Ah, it’s that time of year again. You can smell it in the air — the decaying flesh of zombies, the fear of small children. The decorations are up, people are planning their costumes, and once again, I’ve been spending October watching some of my favorite horror movies.
I’ve made my way through the classic Universal Frankenstein films, the Hammer Dracula series, and waiting on the shelf are seasonal favorites like Halloween (the 1978 original, of course), Tim Burton’s Sleepy Hollow, and the 2007 horror anthology Trick ‘r Treat. There are some movies, though, that don’t get the attention I think they deserve. I thought I’d recommend a few titles.
After winning a Best Screenplay Oscar for 1978's Midnight Express, Oliver Stone got a chance to direct his first movie for a major studio. He made The Hand, a horror movie based on Marc Brandell’s novel The Lizard’s Tail. It wasn’t his first dip in the horror well. His feature film directorial debut was 1974's Seizure, starring Jonathan Frid (Barnabas Collins in the old daytime horror soap Dark Shadows) and Martine Beswick (Prehistoric Women, From A Whisper to A Scream). I still haven’t seen that movie, but I like the fact that one of the most fascinating, unpredictable and respected careers in American cinema began in the horror genre.
Released in 1981, The Hand was met with hostility, derision, and dismal box office numbers. Critics hated it, and so did moviegoers. I did not agree with them. I didn’t know who Stone was back then, but I enjoyed the movie thoroughly. A few years ago, I watched it again for the first time in about twenty years. As so many other movies I’ve enjoyed in the past have done, I expected it to disappoint me. I expected to find that it didn’t hold up, that everyone had been right back in 1981, and I had simply been young and easy to please. But I was wrong about that. If anything, I liked the movie more. Now I’ve added it to my list of October movies.
Michael Caine plays Jon Lansdale, a successful artist with a popular syndicated comic strip. Lansdale is spoiled, self-centered, conceited, and seems unaware of the fact that his wife is unhappy and stifled in her job as caretaker and yes-woman to him. When she suggests that she pursue her own interests, he sees it as a threat. They have a heated discussion in the car while she’s driving, and in a subsequent car accident, Lansdale’s right hand is severed. The hand is never found. But as Lansdale sees his life unraveling, he does the same. The hand returns to dispatch those he sees as enemies, or at least as threats.
The movie explores the power struggle in relationships and the severed hand becomes a kind of Id monster. Lansdale wanted to keep an iron grip on his wife, as if she were a piece of property, but in addition to losing her, he loses his career because he can no longer draw. The hand lashes out, desperately trying to keep him from falling deeper into the hole he’s been digging for himself. Michael Caine gives a powerful performance, managing to make Lansdale somewhat sympathetic, even though he’s not very likeable. Caine makes him human. What Lansdale experiences could be seen as a nasty case of PTSD brought on by the accident in which he lost his hand — which, by the way, is a very brief, disturbing incident, beautifully shot, that haunts the rest of the movie. The Hand is my favorite kind of horror movie — is there really an evil hand crawling around, or is Jon Lansdale batshit-crazy?
Another such movie is 1957's Night of the Demon. The U.S. release was trimmed down from 95 minutes to 83 and retitled Curse of the Demon, but back in the 1980s, Columbia Pictures restored the footage while retaining the U.S. title (a DVD release has both versions). Based on M.R. James’s story “Casting of the Runes,” the movie follows Dr. John Holden, played by Dana Andrews, a skeptic who intends to expose black magic cult leader Julian Karswell (a cheerfully sinister Niall McGinnis). But things don’t work out quite as Holden expects. Director Jacques Tourneur planned to avoid directly showing the “demon” of the title, but the studio thought a monster would increase the film’s chances of commercial success and insisted it be shown. The result has been the subject of much debate. Would the movie be better without showing the demon? Yes, I think it would — but I like the damned monster! It scared the piss out of me when I was a boy. Even with that big ugly, we find ourselves wondering throughout the movie what is real and what has been created by the power of suggestion.
There’s not much suggestion in 1977's The Sentinel, adapted from Jeffrey Konvitz’s novel and directed by Michael Winner. It’s not a subtle movie. But I think it still packs a hell of a punch. Christina Raines plays fashion model Alison Parker, who wants to prove to herself — and to her lawyer boyfriend (Chris Sarandon) — that she’s capable of living on her own and taking care of herself. She moves into a building where she has some extremely bizarre neighbors. There’s Mr. Chazen (Burgess Meredith) and his cat, and a pair of exhibitionist lesbians (Sylvia Miles and Beverley D’Angelo), among others. On the top floor, seated at a window looking out over New York, is Alison’s quietest neighbor, Father Halliran, an old, blind priest played by horror veteran John Carradine. Haunted by a traumatic experience with her father and a subsequent suicide attempt, Alison is emotionally fragile and not entirely stable. When she complains about her noisy, weird neighbors, she’s told that, other than the priest, she is the only resident of the building. She has no neighbors. She begins to discover that she did not move into that building by chance, and she is there for a horrifying reason.
Whether or not The Sentinel works for you will depend on how you feel about religious horror. I’ve always had a soft spot for it. This is religious horror with a vengeance. I’ve seen it many, many times, and even now, as I approach my fiftieth birthday, there are scenes in this movie that make me want to hide under the bed, and I think they are among the greatest, most effective horror movie scenes ever shot. Director Winner did something that caused a great deal of controversy at the time, something that still makes the movie stand out all these years later. He cast as the denizens of hell real human oddities, people with shocking deformities. As controversial and politically incorrect as this was, it was effective as hell. If you’ve seen the movie, you know what I’m talking about. If you haven’t, this is a great time to watch it.
Director Tim Burton has Halloween in his genes. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn that his head is full of pumpkin seeds and he shits candy corn. For me, his movies Beetlejuice and Sleepy Hollow are required viewing at Halloween time. Although his 1996 box office disappointment Mars Attacks! isn't a horror movie and doesn’t exactly spring to mind when you think of Halloween, I think it beautifully captures the spirit of the holiday of mischief. It’s an over-the-top spoof of 1950s science fiction movies. And it’s crazy. I’m always surprised when I talk to someone who dislikes the movie — I can’t take it seriously enough to dislike it. When you sit down to watch a movie that’s based on a series of Topps trading cards, that replaces Sarah Jessica Parker’s head with the head of a Chihuahua, and features Tom Jones singing “It’s Not Unusual” to woodland creatures, it seems kind of pointless to look for flaws.
Roger Ebert wrote of Mars Attacks!, “A movie like this should be a lot better, or a lot worse.” I agree with that to a certain extent. It has too much big-budget gloss to pull off the clunky charm of, say, Ed Wood’s Plan 9 from Outer Space, and the all-star cast doesn’t help. But still, how often do you get to see a stampeding herd of cattle in flames, or Slim Whitman’s singing saving the world? Instead of wishing it were something it’s not, I prefer to enjoy the hell out of what it is. For me, the movie is stolen by the martians themselves, who make sounds that never fail to crack me up. Whether or not you think the movie is successful in its attempt to spoof ‘50s sci-fi movies, it’s still full of tricks and treats, and it makes an ideal party movie.
The Universal horror movies of the ‘30s, ‘40s, and to some extent the ‘50s have provided much of what we now accept as the imagery of Halloween: Boris Karloff as Frankenstein’s monster, Bela Lugosi as Dracula, Lon Chaney, Jr., as the Wolf Man, the Gill Man from Creature from the Black Lagoon. Those faces have become iconic and instantly recognizable even to those who aren’t horror movie fans. But my favorite Universal horror movie from that era usually gets passed over in discussions of the studio’s contributions to the genre. It has none of Jack Pierce’s memorable monster makeup, no mad scientists frantically adjusting the flashing, buzzing machinery in the lab. Instead, it focuses on the most diabolical, cruel, and bloodthirsty of monsters: human beings.
Edgar G. Ulmer’s 1934 movie The Black Cat claims to be based on the Edgar Allen Poe story of the same name, but that was a white lie told to cash in on the late writer’s popularity. It has nothing to do with Poe. Instead, it’s about American newlyweds Peter (David Manners) and Joan (Julie Bishop) Allison, who encounter Dr. Vitus Werdegast (Bela Lugosi) on a train while honeymooning in Hungary. Later, after a bus accident, the three end up taking refuge in the big and beautifully creepy mansion of architect and Satanic cult leader Hjalmar Poelzig (Boris Karloff).
Werdegast and Poelzig are old rivals. 18 years ago, Werdegast left his beloved wife to go off to war and has spent the last 15 years in a brutal prison camp. In his absence, Poelzig took Werdegast’s wife and daughter for his own, and now Werdegast has come back to claim them. Poelzig’s mansion has been built on the ruins of Fort Marmorus, which he commanded during the war, and which he accuses Werdegast of betraying to the Russians. They are more than rivals, they are bitter enemies. But they remain gentlemen and speak to one another in a kind of code while the smiling, young American newlyweds remain completely oblivious to just about everything around them. What they don’t know is that Poelzig plans to sacrifice Joan Allison in a Satanic ritual — and to be honest, the two Americans are so annoyingly stupid that it’s hard to care.
What we do care about is the struggle between Werdegast and Poelzig, and we care because Karloff and Lugosi practically glow with charisma throughout the movie. Both actors were enormously popular at the time, the masters of horror in American film. They were paired up in other movies, but never as effectively. Karloff is clearly the better actor, but both of them grab you by the throat when they’re on screen. Karloff’s wild appearance — his flattop haircut with that widow’s peak and his strange clothes — seems fitting in that weird art deco mansion. (When I was a boy, I wanted to live in that mansion someday!) The two horror stars tower over everyone and everything else in the movie. Even if the movie weren’t very good, Karloff and Lugosi would make it worth watching. But the movie isn’t just good — it’s great.
In Germany, Edgar G. Ulmer worked under F.W. Murnau and Fritz Lang, and in The Black Cat, it’s obvious that he learned a lot from them. He brought German expressionism to Hollywood and slathered it all over this movie. The Black Cat was made before the crazy Hayes Code brought its church lady sensibilities to American movies. Satanism, necrophilia, and a scene in which Werdegast skins Poelzig alive are still kind of shocking in a movie from 1934 — and they help make it memorable.
Among all of Universal’s monsters, mad scientists, and cobweb-filled castles, The Black Cat stands out like panther at a dog show. When I was a boy, those monsters were what I expected from horror movies, and I was always disappointed if they didn’t show up. I still love them, but as I’ve grown older, my tastes have shifted, and I find movies like The Black Cat more satisfying. And the movies of Val Lewton, for example.
Lewton was a writer who, under a long list of pseudonyms (his real name was Vladimir Leventon), wrote novels, magazine articles, and even pornography, and, while working in the MGM publicity office, novelizations of popular movies. That work has long been forgotten. But the horror movies he produced for RKO have, over the years, only gained more and more respect. While Universal Studios was keeping Jack Pierce busy coming up with one ghastly monster after another, Lewton looked inward for his horrors. From 1942 to 1946, he made a series of dream-like psychological horror movies, each of which began with a lurid title. Cat People, I Walked with a Zombie, The Leopard Man, The Seventh Victim, Ghost Ship, Curse of the Cat People, The Body Snatcher, Isle of the Dead and Bedlam were the antithesis of the wildly popular horror movies being turned out by Universal at the time.
The titles assigned to Lewton and his team probably would have been shot quickly and forgotten by most producers. But Lewton wanted them to rise above their genre. Although his budgets were small, he wanted quality and intelligence in his horror movies. Producers at that time seldom if ever contributed to the creative process; they more commonly interfered with it and even stifled it. But Lewton had his hand in every aspect of production. The resulting movies look and feel different than any other genre pictures of that time. My favorite Lewton titles for October viewing are Cat People, Curse of the Cat People, I Walked with a Zombie, and The Seventh Victim. Every time I watch them, I wish Lewton were still around. It would be nice if horror movies were made with such care today.
If you can think of some good old horror movies that are typically neglected these days, tell me about them in the comments below. Happy Halloween!
“I can’t believe you actually play the lottery.”
“Why?”
“Because you have a better chance of being attacked by terrorists while being struck by lightning than winning the lottery.”
“You think the lottery is a fake?”
“No, it’s just that your chances of — ”
“What about the people who win? Those aren’t real people who are suddenly rich beyond their wildest dreams?”
“Well, yes, of course they’re real, but the chances of you being one of them are astronomical.”
“Why? What’s wrong with me? What makes me so unlikely to win?”
“It’s not you. This isn’t personal, it’s got nothing to do with you. With all the people who are playing, the chances of you winning are extremely remote.”
“So what? What do you care if I play? The money goes to our schools, anyway, remember.”
“Oh, yeah. That’s right. The money goes to our schools. I’d almost forgotten how much education has improved in California since 1985.”
“Yeah! I’m benefiting education by — wait, are you being sarcastic?”
“You think? Look, if the lottery money had gone toward education the way we were promised it would, by now people would be too smart to play the lottery.”
“Now you’re calling me stupid.”
“No! I just don’t think you grasp the numbers. I think if you really knew how minuscule your chances of winning are, you’d spend your money on something else.”
“Well, I deserve to win.”
“Oh? Have you notified the lottery board about that?”
“Smartass.”
“I’m serious! How can the fact that you deserve to win the lottery make any difference if the lottery board doesn’t know?”
“Are you done?”
“What makes you think you deserve to win the lottery?”
“Well, why the hell not? I’m a good person. I pay my taxes, I obey the laws. I’ve never gotten so much as a speeding ticket. Or even a parking ticket.”
“That means you may be a serial killer.”
“Very funny.”
“Seriously, if you haven’t gotten a speeding ticket by middle age, you should probably be looked at by experts. Everybody gets a speeding ticket.”
“Not everybody. I’ve never gotten one. I donate to charities, I work at the soup kitchen every holiday season, I’ve rescued animals, and I — ”
“Hey, whoa, whoa! Do you think the California Lottery is Santa Claus? Or maybe Jesus?”
“No, smartass, I’m just saying — "
“Do you think the California Lottery has a list of people who’ve been naughty and nice?”
“ — that I’m a pretty decent person, and I think my karma is in good working order. I think — ”
“Oh, my god. Karma, too?”
“Yeah, why the hell not?”
“Let me make sure I understand this. Your master plan in life is a combination of good karma and playing the lottery.”
“Okay, Mr. Rickles, what’s your fucking master plan?”
“I don’t think that way.”
“The hell does that mean?”
“Master plans, that sort of thing.”
“You’re winging it?”
“Oh, no, I’m not winging it, I’ve got plans, I just don’t like to — ”
“Okay, then, what are your plans?”
“Well ... I, um ... I really don’t know if I should go into — ”
“Don’t give me that. Come on, it’s your turn.”
“I ... well, I just ... no. I’m sorry. I can’t.”
“Oh, for fuck’s — okay. Okay. Tell me this. Is this plan something you’re working on currently?”
“Currently? I guess I’ve been working on it my whole life.”
“Okay. So this plan has already been put into effect.”
“Well ... no. Not yet.”
“Oh. When do you plan to put the plan into effect?”
“Believe it or not, this weekend.”
“This weekend? Really?”
“Yeah. At the convention center.”
“What’s going on at the convention center? If you tell me you’re going to see some goddamned motivational speaker, I will punch you.”
“Haven’t you heard? It’s everywhere.”
“Oh, yeah, that’s right, American Idol is holding auditions at the — wait.”
“I’m auditioning.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
“What?”
“I said, go fuck yourself.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to hear this.”
“What? I don’t understand. You’ve never heard me sing.”
“Yeah, that’s right, I haven’t. I’ve known you my entire life and I’ve never heard you sing. When the hell do you ever sing?”
“Obviously, when you’re not around.”
“No, I’m serious, when? Where? Do you sing in a club in town, or something?”
“Oh, no, no. Nothing like that.”
“So you don’t sing professionally?”
“No.”
“Then do you sing ... in church?”
“I don’t go to church, you know that.”
“I didn’t know you sing! So how do I know you’re not going to church when nobody’s looking? What I don’t understand is when you sing and where you sing.”
“Why does that matter?”
“‘Why does that matter?’ You want to sing on national television, but you can ask ‘why does that matter?’ Have you put any thought into this at all?”
“Yep. My whole life. And now I’m ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“To audition. To make it happen.”
“To make what happen?”
“I’m going to be the next American Idol.”
“I think you’ve had a stroke.”
“That’s only because you’ve never heard me sing.”
“Far as I know, nobody’s heard you sing."
“Then what makes you think I can’t get on the show?”
“I didn’t say that. I have no doubt that you can get on the show. You’ll be one of those free-range mental patients who gets hauled out of the building by security. People will be ridiculing you on Twitter for a week.”
“And you say that only because you haven’t heard me sing.”
“Then sing something.”
“Right now?”
“Yes. Right now. Sing for me. I want to hear you sing.”
“I’m not going to sing now.”
“But you’re going to sing on American Idol.”
“Yep.”
"So you’re going to audition and, bang, you’re gonna be a big singing sensation, huh? That’s your plan?”
“That’s my plan.”
“Wait till Rick Costa finds out. He’ll start following you around and taunting you like he did in school.”
“What’s Costa up to these days?”
“Oh, you know him. He’s nuts. He’s going back to school.”
“School? Now? To learn what?”
“Something about medical billing. He wants a new career.”
“He’s always been as dumb as a bag of hair.”
“And batshit crazy. No wonder we never got along.”
© Ray Garton 2012
I’ve never been comfortable writing critical book reviews. I stopped years ago. I’ll be critical of a book in conversation, but I don’t write those reviews because the fact that something doesn’t work for me only means it doesn’t work for me. If I read a book that I enjoy, whatever criticism I might have of it, if any, is irrelevant, I think. I’d much rather recommend it in the hope that someone else will enjoy it, too. You might even enjoy it more than I did. Or you might hate it. That’s the way it works. But at least I haven’t criticized and possibly scared you away from a book you might otherwise have read and loved. I guess it’s kind of like that old saying, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.” And this is the only time I practice it, so enjoy it while you can. These are some of the books I’ve read in the past year that have stood out in the crowd.
I’ve read some wonderful stuff lately by writers I know. Like Hal Bodner, whose The Trouble with Hairy takes us back to West Hollywood — well, it’s Hal’s West Hollywood, anyway, the West Hollywood of his previous novel Bite Club. I’ve spent very little time in the real West Hollywood and really know nothing about it, but I think I’m pretty safe in saying it doesn’t actually have a vampire and werewolf problem. But, hey, like I said, I’m not familiar with the place.
I’ve been critical of the horror genre — and I’ve included myself in that criticism — for focusing too much on the iconic creatures of the genre’s past. Vampires, werewolves, zombies, that sort of thing. I have nothing against them, don’t get me wrong. I cut my horror teeth on those guys and still have enormous affection for them. But they can only be updated, re-updated, re-imagined, re-re-imagined, revamped, repainted and redecorated so many times before they start to wear a little thin, both as interesting characters and as metaphors.
But Hal has proven they aren’t dead yet. He has managed to breathe new — and hilarious — life into them by putting them in a place we’ve never been before and surrounding them with witty people on whom I enjoy eavesdropping. I may find a book quite funny, but I seldom laugh out loud while reading. Books that have made me laugh out loud include, among others, John Kennedy Toole’s A Confederacy of Dunces, Paul Zindel’s Pardon Me, You’re Stepping On My Eyeball, Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, Howard Stern’s Private Parts, Gerald Brittle’s The Demonologist: The Extraordinary Career of Ed and Lorraine Warren (although technically, that one wasn’t supposed to be funny) — and Hal Bodner’s two WeHo novels. He blends that humor beautifully with some genuine suspense and chills. I recommend both books. Hal is currently at work on the third, Mummy Dearest, and I’m looking forward to it.
I read some noir in the past year, two great writers in the genre from the mid-20th century, writers I’ve read before and will read again. Gil Brewer was heavily influenced by James M. Cain (The Postman Always Rings Twice, Double Indemnity), and that influence is palpable in Wild to Possess (1959) and A Taste for Sin (1961). But Brewer’s books have a frenetic insanity that Cain never approached. I don’t think anyone did. His books are crazy. In a good way.
David Goodis wrote some of the best tortured noir ever put to paper. The Moon in the Gutter (1953) and The Blonde on the Street Corner (1954) are two perfect examples of that. I’d read them before, but they’re good enough to read again. You will not find likable characters in these books. In fact, they’re populated by some pretty unsavory and even repugnant people, all of whom live in a bad part of town. Unfortunately for Goodis, he wrote what he knew. But the astonishing thing is that he can make you feel for them. They might be ugly, violent people, and they might do some pretty despicable things, but they’re still human beings.
My most recent dip into the horror genre was Erik Williams’s Demon (2011). I met Erik at last year’s Killercon in Las Vegas, along with the entire group of writers of which he’s a member, Snutch Labs, an impressive bunch of disgustingly talented writers. Their collection, Tales from the Yellow Rose Diner and Fill Station, is among the best I’ve read in a while. Demon is a swiftly-paced novel that kicks ass all over the place. Erik makes excellent use of the war in Iraq as the backdrop for his story of an ancient supernatural battle between good and evil, and he combines the two elements with a flair for action that gives the novel plenty of gritty tension. There’s a lot here to please lovers of traditional supernatural horror, but the time and place give it an urgency and added danger that make the pages turn even faster.
Earlier this year, I watched a movie starring Sean Connery called Wrong is Right, which I hadn’t seen since its initial release in 1982. I enjoyed the movie back then, but I remember what an angry reception it received. Critics jeered at the idea that terrorists could get away with setting off bombs in an American city. In the movie, the terrorists strap bombs to themselves, then jump from high places, like the top of a building, and then they blow up. It was mocked by critics as a lunatic notion. Could never happen. I enjoyed the movie again 30 years later and noticed it had been based on the 1979 novel The Better Angels by Charles McCarry. The movie takes a sharper turn into black comedy than the novel, but it’s a crackling good read that made me want to find more of McCarry’s work. He’s been compared favorably to John le Carre and Len Deighton, and I can see why.
You think you had a bad teacher in high school? Read Eric Red’s first novel, a thriller called Don’t Stand So Close. This is the same Eric Red who wrote one of my favorite vampire movies, Near Dark. He’s written and directed films and now he’s turned to fiction with a timely novel — the last few years seem to have yielded a lot of news stories about female teachers getting caught in sexual relationships with their teenage students. But not like this. Not yet, anyway.
The Devil’s Coattails: More Dispatches from the Dark Frontier is a collection edited by my friends Jason V. Brock and William Nolan that doesn’t have a set theme and isn’t grounded in any particular genre. It is a celebration of weird fiction and great writing that hits you with one strong piece after another from a stellar lineup of writers. “The Moons” by Ramsey Campbell, a poem by William Nolan, a memoir by the late, great Norman Corwin, an illustrated children’s tale by Paul J. Salamoff with illustrations by Antoine Perkins, contributions by Gary Braunbeck, John Shirley, Richard Christian Matheson, and so many others — it’s as much an experience as a collection.
I read the best true crime book I’ve ever read this year. I couldn’t put the goddamned thing down and when I wasn’t reading it, I was thinking about how much I wanted to get back to it. Steve Hodel is a former Los Angeles police detective who, right after his father’s death, began to suspect the man might be a murderer. But not just any murderer — the killer of one of the most famous victims in American crime, Elizabeth Short. In Black Dahlia Avenger, Hodel painstakingly presents every detail of the case he has built, and it reads like a dark, gritty novel. The book was originally published in 2003, but I read a more recent update that included new information compiled since the book’s initial publication. It’s a story that takes place in Los Angeles in the Golden Age of Hollywood and even has in its orbit some famous names, like director and actor John Huston and surrealist artist Man Ray. And if you’re a fan of bizarre conspiracy theories, there’s a good deal of overlap between a couple of popular ones and this story, although Hodel doesn’t pursue that (if you’re not familiar with these conspiracies already, you won’t find them here). But what kept me slapping those pages over was the haunting emotional heart of the book — the horror of learning such sickening things about one’s father does not leave one unscathed. The case Hodel put together even convinced the Los Angeles District Attorney. He’s written other books on this subject that I haven’t read yet, but they’re on my list.
I started this blog with a book that made me laugh out loud, and I’m going to end with another. David Sedaris’s collection of essays from 2000, Me Talk Pretty One Day, made me laugh until my face was wet with tears. Each piece builds with bigger and bigger laughs in a way that seems effortless. I kept trying to pay attention to how he did it, but always lost sight of that as I surrendered to the sheer joy of reading the damned things. I’m going to keep my copy handy, because it’s the kind of book I will return to repeatedly during those times when things aren’t going so well and I need some laughs. I recommend you do the same.
Carnivals have always fascinated me. Lots of color, noise, clashing music and flashing lights, the big rides and sideshows, the game booths promising gigantic stuffed toys to winners, the aroma of everything under the sun being deep-fried. But scratch that surface even slightly, of course, and you see the grime and sleaze underneath. Even as a small boy, I could see that. Everything looked good from a distance, but was dirty and worn up close. Those gigantic stuffed toys were just lures — the real prizes were cheap pieces of junk that fell apart almost immediately. And the games were rigged, anyway. But strangely, that was what appealed to me.
The carnival, it seemed, was a big trick played on people who went to carnivals. (This was long before I realized that most of life is made up of big tricks being played on somebody.) I knew the carnival was a trick, and I knew I knew the carnival was a trick, and yet I kept going back. I played the games, knowing they were rigged. I went through all the sideshows long after I learned that the things promised on the banners in front were always, always huge exaggerations or outright lies. I think it was the trick itself that fascinated me.
One of the sideshows I remember most vividly was the Disconnected Lady. Garishly painted on the huge banners were disconnected arms and legs, and in the center of it all, a woman’s head on a table under glass, while a scantily-clad torso lay on a bed in the background.. “Disconnected! In pieces! Yet she lives and talks! See her! Talk to her!”
A disconnected woman who talked. Ridiculous. Impossible. But it was the kind of thing that appealed to my Creature Features imagination. It was mad scientists and spooky laboratories — it was William Castle! I knew it was bullshit, but I wanted to see how they’d pull it off.
Behind the banners was a tiny little trailer with windows along one side. A narrow path went past the windows and you could stop and look inside, where the trailer vaguely resembled a hospital room. There was a hospital bed to the right and in it lay a woman. She was on her back, with the bed in a semi-upright position. The covers went to her chest, leaving her arms and shoulders bare. Her head was covered with what appeared to be a large white handkerchief. And that’s exactly what she looked like — a woman lying in a bed with her head covered by what appeared to be a large white handkerchief. Occasionally, she would lift an arm and wave toward the windows.
To the left was a round table covered with a white tablecloth that fell all the way to the floor and then crumpled in a circular heap around the table. Sticking up out of the center of the table was a woman’s head. What looked like a white towel was wrapped around her neck. She was an overweight woman in her fifties with short, curly, brown hair, large glasses, a bloated face, and a few gaps in her teeth. I laughed. It was so pathetic, so little effort had been put into it, that all I could do was laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” the Disconnected Lady barked at me. Her pinched voice came over a couple of small speakers above the windows. She looked right at me and said, “Huh? What’s so funny?” I shrugged nervously. “You think this is fun? Bein’ a head on a table? Huh?” She seemed genuinely angry. “You wanna try it?” she shouted, her fat cheeks jiggling. She wasn’t only angry, she was menacing. “You wanna come in here? We’ll disconnect ya an’ you can see how you like it! Think it’ll be funny then, kid?” My insides became watery as I thought to myself, It’s a good thing she’s only a head.
As I walked away from the Disconnected Lady, I realized it had gotten me — not with the staging of the sideshow, which was atrocious, but with that woman’s performance. In spite of the cheesy production values and the obvious zipper in the suit, so to speak, being angrily shouted at by that woman, with only her head visible on the table, had sucked me in. I walked in knowing it was a trick, and even so, it worked on me for a moment. And I walked away with a smile, entertained and oddly satisfied.
I was especially interested in the people my parents called “carnies.” The only time they ever used that word was in the summer when the county fair came along and I wanted to go to the carnival. I was always warned to “Stay away from the carnies!” This was sensible advice, of course, and I heeded it. But that didn’t mean I couldn’t watch the carnies, which I did.
They were unusual people. At a time when tattoos did not enjoy the level of acceptance they've achieved today, the carnies seemed to be covered with them. They were loud, usually angry about something, sometimes violent, and they cursed like sailors. For a while, I thought they spoke in code.
At the carnival with friends when I was about ten or so, I walked by a game booth — a row of pellet guns aimed in the general direction of a row of tiny red stars on the back wall of the booth — being operated by an attractive young blonde woman. There was only one customer at the booth and he had just finished up. As he walked away, the young woman pounded her fist on the counter and shouted at no one in particular in a loud, ugly voice, “When is he gonna come back so I can go pinch a fuckin’ loaf?”
Pinch a fuckin’ loaf? What did that mean? Did she need to make some bread? If so, why would she pinch it? Or was it code for something? The carnies were exotic and mysterious, and whenever I went to the carnival, most of my attention was surreptitiously on them. But I stayed away from them, as my parents had instructed, because they had an air of danger about them. They seemed unpredictable and not very nice. After all, they were the tricksters who were playing the big trick on people who went to the carnival. What did that say about them? Nothing good. But still ...
Sometimes the most interesting people in the world are the people your parents warned you about.
This carnival syndrome — knowing something isn’t real or beneficial, or even that it’s harmful, but being drawn to it, anyway — is not limited to carnivals. It shows up all over the place — in relationships, politics, religion, business, families. But I think carnivals are one of the most interesting examples of it.
When I wrote Serpent Girl, I was feeling a little nostalgic for carnivals, and I wanted to write something set in one. I knew what the title would be, that it was going to be about the woman who played the part of the Serpent Girl at a carnival and the man who falls for her, and that it was going to have a lot of sex. I wanted to see if I could reveal character and develop a relationship using mostly sex. That was all I knew when I started writing the book. I didn’t know if it was going to be a horror story or a crime story, funny or scary.
What I ended up with was the story of Steve Benedetti, a man whose job is secret and solitary and has him on the road a lot. While driving from Oregon to Los Angeles, he sees a carnival off the road and decides to stop and stretch his legs. There he meets the Serpent Girl, a woman who stirs him like no other woman before. He can’t take his eyes off of her. The Serpent Girl is Carmen Mattox, and she’s decided to retire, too — from Dupree Amusements. She hitches a ride with Benedetti. He suffers from carnival syndrome — he knows something’s not right, but he goes along with it, anyway. Together, they hit the road on a dark, erotic journey that will forever change them both.
Serpent Girl is available for Kindle at Amazon and for Nook at Barnes and Noble. If you enjoy the book, I hope you’ll post a review, or a link, or tell a few friends — or all of the above!
When Bobcat Goldthwait invaded comedy back in the early 1980s, no one had ever seen anything quite like him and didn't know what to make of him. He would shout and shriek on stage, twitch and squirm, huff and puff and roll his wide, starin’ eyes like a man who’s taken an ill-advised cocktail of drugs that started kicking in about five minutes ago. He was unpredictable, possibly dangerous, and very funny. He’s always made me laugh as a stand-up comic and actor, but over the years, I’ve come to find him even more interesting as a filmmaker.In 1991, Goldthwait wrote, directed and starred in Shakes the Clown, a coal-black comedy about a self-destructive clown accused of a murder he didn’t commit, set in a world where clowns never take off their makeup and spend their off hours in dark bars complaining into their booze. It was met with a tidal wave of critical vitriol. But I saw a lot to admire. I liked the world Goldthwait had created and, while the movie doesn’t really hold together or go anywhere, it has some hilarious moments. I thought Roger Ebert summed it up well when he wrote, “The movie plays like a series of scene outlines — ideas for how the movie should progress — that needed more writing and revision before the actors were called in.” It didn’t work, but it had some tasty ingredients. It was Goldthwait’s first movie and he was feeling his way along, trying to find his voice, and it was interesting enough for me to look forward to his next movie. But I had to wait a while.After the disastrous reception of Shakes the Clown, Goldthwait disappeared as a director for about a decade, although he continued acting and doing stand-up. Then, as Bob Goldthwait, he began to show up as the director in the opening credits of TV shows like Crank Yankers and The Man Show. He spent some years working in television, then in 2006, 15 years after his first, he came back with another feature film.
Sleeping Dogs Lie is about Amy, a young woman who, in the interest of full disclosure, is trying to muster the courage to tell John, the man she wants to marry, that she once blew her dog. And it’s about what happens after she tells him. In spite of the story's canine element, it’s not the kind of gross-out comedy you might expect from the costar of three Police Academy movies, either. It’s a far better movie than Shakes the Clown in every way. It’s thoughtful, even contemplative, and it doesn’t shy away from its more emotionally difficult ingredients — it is, ironically, a very honest movie. It examines how we really feel about honesty. We say it’s always the best policy, that a successful relationship requires absolute honesty, that honesty is a trait we greatly admire in people. The only thing we don’t seem to like about honesty is having to face it. Sleeping Dogs Lie also takes a look at our priorities and examines the difference between the things we identify as horrifying and unforgivable in others and the things we give a pass to and take in stride. It’s about the stupid things we hold against each other and ourselves.
Sleeping Dogs Lie is a serious movie with something on its mind. It’s also funny — it’s the only movie in which you’ll hear a woman say to her mother, “You wrestled another woman in your underwear while Elvis beat off? And you didn’t even get laid?” The business about the girl blowing her dog? That’s Goldthwait’s way of luring you in with what you expect from him. Then he dazzles you with some caustic observations about human beings and the things they do to each other and themselves. I was impressed and pleasantly surprised.Goldthwait’s next movie was 2009's World’s Greatest Dad. Robin Williams plays Lance Clayton, a high school poetry teacher whose dreams of being a famous writer fade a little more with each rejection his submissions receive. Nothing is going well for Lance. The coworker he’s dating doesn’t want to get serious and doesn’t even want anyone to know they’re dating. His son is a belligerent, morose boy with whom Lance can’t seem to connect. His class is as unpopular with students as his manuscripts are with the publishers to whom he submits them. And then Lance’s son dies. That’s bad enough. But he dies as a result of autoerotic asphyxiation. In trying to cover up that fact, Lance inadvertently — and unethically — stumbles into the life he’s always wanted. But can he live with the way he got it?
The World’s Greatest Dad was my favorite movie from 2009. It was made with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what he wants to say and how he wants to say it. It made me realize Goldthwait was doing in his movies what he’d always done in his stand-up comedy: Making people uncomfortable by talking about things they don’t want to talk about, and then making them laugh about it. And if there’s any doubt about that, you should take a look at his most recent movie, God Bless AmericaFrank has lost everything — his marriage, his job, his dignity and self respect. And now his doctor tells him his life will be cut short by a brain tumor. He discovers he’s lost something else: his patience. He’s lost patience with everything. Unlike virtually everyone around him, he no longer finds the steady collapse of civilization entertaining or the bad behavior of people who are famous for no reason funny. He’ll be dying soon. What does he have to lose? Frank decides to arm himself and start killing people who deserve to die. Whether or not they deserve it is determined by their behavior. And Frank’s mood. Also, the mood of his unlikely accomplice Roxy, an adorable, perky, fresh-faced teenager who’s actually a smiling psychopath who enjoys all of this way too much.No, it’s not terribly original. Mickey and Mallory of Natural Born Killers spring immediately to mind. But the similarities are only superficial, and as you watch God Bless America, you’ll find they’re quickly forgotten. Instead of an over-the-top Woody Harrelson, you get Joel Murray playing Frank, a guy who needs no introduction, the guy whose life just didn’t work out; we all know at least one, and we recognize him right away, and not without sympathy. He’s not necessarily a bad guy, as far as we can tell. It’s just that, for whatever reasons, his life sucks right now. Except Frank fantasizes about killing people he doesn’t like. “I know it’s not normal to want to kill people,” he says. “But I’m not normal anymore.” Murray makes you forget he’s acting, or that he’s an actor.Instead of the drawling craziness of Juliette Lewis, you’ve got Tara Lynne Barr as Roxy, who looks and sounds just like a girl who probably sold you Girl Scout Cookies a few years ago. There’s an old fashioned wholesome sweetness to her, the kind of sweetness that would be right at home putting on a big show in the barn with Mickey Rooney and the gang. But she’s not wholesome or sweet. When she sees Frank take out his first victim, she thinks it’s the coolest thing she’s ever seen.There’s none of the sadistic gloss you see on Oliver Stone’s movie, no booming soundtrack to distance your emotions from what you’re seeing, no slick camera work or flashy effects. Goldthwait seems to value his stories and characters, because he presents them in a clean and simple way, with nothing to distract from them. God Bless America is no exception.When Frank channel surfs across television’s vast wasteland, we see the reality shows, the infomercials, the fear-mongering politicians and their talking heads, the screaming teenagers with their outraged sense of entitlement, the cruelty and stupidity and mindless violence and self-destruction and the endless chattering and babbling and maniacal cackling that accompany it all. He sits in front of the television and every flick of the remote is like the lancing of another boil that gushes poison. When you look at all the mind-numbing shit we absorb day after day, the stuff that bludgeons our consciousness during our every waking hour, it’s kind of surprising people don’t snap and act out violently more often.
God Bless America takes on a new immediacy in light of the recent events in Colorado and Wisconson. With those massacres so fresh in the memory, some may want to hold off on watching this movie. Wait a few months, or something. There’s a scene that involves a shooting inside a movie theater that made me shudder. I’m not objecting to it, just pointing it out.Some of it is funny, some of it is horrifying, and that’s exactly the way Goldthwait wants it. He’s talking about things we don’t want to talk about, showing us things we don’t necessarily want to see, then he’s making us laugh at those things even though we might feel guilty about it. Most importantly, he's making us talk about those things I can see the old 1980s Bobcat bouncing around, poking us in the ribs as he shrieks, “Made ya squirm! WAAAHHH!”After back-to-back mass shootings, I think we need to talk about things like this. But every time it happens, we’re not allowed to discuss it because no matter what we say about it, someone accuses us of politicizing it. So we have to remain silent and respectful and reflective ... until it happens again. Sometimes only a couple of weeks later.I like the fact that Goldthwait makes us talk about things we don’t want to talk about. Stephen King once advised students to find out which books the adults didn’t want them to read, then read all of those books, because it’s likely there’s something in them they should know. I think it’s the same with things we don’t want to talk about. If something makes us so uncomfortable that we don’t want to talk about it, then we should probably talk about it. If nothing else, it’s one step closer to not being uncomfortable with it anymore, and chances are good that whatever the problem is, talking about it will resolve it, or at least move things in that direction.In God Bless America, Goldthwait offers no solutions. But he does a great job of pointing out that mass shootings are not the problem. They are one of many symptoms. The other symptoms aren’t as shocking and don’t get much attention. They don’t make the news, and they’ve become so normalized that we don’t’ even notice them anymore. But they add up over time.
You might have a bumper sticker that reads “Remember 9/11" or “Support the Troops,” but how do you treat the clerk at the grocery store or the customer service rep on the phone? You might disapprove of mass shootings, but how often do you call your child — or your spouse or lover or anyone else you care about — “stupid” or “useless” or “fat” or a million other casual comments that fall out of our mouths like gumballs out of a gumball machine, but can amount to emotional bullets? We demand respect for our symbols and ideas and institutions and beliefs, but when it comes to the one-on-one stuff — all of us, myself included, everybody — we can sometimes leave a lot to be desired.“Why have a civilization,” Frank asks, “if we’re no longer interested in being civilized?”If mass shootings are one of the symptoms of the problem, what is the problem? Goldthwait doesn’t answer that, either. If you find someone who does confidently claim to know the answer to that question, proceed with caution and keep a tight grip on your wallet and your mind, because chances are good that person has something to sell you and is full of shit. But one thing’s for sure — we will never solve problems we can’t talk about. And that’s why we need artists like Bobcat Goldthwait, jesters who poke and prod us and keep bringing up the stuff we don’t want to talk about.There’ve been others in the past — names like Lenny Bruce, George Carlin, and Bill Hicks come to mind. Most of them come out of comedy, because when talking about things people don’t want to talk about, it’s always a good idea to keep them laughing. It’s also easier to swallow something bitter with a little sugar, just like Mary Poppins said.As far as I know, though, Bobcat Goldthwait is the first to successfully meld the sensibilities of his abrasive stand-up comedy with movies that are intelligent, frank, funny, thought-provoking and even infuriating, and that absolutely refuse to soften themselves up for a bigger audience. Goldthwait will not become a powerful movie mogul as long as he keeps making the movies he makes, because in order for his movies to achieve that kind of success, they would have to be something other than the movies he makes. It’s a shame, too, because work like this should be generously rewarded. Of course, if we lived in the kind of culture that rewarded quality work instead of cruelty, stupidity and bad behavior, Bobcat Goldthwait probably wouldn’t be making the movies he makes.I guess it all works out in the end.
Note: This is sort of a companion piece to an article I wrote for the Huffington Post about the bullies and stalkers in a group called Stop the Goodreads Bullies. You might want to read that first here.
No writer enjoys getting a bad review. Writers who say bad reviews have no affect on them probably aren’t being entirely honest.
Most people are unaware of the amount of work that goes into writing a novel—even one you don’t like. The details you have to keep track of as your story unfolds, the story itself, the characters, their backgrounds, personalities and fates, the dialogue, language, voice, tone, pacing—it’s a big job. Once a writer has gone through all that work, it’s no fun to read a review that declares you’ve put all that work into a book that sucks.
But you know what? None of that matters.
In 1986, when I lived in the Los Angeles area, my late friend, publicist and writer Francis Feighan, took me to a Writers Guild screening of an upcoming Eddie Murphy movie called The Golden Child. I thought it was terrible, and I reached that conclusion very early on in the movie. Nothing that happened subsequently changed my mind. (All these years later, I still think it stinks on ice.)
As we left, Francis asked me what I thought of the movie, and I told him. He shook his head and clicked his tongue as we walked back to the car.
“What?” I said, wondering if I’d said something wrong.
“You have no idea how much work goes into making a movie.”
“But that was a bad movie. I really thought it sucked.”
“The same amount of blood and sweat and fear that went into the making of One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, or Casablanca, or Lawrence of Arabia went into The Golden Child. People think a movie they don’t like was slapped together quickly, or somehow not enough work and love went into it, and that’s simply not true. Filmmakers always work hard on a movie and they believe it’s going to be a good work. That’s why they work so hard!”
“I understand that,” I said, “but in the end...should that make any difference?”
“Oh, hell, no. I just like pointing it out because most people don’t understand that about movies. You’re right. Doesn’t make any difference. The people who made The Golden Child did a lot of hard work, took a shot, and for you, they failed. For me, too. I thought it was a disaster. But somebody out there—several somebodies—will think it’s the best movie they ever saw. For them, it worked. Look how many fans a movie like Plan 9 from Outer Space has. Or Attack of the Killer Tomatoes. These are criminally bad movies on every level. But a lot of people find them entertaining and love them. That’s the way it always is. With everything. You can never please everyone, but you’ll always please someone. Probably a lot of someones, even if you never know it. But the real reason creative people do what they do is not to please everybody but because they have to. Because they love it. Even if others don’t.”
Damn, I miss Francis. I learned a lot from him.
What he said about movies applies to books, as well. Yes, we writers pour our hearts and guts into our work. It’s a gargantuan task to write a novel. But then it’s finished and published...and our children go out into the world to fend for themselves. We hate to see them maligned or despised. But it happens.
Writer Steve Rasnic Tem, author of Deadfall Hotel, made a great point in the comments under my Huffington Post article. He wrote, “If someone really feels bad about the negative review they've received on Goodreads, they should check out the detailed GR ratings for To Kill A Mockingbird—over 20,000 one star reviews. How could that many people who actually read give that magnificent novel only one star?”
Harper Lee’s novel is beloved. Many list it as their favorite book, an influential work they were fortunate enough to read early in life and that became a part of them. And yet on Goodreads, more than 20,000 people gave it only one star. There are complaints that it’s not subversive enough, that the kids are too good, the characters too thin, that it’s a story about conflict between good people and bad people rather than a conflict between races, and that it embraces and lauds the racism of its story’s time.
Orson Welles’s 1941 classic film Citizen Kane is widely regarded as perhaps the greatest American movie of all time. But when it was initially released, critics were unaware of the movie’s future reputation and not all of them were impressed.
Silent film director-tyrant Erich von Stroheim weighed in with a review that found nothing to praise. He criticized the movie for being unoriginal, unrealistic, and confusing. He even accused it of being too different. He hated the fact that the movie begins with the end, then bounces around through time, then lands at the end again. He wrote:
“To be truthful, during the first twenty minutes of viewing the film, I, who have been thirty years in this business of making films, did not know what it was all about. I may be dumb, but I have asked at least fifty people who in more or less articulate form described the same experience. I may be hyper-conservative or just plain old fashioned, but I believe in all sincerity that the form of telling the story of Citizen Kane is not the desired or successful form in which to tell a screen story. All of us have been accustomed to hear or to see a story start at the beginning. Welles's way of telling the story may have its place in a novel or on the stage, but I am convinced that in the cinema it is entirely out of place.”
Who the hell did this Welles upstart think he was, telling a story out of order? Nobody wants to see a movie like that! But in spite of Stroheim’s objections, it’s become a fairly common method of storytelling in cinema. The tyrannical Austrian director once known as “the man you love to hate” was off the mark in that respect.
My point is that even great works are not universally loved. All of the books and movies and works of art that we now consider immortal have had—and will continue to have—their critics and detractors. No one is immune from them. Absolutely no one.
But was Erich Von Stroheim’s review of Citizen Kane wrong? It was his opinion. Nothing more. That’s all any review is—an opinion—and in any field, those are always in abundance.
We might not like bad reviews, but some of them hold treasures for writers. You won’t learn a damned thing from praise. It’s a wonderful thing to receive, but it doesn’t make you a better writer. The only thing that’ll do that is acknowledging our weaknesses, and then working to strengthen them. The only way we can do that is to become aware of them, and it’s very rare for a writer to see those weaknesses himself. A good negative review can help a writer do that.
There is such a thing as constructive criticism. A review that points out a book’s weaknesses can be a great learning experience for a writer, as long as it’s a writer who realizes that not all criticism is a personal attack, and that he or she can always improve as a writer.
These days, of course, the erudite professional critic no longer has a corner on criticism. The internet has left it open to anyone and everyone—just like publishing. Now, a person can read a book in the privacy of his own home, then go online and post a review to the world. But if anyone can post a review, that means there’s no telling how a reviewer might choose to convey his or her opinion. Just as there are those who will write a negative but respectful review, there are also those who will write whatever pops into their heads simply because they can.
If the reviewer doesn’t like a book, he might take it out on the author. He might choose to question the legality of the author’s parents’ marriage. He might wish the author’s children lifelong careers in the fast food service industry. He might suggest that the author engage in a variety of sex acts with a pet. He might even wish upon the author all manner of serious illnesses, like flesh-eating bacteria or butt cancer.
There’s no shortage of reviews like that online. And there’s no shortage of people who are willing to write them. I can spot one at a quick glance, and I do not read them. There’s no point. They are a waste of time. There is nothing constructive in them, nothing for the writer to learn. Reading them is like gouging the palm of your hand with a knife. They really aren’t book reviews so much as episodes of self-indulgent venom-spewing.
Don’t read them. Most importantly, never take them personally. The authors of such reviews don’t deserve that kind of attention. They deserve to be ignored.
Which brings me to writers who seem incapable of ignoring them. They’re out there. They walk among us. And just as the internet has opened the floodgates to immature reviewers who are more interested in acting out than reviewing a book, it also has opened the floodgates to people who think they’re writers, but have no idea what it means to be a writer.
Being a writer involves more than being able to write.
Until the digital explosion, getting published wasn’t easy. You had to submit your work to publishers, usually through an agent—which means you had to find an agent to represent you. That process could be quite humbling. It involved something we used to call “rejection.” And even when you weren’t rejected, your book still had to go through an editing process, which meant an editor would tell you what he or she thought was wrong with the book, or with your writing in certain areas, and how it might be improved.
By the time your book was published, you’d gone through an experience in which it had been rejected, accepted, and edited, and at some point in this process, you had made a significant discovery.
You are not William fucking Faulkner.
It should be noted that even William Faulkner wasn’t William fucking Faulkner. He received rejection letters from editors that included lines like, “My chief objection is that you don’t have any story to tell,” and, “Good god, I can’t publish this!”
That process has a tendency to toughen up a writer even before he’s published.
Today, anyone can write anything they want and publish it themselves. No screening process at all. No rejections, no editing, no rewriting, no carving a better book out of the one you’ve written, nothing to thicken the writer’s skin. Just write it and publish it. Then sit back and wait for the waves of love to pour in from the world. Right?
Wrong.
Many of these writers have had no experience with rejection and have never been told what’s wrong with their work. And you know what? Something is wrong with their work. Nobody turns out a perfect book at the first crack. Every writer, without exception, needs a good editor and some healthy criticism before he becomes published. It improves the work, and as the grownups used to tell us when we were kids, it builds character.
There are a lot of people out there today who are writing and publishing without the benefit of that experience. When they get a bad review—particularly of the variety that can be found on the internet, the kind that suggests the author climb into an operating woodchipper—their heads explode. They respond in kind.
This is always a colossally bad idea. There is no time when this is not a bad idea. Writers who do this make embarrassing spectacles of themselves. It’s unprofessional and not only will no good come of it, but bad things will come of it—like a bad reputation, for example.
These days, however, we seem to take things to extremes. That includes people who have no business writing. A group calling itself Stop the Goodreads Bullies is a perfect example of such behavior—and of people who have no business writing.
Stop the Goodreads Bullies goes so far as to see bad reviews as some kind of persecution. They’re so phenomenally untethered from reality that they have done some investigating and learned personal details about the authors of those reviews and posted that information online. You know, stuff like home addresses, places of employment, where the reviewer’s children go to school, and even where the reviewer likes to go out to eat. This has resulted in Goodreads reviewers being harassed and threatened.
This group has taken whiny narcissism to psychotic extremes. It has put the authors of these negative reviews into possible danger. Whoever makes up this group, they should not be writing. They should do something else entirely—like finding a good therapist. They also should thank their lucky stars that their insane fuckery hasn’t resulted in getting someone hurt or killed.
Members of this group have been bouncing from one comment thread to another, throwing tantrums and shrieking about “rights.” Their rights, the rights of reviewers, the rights of readers. They’ve been doing this because, in addition to being out-of-control babies who behave psychotically, they are hypocritical idiots. They claim the reviewers are “bullying” them, and that their free speech rights give them the right to bully them right back. To make their point, they pop up online in a variety of sock-puppet identities and tell everyone who disagrees with them to shut up. Repeatedly. In other words, the only free speech they care about is their own. They want everyone else’s revoked.
They’re crazier than a bag of wet cats. But they’re not alone when it comes to lashing out at critics. In 2009, writer Candace Sams responded angrily to readers on Amazon when they criticized her romance novel Electra Galaxy’s Mr. Interstellar Feller, going so far as threatening to report them to the FBI.
This behavior isn’t confined to new, inexperienced writers, either. In 2004, Anne Rice responded to readers on Amazon: “Your stupid, arrogant assumptions about me and what I am doing are slander.” In 2009, Alice Walker used her Twitter account to call a Boston Globe book critic a “moron.” These writers are not only enormously talented and respected but hugely successful. They're pros who should know better.
There is a long and colorful history of writers who lash out at critics. Some writers have become more known for that than their writing. And as far as I can tell, that’s not a good thing. No writer is immune from the desire to lash out, but it’s always a mistake. When I start feeling it, I get the hell off the computer, which provides countless opportunities to make an ass of oneself. Let's not forget that on the internet, most book reviewers are hobbyists, readers who go online to discuss the books they've read.
Whether you respond to a bad review in a comment thread or by deliberately sabotaging the personal life of the reviewer, you’re in the wrong. The two differ only in extremes—the result is the same. You will be seen by readers and other writers as unprofessional, a person who wants to write but never receive criticism, whether it’s reasonable criticism or some online monkey flinging its own poo. Raging about bad reviews is like raging against the weather. It doesn't change anything and it makes you look silly.
The only people who get positive reviews all the time are dictators in police states, and that’s only because criticism could result in the critic’s face getting shot off.
If you write, you will get bad reviews. And there’s not a goddamned thing you can do about it. The sooner you embrace that, the happier you will be. If you have the self-discipline to accomplish the task of writing a book, then you should be able to whip up the self-discipline to resist the urge to lash out at critics.
If you can’t draw a straight line, don’t become an architect. If you hate driving, don’t become a trucker. If animals make you nervous, don’t become a veterinarian. And if you can’t take criticism without throwing a tantrum, do us all a favor and stay away from writing, because you’re not going to like it. Not even a little.
If you’re going to write, don’t do it for praise. Do it because you have to do it, because you love it so much that you can’t not write. Take my word for it, being able to do something you love, something that’s a part of you, and actually make a little money from it is tremendously rewarding.
If all you want is praise, go get a country and become a dictator. You’ll probably enjoy it a lot more.
