The Last Debrief

Again, Dan Mader's weekly flash fiction exercises provided a kickstart for another short piece last week. I had his permission to upload this clearly-longer-than-two-minutes excerpt. And I mean excerpt, as it feels like it could be a part of some vast space opera... not that I'll ever probably write it. It's like a brief farewell transmission, a threat whispered along the interstellar dust highways, something ominous lurking far beyond any conceivable future. Yet it's there.

Seriously. Go read Unemployed Imagination; follow the link above. Every Friday there are some excellent pieces of writing on there. Anyway, here's mine:

The Last Debrief

Perhaps it's because you have two of everything. Two lower appendages, two upper. Two mammaries. Gonads. Binocular vision. You are obsessed, bound and determined, to choose this over that, the far over the near, the left and the right, the up and the down, the purest dark and the damnedest light. 

And because we're many-limbed and multivisioned, a field of possibility so much more complex than your stark binaries, we don't need to make your kinds of choice, between faith and nihilism, release and execution. We can live beneath the layered greys, comforted by those rings of lambent light against charcoal backgrounds our generations have always dreamed under, a space less void than some firefly twilight.

Your rage is inevitable given you can only dwell in either the birth agony of sunfire or the raw, biting negation of interstellar cold.

In the banal, prosaic spirit of all your kind's doomed couplings, especially when one party finally grasps the pure harm they've so recently undergone, at the tail-end of a tarnished tryst, we would like to say this: we wish we'd never met you. We wish that fervently and, in terms you yourselves will understand more than most, eternally, with profound revulsion.

As we recoil from you, we realise how ironic it is the extent to which our chance encounter has unsettled and perhaps damaged our own historic, even genetic, equilibrium.

We hope and expect to recover from this after the passing of millennia. We're a long-lived people. If after eons of reflection and purification it so happens that we can't shake your taint, can't scrub away the stink of you, we will return to your skies and, from a sense of both mercy and vengeance, we will obliterate your kind from this universe, for good and for all, and most likely for the good of all.

The final appalling irony being that, in the act itself, we will ostensibly have become you.

4. to 1. A Broken Girl to Girls A-Broken

1. Martyrs  

Okay, everyone who mentioned this film over the last few weeks I posted this list on Facebook, please go get tested for psychic abilities, as it was always perched at the summit long before anyone suggested it, I swear. Again, as with plenty of the French extreme stuff, femininity is a theme. As well as (female) suffering. But it's not what you'd expect. It's decidedly modern, almost Tarantino-esque in its jumpy, nonlinear plot, eschews genre conventions in similar ways to Wheatley's Kill List, yet it's also damn near medieval in its cruelty. In an odd, full-circle way that certainly wasn't intended, it shares some themes with the movie that opened my list, not least the human capacity to endure or perversely even welcome pain, but it will surprise you more than once, and undeniably sicken you in ways you'll take weeks to recover from. So, you've been warned. 

And that said, we've reached the end, in more ways than one. Uh, can I say it's been a slice, or would that be crass? 

2. The Vanishing (Spoorloos)  

Now, I haven't seen the US remake with Jeff Bridges, so can't speak to that, but I'm talking the Dutch-French original from 1988. I can't really say too much, as this film is especially vulnerable to spoilers—and if I were you I'd stop reading here if you haven't seen it, yet intend to—but I only caught this gem quite recently and was shocked into an almost catatonic, open-mouthed silence by its deceptively placid, undemonstrative tone that leads so inexorably toward one of the coldest, bleakest, and most unforgettably harrowing conclusions I've had the misfortune to endure. (Also, um, Courtney Love lookalike, it has to be said!) 

3. Mulholland Dr.  

To me Lynch may not be perceived as a horror director, but most of his films contain exactly what I look for from the genre: deep, unsettling dread, nightmare moments of inexplicably surreal intensity and, at their heart, a girl (or boy) in trouble. This one is definitely about a girl, though. And very much in trouble. There's a distressing tension between the demands of Hollywood and the objectification of feminine beauty (ironically, Naomi Watts and Laura Harring are pretty much perfect in their deceptively layered and oppositional roles). I could outline my interpretation of the plot here, but it doesn't matter: you need to watch it first, at least once, before entertaining even the hope of unraveling it. Sure, that's part of the fun; it's a puzzle box of a film, but more crucially, the pure foreboding subcurrent of terror underlying this unfurling tragedy has to be experienced in all its visceral yet quiet magnificence. You'll never taste espresso the same way again. Or think of smiling elderly couples as cute. Or have any frame of reference for Billy Ray Cyrus whatsoever. I'll resist ending with the word "silencio." Oops. 

4. May  

This list's most recent theme has been femininity. Not necessarily feminism, although it could be. These final entries confirm something for me: that in order to be truly effective, the horror genre must encompass and acknowledge and even own its propensity for sexism before the possibility of moving past this particularly thorny problem has even a chance.

Anyway, I'd be hard pressed to name another movie that's as equally endearing as it is offputting, thanks to director Lucky McKee. It's a cracked Victorian attic of a film, wrenchingly sad yet somehow managing to max out the creep factor too. It also comes closest to breaking my no-humour rule for this list, but by the end, all that quirkiness is decidedly not funny when we realise where May is taking us. And as stellar as everyone else involved is, a great deal of the credit must go to Angela Bettis for her performance in the title role, one that will break your heart while simultaneously unsettling your stomach. Think Frankenstein meets Carrie. And then let your decidedly sick imagination run wild and free.

This scene is pretty much perfect.

Unknowable

A brand new poem. For what it's worth.

Unknowable

Here's me with my basalt ruin, my

lost tundra neediness, cast amid

muttered notes fragmenting with love,

urgent with greed, fleeting

with want, curled fetal beneath

one solid theatre tower.

Where are you? Where?

Stopped off at the Sylvia? The Bellwether?

(Ladybugs, ivy, Errol, and heraldry?) 

I went and bought a small guitar,

a tiny Ibanez, 

to shore myself against the

grief tsunamis to come, 

while you, drunk only on the now, 

scoured concupiscent inventories 

for dildos, perfect condiments for soup, 

rodents, antlers, dripping cormorants.

Dark winglike music, malbec, sushi, tarot, love. 

Me prone and spent amid

the prunelike slime 

of sopping leaves pressed like

massed eons of sediment.

Got home, tuned it, strummed a lament,

got the Led out, caterwauled,

hummed an Appalachian dirge, a rant,

a moonshiner sonata and a desert screed,

squalled some secret boy and girl tune,

fireflies, calls, maple leaves, blues, 

ancora qui,

ancora tu.

It's work to watch hands build and furl

then come undone and go unfurl,

while roof hymns spatter bitumen eaves

and Jersey shores recede, zeal stutters, 

and all of it, everything, 

bleeds.

My idling car is northern Canada, 

immune and snowbanked, yearning south.

Get in and twist the dial

so radio broadcasts

hiss awhile, gaping

unbreakable as bridge cable,

conjuring rainforests,

stupefied like forecasts of something

unnamable, lowing scattered as prairie cattle, yet so

utterly, alarmingly unknowable.

***

8. to 5. Hysteria and the F-Word

5. The Girl Next Door  

Okay, I have a strong stomach; I've watched some brutal, even indefensible stuff at the extreme ragged ends of the horror genre, and while it bothers me I also recognise it as fiction, in the final analysis. Grand Guignol has its place. Splatter can be downright fun. Depictions of torture a Warner Bros cartoon writ large, stupid and goofy as hell. Horror can often be a carnival ride, and we know that after all the screaming in the darkness, we'll eventually trundle out on predetermined tracks, blinking in the daylight and laughing. Nervously? Sure. But laughing, all the same. However. This pretty much gore-free movie, based on Jack Ketchum's excellent novel, which itself was based on real events, will not make you laugh or fist-pump the air or shriek wildly. It quite simply damages you on some level. Or, I should say, it did me. Not even fully sure why. Something about faith in humanity being shaken. About how girls suffer at the hands of boys. Or, perhaps worse, at the hands of women. About the potential depths of cruelty in humans, regardless of whether their reproductive organs are internal or external. About the sheer power of... well, power. It's harrowing. And heartbreaking. Yet it's brilliant. If you like your monsters very much of the human variety, grown from a particularly middle-American patch of small town soil and tied to a rotted trellis by a virulent braid of repressed female sexuality, internalized loathing, and the awful human propensity to bow to mob rule, watch this film. But fair warning: this is the real torture porn. And you won't forget it. I mean that. 

6. Melancholia  

Again, not horror, I hear people whisper. To which I'll say this: if the impending collision of the Earth with a rogue planet ten times larger, and the subsequent annihilation of everything we hold dear isn't horror then I don't know what is. But the point of this oddly quiet apocalyptic film is how we respond to this impending doom, or even whether we believe it's approaching at all. And deep down, it's about depression, of course (the title's kind of a giveaway). It's slow, gorgeous, wrenching and yet oddly comforting, in that those brave enough to face the reality of our loneliness are perhaps better equipped to also face the negation of everything. 

Whatever else, this eerie virus of a film distracts you with its unique elegiac mood while gouging whole new hollows inside you. 

Oh, and excellent performances by all the actors, as in most von Trier films. 

7. Irréversible  

Continuing with undeniably controversial themes, Gaspar Noe's sickening and disorienting Irréversible is about the randomness of trauma, about how something awful can be waiting for anyone at any point anywhere. And how such things can never be "made right" again—not by vengeance, not by time, not by natural justice. Except it isn't just about that. Because it tells its story backwards, and with such emotive force, most of its horror is front-loaded, which only makes it more wrenchingly sad in the end, and perversely lovely. But seriously, this film features two of the most traumatic cinema moments I've ever endured, so fair warning. (Oh, plus, it features the sublimely gorgeous Monica Bellucci, which itself is double-edged, since she is utterly and mercilessly brutalized to a point no one can possibly feel okay about it, no matter how often the phrase "in the service of art" is wheeled out like a bloody gurney. Yeah, it made me angry. But that's the point.) 

8. Antichrist 

Controversial and disturbing, which goes without saying in a Lars von Trier movie, but Antichrist drills way, way deeper. It's about men and women and the awful history of the struggle (from one very skewed perspective) between the sexes. There's beauty, but there's mostly horror and demonization. Von Trier uses the tired horror trope of the cabin in the woods and injects a dark new life into it. Or, actually new death-in-life. And yet, it's *still* beautiful. Eden or Hell? Christian myth or atavistic pantheism? Guilt or scapegoating? Grief or fear or desire? Is it misogynistic or is it about misogyny? All I can say is that despite the critical focus on one notorious and horrifying scene of genital mutliation, there is enough here to make the eyes of either gender water. Chaos reigns, indeed. Brilliant, creepy, underrated film.

This scene I was completely unable to shake. It disturbed me on some level the existence of which I'd previously been almost wholly unaware, except in nightmares.

12. to 9. Other to Mother

9. Psycho  

I've mostly tried to avoid the canonical favourites and given more recent entries a chance, but this is so classic, so iconic, so redolent of the genesis of slasher terror I couldn't ignore it. Dark, anxious, voyeuristic, and at times frightening in a way that's rarely if ever been equalled, here's creepy Norman Bates in all his Oedipal glory. Plus, uh, Janet Leigh, and "we're all in our own private traps." The first of many horror films to draw on notorious real-life serial killer, Ed Gein (Texas Chain Saw Massacre and Silence of the Lambs coming later), this set the bar extremely high. Then it decided to go in its own oddly claustrophobic and decidedly bittersweet direction. Goddamn it, this is one brilliant movie. The simultaneous birth of both slasher film and psychological horror.

10. Let the Right One In  

Sweden. Of all the films on my list, this is the one—had I been paranoid—I would have suspected as a personal dog whistle: externally cold, broad hints of inner warmth, unflinching, strangely loving, gender-confounding, drenched in a quiet yet creepy mood, and plain harrowing in its implications. I mean, in one sense, it's a story about a boy who's bullied and isolated who meets a girl who isn't what she seems, while the implied romanticism remains frozen beneath the (ice!) story that ultimately unfolds like icebergs slowly calving off from the greater mass. All of which, when you reassemble it, appears to comprise the bleakest of awful futures. Yeah, okay, and it's a vampire film. Sort of. Just watch it.

11. Funny Games  

I'm in the weird position of loving Michael Haneke's films yet loathing his judgmental attitude toward his audience. There are two versions of this film, both worthy contenders, and both filmed by Haneke (in 1997 and 2007), yet the "point" appears to be our insatiable lust for and expectations of vengeance, as dictated by some perceived tension between European art cinema and Hollywood convention. Whatever. Both films are worth our time, because aside from Haneke's moral hand-wringing, these films remain incredibly tense, visceral, violent, violating, and harrowing examples of home invasion horror, a la Straw Dogs, The Last House on the Left, and The Strangers. They are also elegant and beautiful in their way, juxtaposing the nihilistic immediacy of death metal with the baroque grace of Handel.

12. Oldboy 

South Korea. How do you begin to describe Park Chan-wook's singular, standout film? It's horror, sure; but it's also a thriller, a punishment and revenge tale, and a mystery. Who knew that, given the choice, protagonist Oh Dae-su would probably not choose to solve said mystery? It's a hyper-aware, brutally violent, unpredictable, anguished, mad, insectile, strange, appallingly human and damn near operatic horror film, and if you don't have some kind of emotional reaction to it, you are probably dead. In one sense, it's a seafood massacre. Hammerhead violence vies with live octopus consumption, while the eventual unfurling of the plot makes you wish you could recoil into your spiral shell until viral humans have danced their final dance and left the earth for good.