Chilling with the Cryptkeeper

When it comes to late night TV comfort food, there is nothing quite as tasty as watching Tales From The Crypt, even with all the rotting corpses lying about.

I've been watching the 90s television series at the end of every day lately, and it might be full of unashamed gore, macabre twists and truly horrific puns, but it's been an incredibly chill way to end my day.

Every single episode has some actor at their absolute peak - Demi Moore never looked better as a ravenous gold-digger, William Sadler never looked sweatier than when he played a fired executioner; M Emmett Walsh made the best stuffed body.

And there is some top talent behind the camera, familiar names from genre cinema as writers and directors like Walter Hill, Richard Donner, Mary Lambert, Fred Dekker, Tobe Hooper, William Friedkin and many, many others. They even get Ry Cooder to do some music for an episode.  

(It's also slightly fascinating to see episodes directed by huge actors, big name players given a chance to call the shots, so there are episodes by Bob Hoskins, Kyle MacLachlan, Tom Hanks, Michael J Fox and Arnold Schwarzenegger, and they didn't direct much else anywhere, so there is a pleasant element of ambition and showing off.)

So the production values are high, and the stories are, of course, a boatload of fun. All based on the classic EC comics, and those mad geniuses were using cliches back in the 50s that are no less creaky or predictable now, but the payoff is always worth it. 

It's quite cozy horror, with a lack of irony, and a lack of self referential smugness. The cruel characters in these stories get their just desserts, and all is is at should be. 

The world outside my window could use some more accountability, and I get a taste of it in the dead of night before I go to bed, watching evil people getting hacked up by a zombie out for vengeance.

I love the smell of fireworks in the evening

It's Guy Fawkes night tonight in this part of the world, and the evening air will be popping with the sound of fireworks for hours, and I love every second of it.

The local media has been bulging with stories about wimps wanting to get them banned, because won't someone think of the poor pets or firefighters, and while these may be absolutely legitimate concerns, I still can't deny I get a thrill from explosive lights.

There was a line from a comic writer who turned out to be a total shithead about a particular noise that human beings make when they look up and see fireworks, and even shitheads make good points sometimes, because that line has stuck in my mind for years now, because it's true. It's not a cheer, not quite a gasp, but more of a primal tones of awe. It's a lovely sound.

The wonder of fireworks is in all of us, even if we try to deny it. Even if we try to deny it with sympathy for some sensitive dogs might have to sleep under the bed for one night, or for the firefighters who have to deal with the actions of idiots. They can also be terribly dangerous - a friend of a friend lost a finger to a firecracker that he held in a closed fist when I was growing up, but that taught me some valuable safety lessons (like don't hold a fucking firecracker in a closed fist).

And I will admit that their use outside the usual days of celebration can be extremely annoying, but for one night of light and noise, it isn't the end of the world. 

I will always look up at fireworks and make that weird noise again. I always do.

The real shock of the Psycho shower

One of the best parts about listening to podcasts while doing the housework is that sometimes they'll articulate something that you've always had bouncing around in your skull, and it can make you feel just a little bit alone in the world.

The What Went Wrong podcast with Lizzie Bassett and Chris Winterbauer has always been thoughtful and informative, and one of the few movie history podcasts I can stand to listen to on a regular basis, because the hosts don't think they are more interesting than the subject. But when they recently did an episode on Psycho, and Winterbauer expressed horror at the idea of Janet Leigh standing under the shower and turning it on full force without checking the temperature or anything, I felt truly seen.

That has always bothered me, and there was a secret part of me that assumed that I was doing this whole shower thing wrong, and that everyone else doesn't check to see if the water is too cold, or too hot, or maybe even a bit scuzzy, before blasting it all over their naked body. 

But it is Marion Crane who is the weirdo here, turning on the shower like that. We all know she will suffer a terrible fate in that shower, but I'm glad to hear I wasn't the only one appalled by her kind of bathing etiquette.  

Oasis - Don't Look Back In Anger: You all right, mate?

There's a part in the new Oasis documentary, where after all the hype and all the anticipation, the band has finally got out there and put on a fuckin' good show, and the audience is shattered as the lights come up, and there is this kid who would have been a toddler when the band broke up, and he's processing all the feelings he's going through, and it's all just so much, and then some random dude wandering past checks up on him and makes sure he's okay, before giving him a hug and moving on, and fuck me, that is one of the best moments in cinema I've seen all year. 

The obvious hook for the movie is the story of the Gallagher brothers and their extremely weird relationship, and it is genuinely moving to see them go on stage holding hands every night. After all that nonsense they went through, they're now old enough to realise that neither of them is the leader of the band, that Oasis doesn't exist without both of them involved (with a side order of Bonehead). 

Liam needs his brother's songwriting and ear for a wonderful lyric, Noel needs that voice and swagger of Our Kid to carry his songs to the masses. And they both know it.

The way they meet together for rehearsals for the first time is so well done in the new documentary, everyone is watching the door to see Liam come in, and then he just appears from nowhere from the side and wants to know why they're fucking about so much. The magic of cinema strikes again.

(It certainly helps that Liam is still such a funny fucker, and while he makes a point that he doesn't give a fuck if he gets cancelled, he's of the E generation and everybody is welcome, all races, all creeds, and he's just a working class lad who somehow became a mega rock star, still self deprecating, still a master of the most pointed of observations.)

But surprisingly, even with all that, the Gallaghers turn out to be secondary characters in their own story, because Don't Look Back In Anger is in love with the audience. 

It's the dude asserting his right to go into a public park to hear the band; it's the lads having a beer who know the same jokes; it's the Japanese girl explaining how Oasis aren't the band to pull you back up when you've fallen down, they are the band that has fallen down with you, and you gotta get back up together.

The sheer fucking joy is overwhelmingly positive, such a net good in the world, that no matter how much you might loath the Gallaghers or the music, you have to give them credit for that.

Of course, the other main character in the film is that ridiculous setlist, with all those guitars blaring out on banger after banger, the chorus of the masses washing out over every stadium they play. But it's those masses that are the real power of the band, bigger than anything Noel could write, or Liam could ever sing.

Looking for Big Dave while I'm the drunkest I've ever been

This story might not be totally accurate, but this is how I remember it and the major point is that I was very, very drunk at the time.

Okay, so I don't really touch alcohol any more, but back in my drinking days I could put a lot of it away, and would often reach my limit while the sun was still shining and pass out in my own filth, but I think the drunkest I've ever been was the time I went looking for my Big Dave comics in the early hours of a Sunday morning.

So I was not living in my hometown at the time, but was back for a weekend visit, and one of my main goals was to find my friend Brian and get some of my 2000ads back. He'd borrowed the ones with Big Dave in, part of the Summer Offensive by Grant Morrison and Mark Millar and he'd had them for a couple of months, and I wanted to get them back.

But I couldn't find him anywhere, when I'd go to mutual friends' houses, I would have just missed him. None of us had cellphones, so it was all very random.

So I ended up going out that night with some friends and family, and ended up getting stinking drunk. There was a nightclub in town where you could pay $25, and for two hours between midnight and 2am, you could drink as much booze as you could handle, and after pre-loading at someone's fault, you could get properly rotten on that kind of offer.

This all-you-can-drink deal didn't last long, mainly because the nightclub closed at 2am, and the lights would suddenly go up and several hundred very, very drunk people would all get dumped out into the night, leading to fights and vandalism and general hooliganism. That's what happened this particular weekend, and it was 2am and I still hadn't found Brian and the vibe was bad, so I went wandering off.

I don't know where I was going, and kinda zoned out, and I was walking in some completely random part of town when I literally bumped into Brian coming the other way.

It was obviously meant to be, and having to talk to somebody sobered me up somewhat - I was still drunk as fuck, but less blacked-out - and we went back to his place to pick up the Big Dave comics that he had waiting for me.

It was in the darkest hours before the dawn, so we put on the knives and got monumentally stoned on top of our general drunkenness, but I got the 2000ad issues I needed.

And then this dude called Tarquin that we knew showed up, and that was fine, but 20 minutes later there was a knock at the door and it was a cop who was looking for Tarquin due to some mindless vandalism and he'd been seen going into Brian's flat, but the big idiot who still had glass on his boots was right behind the door and the officer couldn't see him, all he could see were two completely munted dickheads giggling over the way Big Dave gunned down the Queen, and left us all alone.

So I just went home with my 2000ads and slept for a month.

This might be the greatest effort anybody has ever gone to for some Big Dave comics, and that is not something to be proud of, but it happened, all the same. 

I'm just lucky Big Dave didn't put in an appearance like the Big Red Cheese did that one time, and thank Christ for that. Nobody needs Big fucking Dave in the real world.

Xerxes - The Fall of the House of Darius and the Rise of Alexander: Nothing is impossible

- Xerxes: The Fall of the House of Darius and the Rise of Alexander #5

 By Frank Miller 

Colours by Alex Sinclair

Justified: You pull on him....

In a world of uncertainty everywhere, and great unjustices being met with little to no consequences, there is just something very satisfying about watching Raylan Givens - as played by the immortal Timothy Olyphant - and his big hat gunning down various scum without any hesitation.

Patrick Stewart: A lifetime of great roles

We all took Patrick Stewart for granted. He was just always so good, always making whatever he appeared in so much better, and he carried so much gravitas and humanity without ever showing off, and we took him for granted.

He embraced both the serious and silly side of his profession. After a lifetime of Shakespearean magnificence, he will be mostly remembered for flying some lovely lounge suites around the galaxy, and taking over peoples' minds as one of Marvel's mightiest mutants, and he was fine with that. But he never pandered to the material, he elevated it, and he did that every week for several years on Star Trek.

Stewart's performance as Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Starship Enterprise is still breathtaking. He made those weird onesies they had to wear look stylish, and he showed off his vast acting range on a regular basis.

There was his righteous fury at the number of lights he is being shown; and his quiet contemplation after an accidental lifetime he spent learning to play the flute; and the cold horror when he speaks as the monotonal Locutus of Borg; and the heartbreak of the confused elder of All Good Things.

Picard was also, refreshingly, not a perfect character - he had made many mistakes in his life (his biggest one was obviously messing things up with Beverly) - but under Stewart's stewardship, he also stood up for his crew all the way in the most stern and eloquent manner, he could settle wars with appeals to logic and righteousness, and he could set an ensign right with a kindly word at the right time.

And Sir Patrick brought that brilliance to everything he did, whether he was a  slimy motherfucker in ancient Rome, or an honoured knight of the round tablet. Look at the way he expresses joy when Logan walks into Professor X's office at the end of the Days of Future Past and just silently lights up, or his bellowing happiness at being reunited with his young pup Paul in the Dune film. 

And when he was a bad guy, he was still so charming that you can't really believe it. When he shows up in Green Room, he's so calm and empathetic that you almost forget he's a hateful old bigot who will kill them all without hesitation. He also managed to have two brutal face-offs with Alec Guinness' George Smiley without even using that wonderful voice.

And for all that, his greatest performance was his life as Patrick Stewart. It's only hours after the news of his passing as I write this and nearly everybody who ever met the man has some story of him being charming or helpful or kind or self-deprecating, and he was never quiet about his unwavering support for anti-violence, particularly for women and kids. It's always the man's choice to use violence and he never let anybody forget that. 

He will be remembered for his dignity and wit. He had a great sense of humor- his advocacy for Beavis and Butthead shall never be forgotten - and he was always about bringing your best and not making a fuss about it. We took that for granted, but we can appreciate it forever. 

Legends never die: Concrete, Grendel, Hellboy and the Shaolin Cowboy

I walked out of my local comic shop the other day with brand new issues of Concrete, Grendel, Hellboy and Shaolin Cowboy, so I think it's fair to say that I found my comic book tribe a long time ago, and I see no reason to abandon them any time soon.

All we need now is some Sin City - and with the generally bonkers direction of Frank Miller's work in the past two decades, I would love to see what he'd do with a new Sin City, (but I might draw the line at more of Byrne's Next Men).

It's not just that these comics I'm still getting are all published by the venerable Dark Horse, they all represent a certain kind of artist - the hardworking and consistent professional who has stayed true to their roots, still adding to vast tapestries they began weaving in the 80s and 90s, and clearly having an absolute ball doing it. They might not be seen as hot as they once were by the wider industry, but their standards of craft and sheer storytelling chops are undeniable.

They are also - despite superficial similarities - giving me different things. The new Concrete comic by Paul Chadwick is as thoughtful as ever, clear in both intellect and art. It also takes some unexpected turns - I thought the whole 'Concrete Goes Wild' thing would last a lot longer, before the story became a quiet meditation on the everyday challenges of living with brain damage.

Meanwhile, Matt Wagner's Grendel is a clear contemporary to Concrete, but could not be more different, and the latest series is as brutal and efficient as ever. However, it is also heading down unexpected paths - I really thought Wagner might kill off Prime in the latest issue, but he just wiped out all the wonderfully-designed Grendel elders instead.

And Shaolin Cowboy is as insane as ever, shots of philosophy coming at you like liquid bullets. Geof Darrow's detail work is still as intoxicating as ever and there is a dark and sick humour behind the whole thing, background characters spitting out bits of political bile that can sometimes resonate hard.

All of these series have gone away and come back again, often after years of dormancy, but there has always been Hellboy. While I still think about the end of BPRD every day, I haven't really been able to keep up with everything in that crooked universe since then, but I am getting the current Hellboy in Hell issues (generally the only ones I bother with are the ones where Mignola doesn't use a co-writer) and it's as moody and twisted as ever.

So even though there are superficial similarities - and yes, they are all written and drawn by old white guys - they are all very different books, and I do feel like I'm getting a varied diet, and have been for 30 years now. I'll keep following these comics for as long as they make them.