Hand of Doom” to finally free the Seven Gods of Chaos. In other words, it doesn’t get any easier, no. Still, there’s some good action, you get a fair bit of character detail, and the visuals are fantastic.

Hellboy II: The Golden Army (2008)

The second film is far less work, mostly because you’re already up-to-speed with who the red guy is, plus his friends and co-workers. The story in the second film is far easier to follow as a result as well. Being in a far less time-spanning narrative makes this far more self-contained. However, the size of the saga is still substantial, involving an albino man (Luke Goss) who turns out to be Elfin Prince Nuada, who wants to get a missing bit of the crown his father King Balor broke apart, plus another bit that his sister, Princess Nuala, has in her possession. He must be stopped from doing this. There’s also a new character brought in: the bossy-pants Johann Krauss, who is incredibly intelligent and–sadly–he knows it and ensures that everyone else is aware of it as well. The whole pathos / humour balance is wonderfully accomplished, and kudos to writers Mignolo and del Toro for achieving the perfect mix.

The one sad thing is that we don’t have FBI-guy John Meyers, which is too bad as he’s the only normal human left in this world, it seems. Apparently actor Rupert Evans was already booked for a run of Kiss of the Spider Woman during the filming period and couldn’t make the shoot in Budapest, London, and County Antrim. 

In both films, it’s the visuals that make the stories work. Director Guillermo del Toro has an incredible gift when making fairy tales come to life, and seemingly takes the attitude that ‘less’ isn’t ‘more’, less is less; so let’s have more! The frame is rammed-full of textures and details for no reason other than “because he can”, and they all work perfectly. Something that often gets short shrift, when a folk tale or super-hero story gets a film made of it, is that these things aren’t supposed to be peopled with  pretty things, but lumpy and ugly stuff! When a set of rocks suddenly leap up and reveal themselves as a gigantic creature, there are oddly-shaped ovoids that don’t perfectly come together! This is far more  disturbing, as the sense of it seeming to be designed by humanity, or controlled by some sort of rational aesthetic, might cause it to seem more ‘normal’. Randomness and anarchy are always disturbing. S. del Toro embraces that, thank goodness; especially when dealing with the world of Nature.

So… oodles of work here for the casual viewer, yes. If you found the first one a bit too impenetrable, it’s understandable, but see the second one and I can guarantee you a better time and a far more entertaining one as well.

Hellboy (2004)
Revolution Studios presents
Lawrence Gordon Productions
Starlite Films
in association with Dark Horse Entertainment

Directed by
Guillermo del Toro

Writing credits
Guillermo del Toro (screenplay)
Guillermo del Toro (screen story) and Peter Briggs (screen story)
Mike Mignola (comic books)

Hellboy II: The Golden Army (2008)
Universal Pictures presents
in association with Dark Horse Entertainment,
Internationale Filmproduktion Eagle,
Lawrence Gordon Productions, and
Mid-Atlantic Films
in association with Relativity Media

Directed by
Guillermo del Toro

Writing credits
Guillermo del Toro (screenplay)
Guillermo del Toro (story) & Mike Mignola (story)
Mike Mignola (comic book)

This year, I’ve been watching DVDs from the library for a number of reasons, mostly to do with a combination of “filling in the gaps in my ‘pop culture’ knowledge”, as well as a concerted effort to better understand story editing by both watching a film and then re-watching listening to people who have studied that particular movie for years in order to better appreciate the themes, plot construction, symbolism, and so on.

The process would be nothing without the secondary audio tracks. Sometimes it’s like having actually been through the film-making process with the people involved.

Bubba Ho-Tep (2002)

If you have to read that last part again, do so, as the above is about the most straight-forward part of the tale. If you haven’t got that grasped firmly, you’ll be lost in the next paragraph for sure.

Elvis is in an old-age home suffering some sort of cancerous lesion on his penis, and JFK is now an African American living in terror that President Lyndon Johnson is going to locate him in the aforementioned care facility and ‘finish the job’.

Again, the above is insane, so I understand if you need to re-read that, if you don’t actually have to understand it, as it serves as what is the most far-fetched ‘MacGuffin’ potentially in the history of fiction. Frankly, you have to accept this in order to get into the story at all, and both characters provide enough explanation of how this can even be possible for anyone. The best thing to say on this topic is simply trust me, it works, and leave it at that. Watch the film if you haven’t already.

The film is based on–actually it owes its entirety to–a novella by Joe R. Lansdale, and nearly all of the dialogue and voice-over narrative is taken right from the source material. There are, apparently, two small things which were added by the director due to the visual nature of the medium, but nothing was removed for that reason from the original work. If anyone was looking for an example of how to adapt a strong story to the screen this is the best example of it imaginable. The dialogue, action, and plot are clearly told (once you get past the admittedly incredible points above), with the whole thing not only being entertainingly intelligent, it’s down-right fun to watch.

Hollywood could never have made this movie, as it seems incapable of presuming the audience has the capacity to comprehend the rules of a world in which Egyptian Pharaohs can come to life near a Texas old age home. Certainly, the popularity of this film is destined to be smaller than that of Star Wars or The Fantastic Four, but people said the same thing about The X-Men, Star Trek, and Doctor Who and look how those have shifted into film legacies!

This particular film is a perfect example of my belief that a strong plot, interesting characters, and a little bit of action are integral to a story. Whatever you do with those–change the timeline, make the characters’ details implausible, mix genre and story styles like a tossed salad–is immaterial as long as you have those three aspects rock-solid and complete in their development.

The DVD of this has two commentary tracks to accompany the film: one with the director and the actor who plays “Elvis” (Bruce Campbell), and another track with commentary by “The King”. It’s like a whole new movie.

Bubba Ho-Tep (2002)
Silver Sphere Corporation

Director:
Don Coscarelli

Writers:
original novella by Joe R. Lansdale
screenplay by Don Coscarelli

This year, I’ve been watching DVDs from the library for a number of reasons, mostly to do with a combination of “filling in the gaps in my ‘pop culture’ knowledge”, as well as a concerted effort to better understand story editing by both watching a film and then re-watching listening to people who have studied that particular movie for years in order to better appreciate the themes, plot construction, symbolism, and so on.

The process would be nothing without the secondary audio tracks. Sometimes it’s like having actually been through the film-making process with the people involved.

The Invisible Man (1933)

Despite the image in the poster, the titular character never once has searchlights behind his spectacles (if you’re hoping for that as a part of the film, better to look elsewhere, such as The Lord of the Rings trilogy with it’s all-seeing eye of Sauron). This film not only doesn’t have that, it also hasn’t any colour either. It is, however, full to the rim with excellent English actors being fantastic.

The fact you never see the face of the main character until the very last moment of his existence is the principle reason that Boris Karloff chose not to play the role, and thus we get to hear the fabulous tones of Claude Rains instead. Thank goodness director James Whale overhead the latter actor’s screen test by accident. The voice is, quite rightly, far more important than any box-office name might normally be. The intellectual quality of the scientist who accidentally becomes invisible is key to the story being effective, for it is this which not only permits the formula to be created in the first place, it is what makes the potential of the man’s evil so much the greater.

As my much-loved fellow film lover John Llewellyn Probert pointed out in his review of Rosemary’s Baby:

Ultimate evil isn’t Dennis Wheatley’s Mocata in a cape, it’s the annoying old couple who live next door, the obstetrician who wants your baby for his own devices, the best friend who kills themselves and leaves you alone again just as you thought you were managing to settle into your strange new environment a tiny bit. It’s the empty corridors that always look as if they’re hiding someone or something threatening around the next corner. It’s those individuals in our society (spouse, neighbour, doctor) that you should be able to trust but you can’t.

http://johnlprobert.blogspot.com/2011/11/rosemarys-baby-1968.html

This is precisely why the scientist must be highly intelligent: only the smartest men can create these things, and thus they are best fitted for the great responsibility which comes with that great power… right?

You see how scary that is suddenly?

Then add the erudite tones of the ‘Oxbridge’ accent to that and it explains a great deal about why all of Bond’s most well-known arch-enemies (barring a couple) have upper-class English accents. Responsibility and power ought to be the ingredients for goodness, not the ingredients for egregious evil!

While the extensive scene at the small road-house at the outset of the film is important for setting the scene and getting the viewer to know the rules of this situation, it does go on a bit over-long, with the result that the locals seem to take a hell of a long time to work out what’s going on with the man upstairs–admittedly realistically–and thus end-up looking very very stupid. The disbelieving officials also get over-used; which again seems realistic, who would take the word of a bunch of labourers that “there’s an invisible man living above our local!” Again, however, this is a movie and things ought to move along a bit quicker, otherwise Close Encounters of the Third Kind would run eighteen hours (and it’s long enough as it is, thank you).

The rarefied atmosphere of a film allows for things to be accepted more quickly than in real life, which in turn allows the audience to accept things more easily and efficiently as a result. The actors are scared, we are scared. The characters are dancing and making merry, we are dancing and making merry with them. The King of Spain is a man with a large blue hat, and those of us males with a large blue hat are also the King of Spain! You see?

Okay, skip the last one, probably.

To learn just how evil and amoral a scientist might become when reaching for the other tree in the Garden of Evil, have a look at this film. It’s exceedingly well-made, and moves along quite quickly despite my comments about the first act. You’ll likely be pleasantly surprised with the special effects, too!

The Invisible Man
Universal Pictures (1933)

Directed by
James Whale
 
Writing credits
H.G. Wells (novel)
R.C. Sherriff (screenplay)
Preston Sturges contributing writer (uncredited)
Philip Wylie (also uncredited)

This year, I’ve been watching DVDs from the library for a number of reasons, mostly to do with a combination of “filling in the gaps in my ‘pop culture’ knowledge”, as well as a concerted effort to better understand story editing by both watching a film and then re-watching listening to people who have studied that particular movie for years in order to better appreciate the themes, plot construction, symbolism, and so on.

The process would be nothing without the secondary audio tracks. Sometimes it’s like having actually been through the film-making process with the people involved.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)

The look of the film is fantastic (and see if you can locate a copy of the Kino-release with the film tinting), with all sorts of nifty imagery. There’s not a straight line anywhere, due to the “German Expressionist Style” making everything quite anarchic.

The wrap-around telling of the story either adds an extra level of vagueness to the story–is it madness, is it a dream fantasy, or is it reality–or simply makes you wonder “why did they bother to complicate the thing?” I’ve not made up my mind which camp I’m in.

The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)

Director:
Robert Wiene

Writers:
Hans Janowitz and Carl Mayer

This year, I’ve been watching DVDs from the library for a number of reasons, mostly to do with a combination of “filling in the gaps in my ‘pop culture’ knowledge”, as well as a concerted effort to better understand story editing by both watching a film and then re-watching listening to people who have studied that particular movie for years in order to better appreciate the themes, plot construction, symbolism, and so on.

The process would be nothing without the secondary audio tracks. Sometimes it’s like having actually been through the film-making process with the people involved.

Registering was a breeze, especially as the lady behind the table half-recognized me, and was part-way locating my material as I approached. Confirming my identity as a mere formality by showing her my Driver’s Licence, I turned to the second stage of the task, which was the receiving of the ‘goodie bag’ for the convention, containing donated volumes and bits of promotional bumpf from various authors, publishers, and so on. With the warning “are you ready for this?” a black, nylon  carry-bag with two-inch-wide shoulder strap was handed to me, at which point my arm was nearly torn out of its socket due to the weight of the thing. Truly this was not a simple ‘swag bag’, but a veritable Bag of Brobdignagian Bundle of Books! Granted, the inclusion of a three-inch-thick hardback book as the “Souvenir Programme”, a massive full-colour volume about Basil Copper, plus an equally thick zombie graphic novel collection were a fair bit responsible for the weight on their own, but the sheer volume of the material was literally causing people to be seen staggering around the lobby. In the end I shipped most of it home–so as to avoid being 100KG over my luggage allowance–but the Basil Copper and Zombie Comic books were left for someone who might want them more than I did.

The actual convention events were mostly held in the historic Royal Albion Hôtel [image, left, is not of the hotel], located literally across the road from the entrance to the Brighton Pier. For those of you located in North America, something in the UK which is called “historic” is not built following the death of Her late Majesty Queen Victoria in 1901, but likely was constructed long before her birth in1819. In this case, the building was originally three different ones that have been combined into one rambling confusion of room styles and turning passageways. This non-linear layout is often described as “charming” and/or possessing an “unique character”. If you like Bauhaus-styled minimalism, events held in these sorts of buildings are not for you.

In fact, the most historical portion of the building is the third of it furthest west, which is where the Dealers’ Room happened to be located for the event. Well, actually, it was comprised of two rooms, plus the outer hallway. Still, there were wondrous things to be easily found there, some of which were the books of Atomic Fez Publishing. Hooray!

I admit that my book table’s location–right inside the door of the main Dealers’ Room–was likely of some fair help in sales being fairly good, plus the fact the titles were more ‘WHC-oriented” in their content than not. Additionally, the outside rear cover of the “Pocket Programme” (a hard-backed, jacket-less, slim, 80-page volume of a page size sufficient to burst any pocket available, save for those of a Sherpa’s overcoat) displayed a full-colour Atomic Fez advert of the “soft-sell”, “welcome to the event… have a good time… stop by for a chat… then please buy some books” variety, which provided a 50/50 chance of people seeing it every time they tossed it down on the bed in their room or on the chair next to them attending a panel discussion. One actual side-effect of the ad was that people thought Atomic Fez had something to do with the production of the book, which wasn’t the case; it was due much to the efforts of the fine team of PS Publishing, run by the equally fine Peter Crowther, and I had nothing to do with it at all except paying for the ad space.

The principle aim for this 1st event of the two during this trip was basically three-fold:

1. show-up
2. prove the books exist and weren’t merely a “hoped to be ready eventually” rumour
3. hold my head up in UK’s literary public events

So, on those levels, all was success.

The first day presented the initial point at which I was challenged to defy the laws of both physics and the rules governing the space/time continuum–being in two places at the same time–as the Pitch Black session started at noon and ran until 17:00, but the Dealers’ Room opened at 14:00 and ran until 18:00. A bit tricky, but as there was a delay with delivery of the books, this worked out just fine in the end. Granted, upon being informed that the boxes of books had arrived, the response “FUCKING YEAH!!!” whilst punching the air might not have been the most professional thing to cry after breaking off in the middle of someone’s pitch about their book proposal. I’m not sure if taking a breath, then turning back to the author at the time with the mild-voiced question “So… about these stories of yours…” was enough to mitigate the interruption, either. This was followed a few hours later, however, by the illustrious John Llewellyn Probert coming into the room–in the middle of a pitch by the particularly quiet and soignée Anna Taborska about a collection of her stories–and lying on top of me whilst I cried “you know I prefer it when you’re on the bottom!” Poor JLP, he’d no idea that it was the Pitch Black session, thinking he had located me in the Dealers’ Room; although I’m not sure how this might have been better. Ms Taborska is likely still stunned.

The Pitch Black session was good for both sides of the table, in my view, as it provided many authors the opportunity to pitch their works–possibly for the first time in their career–to some people in the publishing industry they mightn’t otherwise have had any access to; as well as giving those agents and publishers on the opposing side of the table a ‘quick and dirty’ overview of people we’d not heard of prior to then. If money was no obstacle, and there was an un-limited amount of time to accomplish things, many of the proposals from that session would be pursued further to examine the viability of the matter in greater detail. In short, another success. Yes, there were some who were labelled ‘loonies’–and for good reason–but one recalls a attending a cattle-call style of audition for the national touring production of a major musical being done a fair bit less than entirely great. The first time isn’t the greatest in so many matters, but it’s important to get things started in order to improve.

On the final day of the event–Sunday at noon–there was the panel discussion of ‘the New Pan Books of Horror’, covering the anthologies which came after the ‘official’ Pan Books of Horror Stories; both the semi-official and those which were rather less than so, such as the two Humdrumming Books of Horror Stories which I edited. Not only was this the first panel I had even been on, Stephen Jones (editor of an on-going series of immensely influential anthologies) was sitting right next to me. Considering this–plus the location being the grand lounge used to hold the opening and closing ceremonies and all of the Guest of Honour Interviews–the fact the crowd was on the sparse side was actually a relief. It seemed to go well, though; people were generally amused and pleased to have attended. Generally the discussion covered the final stage of the famous anthologies, as well as an attempt to revive the series shortly after Steve Jones took over editing duties of the material for the purposes of a “Best of…” volume of the previous thirty-or-so Pan… editions, as well as the loss of much of the original painted cover artworks, some rather dodgy business practices of the titular editor Herbert van Thal, and the question of whether the re-issue of the very first Pan Books’ volume signalled a one-off nostalgia cash-in or if it could be parleyed into a new series of volumes. A pleasant hour, if nothing else.

During the convention, an amazing number of events took place, but the one which is most likely to live in infamy was the party held on the Friday evening at the furthest end of the Brighton Pier. Its supply of food and drink was immense, with the Host Bar bearing a reported £5,000 drink limit for any one individual attending it. Sponsored by a few American writers, the party was roundly praised as surpassing any level of Bacchanalian revelry ever seen before by those attending. In addition to the sheer volume of it, the quality of food and drink was inestimable by anyone returning to the hotel later. Oddly, I didn’t attend, as I was fighting the final bits of jet-lag, and had already noticed my voice dropping an octave owing to its over-use and possible influence of Guinness drinking. During the final ten days of my trip a year-and-a-half ago I was fighting some kind of mild cold which was more annoying than debilitating, but a repeat wasn’t something I wanted to experience.

As a promotional event, the book by “Lord Probert” was given a “Win a Champagne Breakfast with the Author” contest, complete with a ‘golden ticket’ tucked inside one of the copies of Wicked Delights. As a result, the delightfully charming Stephen Bacon was blessed with the opportunity to ‘break his fast’ in the company of Lord & Lady Probert with the wonderful accompaniment of fine champagne!! The downside of this was I was also in attendance… into every life a little rain must fall…

John Llewellyn Probert (say the initial “ll” correctly and be rewarded with a goggle-eyed expression of surprise, by the way) and his “Lady Kate” are an equally matched barmy couple; if his arrival in the Pitch Black session a few paragraphs ago didn’t make clear his nature. On the Friday evening (while sordid things were done on the pier), the two of them brought the 1968 film Corruption to life on stage with only the two of them, a couple of chairs, and an assortment of props. The result was insane,  hysterical, and probably better produced than the original film. Thanks to the skills of the vast personnel in “Lord Froggy’s Dungeon”, we present for you here this FINE THEATRICAL PERFORMANCE, complete with GUARANTEED ACTUAL ATTRACTIVE FEMALE (she’s the one with the North American accent; the one that sounds British is male).

Also insanely funny was the two-man performance by Nathaniel Tapley and John Hopkins (I think it was John, anyway) Darren Strange, collectively known as In the Gloaming. That was the Friday evening, with a performance by them on the Saturday evening with the full group of players, which I missed owing to going to bed a bit early.

Prior to the insanity above, at the start of the evening’s entertainment, was a performance of the M.R. James story “A Warning to the Curious”, as a one-man performance by Mr. ____ Lloyd-Perry. It was an incredibly deep one, delivering a reality not normally experienced from a story nearly a century old. A brilliant, spooky, and moving performance, and one to see if you attend some sort of even such as WHC.

On the Saturday evening, the AMA “Stoker Awards” Banquet was held on the Brighton Pier. The main course was ‘Fish & Chips’, but as an hors d’œuvre we had paté. This was something to which I was intestinally un-prepared for (at home I’m mostly vegetarian) and suddenly introducing something as ‘hard-core dead-animal food’ was a bit of a jolt to the system. The next morning the tum was a bit ‘oooogly’ (if that makes any sense to you). As paté goes, it was ‘okay’, but not thrilling, so the end result wasn’t worth the consumption. Next time I’ll try to ‘ease-up’ on the matter in stages, possibly by bringing down a live gazelle with my bare hands and tearing flesh from its skeleton with my teeth whilst it is still thrashing about in agony.

On the Sunday afternoon, John Travis did a reading from his first novel The Terror and the Tortoiseshell, using a version of its prologue on which I had done some editing of the text so as to keep it within the permitted time-slot’s length. It went quite well, with John paying particular attention to not rushing, permitting the listeners to properly take-in the material as he presented it.

So, all-in-all, everything went well. Books were sold, people were entertained, and no-one punched me in the eye. HOORAY!

But first, we have to get there. Off to St. Pancras International Station–with easily the most uncomfortable public seating in the known world–to locate the Chiltern Railways run headed the right direction, and an hour later I’m in Brighton! Hooray!

While I’m getting there the old-fashioned way, you can get there in a matter of four minutes (plus another 60 seconds to find a comfortable seat before the train gets started and some time to catch your breath at the other end).

So… now that you’ve arrived–and so have I–let’s go to the World HorrorCon, shall we?

The international event in Brighton went quite well. It was fascinating to have the opportunity to see a clash of cultures in microcosm with the self-driven positive promotion of the American attendees–wearing their emotions very much on the surface of the moment–with the members of England’s delegation who tended to be of a more restrained and humble demeanour–and very much leant to the ‘it’s a pleasing moment’ when expressing their incredible joy. While expected, the contrast was considerably more distinct than anticipated. During the closing ceremonies, the event was described as ‘the best ever’, ‘very very very good’, the “red shirt” helpers running around doing the little things required to ensure events ran smoothly ‘worked really incredibly hard doing a huge amount of difficult work’, the artists who were displayed in an exhibition were “the finest artists working in the world today’ and the display was ‘the best exhibition ever’, and people attending were thanked for ‘travelling incredible distances’ to ensure that this was ‘truly a proper World event of incredible proportions and diversity’.

Hyperbole injection, anyone?

Following the Stoker Awards ceremony, at least one UK person was heard to describe the affair as ‘clearly an attempt to out-do Hollywood’ with its use of video-taped message from the Chair of the AHA–an attempted high-production affair which was plagued by badly synced sound and an already reverb-laden recording being played on a sound system in a reverb-laden room, at too low a volume to hear properly anyway, with incredibly slow pacing, albeit with rather attractive costuming and a fine example of a rack… and the set dressing had some nice torture devices as well–as well as a few grumbles about ‘and there was all this clapping you had to do, as if you bloody cared about all these people you’ve never heard of; WOO! WOO-HOOOO! all the bloody time… and then you had to stand-up… PFAH! I don’t think I’ll go to another fucking awards thing ever again!’

I, on the other hand, have often noticed and enjoyed the dignified restraint of the UK-held events where ‘excellence’ is recognized, yet completely understand the outbursts of enthusiasm during American-held ones. This may explain better than any other way what sort of people Canadians are. Flexible, easy-going, adaptable. We see both sides, respect and understand the differences, and celebrate the diversity of human behaviour.

Either that or we simply are obsequious bastards who need to be loved by everyone.

The afternoon of leaving Brighton, I toured the Pavilion [exterior image, right; sadly, no pictures are allowed inside], which was INCREDIBLE. Both Crazy Legs and Christopher Fowler were quite right to say/command that “one must visit it”. The overt-sensuality and explosion of Chinoisery of the Banquet and Music Halls were perfectly off-set by the less temperate elegance of the Salon and Music Gallery. Much of the building seems to be open to viewing, but there are no doubt treasures that remain out of sight.

The gardens could be improved, but there was no mention of them ever being a remarkable thing to the eye during either its use by the Prince of Wales/Regent/King George the IV or Queen Victoria. Given the beauty within its walls, it might not have been seen as necessary to have outdoor works of visual splendour. ‘Splendour’ certainly is not in short supply there, that’s for sure.

NEXT POST: more about the World HorrorCon itself, as well as its events.

This is the point that we realise either I worry too much or am afraid of flying. ‘Afraid’ is too strong a term; ‘concerned about flying’ is closer to the matter probably. There’s a great deal of reason to the argument that man has no place in the middle of the air with so much as a plinth beneath him. As Flanders & Swann put it, if God had meant us to fly, he would have never given us the Railways. Given BA’s area of Heathrow looking like an “used aeroplane dealers’”, one gets the impression He is giving us a reminder. Then one is reminded of the National Rail strike potentially happening on Easter week-end and you wonder just how sadistic He’s getting.

So… gather bits and pieces, rummaging under the seat locate the blue-tooth thing for the mouse, re-organise bag in order to find everything better, shuffle toward door, notice that the Slovakian Paralympic team was also on the plane and I didn’t mention it, trudge through airport in seeming re-enactment of the Salt March (end goal to be rid of this building instead of un-fair taxation), and finally arrive at… the corridor outside the holding area for UK border clearance… oh my, this is going to take bloody… and suddenly we’re whooshing through the sorting between “UK & EU Passports Only” and “Other” and shooting through the little lanes toward the desks of those people given the power of letting us experience the finest level of civilization in the known world: ENGLAND!!

‘FROM THIS POINT IN THE QUEUE, YOU CAN EXPECT IT TO TAKE 20 MINUTES OR SO UNTIL YOU REACH THE CUSTOMS INSPECTOR”.

Ah. Right. I’ll just read my book then… which I don’t have with me. Thinking about it, there’s not a single book in my entire collection of travel belongings. How odd. I stand and become bored quickly.

Clear customs, get Oyster card, locate Heathrow 1,2,3 Platform for the Underground. An announcement about the un-scheduled service delays on several other tube lines is made, with the final statement that these are not delays to service on this line as “this is the Piccadilly Line, and we have a good service time.” He sounded a bit smug at the end, didn’t he?

Get on tube, chat to some young US College students who are visiting for the first time, give them advice about getting a copy of the A-Z, learn to leave the “0” on the front of a telephone number when calling someone here–never did work that one out before–and arrive at King’s Cross Underground Station, where one can “alight here for the Royal National Institute of the Blind”… that’s the best you can do for a tourist point? Oddly, our closest SkyTrain station at home is right next to the Canadian National Institute of the Blind headquarters, so it’s a bit of a pleasant co-incidence.

Leave the station via the loooooong, pointless exit taking me to Pentonville Road (seemed like a good idea at the time…) and erupt onto the LOUDEST STREET IN THE BLOODY WORLD! …I SAID, THIS IS THE LOUDEST STRE… hang on, I’ll type it out, it’ll be easier.

Get money from machine, head to café for Best Coffee Ever Made in History (or so it felt like at this point), locate phone box, and call Christopher Fowler whilst staring at an array of mad adverts for all sorts of ‘unique’ services done by–mostly–women to–mostly-men. That’s not based on the average of the ads over-all, but the average of any one individual involved. There was one which consisted simply of a bit of paper with a phone number and the word “Transvestite” written on it in black marker. Nothing else, just that. Is this someone offering the services of a transvestite, should you require one for after-dinner entertainment? Is this an advert akin to “if you’re a transvestite, then call this number…” and, if so, what sort of products are they hawking through this niche-market sales technique? Seems a bit hit-and-miss, to be honest.

Head to hotel, check-in, remind oneself that if you’re in a room on the first floor then yes you do need to use the lift as the floor at ground level ‘doesn’t count’ in England, hose self off, shave dress in non-filthy clothing, and head out to have dinner with Luke at local place which is the only vegan sushi house in Europe. It’s quite near the Travelodge King’s Cross Royal Scott and needs the trade. It’s quiet, the presentation is fantastic, and the service is incredible… unless you want the bill, in which case you have to file a request form in triplicate prior to it being prepared. They may have wanted to keep us there as long as possible just so that people walking by would see that people were actually eating there. We were their only customers.

Dash off to meet with Christopher at a pub… to find I was sufficiently late that he’d already left (his other party didn’t show either). He left a note at the bar, but the bartender didn’t pass it on and I didn’t ask “is there a message left here by a very nice man trying to meet-up with a loony Canadian person?”

Another phone call from the same box (all the adverts were gone now) and head to pub.

Much argy-bargy discussion of amusing things, he gives me copies of two of his books–signed and cartoon’ed–his mate joins us, more pints, much loud talking over the noise of the pub, they leave, I go to the loo, return to find my 75% full pint has been cleared away, decide that this is a sign, and return to hotel full of local warmth (and mild ale).

Back in London again! Hooray! I do so love this town and its people!

The last few hours were spent packing the things deemed “cannot do without” such as socks, underwear, shirts, and the fez. Also gifties for people I’ll be seeing who deserve said things. Chances are that they’ll not appreciate it… but I’ll feel better for having provided something a little extra for them. Total baggage weight came in just under the allowance, so all is well.

On the way to the airport, Jennifer and I had a spirited discussion about current events (proposal has been made for municipal elections to provide voting power to businesses, in addition to citizens. Our considered opinion: “that’s dumb! They’d be dumb to do that! That’d be, like, DUMB!” So we got that sorted easily, as well as the typical last-minute stuff, like what to do when the books arrive from the printers while I’m gone and so on.

Air Canada has power at the seats! I can re-charge my lap-top while they fly! Hooray!

Also fun is the touch-screen entertainment system… although mine froze-up playing Kate Bush’s album The Kick Inside. I’m not blaming her, though.

Some sort of dinner suddenly arrives, and smells like spicy… thing. In the end it’s Chicken Penne in a tomato sauce of decent taste, as well as a corn / haricots vert / julienne carrot vinaigrette salad, and a chocolate brownie with chocolate poured upon it. Granted the bread-like object that came with dinner could have used some sort of leavening agent; while not actually matzo, it could hardly have been called ‘a light, fluffy, Euro-inspired piece of dinner bread’. How one has the gall to be so picky at 35,000 feet whilst travelling at 569 MPH though air at a temperature of –70.6°F is beyond me, but this is something one does after spending what seems to be too much money for bad food.

How is it that the little plastic knife disappears as soon as it’s placed on the tray? It’s probably around my ankle somewhere, about to stab itself into my leg when I attempt to get comfy under the little blue blankey they give you (wrapped in plastic for you to stay awake wondering what to do with the crinkly stuff for hours until we land!). If you have the answer for these things, fortunes will be lain at your feet! Or, more probably, you’ll get a nice, firm, handshake of thanks.

Louis C.K. has it right, however: when you leave the ground, you should turn to someone and yell: HOLY SHIT! WE’RE IN THE SKY! THIS IS AWESOME! LOOK OUT THE WINDOW! WE’RE FLYING! WOW! LOOK HOW HIGH WE ARE NOW! MAN, THIS IS… WOW, LOOK AT THE CLOUDS! WE’RE IN THE CLOUDS, MAN!

I suspect that if I actually do this, however, the Nordic gentleman sitting next to me will either not understand a word I’m saying, punch me in the face until I am no longer conscious, or both. As he’s taking the ‘do not eat the offered meal, drink equal amounts of beer and mineral water, read a magazine while also watching a French movie with English sub-titles making fun of both Italians and Germans equally, and then ordering more beer and water’ approach to changing time zones, the best course of action is to simply sit here and type away industriously whilst listening to an Art Blakey album and sip my apple juice and water, and make not a sound. How odd: he’s wearing two wrist-watches of equal complexity.

In a short while perhaps I’ll ignore the enRoute entertainment system some more and watch some more of Blake’s 7. Then nap. Because it’s after 5:30AM in London now.