Millennial Blues

Decayed

[From Tortoise, 2001]

 

He was already leaning against the bar as I pushed open the doors of the Twilight Café and stepped inside – but given that this particular watering hole resides within a spacetime pocket tucked down the back of the cosmic sofa, punctuality is pretty relative. Nice suit, I thought: a bit Ed Straker, perhaps, but maybe silver’s going to be all the rage in 2010. Still, good to see I stuck with the beard.

“Hey,” he said as our eyes met. “What kept you?”

“You don’t recall?” He pushed a pint of our usual across the counter towards me. “Don’t tell I’m about to succumb to Alzheimer’s.”

“Well, they do say the first sign of senility is talking to yourself. Anyway, let’s cut to the chase: I have.. other commitments tonight.”

We grinned simultaneously: café rules officially prohibit crosstime contamination, but the occasional teasing was par for the course. “I just needed to touch base for a piece I’m writing for Tortoise on the inevitable death of hope and the onslaught of grim destiny. Nothing too heavy.”

My doppelgänger swigged from his half-empty glass. “I could dictate it from memory if you like, but that would definitely be cheating.” Another swallow. “So, how can I help?”

“I’m trying to rekindle my – our – feelings as each decade slipped away. How, for instance, a 10 year-old’s view of his future was inherently doomed to failure.”

“Especially one raised on science fiction. From 1970, a time when you could actually look up into the night sky and know there were men walking upon the surface of the moon, 1980 held so many promises. Remember those Brooke Bond picture cards with an artist’s impression of the first Mars expedition?”

I nodded. “Late 1970s, they reckoned. Mankind should have been taking its first steps into space, and instead we made do with a US president who claimed to have seen a flying saucer.” I signalled to the barman for another round. “Still, at least by the age of 20 I was following the career path I’d planned in my teens.”

“I always considered journalism more a condition than a vocation. And we only ever saw it as a stepping stone, surely?”

“Of course. What sf fan doesn’t secretly fantasise about becoming a fulltime author by the time they hit 30? And how few even come close? Like Eliot wrote, ‘Between the idea / And the reality / Between the motion / And the act / Falls the Shadow’. The bigger the dream, the bigger the shadow.”

“Yeah, all those early Novacons, listening to the guests of honour and thinking that with a little commitment and hard work, I could be up there with Priest, Holdstock, Aldiss and the rest. I’d kind of chosen to forget.” He seemed to drift off for a moment, then turned back. “But that seems a bit harsh on us both – we had just got married and quit newspapers.”

For a moment, a seriously off-limits question hung in the air, then a split-second glance caught the ring on his left hand and I left the query unspoken. “Thing is, by 30, you expect domestic stability and a more balanced view of the future. I ended up going broke in some misguided belief that I could make a living from freelancing.”

“You did get to meet Stan Lee.”

“True. What more can a fanboy ask from life?” Still, he had a point: getting to interview a childhood hero was pretty cool.

“Look, there’s something I want to point out before I have to go.” He put his empty glass back on the bar. “The future is just today, only more so. Extrapolating the present never works, especially on the personal level, because the real changes creep up on you when you least expect them. We didn’t get the spaceships from 2001 – as you’ll have realised, if you’ve kept your eyes open in the last couple of weeks – but we got computers that fit under your fingernail. You can fly to the Moon in three days, but no one can be bothered because it would take eighteen hours to get a train home from the spaceport. It’s all amazing, and it’s all crap.”

As he reached down and grabbed his case, I chanced it: “C’mon, give us something to go back with, even if it’s not next week’s National Lottery numbers.”

He smiled again. “Okay. Make sure you order Elvis’ comeback album early – it sold out in less than an hour. Keep away from the real ale at Novacon 34 – Tony Berry was in a coma for three days before anyone noticed. And finally, make sure you catch President Schwarzenegger’s inauguration speech – it’s a killer.”

We shook hands, he headed for the door and I turned to put my own glass back on the counter. As my gaze rose to take in the mirror behind the bar, I caught him again in its reflection, stepping through the doorway and greeting another, reassuringly familiar, figure standing nearby. White as it was, I still recognised the beard.

“Time, gentlemen, please!” called the barmaid as I headed out in the same direction.

Now that, I thought, is a matter of opinion.

Déjà vu All Over Again

Echo Beach

[From the programme book produced for the 2005 installment of the Oxford comics convention Caption.]barb-wire

 

There’s nothing original, so they say (and “they” probably stole that aphorism in the first place). Drama entire can supposedly be reduced to a mere seven plots (six-and-a-half fewer if you happen to be Barbara Cartland), which explains the sense of déjà vu typified by watching Barb Wire on video and realising Pamela Anderson is channelling Humphrey Bogart in a gender-reversed Casablanca.

I write as one who has succumbed: the appearance of the eponymous hero in “Inspector X”, a cartoon strip I produced for the amusement of classmates at age 12, was lifted wholesale from “I Spy”, a regular in Sparky, one of the many weekly comics of the early 1970s.

~~~

But such plagiarism is not always conscious. For the past couple of decades, I’ve followed Alfie Bester’s suggestion in Hell’s Cartographers and scribbled down passing ideas in a succession of notepads and sketchbooks. Amongst them was the synopsis for a short story: guy finds secret of immortality, is mistakenly convicted of murder, realises to his horror that this particular US state doesn’t have the death penalty.

Fast forward to early March 2004: I’m listening to BBC R7 on our new digital radio, and catch a 1990s adaptation of Rod Serling’s 1959 Twilight Zone script “Escape Clause”, wherein hypochondriac Walter Bedeker sells his soul to become immortal and is wrongly convicted of his wife’s murder, etc, etc.

Four days later, I tune in by pure chance to Oneword, another digital station, and hear The Inner Sanctum (a rather over-excited spin on the old EC Comics), wherein a scientist’s widow traps his killer, who committed murder in order to become immortal, but now finds himself behind bars for the rest of his (un)natural.

~~~

Okay, okay, I get the point: even though I honestly couldn’t recall seeing the original Zone episode and had never heard of The Inner Sanctum before, I do possess the landmark Gary Gerani / Paul Schulman tvsf overview Fantastic Television (which confusingly juggles the “Escape Clause” details over three columns) and the Jean-Marc / Randy Lofficier programme guide Into the Twilight Zone, as well as Joel Engel’s excellent Rod Serling biography, so it’s pretty obvious this particular meme slipped into my head years ago. Bugger.

~~~

Still, at least I can now devote myself to my latest story idea, positively bursting with originality: two aliens called Adam and Eve crashland upon an unpopulated planet, trip over the Statue of Liberty and fall through a time vortex to kill their own grandparents. I suspect it needs a little work, but I’m sure Interzone will love it.

No More Heroes

No Capes Required

[From Procrastinations #5, 2008. This was the first half of a projected memoir inspired by the editor’s choice of ‘comics’ as an over-arching theme, but the second installment remains in the aether.]

 

You never forget your first love, and my own was comics. Not just the weekly anthologies peculiar to these shores, but the American superhero titles which in an oh-so-recent era were crammed into rotating metal racks in almost every corner newsagency. For every copy of Valiant or The Dandy, a glossy-covered and freshly-imported Fantastic Four or Tales to Astonish.

Shortly after I hit my teens, US tv executives finally wised up to the fact that comics were popular enough to merit their own series, thrusting their versions of The Incredible Hulk, Spider-Man and Wonder Woman upon the telesphere. That the last of these – Lynda Carter, a former Miss World USA in a shiny basque – proved the most accurate translation to screen pretty much sums up just how useless the rest of the field was.

~~~

superman-the-movie-movie-poster-1978-1010359887By the early 1980s, the success of Superman: The Movie and its first sequel – not to mention the middle-section Star Wars fables – had raised the ante. Tv networks and the direct-to-video market both tried to respond, but their hands were tied: soon as you bought the licensing rights to a major-league superhero and set aside the cash for minimal special effects, there was nothing left to license the requisite supervillains. Let’s be frank here: watching some bland goon in a spandex costume “battle” a gang of rogue bikers (The Flash), minor Mafia hoods (The Punisher) or manic mystics (Supergirl) is mildly more entertaining than stirring your own teacup.

Even the heightened cultural profile of Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns and the Alan Moore / Dave Gibbons breakthrough Watchmen failed to persuade tv execs to shift gear. Whilst both Superboy [1988-92] and Lois & Clark: The New Adventures of Superman [1993-97] survived into a fourth season (the latter finally jumping the shark with an unbelievably absurd nativity reprise), neither had any more dramatic depth than most of the ludicrous yarns churned out during DC’s “silver age” (the birthplace of such atrocities as Krypto, Bat-Mite and Superhorse).

~~~

The launch of Smallville in 2001 marked a signal change in screen superheroism – with DC (now part of the Warner Bros cartel) aping Marvel by switching the focus from caped crusading to the more personal traumas of a teenage metahuman. Whilst the series remained in constant danger of fixating upon the “meteor mutant of the week” format, its attempt to dissect Kal-El’s family life – previously as impenetrable as the quasi-“S” on his chest – was an obvious nod to the genre influence of Miller and Moore.

The background detail, of course, was the sudden availability of cinema-quality special effects for higher-budget tv series. Where once George Reeve would hop out of a set window and assume his audience would presume he could actually fly above the cardboard skyline, Tom Welling could now juggle tractors and catch passing bullets with an ease unseen since the classic 1940s Fleischer Studios animations. Indeed, the only manoeuvre this version of Clark Kent couldn’t perform was slipping out of his civilian clothes (semi-regulation red and blue, ‘natch) into the uniform we all know so well: franchise copyright turns out to be even more powerful than Kryptonite.

~~~

But this remained ersatz Marvel: there was still a crying need for a series in which the central characters amounted to rather more than the sum total of their multi-coloured gym shorts. We needed tortured souls, twisted egos, doomed affairs, deranged villains, acts of personal bravery undermined by arrogance and self-interest – and all of this built into an intersecting cascade of story-arcs.

~~~

In other words, we needed Heroes.

Book review: Horror: 100 Best Books, ed. Stephen Jones & Kim Newman

Horror100 2Horror: 100 Best Books, edited by Stephen Jones & Kim Newman

[From Critical Wave #27, 1992. Released in hardback by Xanadu and subsequently revised for a mass-market paperback from New English Library, Horror; 100 Best Books was further updated for Carroll & Graf’s 1998 edition, with a second volume following in 2005. The third version is currently available via Amazon.]

 

Originally published by Xanadu in 1988, this “revised and updated” edition features the same collection of critical essays by leading genre figures (Clive Barker on Christopher Marlowe’s Doctor Faustus, Steve Rasnic Tem on Franz Kafka’s The Trial, Lisa Tuttle on Shirley Jackson’s The Haunting of Hill House), although the contributors’ biographies have been re-written and in themselves provide a useful reference tool.

By placing the critiques in chronological order, Jones and Newman have laid the groundwork for an historical retrospective charting the development of horror and dark fantasy over the past four centuries, even if such an overview is absent here. It’s a pity, however, that room could not be found for post-1987 works, especially as the “recommended reading” appendix highlights such important releases as Brian Stableford’s The Empire of Fear, Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho and Thomas M Disch’s The M.D.: A Horror Story.

Book review: The Seduction of the Gullible by John Martin

seduction_gullible2The Seduction of the Gullible by John Martin

[From Critical Wave #34, 1994. Originally released by Procrustes Press, Seduction of the Gullible – its revised title – is now available from the Dark Side imprint, Ghoulish.]

 

Several years in the pipeline, through no fault of its author’s, this genuinely timely cocktail of informed journalism and film analysis finally lets one of the horror genre’s leading movie critics sink his teeth into the lies, damned lies and Tory-backed scare campaigns which placed “video nasty” in the dictionary and allowed the BBFC to effectively outlaw an entire generation of European horror movies.

Just how valuable this guide to the players and key films involved is has been underlined by the absurd scaremongering over the James Bulger case (where links with Child’s Play 3, dismissed by the police involved, continue to be drawn by parties more interested in political capital than the truth) and more recent revelations that BBFC chief James Ferman has sacked his team of 13 examiners rather than accept their pleas to liberalise the classification structure. These are dark times, but Martin’s worthy investigations offer illumination to those whose eyes are not firmly welded shut.

Zombie Heat-Death

The Legions of Entropy

[Published in Procrastinations #6, 2008]

T-shirt - zombies small

What exactly is the appeal of the zombie in contemporary cinema? Be they the brain-famished cannibals of Romero’s Night of the Living Dead, the shambling lost souls of Tourneur’s I Walked With a Zombie or the crazed killing machines of Boyle’s 28 Days Later, there seems no end to the march of the resurrected across our cinema screens.

~~~

After all, it’s not as if they’re embued with either the tragic alienation of the Frankenstein monster (English literature’s first and greatest reanimated cadaver) or the shadowy eroticism of the vampire. Even the mummified adulterer Kharis solicits more sympathy from audiences than these personality-depleted icons of the horror genre.

But that, of course, lies at the unbeating heart of the zombie’s mystique. Almost alone in our shared mythology, these creatures are totally devoid of self; they are without motivation or masterplan, the senseless personification of our own mortality. As fast as you run, whatever obstacles you place in their path, you can escape neither their frantic grasp nor the inevitability of your own demise.

~~~

The attraction for film-makers is rather more obvious. The restless undead offer a tabula rasa upon which virtually any theme can be explored, from a satirical broadside against American consumerism (Dawn of the Dead) to quasi-Marxist condemnation of corporate genocide (Zombie Creeping Flesh).

In the hands of a gifted writer-director, they can illuminate the darkest recesses of the human mechanism and the social shells we build around ourselves; in a hack’s, satiate our animalistic thirst for cheap thrills.

~~~

Zombies are the footsoldiers of chaos, the walking embodiment of the Second Law of Thermodynamics. With time, their contagion will spread throughout the globe, whereupon the twisted hunger which drives the corpse army will prove its own undoing. Only then will the dead rest again, and forever.

At the close, all is entropy.

Illustration by the author

Blu-ray review: Theatre of Blood (1973)

PriceTheatre of Blood (1973)

[Distributed theatrically by United Artists and issued on DVD by MGM Home Entertainment, this film was released on Blu-ray by Arrow Films in 2014.]

 

As Vincent Price’s daughter, Victoria, observes during one of several fascinating featurettes on this disc, 1973’s Theatre of Blood neatly bookended the 20-year rollercoaster ride his film career had stepped onto with 1953’s House of Wax. Price’s unique brand of camp malevolence swiftly established him as one of the true giants of horror cinema, arguably the first such since Karloff and Lugosi, and it was never more effectively showcased than in this tour de force collaboration between veteran director Douglas Hickox (co-helmer on 1959’s The Giant Behemoth) and jobbing screenwriter Anthony Greville-Bell (later to gain greater success as a sculptor).

But every Faustian pact comes with a bill: association with the genre undoubtedly denied Price many of the classic roles assigned to more mainstream stars, so it is here that Theatre of Blood raises the curtain on the first of its many delights; whilst we never had an opportunity to see Price’s own interpretation of Shylock or Richard III, that tantalising ‘what if?’ scenario is here placed centre-stage, albeit viewed via the crack’d mirror of deranged thespian Edward Lionheart.

Yet even here, Price refuses to bypass Lionheart’s shredded humanity and turn him into some species of cookie-cutter killer: “I don’t play monsters,” he once said, “I play men besieged by fate and out for revenge.” The challenge of engaging – and, perhaps more impressive, retaining – the audience’s sympathies for a multiple murderer wreaking vengeance upon those who ridiculed his self-belief is clearly one Price was hungry to sink his teeth into, and with justifiable relish.

Nor was dominating the screen going to be an easy task: Theatre of Blood is populated by a quite extraordinary array of British acting talent. As well as Diana Rigg, portraying Lionheart’s bereft daughter (a performance within a performance, as we soon discover), the ‘Critic’s Circle’ now finding itself held square to account comprises Michael Hordern, Jack Hawkins, Arthur Lowe, Coral Browne, Robert Morley, Ian Hendry, Dennis Price, Robert Coote and Harry Andrews, all of whom approach their roles as the film’s alternative villains – assuming you accept Lionheart’s own adjudication – with precisely the right blend of gravitas and doomed pomposity. These are ‘journalists’ versed in such casual malice that even Index on Censorship might not grieve over their bloody demise.

It is Hordern’s grisly dispatch – sliced to meaty ribbons in an homage to Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar – which sets out both Lionheart’s modus operandi and the tone for every subsequent execution. Much as Sam Raimi’s Evil Dead would venture eight years later, Hickox and Greville-Bell use humour to distract from what is at its core one of the most inventively violent and gory concoctions to hit British screens that entire decade. Decapitation, electrocution, evisceration, drowning, choking: all are grist to this particularly bloodthirsty mill, yet they remain closer to the tradition of pantomime than the media-manipulated ‘video nasties’ which waited in the wings to overshadow the genre. How appropriate that a drama which evoked the spirit of the Grand Guignol with such flourish should feature ‘theatre’ in its title.

Certain contemporary critics – damnable parasites! – apparently regarded this film with a degree of distain, pointing to 1971’s The Abominable Dr. Phibes and its 1972 sequel in what was presumably an attempt to downplay Theatre of Blood’s originality. If so, it was criminally misjudged: yes, Anton Phibes and Edward Lionheart do both practice their own form of homicidal justice, but the former is more of a carnival act, with his insane puzzles and manic machinery of death, whilst the latter seeks vindication as much as vengeance. From Lionheart’s perspective, those whose snide derision poisoned his triumphant grand tour had only to express remorse for their failure to recognise a true genius of the stage, present him with the honours he so richly deserved, and all that other exhausting unpleasantness could have been excised from the text. Instead, it was left to this great Shakespearean impresario to mount this final and most inspired production; the rest is silence.

~~~

Notes: Rarely would the tag ‘special edition’ be so justified as it is with Arrow’s long-anticipated Blu-ray release. In addition to the crystal-clear transfer (sourced from MGM’s original elements), extras include the 1973 trailer and an rich selection of interviews conducted by film-makers Calum Waddell and Naomi Holwill (as well as Victoria Price, they’ve spoken to her father’s friend and confidante David Del Valle, supporting actress Maddy Smith and composer Michael J Lewis). Sadly, none of the lead contributors are still alive, other than Dame Diana, so the optional audio commentary is provided by all four members of dark comedy troupe the League of Gentlemen; as such, it offers more of a mildly entertaining diversion than any great insight into one of British horror’s most memorable productions, rather like watching the movie whilst sharing your sofa with a pack of particularly hyperactive puppies. That aside, this is a seriously must-have treat for any self-respecting fan of the genre.

Alan Hewetson and the Skywald Horror-Mood

Tales of Extraordinary Madness

[Originally published in Owl Soup #1, 2005]

 

There was a time, just before the Dark Days of Thatcher, when virtually every corner newsagency held more wonders than the Cave of the Forty Thieves. Rotating racks held in their wire grasp the latest superhero yarns from the likes of Marvel and DC/National (anyone else remember Atlas, possibly the shortest-lived publisher of all time?), imported trashy paperbacks and – for a scant few years during the first half of the 1970s – the bizarre confabulation of hallucinogenic plotting, twisted metaphor and no-holds-barred illustration which would shortly gain infamy as the Skywald Horror-Mood.

~~~

Skywald

Skywald had been formed in 1970 as a partnership between former Marvel production chief Sol Brodsky and 1950s comics publisher Herbert Waldman, launching two black & white horror magazines in the style pioneered by James Warren and Creepy. All around them lay the desolation wrought by the national hysteria of a mere fifteen years earlier, when the classic work of Bill Gaines and his EC crew (Tales From the Crypt, The Vault of Horror, The Haunt of Fear) had been swept aside along with those bandwagon-jumping copycats whose lower standards had greased the wheels of the McCarthyist panic.

Like Creepy and its stablemates (Eerie, Vampirella), the first Skywald titles, Psycho and Nightmare, cocked a bloody snoot at the regulations imposed by the Comics Code Authority since 1955 and which would effectively hamstring the mainstream industry for the next two decades. The similarity both alarmed and infuriated Warren, who vented his spleen with an ad in the 1972 New York Comic Convention programme booklet, awarding the fictitious Xerox Award to Skywald Publishing, “whose apings of Creepy & Eerie (Psycho & Night-mare) gave no new meanings whatsoever to the word ‘imitate’.”

~~~

One bemused reader of that advertisement was Alan Hewetson, former assistant to legendary comics writer/editor Stan Lee, who’d only just become Skywald’s editor following Sol Brodsky’s decision to rejoin Lee at the Marvel Bullpen. (Ironically, Warren had bought some of Hewetson’s earliest scripts and would reportedly offer him an editorial role in early 1973, which Hewetson politely declined as he “already had a home”).

“I had […] absolutely no axe to grind concerning Jim,” Hewetson later told Stephen Sennitt, author of Ghastly Terror!: The Horrible Story of the Horror Comics and a contributor to the comics writer’s own memoir The Complete Illustrated History of the Skywald Horror-Mood. “His annoying attitude that he wanted to own the entire market was simply a personal eccentricity.”

The fledgling company chose to respond in print in Psycho #9 (November 1972), by which time Hewetson had settled into his new role. “I had just gone through my own confrontation with [Warren] over his loyalty oath business and the thought struck me that this was a great opportunity to nip this crap in the bud before it got out of hand. […] The basis of his attack was that we copied him, and the basis of my response was that he had copied EC in the first place. I don’t think he enjoyed seeing that particular opinion in print.”

~~~

It’s impossible to doubt Hewetson’s commitment to the horror genre. The day after receiving Waldman’s invitation to join the new writing team, he bade farewell to his then-wife Julie and drove five hundred miles from their home in Ottawa to Skywald’s office in New York. By early October 1970, he was “hanging out” with such leading artists and writers as Tom Sutton, Bill Everett, Ross Andru, Mike Esposito, Bob Kanigher and Syd Shores, working up scripts which would finally see his byline in the pages of Nightmare by issue three (April 1971), the first not to rely upon reprint material. Reminiscing over those days in a column for The Comics Journal, Hewetson recalled his 24 year-old self thinking “This might be a nice place to work.”

First impressions panned out, and the following eighteen months allowed Skywald’s newest staffer to develop the curious cocktail of Lovecraftian mythology, frothy (occasionally turgid) prose and often nauseating gore which would become the hallmark of the “Horror-Mood”.

Its philosophy was perhaps best expressed in a curiously upfront one-pager for Psycho #13 (April 1973), “Prologue to Horror”: “Horror is a weird word that confuses as it teases… for it means many things… and many things mean Horror… It is a word slightly beyond definition, for Horror is people and emotion and expressionHorror is peoplevampireswerewolvescorpsesobscure monsters… But in effect… it is you… afraid of what such beasts and fiends might do to you

Horror is emotion, therefore…the unnameable, indescribable fear that overcomes you when you are presented with something you can neither understand nor accept in your mind… which is why Horror is incurably linked to madness and lunacy

Horror is an expression of inner knowledge buried at the back of your brain… For you know… that fiends, monsters, and your fear of the unknown and secondary horrors…

“The Real Horror is you… and the unbridled, brutal alter-ego madman inside you who is capable of horrors far more evil than the world now knows

“What is Horror? … You are!

~~~

This unsettling approach to what had become a cosy comics genre is apparent in “Limb From Limb From Death” (Nightmare 1972 Annual), a tale very much in the EC flavour of thirty years earlier which swiftly hooked itself into my teenage cranium and has remained there ever since. Newly-installed editor Hewetson commented upon the latest entry by writer Hewetson: “This story has to go down as one of the most gruesome, horrible tales ever written and illustrated! Yet, it holds a fascination that made us read it through! .. And so we want to share it with you!

How generous. Predating Stephen King’s similarly-themed short story “Survivor Type” by a mere decade (bear in mind that King was one of Skywald’s earliest cheerleaders, albeit at a time when his name lacked its current weight), this grisly seven-pager centres on three Americans suddenly swept up in a Saharan sandstorm. Driven to desperation by hunger, they grudgingly agree to let one of their number – a surgeon – perform unanaesthetised amputations to supply the necessary protein (oddly, artist Pablo Marcos depicts surgery upon the right arm, hardly the first choice in such a situation). When the group is rescued after just two such feasts, the medic attempts to fool his fellow survivors that he’s kept his promise to sacrifice his own arm by harvesting a convenient cadaver, only to trip into insanity in the final panels (“My god… It’s getting worse before my very eyes… My fingers… The flesh is dropping off… Dripping off like sludge!”).

~~~

As mentioned previously, Lovecraftian themes surfaced with deliberate regularity, both in the Skywald comic strips and its editorial pages. Nightmare #20 (August 1974) even announced the launch of the International Anti-Shoggoth Crusade, a tongue-in-cheek campaign against the same ancient forces which provided the plot for that issue’s “The Scream and the Nightmare”.

As Headpress co-editor David Kerekes confided in a footnote to Alan Hewetson’s memoir: “As a teenage boy I understood that the idea […] was not a serious one, but at the same time I would never want to put my name down for such a thing. After all, I had seen the photos of the Skywald staff, and they all looked pretty strange to me.”

~~~

Can’t say I blame him. More even than Marvel, with its “Smilin’ Stan” and “Jolly Jack” et al, Skywald ensured its readership was fully up to speed with its current creative team, a right bunch of freaks and weirdos if the artists’ impressions were anything to go by (for example, writer Augustine Funnell’s portrait as part of the first page of “Monster, Monster on the Wall” (Nightmare #12, April 1973)).

“Monster, Monster” also typified another of Skywald’s idiosyncrasies: horror comics had previously produced one-off morality tales of the kind later paid homage by George Romero’s movie Creepshow, but Funnell followed up his initial story with no fewer than six sequels. In a like vein, “The Saga of the Victims” (a bizarre series in which two women are effectively relentlessly tortured by Satan) ran through five issues of Scream, whilst Tom Sutton’s extension of the Frankenstein legend straddled eight issues of all three main horror titles. Nine chapters of the company’s magnum opus, “The Saga of the Human Gargoyles” (like “Victims”, scripted by Hewetson), appeared between 1972 and 1975, with a further two planned but never published; a compilation was also prepped, which would arguably have been the first true graphic novel.

~~~

It couldn’t last, of course. Marvel had caught the scent and begun injecting horror themes into its superhero line (Ghost Rider, Werewolf by Night, Tomb of Dracula, The Monster of Frankenstein), meanwhile expanding into the b&w magazine market (beginning with Savage Tales in 1971, followed by Tales of the Zombie, The Deadly Hands of Kung Fu and the much-missed Unknown Worlds of Science Fiction).

As Hewetson told Stephen Sennitt, “[Marvel’s] distribution company was so powerful, because they represented all the top selling titles, that they bullied the local distribution companies into carrying their own magazines almost exclusively. […]

“So, we were banished from all but the really big newsstands. That is what killed us.”

~~~

By early 1975, Alan Hewetson knew the company’s days were numbered (Waldman had ordered him to accept no new work and rely purely upon material on file, a sure giveaway) and had in any case become increasingly dissatisfied with the company’s growing dependence upon foreign freelance artists (“There was no Horror-Mood camaraderie with the foreign artists, and no personal one-on-one communication for the most part, which is essential if you are trying to build a ‘team’”).

The boom finally dropped on 25 March, when Hewetson notified his creative team of the immediate cancellation of all three horror titles: Nightmare #24, Psycho #25 and Scream #12 would never make it off the drawing board. His memo blamed “exorbitant production increases, rising printing and distribution costs, and a glutted magazine market”, and requested his colleagues never forget “a time of editorial freedom, and consequently literary and artistic achievement”.

~~~

Ironically, Marvel, the chief culprit in that “glutted magazine market”, would eventually abandon all of its own black & white titles bar Savage Sword of Conan (“The readers liked colour,” Stan Lee recalled in Les Daniels’ Marvel: Five Fabulous Decades of the World’s Greatest Comics). In doing so, Marvel temporarily abandoned its plans to produce a parallel production line free of the CCA regulations (a plan which resurfaced in 1980 with the launch of the colour anthology title Epic Illustrated, Lee’s final project before moving to the company’s West Coast offices).

Hewetson, meanwhile,  moved into screenwriting, appropriately working on an early (aborted) version of the EC homage Tales from the Crypt, whilst many of those he’d groomed went on to greater glory at the mainstream comics companies beside which Skywald had proven such a breath of fresh air. He died in January 2004, shortly after completing his memoir of those amazing, heady days on East 41st Street.

~~~

On that final day, Alan Hewetson once again distilled the Mood: “It is horror. In the extreme. The moment of personal, emotional collapse, when most individuals lose their psychological balance and their desire to remain sane.

“It’s the epitome of a successful horror story – if the story is well written, and if you can get under the skin of the character, and empathize with the character when they are experiencing their greatest moment of personal terror, you can share in their primal spinal.

“Too many of these shared moments of terrifying angst, and you die.”

~~~

Acknowledgements: Ghastly Terror!: The Horrible Story of the Horror Comics by Stephen Sennitt (Critical Vision, 1999); Marvel: Five Fabulous Decades of the World’s Greatest Comics by Les Daniels (Virgin, 1991); The Complete Illustrated History of the Skywald Horror-Mood by Alan Hewetson (Critical Vision, 2004). Special thanks to David Kerekes at Critical Vision.