Archive for Richard Hughes

Page Seventeen II: The Smell of Fear

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 27, 2021 by dcairns

Callendar’s shop window had been smashed by and angry girl who had thrown a bicycle through it. It was now boarded up and the timber slates bore the commemorative legend in white chalk:

“You agreed to take the beasts.”

The water was boiling and I sterilized the instruments. Infection can follow even the most rigid asepsis and his dusty kitchen for an operating theatre hardly gave the man on the table a sporting chance. For a minute I considered not operating at all and letting fate decide.

I went forward mechanically, swung the spade over my shoulder and smashed the blade of it with all my strength against the protruding chin. I felt and almost heard the fabric of his skull crumple up crisply like an empty eggshell. I do not know how often I struck him after that but I did not stop until I was tired.

It seemed to the Procurator that the cypresses and palms in the garden gave off the smell of roses, that the accursed smell of roses was mingled with the odors of the convoy’s leather gear and sweat.

He rolled his head back and sniffed, but there was no smell of roses in the room. He was getting dizzy and weak, but at least there was no smell of roses.

“Smells like an earthquake,” said Margaret, and dressed. Emily remembered the awful story about the governess and the hair-brush: certainly Margaret did not use one for its ordinary purpose, though she had long hair: so it must be true.

Seven short passages from seven page seventeens selected from various books lying about my person.

Live Now, Pay Later by Jack Trevor Story; The Island of Doctor Moreau by H.G. Wells; Donovan’s Brain by Curt Siodmak; The Third Policeman by Flann O’Brien; The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov; Last Call by Tim Powers; A High Wind in Jamaica by Richard Hughes.

Page Seventeen II: Die Harder

Posted in FILM, literature with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 20, 2021 by dcairns

As they sank into the darkness I felt a strange chill, and a lonely feeling came over me; but a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a rug was thrown over my knees, and the driver said in excellent German:-

“This is the example. There was during my lifetime in the town of Maduara, the birthplace of the philosopher Apuleius, a witch who was able to attract men to her chamber by burning a few of their hairs along with certain herbs upon her tripod, pronouncing at the same time certain words. Now one day when she wished by this means to win the love of a young man, she was deceived by her maid, and instead of the young man’s hairs, she burned some hairs pulled from a leather bottle, made out of a goatskin that hung in a tavern. During the night the leather bottle, full of wine, capered through the town up to the witch’s door. This fact is undoubted. And in sacraments as in enchantments it if the form which operates. The effect of a divine formula cannot be less in power and extent than the effect of an infernal formula.”

“Many a man in love with a dimple makes the mistake of marrying the whole girl,” was James’s gleeful contribution.

And that was why he had never had his collar felt. As far as he was concerned the culprit was someone totally and absolutely unknown to him despite the shocking litter of relics, the smell, a head from time to time that stood around on an old plate for a while until the pong really got too fierce and it had to be junked. There were even moments, when he had read the exploits of this person in the press, when he had muttered to himself, You bet, this bastard’s got to be caught, he’s fucking animal. True, he had fleeting feelings that whoever had gutted this poor little bat here on page one was some other geezer that he might know just vaguely, he wasn’t sure, but didn’t he go out with a very nice-looking dark feller that he met in the boozer from time to time and then they both went out on a dragging spree? He would have to have a word with this feller next time they met, whatever his name was, he probably had lots. Still, give the mate a bit of margin – after all, just like himself, he was only going for a stroll, ripping off a bit of bird, it was the kind of thing the whole world did the whole bleeding time, why be choked if a bit of vinegar gets upset?

He wasn’t just black like a Negro, either; he was much blacker than that; he was he was black in the same way the night is: in fact, he was so black that anyone anywhere near him could hardly see anything. Just as a lamp gives out light, he gave out dark – and his name was Joe.

“Yis, maaster, ‘tes right,” Joe Sweetbread whined vivaciously. “Ghoost up to Yaarnold Cross. I seen en. Heh-heh. Churning butter. Poor Maid.”

Humanity is much more complex than any machine. An author can describe much about mankind and still leave much to his readers.

Seven paragraphs from seven pg. 17s from seven books distributed randomly about my flat.

Dracula by Bram Stoker; Penguin Island by Anatole France; Center Door Fancy by Joan Blondell; I Was Dora Suarez by Derek Raymond; The Spider’s Palace by Richard Hughes; The Smiler with the Knife by Nicholas Blake; Two classics by HG Welles: The Time Machine; The War of the Worlds, introduction by Isaac Asimov.

Suffer the Little Children

Posted in FILM with tags , , , , , , , on November 3, 2019 by dcairns

“He’s not fucking around,” I said to Fiona as the opening prologue of Narciso Ibanez Serrador’s WHO CAN KILL A CHILD? unspooled in our Sony multi-region. Apparently Serrador himself came to believe that this no-holds-barred opening montage of actual death — Auschwitz, India-Pakistan, Biafra, Viet Nam — would have been better placed at the film’s end, and one can see a kind of wisdom in this: how does a horror movie “top” a sequence of actual, documentary infanticide? At the end, he must have imagined, the sequence would have served as a devastating and inarguable summation of his film’s thesis.

Of course, the sequence would have been better not included at all. Any horror movie is going to look trivial compared to actual real-world horrors, and if you’re going to draft atrocity footage in to your fiction film you need to have the best of all possible reasons and even then you may be better implying rather than stating your film’s relation to world events. Several home-video versions of this movie actually deleted the prologue. I disapprove of this because it’s censorship, and against the filmmaker’s wishes, but had NIS voluntarily chosen not to include the montage I’d have liked his film more.

“How the hell did this get made?” asked Fiona from the edge of her seat. I theorised that the seventies were a time when filmmakers experimented with the limits of free expression. Inevitably, one or two of them overshot the mark by a country mile (Pier Paolo Pasolini, I’m looking at you). Serrador’s controversial take on THE BIRDS, with the avian apocalypse subbed out for an onslaught of school-age psychos, their murderous tendencies transmitted like a plague, or a playground rhyme, is one such instance.

Serrador was already the successful director of LA RESIDENCIA, a snazzy, edgy Gothic horror with Lili Palmer, plus he’d helmed an influential shot-on-tape spookshow for Spanish TV, Stories To Keep You Awake. All this, and creating Spain’s top game show, the original of 3-2-1 (I always felt Dusty Bin was a bit sinister. You could never tell what he was thinking.)

Serrador directs the hell out of this thing, getting full value out of the early, pre-creepy stuff where we have nothing but the touristic adventures of our young British couple (Lewis Fiander & Prunella Ransome, both of who really bring it to the later hysteria scenes), and then out of the very creepy indeed scenes of wandering about a Spanish island eerily populated only by smiling kids.

It’s ages, in fact, before our heroes are faced with the awful choices necessary for survival, and even in the run-up to this, the filmmaker is strikingly discreet in his portrayal of child-on-adult violence. We see its effects rather than the horrible incidents themselves. He’s smart enough to know just how much can be believably staged. Not for him the unconvincing zombie tot of PET SEMATARY, wandering confusedly about the set while the soundtrack tries to summon the appropriate mood. His kids are only asked to do things they can do naturally.

“Possibly a case might be made out that children are not human either: but I should not accept it. Agreed that their minds are not just more ignorant and stupider than ours, but differ in kind of thinking (are mad, in fact): but one can, by an effort of will and imagination, think like a child, at least in a partial degree […]” ~ Richard Hughes, A High Wind in Jamaica.

Children, of course, are little bastards, as everyone from Clouzot to Peckinpah has shown. But somehow they’re very rarely murderous irl. Serrador’s mental mutation causes the swarms of young to not only fixate on slaying all adults, but to not give a damn about their own safety, enabling them to use force of numbers as the winning argument, heedless of the little bodies accumulating on the hot ground…

Given the immense skill — angles, editing and sound all enhance the creeping anxiety, and then performances step up to the mark to bring us all into a state of desperation — it’s a real shame that Serrador seems to have been effectively ejected from cinema like an unwanted bum. But we’ll be delving into what we can find of his televisual output, because the man was a master. However, ah, questionable, his methods.