Zdzislaw Beksinski
Jul 15, 2013
Jul 14, 2013
THE BLACK DOLL
A single mother lived alone with her newborn baby. She was not able to work and she had no living relatives and no friends to help her, so she found it very difficult to cope on her own.
One day, the mother went out shopping for groceries and left her baby at home alone. On the way home, she met with an accident and was killed. She was not carrying any identification at the time and the police were unable to figure out who she was. Nobody came forward to claim her body, so she was buried in an unmarked grave. She had no living relatives, which meant that nobody noticed her disappearance.
Two months later, the dead mother’s landlord noticed that he hadn’t received any rent from her. He visited her house and knocked on the door. When nobody answered, he opened the front door using his duplicate key. He went inside and found the house was in complete darkness. The electricity had been cut off.
He walked around in the dark, going from room to room. All of the woman’s furniture and clothing was still there. In the bedroom, he found a black doll lying in the middle of the floor.“She must have left in a hurry,” he said to himself. “She didn’t take anything with her.”
Then he heard a rustling noise. It was coming from the black doll. He bent down to pick it up, but the moment he touched it, the doll crumbled apart in his hands. Hundreds of cockroaches scurried away. All that was left was the skeleton of a baby.
Jul 13, 2013
REVIEW: MY AMITYVILLE HORROR
It has taken something like nine or ten films with the word 'Amityville' in its title before we finally have something that is actually worth watching. Figures it should be a documentary approach to the alleged events that occurred in 112 Ocean Avenue in upstate New York, instead of a series of films whose events became increasingly overblown with each successive entry. Real life is always more terrifying than fiction, after all. (If you're somehow unaware of Amityville, catch up before reading on.)
My Amityville Horror is Daniel Lutz's story. The eldest child of Kathy Lutz (deceased) and step-son to George Lutz (also deceased), Daniel is still clearly haunted by the events that plagued his family for the 28 days in which they lived in the infamous house. And the scars are still certainly with him. Daniel bares his soul in more ways than one. He answers - open and honestly - every question lobbed at him, regardless of how ridiculous and unbelievable he knows his answers are going to sound. Not only that, but he allows cameras in on a session in which he discusses his childhood and the events of the house with his psychologist. At no point does he say "I won't talk about that;" likewise, he even snarls at the camera and says "I can't believe you're making me talk about this shit," before he goes on to answer whatever question it was that provoked such a response. It is an extremely intimate and unyielding look at the son of a horror.
Regardless of where your beliefs lie in terms of the Amityville house, My Amityville Horror proves to be incredibly interesting. Even if it were a work of utter fiction, Daniel is a compelling lead character. In a completely emotionally removed sort of way, there's a bastardized feeling of nostalgia one feels when hearing the eldest child reiterate some of the same stories the Lutz couple told all those years ago - in Jay Anson's book, and in all the subsequent newspaper articles and television specials that would follow. If you've followed the Amityville case in any capacity, you're aware of the fly-infested sewing room, the red-eyed pig demon, and the phantom marching band. But hearing all of these instances retold by a man who claims to have lived it as a child, and delivered in a no-holds-barred way, forces the viewer to reevaluate how he or she may feel about the claims.
As to the legitimacy of the ghostly and demonic events themselves, I can't speculate, because I wasn't there. Neither were you. People being picked up and thrown across the room, or people becoming possessed by outside evil forces...instances like these are pretty unlikely, but not altogether impossible. Hence, that's the reason why I call Daniel Lutz a compelling lead. On the level or not, perhaps even deluded or not, Daniel's words carry weight. He does not present this information like an actor reading lines from a script. His anger, frustration, and tears make his stories of possession and telekinesis a little easier to swallow. But it is because of this anger that can sometimes make My Amityville Horror difficult to sit through. Daniel is oftentimes impatient with his interviewer. To watch his outbursts can be extremely uncomfortable, even while viewing the film with a thousand-mile buffer zone; I can only imagine the tension present between director Eric Walter and his subject during some of these moments. But because Daniel Lutz is a "real guy" and the documentary is exploring "real events," it would seem disposable to mention that at times Daniel's demeanor can make him unsympathetic. And that's kind of dangerous, considering he deserves your sympathy. This, however, is a slippery slope, because this is being presented as a true and unHollywood approach to telling the story of what "really" happened. As such, it's not like saying A-List Star's character in Such-a-Such movie comes across as unlikable, since that would have been an artistic choice. Daniel is who Daniel is. So while it may be unfair to claim he sometimes comes across as unsympathetic, it cannot go on unmentioned; plus, it does make him a more dynamic "character." (He's also really fond of offering Jim-from-The-Office-like amused glances directly into the camera.)
Those who previously delved into the so-called non-fiction aspects of the Amityville case won't find a whole lot of new information. As previously mentioned, you will hear a lot of the same old stories and become reacquainted with some old faces (I was anticipating seeing an appearance by Lorraine Warren and was not disappointed). But My Amityville Horror isn't about that - it's not about the hell the Lutz family went through then; it's about the hell Daniel is going through now, including a loss of identity and the feeling of being consistently disregarded and written off as the son continuing the farce began by his parents all those years ago.
Smartly, the doc takes an objective approach and allows the possibility that Daniel is simply fabricating his story - and these theories range from him being a pathological liar to having married his unhappy childhood with the claims his parents were weaving and, after a while, having no choice but to believe them.
The take-away theme of My Amityville Horror is two-fold: One - Daniel wanted to finally tell his own version of the story, because he feels he never got that chance; and two - he wants people to believe him. One of those was most certainly satisfied. Daniel's version of the story cuts through all of the baggage and reputation of the house and reveals what such events can do to a person. Not to speak ill of the dead, but in all of the vintage interviews featuring George and Kathy Lutz, even when they talked about leaving behind all their possessions and taking a huge financial hit in abandoning the house and living through the hell that they did, they never appeared broken. Granted, they never seemed ecstatic, but they did seem...okay.
Daniel Lutz does not. Whether the events at 112 Ocean Avenue happened or were a byproduct of an incredibly unhappy family situation, Daniel seems broken. Even when he seems to be okay, or even when someone asks him on camera how he is doing and he answers "fine," you know that's just simply not true. In fact, it may very well be the only purposeful lie Daniel tells in all of My Amityville Horror.
On DVD and VOD August 6.
On DVD and VOD August 6.
Jul 12, 2013
THEIR HANDS
"...But those who toiled knew nothing of the dreams of those who planned. And the minds that planned the Tower of Babel cared nothing for the workers who built it..."
Jul 11, 2013
Jul 10, 2013
BAD OMEN
“It was just after my election in 1860, when the news had been coming in thick and fast all day and there had been a great “hurrah, boys,” so that I was well tired out, and went home to rest, throwing myself down on a lounge in my chamber. Opposite where I lay was a bureau with a swinging glass upon it (and here he got up and placed furniture to illustrate the position), and looking in that glass I saw myself reflected nearly at full length; but my face, I noticed had two separate and distinct images, the tip of the nose of one being about three inches from the tip of the other. I was a little bothered, perhaps startled, and got up and looked in the glass, but the illusion vanished. On lying down again, I saw it a second time, plainer, if possible, than before; and then I noticed that one of the faces was a little paler — say five shades — than the other. I got up, and the thing melted away, and I went off, and in the excitement of the hour forgot all about it — nearly, but not quite, for the thing would once in a while come up, and give me a little pang as if something uncomfortable had happened. When I went home again that night I told my wife about it, and a few days afterward I made the experiment again, when (with a laugh), sure enough! the thing came back again; but I never succeeded in bringing the ghost back after that, though I once tried very industriously to show it to my wife, who was somewhat worried about it. She thought it was a “sign” that I was to be elected to a second term of office, and that the paleness of one of the faces was an omen that I should not see life through the last term.”
— Abraham Lincoln
Jul 9, 2013
TEOS RECOMMENDS: WISCONSIN DEATH TRIP
It's a tall order to successfully adapt a book of photographs and small passages of non-narrative text. To do so requires creating a visual representation of the strange assortment of photographs found in Michael Lesy's infamous book, Wisconsin Death Trip.
Part documentary, part art film, James Marsh (Man on Wire) successfully transports the odd and terrible beauty of the 1973 book, which chronicles genuine news stories taken from a ten-year period in Black River Falls, Wisconsin. This strange decade between 1890-1900 contains stories of murder, mysterious disappearances, as well as the completely indefinable profile of Mary Sweeney, who suffered from an unexplainable condition that compelled her to smash windows.
There are even re-occurring "characters" - not just Mary, but an opera singer who goes to great lengths to deny her irrelevance, and a young boy who steals his father's rifle, murders a man for no real reason, and lives in his house by himself for the winter.
There are spurned husbands and wives, unrequited love, and more than one botched suicide. There's also a little levity thrown in from time to time just to lighten things up.
There are even re-occurring "characters" - not just Mary, but an opera singer who goes to great lengths to deny her irrelevance, and a young boy who steals his father's rifle, murders a man for no real reason, and lives in his house by himself for the winter.
There are spurned husbands and wives, unrequited love, and more than one botched suicide. There's also a little levity thrown in from time to time just to lighten things up.
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| Mary Sweeney: Hair-whipper, window-smasher. |
All the still photographs that appear are lifted directly from Lesy's text, and re-enactments (thankfully dialogue-free) bring to life the photograph's origins. Captured in striking back-and-white photography, like the original photographs, Marsh's adaptation manages to paint a portrait of middle-America that's disturbing, horrifying, saddening, bleak, and yet still beautiful.
According to Marsh (via the film's website):
“The title immediately intrigued me. And it certainly lived up to its promise - the book is a catalogue of strange, disturbing, and darkly humorous vignettes of real life tragedy, from a forgotten place and a forgotten time. As you read it, the photographs begin to resemble these weird apparitions from the past, staring right into your eyes. I wanted to convey in the film the real pathos contained in a four-line newspaper report that simultaneously records and dismisses the end of someone’s life. I also sifted through hundreds of newspapers from the town as well. Certain themes began to emerge, which the film was structured around - the anxieties of the time focus on suicide and madness. That is what the people of the town seem most afraid of...”
Images of 1890s Wisconsin are randomly juxtaposed with its modern day counterpart, showing that in some ways an awful lot has changed, but in others, not much at all. A nearly unrecognizable Ian Holm (Alien, The Lord of the Rings) provides narration culled directly from the pages of Lesy's text.
Wisconsin Death Trip has proven to be a very polarizing experience for audiences since its debut on BBC's Arena series. This can be chalked up to any number of reasons, such as the possible misunderstanding as to the origins of the adaptation (a film based on photographs); others seem to find the content itself shocking, though one would think the film's title would have been a dead giveaway.
The first time I watched Wisconsin Death Trip, I thought, "That was beautiful, but it's something I never have to watch again."
I've watched it three times so far, and I'm sure there will be more viewings in the future.
The DVD is out of print, but it's been known to show up from time to time on Netflix's streaming service. Here's hoping with the explosion of blu-ray that the film will receive another lease on life.
Jul 8, 2013
FAN RAGE
Soccer Referee Killed And Quartered By Fans In Brazil After Fatally Stabbing Player
SAO PAULO -- Police say enraged spectators invaded a football field, stoned the referee to death and quartered his body after he stabbed a player to death.
The Public Safety Department of the state of Maranhao says in a statement that it all started when referee Otavio da Silva expelled player Josenir Abreu from a game last weekend. The two got into a fist fight, then Silva took out a knife and stabbed Abreu, who died on his way to the hospital.
The statement issued this week says Abreu's friends and relatives immediately "rushed into the field, stoned the referee to death and quartered his body."
Local news media say the spectators also decapitated Silva and stuck his head on a stake in the middle of the field.
Police have arrested one suspect.
Story source.
Image source.
Jul 7, 2013
Jul 5, 2013
REVIEW: THE TERRIBLE TALE OF EDGAR SWITCHBLADE
If you catch up on my earlier post here, you’ll gain a little background on the idiosyncrasy of Lonesome Wyatt (of L.W. & the Holy Spooks as well as Those Poor Bastards). If I had to describe him to someone curious but unaware, I'd perhaps compare him to Rob Zombie, only I'd clarify he's a little more subtle, soulful, and genuine. This comparison isn’t just based on the oogy-boogy style that pervades their music, but also on their legitimate appreciation of the genre we all hold so dear in our little black hearts.
After having devoured all of Lonesome Wyatt’s albums, I’m not surprised at all that he can write the hell out of one wicked little novel. The Terrible Tale of Edgar Switch Blade, a tale of a knife-wielding, cloven-hoofed, cannibalistic miscreant who tears through the night striking down “werewolves, ghosts, and other strange creatures,” works as a companion piece to the album Behold the Abyss by Those Poor Bastards; themes introduced in the book are explored lyrically in the album.
Terrible Tale is told in the first person by our titular anti-hero. He does, indeed, tear across the landscape with his only companion in the world—a horse named Red—keeping an eye out for threats of the supernatural. During his misadventures, diary entries from a Ulysses S. Levitcus, his adoptive father of sorts, provide some background on Edgar’s rearing, and proves to be perhaps the most interesting part of the novel.
The story moves at a rapid race and doesn’t get lost in masturbatory details. It’s a simple story and simply told, but not without flair. Wyatt pulls no punches with what he’s willing to have his creation do—like eat his departed foster mother, for example—and I suppose it’s this kind of content that forgives the brevity of the novel itself. It's short to be sure—150 pages—but the story is never not engaging or entertaining. Besides, sometimes such subject matter works better in smaller doses.
Wyatt’s style reminds me a lot of Donald Ray Pollock (The Devil All the Time), in that what he is willing to write about is unflinching and unquestionably horrific. Pollock at times dares you to read him, whereas Wyatt knows his fan base quite well and he’s confident he is delivering just what they have come to expect from him. To be blunt, Terrible Tale is fucked up, but in a fun, EC-Comics-turned-up-to-eleven kind of way.
The design of this little novel is killer; great paints were taken to make it look like a pulpy dime-store novel you would have found in a pharmacy in the 1950s…perhaps on the highest shelf away from children’s hands. The cover, while not graphic, is certainly questionable in its depiction of Edgar threatening a prostitute with his knife as she lays sprawled across a forest ground. The cover itself looks bent and tattered, enforcing its so-called age; the edges of the pages are even colored red. It’s a remarkable little creation.
After having devoured all of Lonesome Wyatt’s albums, I’m not surprised at all that he can write the hell out of one wicked little novel. The Terrible Tale of Edgar Switch Blade, a tale of a knife-wielding, cloven-hoofed, cannibalistic miscreant who tears through the night striking down “werewolves, ghosts, and other strange creatures,” works as a companion piece to the album Behold the Abyss by Those Poor Bastards; themes introduced in the book are explored lyrically in the album.
Terrible Tale is told in the first person by our titular anti-hero. He does, indeed, tear across the landscape with his only companion in the world—a horse named Red—keeping an eye out for threats of the supernatural. During his misadventures, diary entries from a Ulysses S. Levitcus, his adoptive father of sorts, provide some background on Edgar’s rearing, and proves to be perhaps the most interesting part of the novel.
The story moves at a rapid race and doesn’t get lost in masturbatory details. It’s a simple story and simply told, but not without flair. Wyatt pulls no punches with what he’s willing to have his creation do—like eat his departed foster mother, for example—and I suppose it’s this kind of content that forgives the brevity of the novel itself. It's short to be sure—150 pages—but the story is never not engaging or entertaining. Besides, sometimes such subject matter works better in smaller doses.
Wyatt’s style reminds me a lot of Donald Ray Pollock (The Devil All the Time), in that what he is willing to write about is unflinching and unquestionably horrific. Pollock at times dares you to read him, whereas Wyatt knows his fan base quite well and he’s confident he is delivering just what they have come to expect from him. To be blunt, Terrible Tale is fucked up, but in a fun, EC-Comics-turned-up-to-eleven kind of way.
The design of this little novel is killer; great paints were taken to make it look like a pulpy dime-store novel you would have found in a pharmacy in the 1950s…perhaps on the highest shelf away from children’s hands. The cover, while not graphic, is certainly questionable in its depiction of Edgar threatening a prostitute with his knife as she lays sprawled across a forest ground. The cover itself looks bent and tattered, enforcing its so-called age; the edges of the pages are even colored red. It’s a remarkable little creation.
I hope Terrible Tale’s association with its companion album Behold the Abyss doesn’t prevent the possibility of Wyatt writing more novels in the future—either featuring Edgar Switchblade, or a new morbid creation. If he can tie it into a past or future album, great, but here's hoping he can go hog wild with a new story, even if it's not related to his music.
The Terrible Tale of Edgar Switchblade is available in multiple formats, and you can find them all on the Those Poor Bastards site.
Jul 4, 2013
WELCOME TO EARF
In less than an hour, aircraft from here will join others from around the world. And you will be launching the largest aerial battle in the history of mankind. "Mankind." That word should have new meaning for all of us today. We can't be consumed by our petty differences anymore. We will be united in our common interests. Perhaps it's fate that today is the Fourth of July, and you will once again be fighting for our freedom... Not from tyranny, oppression, or persecution... but from annihilation. We are fighting for our right to live. To exist. And should we win the day, the Fourth of July will no longer be known as an American holiday, but as the day the world declared in one voice: "We will not go quietly into the night! We will not vanish without a fight! We're going to live on! We're going to survive!" Today we celebrate our Independence Day!
Jul 3, 2013
ONE GOT FAT
Your typical cheesy-bad 1960s educational video...except it stars mutant monkey kids who die one by one...
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 1, 2013
SHITTY FLICKS: BULLETPROOF
Shitty Flicks is an ongoing column that celebrates the most hilariously incompetent, amusingly pedestrian, and mind-bogglingly stupid movies ever made by people with a bit of money, some prior porn-directing experience, and no clue whatsoever. It is here you will find unrestrained joy in movies meant to terrify and thrill, but instead poke at your funny bone with their weird, mutant, camp-girl penis.
WARNING: I tend to give away major plot points and twist endings in my reviews because, whatever. Shut up.
If you can believe it - if you go back far enough - Gary Busey was not always completely out of his mind. And if you go back farther than that, you'll find something surprising: Gary Busey actually played the good guy from time to time!
And in Bullet Proof, he plays McBain. (You read that right - McBain.) He's a cop, and because this was post-Lethal Weapon, his partner is an old, curmudgeonly black guy.
"Look McBain, you may be bullet proof, but I'm just human, all right?" his partner whines, giving us the obligatory titular line as well as some character development for McBain: Apparently he can't die. And he gleefully runs into dangerous situations with no back-up, and nothing but his awesome catch phrases.
"I'm your worst nightmare, butt horn!" he bellows with a wide smile and jumps into action, shooting men left, right, up, down, in their heads, in their backs, etc. When you throw him a grenade, he throws it back and ends your fucking life. Then he goes home to his hot, naked, European girlfriend, digs out the bullet he caught in his chest earlier in the night, and takes a nice swig from the bottle of booze he hides above his vanity mirror. Oh, and he somehow plays the alto saxophone without ever filling his cheeks with air.
McBAIN!
But despite his theatrics and over-the-top methods, he's not the only thing causing strife to "the Man" and organized society. It would seem, not too far off, there exists a group of militants. They use the monkey bars, run in circles, and drive around together hanging off jeeps and pick-up trucks in dangerous numbers. They are terrorists. Well, the late-'80s version of terrorists, meaning they are a bunch of miscellaneous races, including Mexicans, Libyans, and "A-Rabs." They wear tight pants, smile, act incredibly fey, and shoot SMGs into 'Merica's few and proud. (They're the bad guys!!!!) After one particular trading of bullets with some American soldiers, many are killed, but the surviving soldiers are taken hostage to endure generic political rhetoric from men in berets.
Obviously, the terrorists' days are numbered, what with McBain existing and all. Bullets will fly, and enter bodies without prejudice.
McBAIN!
Following a brief dream in which we catch up on some unfortunate history - mainly McBain accidentally shooting his previous partner during a drug bust gone bad - government officials show up on his front steps and blackmail him onto the case of the miscellaneous terrorists. They ship him off to a warehouse, where they show him schematics for some kind of U.S. Army Official Bad-Ass Tank that the terrorists possess for some reason, yet can't operate because they don't have the required access codes. This meeting ends in a manner typical to most meetings with McBain: an ashtray ends up sailing into another man's testicles.
The mission begins. McBain touches down on the ground, looks lost for a moment, and takes the life of two foot soldiers with little effort. He offers their corpses a wave and an adios as he steals their jeep and moves onto the next kill point.
And then rape happens. (Not by McBain, but I wouldn't have ruled it out immediately, personally.)
After some further pushing through the forest/desert/wherever he is, and finding himself accompanied by a group of Mexicans (good ones!), McBain opens fire on another group of soldiers, telling them "Hunting season's over...butt horn."
McBain eventually gets himself caught and the soldiers tie him to a huge wire spindle to prep him for execution. Luckily, a rather resourceful female soldier, with whom McBain had once been intimate, has the idea to drop a grenade right near him and send him rolling rather hilariously down the hilly landscape. Watch in awe as the Gary Busey dummy screams "God damn it!" all the way down.
He frees himself and tears off into the desert, killing more men and saying more things in their language to add spite to their deaths. He soon reconvenes with his squeeze/soldier, who was freed for some reason, and the two take back the Bad-Ass Tank. But McBain, never one to disappear quietly into the night, drives that tank right back to the bad guys' hideout. Needless to say, all kinds of miscellaneous races are blown out of their shoes.
"Where is that idiot general?" he asks, mindlessly pushing the same button behind him over and over, as if to say, "This looks like I'm doing something, right?"
Well, McBain finds that idiot general, all right, and he leaves him where he found him - in PIECES.
McBAIN!
Total references to McBain being bulletproof:
Obviously, the terrorists' days are numbered, what with McBain existing and all. Bullets will fly, and enter bodies without prejudice.
McBAIN!
Following a brief dream in which we catch up on some unfortunate history - mainly McBain accidentally shooting his previous partner during a drug bust gone bad - government officials show up on his front steps and blackmail him onto the case of the miscellaneous terrorists. They ship him off to a warehouse, where they show him schematics for some kind of U.S. Army Official Bad-Ass Tank that the terrorists possess for some reason, yet can't operate because they don't have the required access codes. This meeting ends in a manner typical to most meetings with McBain: an ashtray ends up sailing into another man's testicles.
The mission begins. McBain touches down on the ground, looks lost for a moment, and takes the life of two foot soldiers with little effort. He offers their corpses a wave and an adios as he steals their jeep and moves onto the next kill point.
And then rape happens. (Not by McBain, but I wouldn't have ruled it out immediately, personally.)
After some further pushing through the forest/desert/wherever he is, and finding himself accompanied by a group of Mexicans (good ones!), McBain opens fire on another group of soldiers, telling them "Hunting season's over...butt horn."
McBain eventually gets himself caught and the soldiers tie him to a huge wire spindle to prep him for execution. Luckily, a rather resourceful female soldier, with whom McBain had once been intimate, has the idea to drop a grenade right near him and send him rolling rather hilariously down the hilly landscape. Watch in awe as the Gary Busey dummy screams "God damn it!" all the way down.
 |
| "God damn it!" |
He frees himself and tears off into the desert, killing more men and saying more things in their language to add spite to their deaths. He soon reconvenes with his squeeze/soldier, who was freed for some reason, and the two take back the Bad-Ass Tank. But McBain, never one to disappear quietly into the night, drives that tank right back to the bad guys' hideout. Needless to say, all kinds of miscellaneous races are blown out of their shoes.
"Where is that idiot general?" he asks, mindlessly pushing the same button behind him over and over, as if to say, "This looks like I'm doing something, right?"
Well, McBain finds that idiot general, all right, and he leaves him where he found him - in PIECES.
McBAIN!
Total references to McBain being bulletproof:
- "Look McBain, you may be bullet proof, but I'm just human, all right?"
- "You may be bulletproof, but you're not love proof."
- "This tank is made of titanium alloy. It's bulletproof...like you."
- "I'd be privileged to call you 'Bulletproof Capitán McBain.' "
- "There is a man coming this way! He has a strange name! They call him ‘Bulletproof’ Capitán McBain!"
- "Now let's just see how...bulletproof...your friend can be."
- "So...this is the infamous Captain Bulletproof?" ("You got it, butt horn!")
- "Now let's see how bulletproof you are!"
- "Why do they call him bulletproof?"
- "This whole 'bulletproof' thing is getting old!"
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 29, 2013
MY BEHAVIOR CAN BE...ERRATIC
If we don't, remember me."My name is Patrick Bateman. I'm 27 years old. I believe in taking care of myself, and a balanced diet and rigorous exercise routine. In the morning, if my face is a little puffy, I'll put on an ice pack while doing stomach crunches. I can do a thousand now. After I remove the ice pack, I use a deep pore cleanser lotion. In the shower, I use a water activated gel cleanser, then a honey-almond body scrub; and on the face an exfoliating gel scrub. Then I apply an herb-mint facial mask, which I leave on for ten minutes while I prepare the rest of my routine. I always use an after-shave lotion with little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older. Then moisturizer, then an anti-aging eye balm, followed by a final moisturizing protective lotion..."
Jun 28, 2013
Jun 27, 2013
UNSUNG HORRORS: INSOMNIA
Every once in a while, a genuinely great horror movie—one that would rightfully be considered a classic, had it gotten more exposure and love at the box office—makes an appearance. It comes, no one notices, and it goes. But movies like this are important. They need to be treasured and remembered. If intelligent, original horror is supported, then that's what we'll begin to receive, in droves. We need to make these movies a part of the legendary genre we hold so dear. Because these are the unsung horrors. These are the movies that should have been successful, but were instead ignored. They should be rightfully praised for the freshness and intelligence and craft that they have contributed to our genre.
So, better late than never, we’re going to celebrate them now… one at a time.
Dir. Christopher Nolan
2002
Warner Bros.
United States
"A good cop can't sleep because a piece of the puzzle is missing. A bad cop can't sleep because his guilty conscience won't let him."
Even to those who don't speak in film, Christopher Nolan, by now, must be a household name. His reformation of the Batman series, mixed with the storm-taking Inception, has proven he is a powerhouse. He is a man who has somehow mastered wowing both critics and audiences, reveling in their kind praise and their hard-earned dollars. His films are gorgeous, brooding, and filled with the kind of thought and reverence for genuine human emotion that many other filmmakers take for granted. If I were to tell you that his most unheralded film (perhaps even lesser known than his debut feature Following), was his best, you would not believe me. You may even argue with me. But there's no arguing when I tell you that this sleepy remake of the 1997 Swedish film of the same name is, by far, my favorite of his films. And that's saying lot, considering the man is also responsible for The Prestige and Memento, along with the before-mentioned Dark Knight trilogy (third chapter notwithstanding).
After busting onto the scene with his second film, the mind-busting, non-linear Memento, Warner Bros. wanted to be in the Christopher Nolan business. With so many filmmakers of varying pedigree being assigned remakes of notable genre offerings during this time, Nolan signed on to direct (and perform an uncredited pass on the screenplay) of what would become Insomnia, a story of an unsolved murder in Nightmute, Alaska, a Los Angeles robbery and homicide detective (Al Pacino) brought onto the case in order to keep him away from the internal affairs investigation currently looking into his department, that same detective's honorable partner (Martin Donovan), and a small-town investigator in awe of the famed detective's career (Hilary Swank). Causing all this bloody ruckus is a small-time novelist and all-around murderer (Robin Williams), whose shy and quiet manner hides something far worse. The case seems routine until the investigation begins, and layer after layer is peeled back, revealing that nearly every single one of our characters has a secret they are keeping from everyone else. While these secrets pertain to careers, loyalty, or their very freedoms, it all soon comes tumbling down, bringing everyone down with it.
With respect to an admittedly living legend, Insomnia is Al Pacino's last great performance. His Will Dormer exists in a period of his career, following 1992's Scent of a Woman where he won the Oscar for shouting all the time, in which he...still shouted all the time. "Hey, they must like it!" he must have thought at that time. After a while, however, the very dynamic and hand-gesture loving Pacino starts to disintegrate as his lack of sleep begins to creep up on him. He starts to loose his mind, hallucinate, throw furniture against the window to block out that awful impenetrable Alaskan light. Everyday mundane things like a oscillating desk fan or windshield wipers have the power to unsettle him. (We've all pulled all-nighters at some point - it's a wonder what a lack of sleep will do to the human mind.) His voice grows weary and weak. He becomes exhausted - to the point it sounds as if he's using his voice for the first time. (Count how many times a character asks him if he's getting any sleep.) It's one of the best examples of a character's methodical destruction, and we witness it steadily. Aiding this is the lack of clear timeline. We know for how long Will spends in Alaska (six days - without sleep), but we never get a clear sense of what time of day it is. This is established in the beginning when Dormer requests to pull the murder victim's boyfriend out of class to question him, and he's told it's actually ten o'clock...at night. Something as simple as not knowing what time it is - if it's day or night, early morning or nearing midnight - is enough to set the audience on edge and fuck with their equilibrium. So imagine what poor Dormer must be going through with no sleep, a guilty mind, and a murderer on the loose.
A purposeful choice made early on, though at what point I couldn't say, effort is made to imagine Will Dormer as a less confrontational character with whom to sympathize. For those who have seen the original Swedish film, you'll remember that Stellan Skarsgård's iteration of the character was certainly darker. Granted, Pacino isn't exactly the most noble of investigators - especially during his interrogation scenes - but Skarsgård nearly dared you to root for him. (Quick example: Al Pacino shoots a dead dog to catch a sample bullet from his gun; Stellan Skarsgård shoots a live one.) Pacino plays it right down the middle: bad enough to not entirely trust, but good enough to know he's the one you want to see come out on top. In the final act, where he bares his soul to a nearly perfect stranger, he is no longer his larger-than life persona. He is a small man, withered from guilt and lack of sleep, with his biggest task still in front of him.
Between this and One Hour Photo, one thing is clear: Robin Williams is fucking amazing at playing a psycho. He was never a person for whom I much cared or had much respect. As a comedian, for which he was most famous, I found him painfully unfunny, so why should I have cared? But here, he is super duper creepy. With Walter Finch, Williams finds a way to offer a wide-eyed stare, hands folded, looking entirely innocent but out-of-his-mind guilty simultaneously. His performance is somewhat reminiscent of Kevin Spacey's John Doe from Seven, but certainly not as operatic or over the top. Even as he explains, in bits and pieces, what really happened, you can see him working it around in his mind, as if he's also trying to figure out how the fuck it all led to this. Things had started off so promising for him and for the girl whom he thought liked him - how could she be like that? How could she treat him in such a way after he had consoled her, showered her with gifts, and loved her?
The supporting cast are mostly great, the only side-step being Hilary Swank as Ellie Burr. Swank is normally a great actress, but she's a bit too Family-Von Trapp-ish here, filled with gee-gosh-gollies and doe-eyed infatuation. Though she's the one who eventually ties everything together, and obviously you're supposed to mentally steer her away from uncovering Dormer's indiscretions as an investigator, eventually you want her to just stfu. Each probing question can become maddening after a while; whether it's the performance or the character, I can't honestly say, but the effect is all the same.
Really, each minor character is refreshingly allowed to have actual personality.
Nicky Katt's Fred Duggar obviously fancies himself as the big fish investigator of his small town, and doesn't much care for guys from L.A. coming in to augment his investigation. A slight against his intelligence and capabilities as an officer, he takes it personally and acts (understandably) a little bull-headed...although his two-thumbs joke is aces. Genre favorite Katharine Isabelle (Freddy vs. Jason, the Gingersnaps trilogy) plays the requisite hot bitch - and a reminder that desensitized youth can be found anywhere...even in the smallest town. Maura Tierney, a relatively unknown and uncelebrated actress, does fine work against Pacino, delivering perhaps the most fitting line in the entire film: "There are two kinds of people in Alaska: Those who were born here and those who come here to escape something else. I wasn't born here." Such subtle dialogue provides a previously unseen layer to her character, all the while providing nothing at all.
Every film in Nolan's career has contained an unrelenting darkness. The filmmaker has a natural interest in the darkness of human beings. From Following to The Dark Knight Rises, even when he's having fun, he likes to snap us back to reality and tell us point blank, "People may be ultimately good, but they are selfish and dangerous pricks leading up to it." And Insomnia is, by far, his darkest film - not even as far as the plot goes, but how he imagines it for us, and how he and DP Wally Pfister designed its look. How could Alaska, in the midst of days-straight sunlight, feel so fucking dank and dark? How could a genuinely beautiful place feel so depressing, morbid, and lonely?
A small dose of dark comedy helps break up the mounting dread, even with the surrounding dark circumstances. My favorite: Dormer breaks into Finch's apartment soaking wet, and Finch, over his own answering machine, tells Dormer there are clean towels in the bathroom. Dormer looks at the towel already clenched in his hand and offers this look of, "Are you fucking kidding?" It's just one example out of several where comedy comes out of nowhere and we find it surprisingly welcome.
The script is well constructed and multi-layered; its beauty is most obvious as we witness Dormer and Finch play cat and mouse games with each other. They each have a secret about which the other knows, and they, in person, pretend to come to an agreement on how to push forward that would benefit them both. But then one pulls a "wild card," as Finch calls it, surprising the other and watching him squirm with the newest turn in their twisted relationship. On more than one occasion Finch sends Dormer grasping at the nugget of information he has allowed him to have, even if it was a purposeful misdirection.
It goes without saying that Insomnia looks gorgeous, but having already mentioned Pfister, that should be no surprise. This film, the second of what would be many more collaborations between director and DP, is actually their most expressive. Beautiful though they may be, the look of The Prestige and the Dark Knight trilogy can sometimes get lost behind their London streets or tall cityscapes. But in Alaska, there's nowhere to hide. It becomes as much a character in Insomnia as Gotham did in The Dark Knight.
Being a fan of film music (but not quite in the adept ways as some of my musically-inclined colleagues), I imagine more people would recognize the pounding and stirring score Hans Zimmer brought to life in Nolan's Dark Night trilogy if they had already been familiar with Insomnia. Because composer David Julyan was already kinda doing it. Though he is a composer more comfortable using long, uninterrupted tones rather than full-on melodies, there is no denying the influence his music had on Zimmer's take on Batman. I have no idea if Nolan shepherded this desire for Batman's theme, or if Zimmer took it upon himself to study Nolan's previous films, but I defy you to listen to both films' scores during the sweeping, helicopter shots of Insomnia's landscape and Batman Begins' Iceland mountains and attempt tell them apart. You might falter.
Nolan just might be one of the first filmmakers to be featured here in Unsung who is arguably at the beginning of his career. With half-a-dozen films behind him already, he's a young and vibrant guy who shows no signs of slowing down. His name is a celebrated one in the film community and with your everyday movie-goer, and announcements of his new projects are met with immediate speculation. "What will it be about? Where will it be set? Will it star Michael Caine?" (Yes, it will.) His newest project, still in the casting process, is Interstellar - and appropriate for Nolan, no one knows shit about it (though it does star Michael Caine). As his career surely progresses, Nolan will become further removed from Insomnia. Though it feels somewhat like this already, eventually Insomnia will become nothing more than a bit of trivia one movie geek tells to another. "Did you know he once made a movie with Al Pacino?" It's sad in a way, but also kind of nice. Insomnia will always be one of my favorite secrets.
Even to those who don't speak in film, Christopher Nolan, by now, must be a household name. His reformation of the Batman series, mixed with the storm-taking Inception, has proven he is a powerhouse. He is a man who has somehow mastered wowing both critics and audiences, reveling in their kind praise and their hard-earned dollars. His films are gorgeous, brooding, and filled with the kind of thought and reverence for genuine human emotion that many other filmmakers take for granted. If I were to tell you that his most unheralded film (perhaps even lesser known than his debut feature Following), was his best, you would not believe me. You may even argue with me. But there's no arguing when I tell you that this sleepy remake of the 1997 Swedish film of the same name is, by far, my favorite of his films. And that's saying lot, considering the man is also responsible for The Prestige and Memento, along with the before-mentioned Dark Knight trilogy (third chapter notwithstanding).
After busting onto the scene with his second film, the mind-busting, non-linear Memento, Warner Bros. wanted to be in the Christopher Nolan business. With so many filmmakers of varying pedigree being assigned remakes of notable genre offerings during this time, Nolan signed on to direct (and perform an uncredited pass on the screenplay) of what would become Insomnia, a story of an unsolved murder in Nightmute, Alaska, a Los Angeles robbery and homicide detective (Al Pacino) brought onto the case in order to keep him away from the internal affairs investigation currently looking into his department, that same detective's honorable partner (Martin Donovan), and a small-town investigator in awe of the famed detective's career (Hilary Swank). Causing all this bloody ruckus is a small-time novelist and all-around murderer (Robin Williams), whose shy and quiet manner hides something far worse. The case seems routine until the investigation begins, and layer after layer is peeled back, revealing that nearly every single one of our characters has a secret they are keeping from everyone else. While these secrets pertain to careers, loyalty, or their very freedoms, it all soon comes tumbling down, bringing everyone down with it.
With respect to an admittedly living legend, Insomnia is Al Pacino's last great performance. His Will Dormer exists in a period of his career, following 1992's Scent of a Woman where he won the Oscar for shouting all the time, in which he...still shouted all the time. "Hey, they must like it!" he must have thought at that time. After a while, however, the very dynamic and hand-gesture loving Pacino starts to disintegrate as his lack of sleep begins to creep up on him. He starts to loose his mind, hallucinate, throw furniture against the window to block out that awful impenetrable Alaskan light. Everyday mundane things like a oscillating desk fan or windshield wipers have the power to unsettle him. (We've all pulled all-nighters at some point - it's a wonder what a lack of sleep will do to the human mind.) His voice grows weary and weak. He becomes exhausted - to the point it sounds as if he's using his voice for the first time. (Count how many times a character asks him if he's getting any sleep.) It's one of the best examples of a character's methodical destruction, and we witness it steadily. Aiding this is the lack of clear timeline. We know for how long Will spends in Alaska (six days - without sleep), but we never get a clear sense of what time of day it is. This is established in the beginning when Dormer requests to pull the murder victim's boyfriend out of class to question him, and he's told it's actually ten o'clock...at night. Something as simple as not knowing what time it is - if it's day or night, early morning or nearing midnight - is enough to set the audience on edge and fuck with their equilibrium. So imagine what poor Dormer must be going through with no sleep, a guilty mind, and a murderer on the loose.
A purposeful choice made early on, though at what point I couldn't say, effort is made to imagine Will Dormer as a less confrontational character with whom to sympathize. For those who have seen the original Swedish film, you'll remember that Stellan Skarsgård's iteration of the character was certainly darker. Granted, Pacino isn't exactly the most noble of investigators - especially during his interrogation scenes - but Skarsgård nearly dared you to root for him. (Quick example: Al Pacino shoots a dead dog to catch a sample bullet from his gun; Stellan Skarsgård shoots a live one.) Pacino plays it right down the middle: bad enough to not entirely trust, but good enough to know he's the one you want to see come out on top. In the final act, where he bares his soul to a nearly perfect stranger, he is no longer his larger-than life persona. He is a small man, withered from guilt and lack of sleep, with his biggest task still in front of him.
Between this and One Hour Photo, one thing is clear: Robin Williams is fucking amazing at playing a psycho. He was never a person for whom I much cared or had much respect. As a comedian, for which he was most famous, I found him painfully unfunny, so why should I have cared? But here, he is super duper creepy. With Walter Finch, Williams finds a way to offer a wide-eyed stare, hands folded, looking entirely innocent but out-of-his-mind guilty simultaneously. His performance is somewhat reminiscent of Kevin Spacey's John Doe from Seven, but certainly not as operatic or over the top. Even as he explains, in bits and pieces, what really happened, you can see him working it around in his mind, as if he's also trying to figure out how the fuck it all led to this. Things had started off so promising for him and for the girl whom he thought liked him - how could she be like that? How could she treat him in such a way after he had consoled her, showered her with gifts, and loved her?
I only wanted to comfort her, hold her. I kissed her and... got a little exited. And then she started laughing at me. She didn't stop laughing. Did you ever have someone laugh at you, Will? When you're really vulnerable, laughing their ass off at you? Someone you thought respected you? Ever have that happen, Will? I just wanted to stop her laughing, that's all. I hit her. A couple of times, just to stop her. Let her know - a little respect... She's terrified, she's screaming her head off. I put my hand over her mouth. And then I get really scared, I mean, I'm scared shitless - more scared than I've ever been. And I'm more scared than her, and then... everything's clear. There's no turning back. After that, I was calm. Real calm.Williams plays insane with sadness, yet not regret, and with an evil genius' mastermind. His late-night phone calls ("Can't sleep, Will?") honest-to-gosh sound like one old friend calling another. His voice is calm and without confrontation - at times he sounds damn near sympathetic. For a performer who reveled (and revels) in over-the-top antics and cartoonery, Walter Finch is the anti-Williams. He is calm, reserved, and calculating. And he's fucking dangerous.
The supporting cast are mostly great, the only side-step being Hilary Swank as Ellie Burr. Swank is normally a great actress, but she's a bit too Family-Von Trapp-ish here, filled with gee-gosh-gollies and doe-eyed infatuation. Though she's the one who eventually ties everything together, and obviously you're supposed to mentally steer her away from uncovering Dormer's indiscretions as an investigator, eventually you want her to just stfu. Each probing question can become maddening after a while; whether it's the performance or the character, I can't honestly say, but the effect is all the same.
Really, each minor character is refreshingly allowed to have actual personality.
Nicky Katt's Fred Duggar obviously fancies himself as the big fish investigator of his small town, and doesn't much care for guys from L.A. coming in to augment his investigation. A slight against his intelligence and capabilities as an officer, he takes it personally and acts (understandably) a little bull-headed...although his two-thumbs joke is aces. Genre favorite Katharine Isabelle (Freddy vs. Jason, the Gingersnaps trilogy) plays the requisite hot bitch - and a reminder that desensitized youth can be found anywhere...even in the smallest town. Maura Tierney, a relatively unknown and uncelebrated actress, does fine work against Pacino, delivering perhaps the most fitting line in the entire film: "There are two kinds of people in Alaska: Those who were born here and those who come here to escape something else. I wasn't born here." Such subtle dialogue provides a previously unseen layer to her character, all the while providing nothing at all.
Every film in Nolan's career has contained an unrelenting darkness. The filmmaker has a natural interest in the darkness of human beings. From Following to The Dark Knight Rises, even when he's having fun, he likes to snap us back to reality and tell us point blank, "People may be ultimately good, but they are selfish and dangerous pricks leading up to it." And Insomnia is, by far, his darkest film - not even as far as the plot goes, but how he imagines it for us, and how he and DP Wally Pfister designed its look. How could Alaska, in the midst of days-straight sunlight, feel so fucking dank and dark? How could a genuinely beautiful place feel so depressing, morbid, and lonely?
A small dose of dark comedy helps break up the mounting dread, even with the surrounding dark circumstances. My favorite: Dormer breaks into Finch's apartment soaking wet, and Finch, over his own answering machine, tells Dormer there are clean towels in the bathroom. Dormer looks at the towel already clenched in his hand and offers this look of, "Are you fucking kidding?" It's just one example out of several where comedy comes out of nowhere and we find it surprisingly welcome.
The script is well constructed and multi-layered; its beauty is most obvious as we witness Dormer and Finch play cat and mouse games with each other. They each have a secret about which the other knows, and they, in person, pretend to come to an agreement on how to push forward that would benefit them both. But then one pulls a "wild card," as Finch calls it, surprising the other and watching him squirm with the newest turn in their twisted relationship. On more than one occasion Finch sends Dormer grasping at the nugget of information he has allowed him to have, even if it was a purposeful misdirection.
It goes without saying that Insomnia looks gorgeous, but having already mentioned Pfister, that should be no surprise. This film, the second of what would be many more collaborations between director and DP, is actually their most expressive. Beautiful though they may be, the look of The Prestige and the Dark Knight trilogy can sometimes get lost behind their London streets or tall cityscapes. But in Alaska, there's nowhere to hide. It becomes as much a character in Insomnia as Gotham did in The Dark Knight.
Being a fan of film music (but not quite in the adept ways as some of my musically-inclined colleagues), I imagine more people would recognize the pounding and stirring score Hans Zimmer brought to life in Nolan's Dark Night trilogy if they had already been familiar with Insomnia. Because composer David Julyan was already kinda doing it. Though he is a composer more comfortable using long, uninterrupted tones rather than full-on melodies, there is no denying the influence his music had on Zimmer's take on Batman. I have no idea if Nolan shepherded this desire for Batman's theme, or if Zimmer took it upon himself to study Nolan's previous films, but I defy you to listen to both films' scores during the sweeping, helicopter shots of Insomnia's landscape and Batman Begins' Iceland mountains and attempt tell them apart. You might falter.
Nolan just might be one of the first filmmakers to be featured here in Unsung who is arguably at the beginning of his career. With half-a-dozen films behind him already, he's a young and vibrant guy who shows no signs of slowing down. His name is a celebrated one in the film community and with your everyday movie-goer, and announcements of his new projects are met with immediate speculation. "What will it be about? Where will it be set? Will it star Michael Caine?" (Yes, it will.) His newest project, still in the casting process, is Interstellar - and appropriate for Nolan, no one knows shit about it (though it does star Michael Caine). As his career surely progresses, Nolan will become further removed from Insomnia. Though it feels somewhat like this already, eventually Insomnia will become nothing more than a bit of trivia one movie geek tells to another. "Did you know he once made a movie with Al Pacino?" It's sad in a way, but also kind of nice. Insomnia will always be one of my favorite secrets.
Jun 26, 2013
THE RUSSIAN SLEEP EXPERIMENT
Kudos to whomever wrote this one. It creeps me out.
Story source.
Image source.
Russian researchers in the late 1940s kept five people awake for fifteen days using an experimental gas based stimulant. They were kept in a sealed environment to carefully monitor their oxygen intake so the gas didn't kill them, since it was toxic in high concentrations. This was before closed circuit cameras so they had only microphones and 5 inch thick glass porthole sized windows into the chamber to monitor them. The chamber was stocked with books, cots to sleep on but no bedding, running water and toilet, and enough dried food to last all five for over a month.
The test subjects were political prisoners deemed enemies of the state during World War II.
Everything was fine for the first five days; the subjects hardly complained having been promised (falsely) that they would be freed if they submitted to the test and did not sleep for 30 days. Their conversations and activities were monitored and it was noted that they continued to talk about increasingly traumatic incidents in their past, and the general tone of their conversations took on a darker aspect after the 4 day mark.
After five days they started to complain about the circumstances and events that lead them to where they were and started to demonstrate severe paranoia. They stopped talking to each other and began alternately whispering to the microphones and one way mirrored portholes. Oddly they all seemed to think they could win the trust of the experimenters by turning over their comrades, the other subjects in captivity with them. At first the researchers suspected this was an effect of the gas itself...
After nine days the first of them started screaming. He ran the length of the chamber repeatedly yelling at the top of his lungs for 3 hours straight, he continued attempting to scream but was only able to produce occasional squeaks. The researchers postulated that he had physically torn his vocal cords. The most surprising thing about this behavior is how the other captives reacted to it... or rather didn't react to it. They continued whispering to the microphones until the second of the captives started to scream. The 2 non-screaming captives took the books apart, smeared page after page with their own feces and pasted them calmly over the glass portholes. The screaming promptly stopped.
So did the whispering to the microphones.
After 3 more days passed, the researchers checked the microphones hourly to make sure they were working, since they thought it impossible that no sound could be coming with 5 people inside. The oxygen consumption in the chamber indicated that all 5 must still be alive. In fact it was the amount of oxygen 5 people would consume at a very heavy level of strenuous exercise. On the morning of the 14th day the researchers did something they said they would not do to get a reaction from the captives: they used the intercom inside the chamber, hoping to provoke any response from the captives they were afraid were either dead or vegetables.
They announced: "We are opening the chamber to test the microphones step away from the door and lie flat on the floor or you will be shot. Compliance will earn one of you your immediate freedom."
To their surprise they heard a single phrase in a calm voice response: "We no longer want to be freed."
Debate broke out among the researchers and the military forces funding the research. Unable to provoke any more response using the intercom it was finally decided to open the chamber at midnight on the fifteenth day.
The chamber was flushed of the stimulant gas and filled with fresh air and immediately voices from the microphones began to object. 3 different voices began begging, as if pleading for the life of loved ones to turn the gas back on. The chamber was opened and soldiers sent in to retrieve the test subjects. They began to scream louder than ever, and so did the soldiers when they saw what was inside. Four of the five subjects were still alive, although no one could rightly call the state that any of them in 'life.'
The food rations past day 5 had not been so much as touched. There were chunks of meat from the dead test subject's thighs and chest stuffed into the drain in the center of the chamber, blocking the drain and allowing 4 inches of water to accumulate on the floor. Precisely how much of the water on the floor was actually blood was never determined. All four 'surviving' test subjects also had large portions of muscle and skin torn away from their bodies. The destruction of flesh and exposed bone on their finger tips indicated that the wounds were inflicted by hand, not with teeth as the researchers initially thought. Closer examination of the position and angles of the wounds indicated that most if not all of them were self-inflicted.
The abdominal organs below the ribcage of all four test subjects had been removed. While the heart, lungs and diaphragm remained in place, the skin and most of the muscles attached to the ribs had been ripped off, exposing the lungs through the ribcage. All the blood vessels and organs remained intact, they had just been taken out and laid on the floor, fanning out around the eviscerated but still living bodies of the subjects. The digestive tract of all four could be seen to be working, digesting food. It quickly became apparent that what they were digesting was their own flesh that they had ripped off and eaten over the course of days.
Most of the soldiers were Russian special operatives at the facility, but still many refused to return to the chamber to remove the test subjects. They continued to scream to be left in the chamber and alternately begged and demanded that the gas be turned back on, lest they fall asleep...
To everyone's surprise the test subjects put up a fierce fight in the process of being removed from the chamber. One of the Russian soldiers died from having his throat ripped out, another was gravely injured by having his testicles ripped off and an artery in his leg severed by one of the subject's teeth. Another 5 of the soldiers lost their lives if you count ones that committed suicide in the weeks following the incident.
In the struggle one of the four living subjects had his spleen ruptured and he bled out almost immediately. The medical researchers attempted to sedate him but this proved impossible. He was injected with more than ten times the human dose of a morphine derivative and still fought like a cornered animal, breaking the ribs and arm of one doctor. When heart was seen to beat for a full two minutes after he had bled out to the point there was more air in his vascular system than blood. Even after it stopped he continued to scream and flail for another 3 minutes, struggling to attack anyone in reach and just repeating the word "MORE" over and over, weaker and weaker, until he finally fell silent.
The surviving three test subjects were heavily restrained and moved to a medical facility, the two with intact vocal cords continuously begging for the gas demanding to be kept awake...
The most injured of the three was taken to the only surgical operating room that the facility had. In the process of preparing the subject to have his organs placed back within his body it was found that he was effectively immune to the sedative they had given him to prepare him for the surgery. He fought furiously against his restraints when the anesthetic gas was brought out to put him under. He managed to tear most of the way through a 4 inch wide leather strap on one wrist, even through the weight of a 200 pound soldier holding that wrist as well. It took only a little more anesthetic than normal to put him under, and the instant his eyelids fluttered and closed, his heart stopped. In the autopsy of the test subject that died on the operating table it was found that his blood had triple the normal level of oxygen. His muscles that were still attached to his skeleton were badly torn and he had broken 9 bones in his struggle to not be subdued. Most of them were from the force his own muscles had exerted on them.
The second survivor had been the first of the group of five to start screaming. His vocal cords destroyed he was unable to beg or object to surgery, and he only reacted by shaking his head violently in disapproval when the anesthetic gas was brought near him. He shook his head yes when someone suggested, reluctantly, they try the surgery without anesthetic, and did not react for the entire 6 hour procedure of replacing his abdominal organs and attempting to cover them with what remained of his skin. The surgeon presiding stated repeatedly that it should be medically possible for the patient to still be alive. One terrified nurse assisting the surgery stated that she had seen the patients mouth curl into a smile several times, whenever his eyes met hers.
When the surgery ended the subject looked at the surgeon and began to wheeze loudly, attempting to talk while struggling. Assuming this must be something of drastic importance the surgeon had a pen and pad fetched so the patient could write his message. It was simple. "Keep cutting."
The other two test subjects were given the same surgery, both without anesthetic as well. Although they had to be injected with a paralytic for the duration of the operation. The surgeon found it impossible to perform the operation while the patients laughed continuously. Once paralyzed the subjects could only follow the attending researchers with their eyes. The paralytic cleared their system in an abnormally short period of time and they were soon trying to escape their bonds. The moment they could speak they were again asking for the stimulant gas. The researchers tried asking why they had injured themselves, why they had ripped out their own guts and why they wanted to be given the gas again.
Only one response was given: "I must remain awake."
All three subject's restraints were reinforced and they were placed back into the chamber awaiting determination as to what should be done with them. The researchers, facing the wrath of their military 'benefactors' for having failed the stated goals of their project considered euthanizing the surviving subjects. The commanding officer, an ex-KGB instead saw potential, and wanted to see what would happen if they were put back on the gas. The researchers strongly objected, but were overruled.
In preparation for being sealed in the chamber again the subjects were connected to an EEG monitor and had their restraints padded for long term confinement. To everyone's surprise all three stopped struggling the moment it was let slip that they were going back on the gas. It was obvious that at this point all three were putting up a great struggle to stay awake. One of subjects that could speak was humming loudly and continuously; the mute subject was straining his legs against the leather bonds with all his might, first left, then right, then left again for something to focus on. The remaining subject was holding his head off his pillow and blinking rapidly. Having been the first to be wired for EEG most of the researchers were monitoring his brain waves in surprise. They were normal most of the time but sometimes flat lined inexplicably. It looked as if he were repeatedly suffering brain death, before returning to normal. As they focused on paper scrolling out of the brainwave monitor only one nurse saw his eyes slip shut at the same moment his head hit the pillow. His brainwaves immediately changed to that of deep sleep, then flatlined for the last time as his heart simultaneously stopped.
The only remaining subject that could speak started screaming to be sealed in now. His brainwaves showed the same flatlines as one who had just died from falling asleep. The commander gave the order to seal the chamber with both subjects inside, as well as 3 researchers. One of the named three immediately drew his gun and shot the commander point blank between the eyes, then turned the gun on the mute subject and blew his brains out as well.
He pointed his gun at the remaining subject, still restrained to a bed as the remaining members of the medical and research team fled the room. "I won't be locked in here with these things! Not with you!" he screamed at the man strapped to the table. "WHAT ARE YOU?" he demanded. "I must know!"
The subject smiled.
"Have you forgotten so easily?" The subject asked. "We are you. We are the madness that lurks within you all, begging to be free at every moment in your deepest animal mind. We are what you hide from in your beds every night. We are what you sedate into silence and paralysis when you go to the nocturnal haven where we cannot tread."
The researcher paused. Then aimed at the subject's heart and fired. The EEG flatlined as the subject weakly choked out, "So... nearly... free..."
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Jun 25, 2013
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 22, 2013
GROSS ANATOMY
Atlas of Topographic Anatomy, 1911
Eugène-Louis Doyen with J.-P. Bouchon and R. Doyen
Eugène-Louis Doyen with J.-P. Bouchon and R. Doyen
heliotypes by E. Le Deley
Jun 21, 2013
Jun 20, 2013
CREEP
When I was 13, my mother and I stopped at her friend's house to pick up something. I sat in the living room while she talked to her friend in the kitchen. While sitting there on the couch, a lady walked into the room and sat in a chair across the room. She said hello and asked my name. I smiled and spoke back. She asked me how old I was and, well, we chatted for about 5 minutes.
She told me that Marcy (the lady we were visiting) always lost her jewelry around the house when she was a little girl. Up until the age of 14. She said that she found all of it and put it in a box that was under the back right leg of the chair she was sitting in. She said I should tell Marcy where it was because she forgot to do it and it would make her happy. She then got up and walked towards the kitchen. She stopped and asked me if I wanted some cookies and I said yes. A few minutes later I heard her say, "Come and get your cookies, dear." I got up and went into the kitchen and saw my mother and Marcy there. I didn't see any cookies, but I saw a door that lead down stairs to the basement, so I looked down the stairs.
My mother asked me what was wrong and I said I was looking for the cookies. Marcy then said, "Oh, I'll get you some cookies." I told her that the lady already got them and they gave me a weird look. I told them about the lady and my mother said I must have went to sleep and dreamed about it. They gave me my cookies and some milk and sent me away.
Marcy walked through the room and took my empty glass and plate from me. I asked her if she knew where her lost jewelry was.
She smiled and said, "What jewelry?"
I told her what the lady told me and she looked scared. She got upset and told my mother, and my mother got upset with me. Marcy said that there was no one else in the house. They were standing over me telling me to stop making stuff up, so I got up and checked the floor board under the chair. I pulled out a box and opened it. I said, "See, this is what you lost." I handed Marcy the box. She was still crying when we left.
Later she called my mother and asked that she never bring me to her house again. She also told my mother that there were another plate of cookies on the kitchen table and she knows that she gave me the only plate she put out.
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