Universal Monster Mash

I thought I had picked out the perfect week to take my vacation. The third week of October, I said, would be my favorite kind of weather—crisp Autumn air. Instead, I find myself in the middle of an Alabama phenomenon called Hot-tober and the week I go back to work, we’ll struggle to make it to highs in the 60s. Oh, well—you can’t win them all.

With Halloween approaching, I usually try to watch something creepy, and I intended on some sort of horror series for my week off. I’m not what you’d call a fan of horror films, preferring true crime documentaries or psychological thrillers, which are more likely to stay with me. There are certainly horror films I admire, but they are usually comical in nature, r. e. the Evil Dead series. But over the last couple of years, I’ve tried to branch out and watch some of the so-called classics of the genre.

Last year, it was the slasher films of the 1980s. What I watched would have been something unimaginable to my younger self. I first caught a glimpse of Robert Englund’s portrayal of Freddy Krueger when I was five years old. The face alone made me run upstairs and nightmares followed several nights after. Yet, last year, I watched all the Krueger movies, up through the New Nightmare and mostly laughed myself silly. Whatever power that face had had dissipated with all my other childhood fears.

So, this year I decided to go back all the way to the beginning—if not the actual beginning, meaning I would eschew certain important silent films like Nosferatu or re-watching The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, the style of which would be copied for decades, including in the films I viewed. Instead, I decided to watch the three most important films of what is a franchise known as the Universal Classic Monsters. A mixed-bag to be sure, these early Universal horror films are still the gold-standard of the horror genre, or at least represent its golden age. A lot of what we imagine when we first hear the names Dracula or Frankenstein come right out of this unofficial film series, which lasted from the early 1930s to the late 1950s before horror would go into a different phase, becoming more violent and wielding, shall we say, a “Hammer.”

The first horror “talkie,” Tod Browning’s Dracula (1931) was the first in the series and I had never seen it before, I knew it was important in Hollywood’s history, but I assumed it would have little to no effect on me as a scary film. The opposite was true. A flawed genius, Browning conjures truly terrifying pictures, and it is easy to see that Bela Lugosi was a better actor than his future typecasting would indicate.

It is interesting to note, along with the second film, James Whale’s Frankenstein (1931 also), that Dracula was not a straight adaptation of Bram Stoker’s epistolary novel. In fact, it was an adaptation of a theatrical version by Garrett Fort, further adapted by Hamilton Deane and John L. Balderston. The dramatic version, with Lugosi in the title role, was a smash and probably served as a better foundation for adaptation than Stoker’s novel alone, which is a sort of work made up of “found” materials.

Searching on the streaming platforms, I was delighted to find the version of the film that was later re-scored by Philip Glass, our greatest living composer. He had done this in 1998 with the Kronos Quartet, and I had listened to the score before, wondering how on earth it would gel with the picture, but it works entirely. By using a string quartet, Glass evokes both something of 19th century dread and something totally modern—striking, full of anxiety and fear.

Several Universal sequels followed, including Dracula’s Daughter, Son of Dracula, and House of Dracula and, of course, Dracula has been reimagined by many other studios, most notably with a star-studded ‘90s version by Francis Ford Coppola which has more detractors than admirers. Dracula remains the prototypical vampire and Lugosi’s portrayal hangs over any other, even Christopher Lee who would take over the part in color films.

Frankenstein, I had seen before. Rather I slept through it. So, I had to go back and really give it a fair shot. I liked it more this time, but it still feels staid, inert somehow, especially in comparison to Dracula. Also adapted from a theatrical version, this time by Peggy Webling, I think it comes from a novel that is itself unadaptable. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, or The Modern Prometheus is an exhausting read. Some have not even called it a horror novel, but more of a precursor to science fiction.

But there is obviously something about it that has mass appeal. The way Dracula became synonymous with “vampire,” Dr. Frankenstein has become synonymous with the mad scientist and Colin Clive’s portrayal in the early scenes is terrifying in its own sort of way as Frankenstein calls God’s bluff. Then, of course, the film leads to mob violence and, being pre-Code, has a surprisingly shocking scene of the Monster tossing a little girl to her death thinking she is akin to the flowers she and he tossed into a pond.

Boris Karloff would be another actor pigeonholed into horror roles and Frankenstein would have the longest commercial appeal of any of Universal’s monsters. The sequels The Bride of Frankenstein, Son of Frankenstein, The Ghost of Frankenstein, Frankenstein Meets the Wolf Man, House of Frankenstein, and (absurdly, though I’m told it’s funny) Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein all followed over the next two decades. Since the portrayal of the Monster is so vague in Shelley’s novel, Karloff’s make-up and neck bolts became the way we have continued to imagine the character. It’s difficult to estimate how much this Frankenstein has pervaded popular culture. One thinks of Phil Hartman’s hilarious impersonation on Saturday Night Live more than Robert DeNiro’s turn as the Monster in Kenneth Branagh’s trashy and maximalist adaptation in the mid-1990s.

I did notice something on this second watching that made me re-think a kind of spinoff of Frankenstein. I have always been mercilessly driven to boredom watching Mel Brooks’ Young Frankenstein. I have often thought Brooks’ films needed quicker editing and his 1974 offering, by today’s comedy standards, is as stiff and stodgy as Whale’s staging—using sets perhaps inspired by German Expressionism, but with none of the remarkable staging of Caligari to show the off-kilter world. I understand Brooks’ film a lot more now because it is clear he was satirizing something he admired. While I cannot share admiration for the original film, I can appreciate his timing more, as it is perfectly in line with the 1931 original.

If you look at the whole Universal line-up, The Invisible Man and The Wolf Man and even the Creature from the Black Lagoon often show up in the line-up. Having limited time, I decided to complete my viewing with 1932’s The Mummy as these first three films in the series (discounting an adaptation of Edgar Allan Poe’s Murders in the Rue Morgue) provided the bulk of the series’ fodder.

The Mummy is a genuine monster movie, but not one that instantly conjures up Halloween. Piggybacking on the early 20th-century excavations in Egypt, the film concerns a mummy who is brought back to life, Imhotep, who longs to reincarnate a love from his past in a contemporary woman. Based on a screen treatment by Nina Wilcox Putnam and Richard Schayer, the film plays on Egyptian mummification practices and The Book of the Dead. While all these things add up to something interesting, fear is not the primary emotion you carry with you. It is interesting, but never much more than that.

Though a modest box office success, it would spawn many sequels from Universal—The Mummy’s Hand, The Mummy’s Tomb, The Mummy’s Ghost (you can see the cleverness here, right?), and The Mummy’s Curse. Years later, Brendan Fraser’s versions probably became more iconographic than Boris Karloff’s mummy. But it does go to show you Hollywood hasn’t really changed. Franchises were as important in the early days as they are now. If you have a property that has a guaranteed audience, how can one go wrong financially?

There are, obviously, a lot of things that come into play with people who like horror films. There are people who genuinely get tickled at being scared. There are those that find the humor in the gore of some of the more contemporary offerings. There are those who just like a good scream. There are probably even those who delight in the non-existent“dangers” of the genre (i. e. those who find something pervasive and real in The Exorcist, The Blair Witch Project, Paranormal Activity—not that I’m equating the latter two in quality with the former). I don’t find myself fitting into any of these categories. More often than not it is the real monsters who walk among us that I find the scariest. These creatures may display some of the things we fear and magnify them, but the real monsters almost always look like us. I wish it wasn’t so—heck, if they did dress up like Bela Lugosi and Boris Karloff, they would be easier to catch.

By the way, if you’re in the Birmingham metro area, I’m playing percussion for a Halloween show at the Sugar Creek Supper Club Saturday night with The Cash Domino Killers, a terrific ‘50s-‘60s cover band. More info can be found here.

And Happy Halloween!

Fourth Publication this Year!

Cover of the Sept. '23 MINI PLAYS REVIEW.

I find myself often at a loss as to what publishers of poetry and drama want these days. I’m told the subjects to which I’ve always been dedicated—love, labor, birth, death, taxes, God—are all verboten. So, I will pull up lists of contests/awards/publications and, when I investigate the journal, they always want me to check out what they’ve awarded/published before, and I strain to see connections in my own work that fits their needs. Perhaps it is best that this year I submitted to two publications which were either a) just beginning or b) re-launching because they seemed to be interested in my subjects—things eternal rather than temporal.

I figured getting my poetry published would always be a self-publishing job. In 2018, I collected what I felt were my best “love poems” into a volume called Eons and Other Love Poems which, through my own imprimatur, Holly Grove Press, sold rather well as I peddled it among friends and associates. When I look back on it now, it is a collection that makes me sad. There are a few rapturous loves poems—but mostly contained therein are poems of love and loss and rue toward loves past. But it still does have some of my favorite pieces I've written—in particular “Sifting through Damage” and “Lauren Bursting through the Shadows” (the latter of which which I’ve since republished on the blog).

Announcement of Prize.

But thanks to lists on the internet for publications/prizes you don’t have to pay entry fees for, I came across one by an ecologically-minded organization out of Massachusetts called Blue Institute. This year was their 5th annual Words on Water Writing Contest and I submitted a poem from yesteryear (as it was written when dad was still alive) called “The Rain Dance.” Some fixes were in order, but I was pleased when it garnered second place and even more pleased a fellow Benningtonian was the judge (as Bennington was the first place not to recognize my poetic tendencies). The poem was published on their website and, though some of the formatting of the stanzas are off, it is nice to see it in print and recognized.

Then, I found a journal seeking poems on the subject of past regrets. Well—right up my alley, I thought. Literature Today: An International Literary Journal was re-starting its electronic and print publication and I submitted another older poem, “Toast to Reneé," a sort of send-off to a former muse. It was selected and I finally felt like a true prize-winning, published poet. I’m not sure what that means in terms of the world today, but it has a nice ring to it.

July '23 Edition.

Also through the internet, I discovered an enterprising editor who was starting a journal of “mini plays,” not a forum for making bread obviously, but it does have its forebears. Many established playwrights write short monologue-themed one-act plays for publication (David Mamet, Neil LaBute, August Strindberg, even) and these find their way into nights of short works. Regardless, the two-page minimum was a challenge and, as I’ve connected with other playwrights published by Mini Plays Review: An International Journal of Short Plays, I discovered many of us took selections or re-tooled previous pieces to fit into the page numbers allowed.

The first issue was, indeed, concerning love and (in a strange way) the piece was the first written for the aforementioned muse. Approaching the Summer Sun began as a monologue spoken by one character. It was written in verse—I was going through a phase when I considered having my plays explode into verse (attempting a style.) I have not kept up with this, but the only major work that survives from the period is Wars and Rumors of Wars, the play where Approaching the Summer Sun found its spot, this time as a fantasy, dream-like dialogue between two people who are essentially finishing each other’s sentences—thus, the piece is still (for all intents and purposes) a monologue, just split between two people.

Original Teaser Poster for Reading.

Wars and Rumors of Wars did receive a concert reading in 2011, featuring a terrific performance from my friend Ray Cole, who I most recently acted with in Waiting for Godot. The work was generally well-received though the major theme—a teacher's relationship with a student—caused some actors to question it. Now, we find miniseries on this topic once every couple of years. The dangerous theme went well with a play about a man whose psyche is torn and who regularly verbally spars with his dream self. The play was written not as a play to be staged, but a play to be performed like an oratorio or reading—the actors would read from the text off sheet music stands, in formal dress, as if they were about to perform Handel's Messiah. They each had “arias” (monologues) and “recitatives” (scenes of dialogue). So, the little sliver of Approaching the Summer Sun was a bit of an odd offer, coming from an odd play, but it made it in the first issue.

Of course, the writers were let known another edition was forthcoming, this time with the theme of friendship. Again, all of these publications not wanting hot-button political topics was refreshing because that is well out of my métier. I did have such a piece (of a friendship dying) and it, again, formed a part of a longer play, albeit a ten-minute one, A Judah Kiss from 2008. The play, a quarrel between two friends over the death of their third Musketeer, rose in its climax to a blistering monologue from Dylan who takes his anger at his friend’s death and throws it up to Blake, who was not around during the deceased’s illness.

Rehearsals for AJUDAKIS.

A Judah Kiss was originally meant to be a more poetical title, conjuring up images of the famous Judas kiss from the Gospels and the imagery of the Lion of Judah from the Hebrew Bible. The same day we did a reading of Wars, we also did a complete reading of the short play cycle from which Judah was culled—The Brotherhood Cycle—meant to be nine short piece performed by the same two actors playing differing roles, one actor Caucasian, the other African American. Its frankness wouldn’t fly today as I was writing about those of African descent where I grew up, who largely were the only Black member of a church and had very different perspectives on race. Overall, though, it’s the short play cycle (I’ve written three) of which I’m most proud. There was even a plan to film a version of A Judah Kiss. A screenplay was written, Ajudakis—an even more wacky title—and some scraps of scenes were filmed, but budgetary issues and poor planning left the project from getting lift-off.

Still, the tiny scene of the confrontation has always retained a mean kind of power and by eliminating stage directions and focusing it down to its essence, The Judah Kiss emerged as a selection for Mini Plays Review. I’m delighted to write it was accepted for the September 2023 edition. I have yet to receive my copy, but the work is already electronically published and for sale along with the works of over fifty other playwrights.

As you might know, I read a play a day to keep limber and I’ve been going through the plays in Issue 1 as they provide for more work during the day and I get to know playwrights I normally wouldn’t be introduced to. If you’re curious about my “daily read,” I post the plays and feature the playwrights on X (formerly Twitter) and Instagram daily.

Thanks again to Mini Plays Review for the opportunity to be in print—four times this year! It has certainly been a lucky year for publications.

To more! And, for those of you who have something interesting, submit it—you just never know.

Our Furry Friends: A Goodbye to Macey

In March of 2007, I was picked up from the hospital by my folks and nephews. Unbeknownst to me, I had an allergic reaction to sulfa drugs that had been prescribed thus leaving one side of my head to swell to the size of a basketball. At any rate, I was a little loopy in the car and it was explained to me we would be making a stop at the American Humane Society.

My mom had dreamed of a little grey lap cat, and she took my nephews into the Humane Society where the little cat she dreamed up was six weeks old and ready for adoption (as was her black sister, who we adopted on behalf of my brother and his family).

Macey wasn’t exactly a docile lap cat. On the one hand, when mom brought her out to the car for me to see, I instantly fell in love; on the other, when she was in the backseat in her cardboard box, her entire arm was outside of the hole, looking for something or someone to scratch.

She was feisty, hated most other people except me, and I miss her terribly.

Last week, her health deteriorated quickly. I knew the last two winters were not good on her arthritis, but something else was wrong. We woke up twice in one week to her vomiting underneath mom’s bed and last Thursday, she wouldn’t move or eat. The most she could do was purr—and she did that ‘til the end. For a domestic shorthair, sixteen years is a long time, and I can honestly say, in return for trips outside and treats, she was my best friend in the whole world.

We woke up Friday morning in a completely different house. For the last several months, she had become increasingly verbal—perhaps she had some dementia. But she would still lay on my chest and purr her heart out. She loved her bubba, and I had nothing but love for her.

I know everyone thinks their pets are remarkable. Yet two memories from her young kitty-hood stand out. After she was taken to get de-clawed, I held her. She would look at her paw and then stretch it out to me as if asking, “What happened to my claws?” Also, one night, we were together, and Patton came on the television. I had never seen it, so I let it start. As soon George C. Scott appeared in front of that gigantic American flag—I don’t know what it was, the colors?—Macey stood straight up and watched him throughout his entire speech, as if she were standing for the Pledge of Allegiance.

Aside from the year and a half I spent in Montgomery, trying to resuscitate a dying career as a secondary school teacher—we were inseparable. She has left so many memories, even without the pictures and videos. She knew instinctively which Christmas stocking was hers and enjoyed getting Christmas presents from it. She would plaster her nose against mine as if she wanted to breathe the same air.

She was never intended to be an outdoor cat, but the pull was strong for her to roam our yards, which we let her do for quite some time. One day, she found herself on top of a fence, with dogs on both sides, taunting her. When we rescued her, and I was trying to pull the matting out of her fur, we discovered a hernia that had to be operated on. From then on, she was outside on a leash. Everybody would make fun of us, saying they had never seen a cat on a leash before, but we wanted to keep her safe and healthy. And we did. For sixteen years. I can be grateful for that at least.

Cats (and pets in general) have a way of enriching your life. I would say I’ve learned very few maxims in my forty years except one in particular—“Don’t trust anyone who doesn’t like children or pets.”

We marvel at the way they can relax. After all, April 15th means nothing to them. You have to admire them and envy them and do everything you can to ensure their little lives are happy and healthy. That makes you happy and healthy.

We still have a little yapping dog and my cat, Amos Moses, who loves to be petted, but doesn’t quite know how to accept it. Raised with a dog—and with very little of the gracefulness of cats—he hovers near you but won’t allow himself to be held or petted very long. I love him, but it’s a different experience. I love our dog, and dogs know how to exude a kind of everlasting love that some cats never exude—but it’s not the same experience. Though mom’s cat, Macey was really mine and I belonged to her.

From her time resting in bathroom sinks to sipping only from Dixie cups to sneaking into desk drawers and my armoire, I have laughed and loved for sixteen years and I should be (and am) grateful, but there is nothing like saying goodbye to that kind of undying love. When they brought her in for our last visit, she looked so sick. It was probably made worse by the (very kind) vet telling us her organs were ropey and nothing could really be done. I left her with as many kisses on her nose as I could. And she was still purring. By God, how can you let something still purring go? But it was the kind, humane thing to do. And I suppose one day I’ll get over it and past it. But who knows? When I love someone, it never really ends, though estranged we may become, whoever it is.

This writer would very much like to hear a scratch at his office door, her little voice which could almost yell my name, or even just that purring. Amos can purr, but it’s almost silent, with no tone. It’s not the same. But the other two animals know something around the house is different, so I must love them more, now more than ever.

Goodbye, Macey—you don’t know how tough that is to say and you never will. But I hope you knew I loved you ‘til the end. And after. And will, long after.