Catatonia is remake. They can call it a reimagining, but it's the same title, same main characters, and it's still about a child molester who contemplates philosophy in dreams. I think if you keep the philosophical child abuser who walks in other people’s sleep, you’re not re-imagining too hard. It’s a remake.
The original Catatonia was released in 1971. It was kind of grind house, kind of art house. The stuff he makes his victims dream is really graphic and disturbing, but it wasn’t scary. It was like porn, except bad things instead of sexy things. It opens in this one scene about a school bus driving through a graveyard, and all the kids are buried under their seats, then wake up and try to claw their way out of the vinyl before they suffocate. The sleepwalker watches from the driver’s seat, talking about nihilism. Unsettling stuff. When it first came out critics said only a perverted American could make. They implored people to go see better films from Europe.
Which is funny because the 1971 Catatonia was actually a remake of Au-dessous de Votre Lit, a 1960 French film. It opens with kids trying to claw their way out from within the seats of a car before the suffocate while the driver reads from Camus’s The Stranger. It, too, was about a master of dreams fascinated with doing terrible things to kids. Claude and John in Catatonia seem funny once you see Au-dessous de Votre Lit’s child protagonists: Claude and Jean. They dispatch their stalker the same way as in Catatonia, tripping him and impaling him on broken pieces of a crib (though in the French version it’s the crib he’d made for his son, who was stillborn; in the American it’s a random crib). The directors of Catatonia didn’t even acknowledge Au-dessous de Votre Lit.
Before you get angry at America, though, it’s worth noting that Au-dessous de Votre Lit was also a plagiarism. There was no film like it beforehand. However, there was Himmel Nabel, a Swiss novel by Hans Kohler that was widely circulated in the 1910’s largely about two German boys who are haunted in dreams by a foreign soldier their fathers have killed in the Great War. He tortures them for what their fathers are doing. In an unusually surreal scene for Horror lit at the time, they have to dig themselves out of his unmarked grave, which has no tombstone, but instead the military tank that blew him up parked on top of it.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Monologue for a male theologian who is somehow hired to do the commencement speech for an all-girls college
Thank you for inviting me. I’m not sure exactly why you invited me; perhaps “Jens” sounds feminine to American ears.
Uhm. Yes.
Well, I’ve always felt Christianity had more feminism to it than churches let on. I think they were intimidated. I grew up Irish Catholic and there was no stronger force in the world than my mother. My father was a distant second place. The local priest, somewhere in third. Sometimes she would even speak up during services, if she disagreed with the theme. One Sunday she and the priest got into such an argument over whether or not God could make a rock that He Himself could not lift that the services ended before the matter was resolved.
I hope that won’t happen today. It may be why I’m so nervous.
There is a lot of chauvinism in the business. The savior is male. All four gospels are from men, and institutions like the Catholic Church and Russian Orthodox Church are dominated by men. The sexless almighty entity is for some reason called “He.” My mother never liked that. As I said, though, a lot of Christianity doesn’t want to let on that there’s feminism to it.
After the savior, the most important person in that religion’s history is a woman. The Virgin Mary. It’s funny – “virgin” used to mean “mother,” not “chaste.” They called her the Virgin Mary because she was the most famous mom in the world, not because she and Joseph never fooled around. In their time motherhood was revered.
She wasn’t a divine surrogate, either. Imagine explaining to your future husband, should you marry, that you are pregnant with a celestial child. It takes a heck of a woman to sell that. After the birth, Joseph fades out of the picture and Mary remains. She informs Jesus of his divinity; depending on the gospel, he isn’t born knowing. When they’re at a party and he’s afraid to work miracles, it’s Mary who tells God it’s time to be a man and make the wine. Show me any scripture where an apostle tells Christ what to do.
The biggest mistake in Christian history was not having her write part of the Bible. Imagine that story. Imagine the nativity scene from her perspective. And watching the savior grow up? Was God a little angel? How was puberty? She was with him to his death. Literature has no greater loss than not hearing the thoughts of the holy mother who outlived her son.
None of that is to say your only role is to have children. Mary Magdalene convinced Christ to raise her brother, Lazarus. Mother Theresa built houses for the sick. If you believe the story of Joan of Arc, compare her to the Christian founder Paul. God tells Paul to quit being an ass and put his sword away, while he tells Joan to stand up. She fought an entire country. I sometimes wonder why you don’t just take the whole planet over.
I didn’t speak about Mary because she was a mother. It’s because you’re going into the world next week. The world that pays you less than men on average, has far more men in positions of power, and calls the sexless almighty “He.”
You’re well educated. I know because I’m friends with the Dean of Studies, and she’s smarter than I am. You can stand up. You’re ready. You don’t have to take a thing from this world; you can march into it with the confidence of the lady who can talk her husband into accepting immaculate conception and tell a little god what to do. It’s confidence that’s your birthright, which you’ll back up with ability built through effort.
I’m not just saying this because my mother went to this college and is sitting in the third row (hi Mom). I’m saying it because I don’t really know why I’m here, but if I’m going to be, I have things to impart. The most important is this: write and remember what is important in the years ahead, and teach it all to the world. We need the education.
Uhm. Yes.
Well, I’ve always felt Christianity had more feminism to it than churches let on. I think they were intimidated. I grew up Irish Catholic and there was no stronger force in the world than my mother. My father was a distant second place. The local priest, somewhere in third. Sometimes she would even speak up during services, if she disagreed with the theme. One Sunday she and the priest got into such an argument over whether or not God could make a rock that He Himself could not lift that the services ended before the matter was resolved.
I hope that won’t happen today. It may be why I’m so nervous.
There is a lot of chauvinism in the business. The savior is male. All four gospels are from men, and institutions like the Catholic Church and Russian Orthodox Church are dominated by men. The sexless almighty entity is for some reason called “He.” My mother never liked that. As I said, though, a lot of Christianity doesn’t want to let on that there’s feminism to it.
After the savior, the most important person in that religion’s history is a woman. The Virgin Mary. It’s funny – “virgin” used to mean “mother,” not “chaste.” They called her the Virgin Mary because she was the most famous mom in the world, not because she and Joseph never fooled around. In their time motherhood was revered.
She wasn’t a divine surrogate, either. Imagine explaining to your future husband, should you marry, that you are pregnant with a celestial child. It takes a heck of a woman to sell that. After the birth, Joseph fades out of the picture and Mary remains. She informs Jesus of his divinity; depending on the gospel, he isn’t born knowing. When they’re at a party and he’s afraid to work miracles, it’s Mary who tells God it’s time to be a man and make the wine. Show me any scripture where an apostle tells Christ what to do.
The biggest mistake in Christian history was not having her write part of the Bible. Imagine that story. Imagine the nativity scene from her perspective. And watching the savior grow up? Was God a little angel? How was puberty? She was with him to his death. Literature has no greater loss than not hearing the thoughts of the holy mother who outlived her son.
None of that is to say your only role is to have children. Mary Magdalene convinced Christ to raise her brother, Lazarus. Mother Theresa built houses for the sick. If you believe the story of Joan of Arc, compare her to the Christian founder Paul. God tells Paul to quit being an ass and put his sword away, while he tells Joan to stand up. She fought an entire country. I sometimes wonder why you don’t just take the whole planet over.
I didn’t speak about Mary because she was a mother. It’s because you’re going into the world next week. The world that pays you less than men on average, has far more men in positions of power, and calls the sexless almighty “He.”
You’re well educated. I know because I’m friends with the Dean of Studies, and she’s smarter than I am. You can stand up. You’re ready. You don’t have to take a thing from this world; you can march into it with the confidence of the lady who can talk her husband into accepting immaculate conception and tell a little god what to do. It’s confidence that’s your birthright, which you’ll back up with ability built through effort.
I’m not just saying this because my mother went to this college and is sitting in the third row (hi Mom). I’m saying it because I don’t really know why I’m here, but if I’m going to be, I have things to impart. The most important is this: write and remember what is important in the years ahead, and teach it all to the world. We need the education.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Gooseless
There is a biological peculiarity that causes some people to shudder without reasonable cause. They don't do it in revulsion, or reaction to abnormal temperature, or because they're sick. A superstition holds that these fol shudder because a goose just walked over wherever they're going to be buried. Most folk have heard this superstition, but some act perplexed by it, never having had such an irrational shudder. These folk are to be pitied, not only for their lack of culture, but because they may be doomed to die at sea or in a horrific plane explosion. Keep them on land at all costs until they produce such a shudder. The goose-walking superstition provides a valuable resource, confirming who will die in such a way that they can be buried. The gooseless are in desperate need of watching.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: The More Dangerous Game
The pilot signaled to Mr. Weiss and started the engine. The helicopter’s blades whooped to life above their cabin. As they lifted off, Mr. Weiss climbed into the back and squeezed his wife’s knee.
“Honey, you can take off the blindfold now. Happy anniversary.”
“I’m not taking it off, Howard.”
“Why? You have to see what I got you.”
She remained stolid, as though sitting on a particularly unpleasant icicle.
“No, I don’t.”
Mr. Weiss eyed her as though she could see through the blindfold. He wondered sometimes.
“I promise you’ll like it.”
“I promise I won’t. We’re in a helicopter over international waters. Again. You’re taking me hunting. Again.”
“We’re hunting the most dangerous game!”
Mrs. Weiss lolled her head back and groaned.
“The two times we hunted human beings weren’t enough for you, Howard? They aren’t that dangerous. We get high-powered rifles and they get drugged by prostitutes and dropped off in a strange land. I’m not taking off the blindfold and I’m not setting foot outside this helicopter. If you want them so bad you can make our anniversary like every other night of the year and go play with yourself.”
He waited for her to be done. She had to be done for maximum enjoyment.
“We’re not hunting humans this year," he said, leaning towards her. "You were right. They’re not very dangerous except under very specific circumstances.”
“I don’t want to hunt a human whose daughter you kidnapped either, Howard. I saw that brochure in your bag.”
“We’re not doing that. They got bad reviews on their website. Besides, it turns out humans are not even on the top twenty-five most dangerous games.”
She shifted, as though her icicle had melted a little with curiosity.
Seeing her shift, he reached over her armrest and stroked her wrist. “For instance, number fourteen is hunting a bear.”
“Bears aren’t that dangerous. I have a basement full of them.”
“They are when you don’t use a gun.”
She licked her lips.
“Number seven is a great white shark, hunted from a rowboat with two paddles and a bowie knife. Number four has to do with some chimpanzees they’ve taught to wield samurai swords.” He moved in close enough to breath on her neck. That worked sometimes. “Bet you wish you’d seen this brochure.”
“What are we hunting, Howard?”
“Number one.”
Her posture was nearly defrosted now. She asked, “What’s number one?”
“You’ll find out when you take off the blindfold.”
She inhaled slowly, nostrils splayed.
“No, I’m leaving it on.”
Howard slapped the armrest in frustration.
“Why?”
She reached over for his knee. Her fingers slid up until he pressed back into his chair. Then she squeezed.
“My present will be more fun that way. Happy anniversary, Howard.”
“Honey, you can take off the blindfold now. Happy anniversary.”
“I’m not taking it off, Howard.”
“Why? You have to see what I got you.”
She remained stolid, as though sitting on a particularly unpleasant icicle.
“No, I don’t.”
Mr. Weiss eyed her as though she could see through the blindfold. He wondered sometimes.
“I promise you’ll like it.”
“I promise I won’t. We’re in a helicopter over international waters. Again. You’re taking me hunting. Again.”
“We’re hunting the most dangerous game!”
Mrs. Weiss lolled her head back and groaned.
“The two times we hunted human beings weren’t enough for you, Howard? They aren’t that dangerous. We get high-powered rifles and they get drugged by prostitutes and dropped off in a strange land. I’m not taking off the blindfold and I’m not setting foot outside this helicopter. If you want them so bad you can make our anniversary like every other night of the year and go play with yourself.”
He waited for her to be done. She had to be done for maximum enjoyment.
“We’re not hunting humans this year," he said, leaning towards her. "You were right. They’re not very dangerous except under very specific circumstances.”
“I don’t want to hunt a human whose daughter you kidnapped either, Howard. I saw that brochure in your bag.”
“We’re not doing that. They got bad reviews on their website. Besides, it turns out humans are not even on the top twenty-five most dangerous games.”
She shifted, as though her icicle had melted a little with curiosity.
Seeing her shift, he reached over her armrest and stroked her wrist. “For instance, number fourteen is hunting a bear.”
“Bears aren’t that dangerous. I have a basement full of them.”
“They are when you don’t use a gun.”
She licked her lips.
“Number seven is a great white shark, hunted from a rowboat with two paddles and a bowie knife. Number four has to do with some chimpanzees they’ve taught to wield samurai swords.” He moved in close enough to breath on her neck. That worked sometimes. “Bet you wish you’d seen this brochure.”
“What are we hunting, Howard?”
“Number one.”
Her posture was nearly defrosted now. She asked, “What’s number one?”
“You’ll find out when you take off the blindfold.”
She inhaled slowly, nostrils splayed.
“No, I’m leaving it on.”
Howard slapped the armrest in frustration.
“Why?”
She reached over for his knee. Her fingers slid up until he pressed back into his chair. Then she squeezed.
“My present will be more fun that way. Happy anniversary, Howard.”
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Port Noy's Complaint
The harbormaster’s door flew open. A sailor burst through it, eyes frantically scraping over the room. The harbormaster peered in from the back room.
"Harbormaster!” the sailor cried. “Harbormaster!"
The harbormaster came in, eyeing the sailor. "What is it?"
"The Port Noy’s come alive!"
He blinked at the sailor. "Is there a riot?"
"No, the actual structure is up and attacking the ships. It’s a nightmare out there.”
The sailor waved him over to the door. They looked outside together. True to the sailor’s words, the docks had ripped from the waters and were moving like great wooden tentacles. They slapped at ships and flung men into the sea.
The sailor jerked on the harbormaster’s lapel. “It demands you come listen to its complaint."
“That I listen to… Port Noy’s complaint?” The harbormaster stared at the monstrosity, then rolled his eyes and walked back indoors. "Oh this is too dumb, even for Wiswell."
"Harbormaster!” the sailor cried. “Harbormaster!"
The harbormaster came in, eyeing the sailor. "What is it?"
"The Port Noy’s come alive!"
He blinked at the sailor. "Is there a riot?"
"No, the actual structure is up and attacking the ships. It’s a nightmare out there.”
The sailor waved him over to the door. They looked outside together. True to the sailor’s words, the docks had ripped from the waters and were moving like great wooden tentacles. They slapped at ships and flung men into the sea.
The sailor jerked on the harbormaster’s lapel. “It demands you come listen to its complaint."
“That I listen to… Port Noy’s complaint?” The harbormaster stared at the monstrosity, then rolled his eyes and walked back indoors. "Oh this is too dumb, even for Wiswell."
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Help for Jemma and Shelly
Today’s story is about two people. It’s about Jemma and Shelly, the best couple I’ve ever met. They’ve outlasted every romance I’ve ever had, and every romance any friend of mine has ever had. They’re in a rough period and I’m going to ask you for a little help. But first, how I know them.
They met at college. Perhaps unsurprising, it was a Liberal Arts college. Jemma was a Quaker from Virginia, while Shelly was a northerner with a strange affinity for Chinese literature. Shelly didn’t even know she was gay when they met. When I met them, they were already inseparable friends. Sometimes they would eat lunch and dinner at my table, called the Long Table because our group of friends grew too big and we had to push two normal tables together to fit everyone. It was one of the most important settings of my life because everything was open to a friendly humor. Comparative religion, blowjobs gone wrong, Bush winning a second term – everything conveyed in the humor of acceptance, which I have pursued in my writing ever since.
It’s in that spirit that I say, if they didn’t know they were in love, I did. And this is from a very oblivious man. A gay professor once told me about stalking his boyfriend and I came away from it oblivious that he was gay. I could tell about Jemma and Shelly not because of social stereotypes, but just how they were to each other. They were so bonded, so warm, and arrived together so frequently, that I just assumed they were a couple. Sorry if I beat you to the realization, ladies.
They have been two of my dearest friends for years. They are often the first to see my newest short stories. My half-crippled body made a very rare trek across country to be at their wedding (there’s a photo somewhere of me trying to lift the two of them for a hug in their wedding dresses). When my family went so broke we couldn’t afford groceries, they found a local grocery store online and ordered a delivery for me. The night before my gallbladder surgery they were so worried that I had to call them to calm them down. A week later, when I was finally able to sit up at the computer again, the first thing I saw on GMail was Shelly’s status: “Missing John.”
They live in Virginia. Both worked at the same employer, which I won’t name because I don’t want to get my friends in trouble. Jemma mostly worked in the library and records, while Shelly was on the tech side.
In the last year Jemma became very ill. Her energy and appetite were sapped, so that many days she could barely get out of bed. On her good days a simple surprise like a door slamming would shock her and put her right back in bed. In addition, Jemma’s arms became incredibly tender, such that she couldn’t type on a computer, let alone stock bookshelves. She underwent a battery of tests, but the best her doctors came up with was that this condition was similar to Chronic Fatigue. Seeking treatment for an unknown disease has been arduous. Seeking it while fighting a torrent of paperwork from her disgruntled employers on made it worse.
Shelly took extra jobs to make up the slack. She helped a novelist with computer problems and took care of people’s pets. When she came down with Lyme’s Disease, she had to soldier through it. When she fell on the campus steps and hurt her knee, she limped through it. She had to work.
Last week they fired Shelly. It had nothing to do with her performance; they were “eliminating her position.” That was odd since she was one of two people responsible for a great number of services in the department, and the other woman is quitting before the Fall term. Who will pick up their work, they didn’t say.
So right now these two are out of work. They’ll lose their health insurance when they need it the most and they’re wading through a historically bad job market. That’s where we come in.
Today I’m putting a banner at the top of this site. It links to a Pledgie drive to help Jemma and Shelly. I encourage everyone to visit the page. Spread the banner wherever you like. If you can spare a few dollars, please consider contributing. Your donations will go to keeping the lights on and getting them to the doctor in a very rough period. They are not going to coast on your generosity; I know them, and as soon as they can do anything, they will. But we can help them in the mean time.
You can leave comments for them on this post. You can also reach the Pledgie page by click here.
Thank you.
They met at college. Perhaps unsurprising, it was a Liberal Arts college. Jemma was a Quaker from Virginia, while Shelly was a northerner with a strange affinity for Chinese literature. Shelly didn’t even know she was gay when they met. When I met them, they were already inseparable friends. Sometimes they would eat lunch and dinner at my table, called the Long Table because our group of friends grew too big and we had to push two normal tables together to fit everyone. It was one of the most important settings of my life because everything was open to a friendly humor. Comparative religion, blowjobs gone wrong, Bush winning a second term – everything conveyed in the humor of acceptance, which I have pursued in my writing ever since.
It’s in that spirit that I say, if they didn’t know they were in love, I did. And this is from a very oblivious man. A gay professor once told me about stalking his boyfriend and I came away from it oblivious that he was gay. I could tell about Jemma and Shelly not because of social stereotypes, but just how they were to each other. They were so bonded, so warm, and arrived together so frequently, that I just assumed they were a couple. Sorry if I beat you to the realization, ladies.
They have been two of my dearest friends for years. They are often the first to see my newest short stories. My half-crippled body made a very rare trek across country to be at their wedding (there’s a photo somewhere of me trying to lift the two of them for a hug in their wedding dresses). When my family went so broke we couldn’t afford groceries, they found a local grocery store online and ordered a delivery for me. The night before my gallbladder surgery they were so worried that I had to call them to calm them down. A week later, when I was finally able to sit up at the computer again, the first thing I saw on GMail was Shelly’s status: “Missing John.”
They live in Virginia. Both worked at the same employer, which I won’t name because I don’t want to get my friends in trouble. Jemma mostly worked in the library and records, while Shelly was on the tech side.
In the last year Jemma became very ill. Her energy and appetite were sapped, so that many days she could barely get out of bed. On her good days a simple surprise like a door slamming would shock her and put her right back in bed. In addition, Jemma’s arms became incredibly tender, such that she couldn’t type on a computer, let alone stock bookshelves. She underwent a battery of tests, but the best her doctors came up with was that this condition was similar to Chronic Fatigue. Seeking treatment for an unknown disease has been arduous. Seeking it while fighting a torrent of paperwork from her disgruntled employers on made it worse.
Shelly took extra jobs to make up the slack. She helped a novelist with computer problems and took care of people’s pets. When she came down with Lyme’s Disease, she had to soldier through it. When she fell on the campus steps and hurt her knee, she limped through it. She had to work.
Last week they fired Shelly. It had nothing to do with her performance; they were “eliminating her position.” That was odd since she was one of two people responsible for a great number of services in the department, and the other woman is quitting before the Fall term. Who will pick up their work, they didn’t say.
So right now these two are out of work. They’ll lose their health insurance when they need it the most and they’re wading through a historically bad job market. That’s where we come in.
Today I’m putting a banner at the top of this site. It links to a Pledgie drive to help Jemma and Shelly. I encourage everyone to visit the page. Spread the banner wherever you like. If you can spare a few dollars, please consider contributing. Your donations will go to keeping the lights on and getting them to the doctor in a very rough period. They are not going to coast on your generosity; I know them, and as soon as they can do anything, they will. But we can help them in the mean time.
You can leave comments for them on this post. You can also reach the Pledgie page by click here.
Thank you.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Bathroom Monologue: Lame Parrot
"She's a lame parrot, I'll give you that. Malformed, with teeth instead of a beak and feathers so small and fine they feel almost like fur. It must be hard on her, utterly flightless, unable to join any flocks or fly south or whatever it is that other parrots do at the park. All she does when I take her out is run away from dogs. Disgusting thing, she'll just as soon hunt down a mouse as eat her seed. Sometimes I wonder why I keep her, but then I hold her in my lap, look down into those slitted eyes, and just know she's the sweetest parrot in all creation. An utter idiot, though. I said 'Meow' in front of her three years ago and now it's all she'll repeat."
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