Spooky Album Appreciation Post: Cemeteries’ “Barrow”

In the lead up to Halloween (inarguably the finest holiday ever), I will be looking at songs, artists, albums, whatever that perfectly encapsulate the feeling or mood of the season.

Today I tackle the second full-length album by Portland-by-way-of-Buffalo artist Cemeteries.

 

While music is rarely seen as an effective delivery system for horror, it’s not because there isn’t a large number of bands and artists that traffic in the eerie and macabre. Metal is probably the biggest poster child for music that co-opts imagery from the horror genre, known for ages as much for skulls, blood, and Satanic imagery as it is for the actual music.

But a lot of metal isn’t really designed to frighten, or unsettle. Certainly, there’s a subversive element to metal that attracts many, but it’s not really where you go to be frightened. Like Jason Vorhees, it can bludgeon and assault, but not much effort is made to actually creep anybody out.

I’m picking on metal here, but a lot of metal just isn’t designed to be that way. This is fine, obviously. But even many so-called “horror acts” use horror as window-dressing: a creepy font here, a song about werewolves or vampires here, but doesn’t really try to elicit the same feelings the best horror movies or books do.

That different kinds of horror music does different things certainly speaks to the broad range of horror itself: some horror fans are fine with blood and guts and little else; others need a more cerebral approach. The beauty of the album I’m discussing today is that it’s made by someone who seems to want to replicate the dread and anxiety that permeates the best horror films and books. The album I’m talking about is Barrow by Portland artist Cemeteries, the stage name of Kyle J. Reigle.

While I could go on for days about the musical beauty of Barrow (and believe me, it is musically stunning), I want to instead focus on its status as a horror album. The beauty of Barrow is in its distinctly film-like structure. A concept album about the titular town, Barrow seems to actually have a clear beginning, middle, and end. This is impressive in and of itself (how many concept albums only have a vague concept that may or may not link all songs), but the level of cohesion Riegle imbues his album with is unparalleled.

Kicking off with “Procession”, an instrumental piece, Barrow sets the stage early. Plodding drums mix with lapping waves on a shore to create a funereal feel early (check the song title, after all). The lapping waves are no doubt a nod to the fictional seaside town the album shares a title with, while the drums create something of a dirge; the funeral for the ever-looming threat of the album. This threat is the unnamed woman swallowed up by the fire who has come to Barrow to her exact her revenge.

This threat is outlined in album standout “Nightjar,” which loosely tells the story of this unnamed woman: “they swallowed her alive with their fire.” Why the residents of Barrow saw fit to burn this woman isn’t made explicitly clear, but clues are sprinkled in the next song, “Luna (Moon of Claiming):” “She spoke words of higher power.” The image is clear: the residents of Barrow burned their town’s witch. But, as made clear by the rest of Barrow, there’s no keeping a good witch down.

Many of the rest of the songs deal with building the menace of the witch, ratcheting up tension and creating a palpable sense of dread. On “Can You Hear Them Sing?”, Reigle asks, “Can you hear her name?/Can you hear them sing?” Who’s singing this woman’s name? It’s not made entirely clear, but you get the sense that the witch is using her power to make the entirety of nature sing; to make the townsfolk of Barrow remember her. This is backed up by the late album song “Sodus” which claims you can hear the “hounds” sing. It seems the witch is not content to be forgotten, and uses nature to make Barrow remember her. And that she’s coming for them.

“Cicada Howl,” seemingly told from the viewpoint of one of Barrow’s citizens, is something of the mission statement of the album’s menace, as we are told, “She will rise. We will drown.” The song ends with a warning message: “Oh, Barrow. Just hold on.”

The album ends with one final warning to the residents of Barrow in the form of “Our False Fire on Shore.” This is our last glimpse of Barrow of Reigle sings of it, but you get the sense that all will not be well in our fictional town. The sins of the past have found the town of Barrow out, and will not be the same again. Like any good horror movie, the album ends on a sobering downbeat: the town of Barrow is in for a rude awakening, potentially of its own making as the witch returns to enact her vengeance.

What’s remarkable about this album is that it truly follows the arc of any good horror movie: it establishes its threat, builds tension, and then we, the audience, watch as this threat is unleashed. But what sets Barrow (and other great works of horror) apart is that the ending is much more subdued and restrained. What we can’t see (or hear) is much more frightening that if this album ended with a song detailing how the witch tore apart citizens of Barrow. Instead, we’re left only with a warning: “Oh, Barrow/Oh, Barrow/She will prey on you.”

Barrow stands out not only as a thematically cohesive work and a fine example of the concept album, but as a stunning work of horror, period. If you have any interest in John Carpenter (whose film The Fog serves as a clear reference point), beautiful vocals, or just spooky stuff in general, you owe it to yourself to check out Barrow immediately.

And hey! It’s free: https://speakinghorrors.bandcamp.com/ (Although spare a few bucks, won’t you?)

One last note: just download his entire discography, and make sure you track down his contribution to Snowbeast Records’ Halloween comp, titled “Sharpen Your Knives, Sharpen Your Teeth”

 

 

 

 

All Star Batman #1 Review

Like many comic-obsessed saps who will continually fall for whatever bullshit the Big Two is spewing at any given moment, I went into DC’s New 52 relaunch bright eyed and bushy tailed. The thought of brand new creative teams injecting new life into the most beloved characters in comics was extremely enticing, to say the least. Grant Morrison, the author of what is arguably the best Superman story of all time, on Action Comics? Sign me up! Geoff Johns, the man solely responsible for Green Lantern’s latter-day popularity resurrection, potentially working the same magic on the oft (and unfairly) maligned Aquaman? I’ll be first in line. Animal Man reimagined as a hard horror comic penned by the ever-reliable Jeff Lemire? I couldn’t get to my LCS fast enough.

However, as with all things, the good times couldn’t last. Aquaman had two fantastic arcs before fizzling out with a Justice League crossover. Brian Azzarello made some questionable-at-best revisions to the Wonder Woman mythos (even if Cliff Chiang’s gorgeous covers and interiors made that bitter pill a little easier to swallow). And Animal Man…well, OK, that one kicked ass from its first frame to its last. But even when writers and artists couldn’t quite cut it, DC seemed intent to sabotage its stronger titles behind the scenes. Batwoman, one of the few highlights, was unceremoniously wrenched from the hands of creators who had the audacity to suggest a lesbian comic character should be *gasp* married. Granted, DC editorial swore up and down it had nothing to do with Kate Kane being gay, but who really knows? Point is, New 52 over-promised and under-delivered, same as pretty much any time DC or Marvel whispers sweet little nothings in your ear that, “Oh no, this time will be different.”

However, like a shining, bat-shaped beacon piercing through the ink-black sky, there was one title that not only stood head and shoulders above the rest in terms of quality, it maintained that quality the entirety of the existence of the New 52: Scott Snyder and Greg Capullo’s Batman. Issue to issue, no other title remained as consistent, with Snyder bringing untold levels of intrigue to the life of Batman, whether be it an ancient threat from Gotham’s past or exploring Batman and Joker’s relationship without retreading the dead horse The Killing Joke. All of this brought to life with Capullo’s stunning artwork, which toed the line effectively between cartoony and ridiculously detailed (check out his take on Gotham’s architecture!). It was, in short, the best monthly DC had going for the better part of five years, hands down.

Cut to: present day. DC is already rolling out a new line-wide relaunch, this time under the catchier name “Rebirth.” I might dedicate a blog post to Rebirth itself sometime in the future, but suffice it to say, DC had me hook, line, and sinker again (I’m not proud). I bought the single issue, 80-page monster DC Rebirth the day it came out, digitally and physically. I winced at the implications of the Watchmen stuff, but overall, I thought it was a great course correction. Of course, we could argue how cynical it is that DC is making the in-universe explanation for the DC world’s grittiness the Watchmen instead of shitty editorial, but hey, that’s a story for another time. Point is, I was on board. I snapped up every title I could get my hands on in that first couple of months, which was impressive considering how many titles had moved to a twice-monthly schedule.

And, let me tell you, I was hooked…until I wasn’t. Batman, the once shiny jewel in DC’s crown, turned into a muddled mess that focused too much on bland Superman stand ins, although at least David Finch is producing some of his best work in years. Green Arrow, a clear favorite for the first few issues, dropped off considerably. Aquaman then dropped the ball, with another stab at Black Manta, because apparently Aquaman only has two villains to choose from. Wonder Woman seems to be the only marquee title holding my interest, although even that’s marred by the fact that it’s yet another origin story. Poor Diana can’t catch a break.

I could go on, but it’s not necessary. From what I’ve seen, Rebirth is floundering creatively, and it’s a sad thing to watch. However, it’s not all doom and gloom. Yet again, Mr. Snyder and his merry band (oh yes, band) of artists are swinging down from a grapnel line to save us from line-wide mediocrity in the form of his maxi-series, All Star Batman.

If the title instantly makes you think of the sequential storytelling suppository that was Frank Miller and Jim Lee’s All Star Batman and Robin, let me be clear that you have nothing to worry about. Snyder has said in interviews that this series will be his way of exploring Batman’s rogues, and, so far, he’s off to a great start.

All Star Batman #1 finds Batman on the lam with none other than Harvey Dent AKA Two-Face. Batman is trying to find a cure for Harvey’s affliction. Harvey’s second personality is having none of it, of course, so he puts out a hit on Batman, offering the potential assassin an exorbitant amount of money or else he’ll unleash an Edward Snowden-style info leak that could bury Gotham City.

So in short: Batman and Two Face go on a road trip. And it’s fantastic. Some of this could be due to the single issue’s larger page count, but Snyder does a remarkable job of establishing this story and all of the twists and turns that accompany it. I don’t want to spoil anything, but there are at least two moments near the end where my jaw dropped. Snyder is building something special here, and it’s a thrill to watch it all unfold.

But hey, this is a comic book, right? And you don’t necessarily come to comic book for tight plotting and mystery building. You come for the action. And let me say, this issue delivers. The initial fight between new, souped-up versions of Firefly and Killer Moth dazzles, with Batman throwing out some great quips (yeah, a quippy Batman, crazy right?). A later confrontation between Batman and Black Spider in a field is also noteworthy, and features the single best panel of Rebirth so far (hint: Batman with a chainsaw).

All of this is, I must admit, beautifully brought to life by the artistic team of John Romita Jr., Danny Miki, and Dean White. I have a confession: I really do not like John Romita Jr. He seemed to me the epitome of comic book nepotism, cranking out the flat-out ugliest stuff while being hailed as a legend from otherwise-respectable comics publications. Granted, Man Without Fear is a masterpiece, but for every success, there’s a dozen more cases like World War Hulk (to this day still the ugliest mainstream comic these eyes have seen). I wish I could place exactly what turns me off about him, but I can’t quite narrow it down. Maybe it’s the way that literally all of his male faces look the same. Maybe it’s that awful way he draws hair. Perhaps it’s the creepy way he draws lips, like they’re cube-shaped. Maybe it’s the fact he’s wildly inconsistent at best, and outright awful at worst. But believe me, after cursing the heavens after he was announced as the artist on this book, I am glad to eat my words. His action scenes are clear and crisp, each punch and gunshot visceral in their delivery. Each line seems purposeful, a far cry from his indiscriminate scribbling in the past. Really, the whole book just looks good, and I can’t express how relieved I am that JRJR has stepped up his game since jumping ship from Marvel to DC. How much of this newfound quality can be attributed to his backup team I can’t say, but what’s there is a sight to behold. If I had to say something negative, it would probably be that I’m not entirely sold on Killer Moth and Firefly’s Iron Man-esque redesigns. It seems that throwing every comic book character into a suit of armor has been the hot ticket for a while, but it siphons out the fun from these characters here. Firefly I could maybe see, but Killer Moth has such a ridiculous, iconic costume that it’s a little disappointing to see him as another armored miscreant. But that’s a small quibble, as the rest of the issue is framing worthy.

Slightly less successful for me is the backup story, which sees Batman teaming up with Duke to rescue hostages who may or may not have a connection to Mr. Zsasz. Very little is revealed plot-wise, and it really feels like Declan Shalvey (ever-so-reliable on any number of other projects) is phoning it in. However, we do get some hints for future story lines that could have huge ramifications down the line.

In the end, All Star Batman #1 does exactly what a first issue should do: draw us into a new status quo and set up myriad reasons why we should keep coming back. Romita Jr’s artwork has never been better, and Snyder seems to be planting seeds that could really pay off long term. In a world where my hope in DC’s vision for its line is rapidly dwindling, it’s great to know that we can always count on Scott Snyder to bring his best every month. I can’t wait to see what comes next.

Final Score: 10

 

The End of Summer Book Review

Even as small children, the allure of Halloween to so many people is obvious. It doesn’t have quite the glitzy commercialism of Christmas, although recent years have started to close that gap. It doesn’t have the “family togetherness” angle of a lot of holidays, although clearly trick or treating with parents is a cherished memory for many. Like Easter, it has plenty of candy, but doesn’t have the religious angle, which is a plus: you get a ton of candy and all you have to do is dress up as something cool, not sit through a forever-long church service. But above all, Halloween is the first introduction of the real concept of danger in many a young person’s life. As a holiday, it’s unique in that it displays what many of us are determined to forget about in our day-to-day lives: death. However, this only comes into play if we let it. We don’t wonder where the ghosts that decorate our lawns and classrooms come from, but ghosts clearly come from dead people. We’re told to be afraid of the werewolves and the zombies, but that fear is something thought of in the abstract: be afraid of monsters because they’re scary. But why are they scary? Well, because they can kill you.

 

It’s interesting because most kids will pass by the ghoulies and the ghosts without a second thought, carrying that detachment from the imagery of Halloween into adulthood; they will see Halloween as a fun little diversion, nothing more. But some kids will be forever impressed upon by the imagery and the festivities of Halloween. Some will camp out in front of their televisions long past when they were supposed to be in bed to marathon horror movies that will haunt them long into adulthood. They will research haunted houses, go ghost hunting, and leave the library with their arms full of books about the occult, witchcraft, and demonic possession.

 

Why mention this? Why make a distinction between fair-weather Halloween fans and the diehards that celebrate Halloween in some form or another year-round? Well, because the definitive short story collection for those that fall into the latter camp has been found: The End of Summer: Thirteen Tales of Halloween by J. Tonzelli.

 

Halloween is such a noteworthy holiday for so many kids because it runs an emotionally extreme gamut: excitement, wonder, joy, dread, fear, and even the aforementioned danger. The beauty of Tonzelli’s collection (his first) is that it encapsulates all of those emotions. While the majority is horror, he doesn’t skimp out on the smaller, quieter moments that help make Halloween such a special day.

 

Take, for example, “Hersh’s Last Ride,” a story about a hayride operator with a soft spot. Nothing about this story is profoundly scary (nor is it meant to be), but you get the sense that Tonzelli understands what makes Halloween so special. Sure, there are haunted hayrides and gruesome attractions, but it’s the little moments that make it such a beautiful night for so many. This idea is echoed in “Bloody Bones and Rags,” where the narrator tells the story of his Uncle Rich who passed down a sincere love for the holiday. It’s difficult to recall another collection that tries to really capture these smaller moments, and it’s striking that Tonzelli succeeds with such aplomb here.

 

That being said, most of these stories do traffic in horror, and it is masterful in its execution. One story, titled “The House on Deep River Road” has one of the best twists on the traditional ghost story I’ve yet to see, but whose twist shouldn’t be spoiled. Likewise, “Wind and Silence” seems like something you think you might have read, but rest assured, it isn’t. Even those with a thicker skin when it comes to horror might have to set down the book for a breather. “Wind and Silence” unnerves with its slow buildup and even when you know how it’ll end, it doesn’t lessen its impact when you get there.

 

Other stories lean hard into horror, but at no point do any of these stories feel like retreads. The subtle humor of “The Halloween Girl of Coldsprings” will sink its fangs into you, leaving you chuckling while recoiling in dread. “The Veil,” a story that centers on the belief that Halloween night is when the line between the living and dead is the thinnest, has plenty of creepy moments, but it’s the message that will resonate with you long after you’ve read it. “One Good Scare” veers off into the most unexpected territory and will have your jaw dropped when you see where it ends up. Most other stories have a strong mix of actual messages (remember those in horror?), humor, and even a little blood and gore dashed in for flavor. At no point is this collection a slog, and each story presents a new or interesting idea to keep you tearing through the book.

 

If this review seems short on criticism, it’s because this collection really does come together into a fully realized, cohesive collection. Far from being a random assortment of stories with a vague connection, each one feels labored over and deliberate, each a purposeful piece of a stunning whole.

 

In short, if you find yourself wanting a quintessential Halloween book that will sustain you until the next time the leaves fall, and have you jumping, gasping, laughing, and reminiscing in equal measure,  look no further than The End of Summer. Just maybe try reading with a light on.

Final Score: 9.5

Upright Beasts Review

Lincoln Michel seems determined to cut out his own corner of the literary world with his debut short story collection Upright Beasts, with “cut” being the operative word here. Michel’s stories are filled with hungry, ravenous animals, Lord of the Flies-level children, aspiring suiciders, violent teenagers, aliens that disgustingly alter the human form, and shambling zombie babies that will gladly take a chunk off your shoulder if you’re not careful. Almost every story deals with death or its inevitable approach, and certainly all ponder the line we walk every day between civilized human and letting our darker instincts take hold. The world of Upright Beasts is a strange and terrifying one, but the trip is altogether enjoyable, even if some stories clearly have more staying power than others.

Upright Beasts is divided into four beastly sections, each with its own vaguely defined logic for the stories contained therein: there’s “Upright Beasts,” which deals with heightened and distorted views of our world taken to frightening extremes, such as the suburban man who turns his suburb into a militarized zone to maintain the peace in his neighborhood. Next is “North American Mammals,” which deals with more “realistic” scenarios, but still with a cynical eye towards humanity that runs through the rest of the book. Next is “Familiar Creatures,” where Michel veers back into “genre” territory. These stories seem to share a common thread of displacement, with people attempting to come to terms with new surroundings and environments. Finally is the book’s briefest section, “Megafauna.” Only three stories are contained therein, but all deal with extraordinary outside forces: be they people or space aliens.

However, the title of the book itself is entirely apt for every story that is in this collection. Every story, in some way or another, delves deeply into the horrific and callus ways that people that can treat each other. For instance, while the highlight “Lawn Dad” may seem an almost fairy tale-like story of a father who slowly but surely becomes one with his lawn (in the most literal way possible), it’s clear that it also is a commentary on the way parents can slowly fade out of the lives of their children. What’s incredibly impressive is just how thematically cohesive this collection is. Throughout twenty-five stories, Michel takes aim at the human condition sharply and with an eye for our human failings. This may just be a long-winded way of saying that these stories work well as a collection, but as many short story collections seem sort of tossed together with whatever an author has laying around, this seems noteworthy.

However, one could argue that this also makes this book something of an exhausting read. There’s so much death and darkness that it almost threatens to swallow this collection whole, but Michel writes lightly enough and with such a sharp sense of wit that it’s entirely possible to finish this collection in one fell swoop. While it’s possible to recoil in disgust at the thought of a young boy being swallowed and living in the bellies of various animals throughout his lifetime, it’s hard to still not laugh out loud at the sheer ridiculousness of it. Other stories don’t have as light a touch, admittedly. When a young student is accidentally hanged as part of a school project, the weaker-willed reader might have the urge to put the book down, and that’s fair. However, Michel should be commended for his bold, take-no-prisoners approach.

As bold as his vision is, it should be noted that Michel doesn’t always hit the high notes he intends to. In a book of twenty-five stories, some are bound to be more noteworthy than others, but it’s to his credit that each and every one holds some sort of image or moment that still resonates after the book is closed. For instance, while “The Soldier” might seem a mere toss-off, the image of a mistreated dog howling angrily at the moon is still a powerful metaphor for a life that is seemingly suited for nothing but misery. Even stories that at first seem pointless or forgettable take on a life of their own when viewed from the lens of the book’s larger framework. It’s this dedication to his overall message that elevates even Michel’s weaker stories in this collection, making the whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Thankfully, however, Michel has far more hits than misses in this debut collection. One highlight is from the more literary section of this book, “North American Mammals,” which echoes strongly of Raymond Carver’s short story “So Much Water So Close to Home.” In it, the narrator’s husband finds a women’s dead body on their farm, and then what unfolds is something shocking, but largely understated. Michel takes what could be a “shock for shock’s sake” story and injects it with enough genuine human emotion and sense of loss that it becomes beautiful in the process. When the ending comes, the narrator’s actions seem outrageous, but wholly justified.

However, the best story comes in the form of the second to last entry “Dark Air,” an unconventional alien abduction tale. Not surprisingly, it deals with death, Cronenberg-esque body horror, possible infidelity, and a creepy hillbilly/hippie family. While it would be a disservice to any potential reader to disclose much else, suffice it to say that Michel handles the ensuing action with equal parts humor, surprising poignancy, and plenty of stomach churning images. What’s perhaps most striking is just how uplifting the story turns out to be by its end, as we see the sun peeking through the clouds after the horror that preceded it. It seems that, for as dark as Michel’s dawns can be, he still carries some hope for humanity. But then the last story ends (spoiler alert) with a woman bashing in the head of her now-zombified lover, so maybe Michel just wanted to bring us up to push us back down.

Whether you view Upright Beasts as an unforgivingly dark and cynical look at human nature or a dark but optimistic take on our baser urges will color how the collection as a whole is viewed. Whatever interpretation is chosen, one thing is clear: Upright Beasts heralds a fresh, uncompromising voice in literature.

Firewatch, “Genre” Fiction, and Plausibility

 

MASSIVE SPOILERS FOR FIREWATCH BELOW

Firewatch, the debut game from developer Campo Santo (made up of people whose credits include the Telltale Walking Dead games), is the story of Henry, a man trying to escape his terrible present by taking a job tending a forest shortly after the Yellowstone fires in 1988. A game of the oft-maligned “walking simulator” variety, you control Henry as he confronts unruly teenagers, hikes around the forest, and uncovers a mystery that may or may not have far-reaching implications outside of his little corner of the forest. The whole time you keep in touch with your boss Delilah via walkie talkie. Henry’s communications with Delilah are what truly make the game shine, as their interactions are equal turns funny, poignant, and frustrating. Meanwhile, the mystery of what exactly is going on looms on and Henry and Delilah may not make it out alive.

That last sentence will be clear hyperbole to anyone who has already finished Firewatch. The game sets up a potential scenario with Henry and Delilah being surveilled by shadowy operatives (government, alien, or whatever), but in the end we discover that all of this is misdirection. The real culprit of all of the weird goings on is, I shit you not, a dad whose son died accidentally in the forest and now lives in said forest to evade prosecution. Many outlets have dinged the story for falling apart at the end, and I place myself firmly in that camp (pun not intended). But why exactly does this ending seem so unsatisfying? Let’s investigate.

One aspect of this approach is that well, it’s just not a narratively cohesive explanation. During one segment, Henry discovers a fully fenced-in area with loads of expensive equipment, its sinister purpose never fully explained. At the time in the game, it helps solidify a paranoid view of the events happening, as the player can imagine any number of uses for such equipment. But then we find out that the “mastermind” is on-the-lam dad, and all of a sudden it raises a million logistical questions: how did this dad get all of this equipment out into the middle of the forest if he’s hiding out? How did he afford it? Was he concerned that vast, unknowable woods wouldn’t be enough of a cover so he had to concoct what amount to movie sets to throw people off of his trail? Did one man really install a chain-link fence in the middle of the forest? The mind boggles, as memories of Heavy Rain float to the surface (did a 250+ pound PI really crawl around in a sewer system strategically placing broken glass?). And none of it makes a lick of sense. Which leads me to my second point.

In literary circles, there’s a distinction (that is growing thinner every day, but I digress) between “literary” and “genre” fiction. Literary fiction falls firmly into the realm of the realistic, with “real” people dealing with “real” problems, with nary a laser blaster or unicorn to be seen. This contrasts with the somewhat arbitrary label of “genre” fiction: pretty much anything that isn’t 100% “possible.” Video games have, since their inception, trafficked in “genre” stories, full stop. No one will mistake Super Mario Brothers for a true story. However, narrative boundaries of video games have been pushed further and further, as more games do tackle straight-faced “literary” stories, with no real narrative kinks or special powers or abilities (or, for many, any “real” gameplay, but that’s an article for another time). Firewatch, God bless it, really wants to have its cake and eat it too in this regard. It wants to create a world where you can believe in (at the time) sci-fi/paranoid thriller elements, but wants to chicken out and give us a more “plausible” explanation instead. This more “plausible” payoff falls flat on its face. Clearly, Firewatch isn’t the first story of its kind to try to give a “real-world” explanation for its seemingly far-flung events. But the problem with Firewatch is that this explanation simply does not make sense, nor seem possible in the slightest. We have to accept the fact that this one man sees his son die, decides to live in the forest for the rest of his life, and has somehow constructed elaborate sets/props to continue this fantasy to scare away anyone who might discover his secret. It’s unbelievable at best, but Firewatch wants us to buy it hook, line, and sinker; the much more “realistic” explanation for Henry and Delilah’s paranoia. But what’s the other option? That Henry and Delilah are guinea pigs in some experiment? That doesn’t sound that crazy at all, right? Exactly! Which brings me to my final point.

Keep in mind, this game takes place in 1988. At that time, a far-reaching government conspiracy to monitor and track citizens in isolation might have seemed the stuff of science fiction. But here’s the problem: THAT story would have been so much more relevant and hard-hitting for today’s times. By subverting the “genre” explanation, Firewatch goes even further up its own asshole by expecting the player to buy an even more implausible explanation for the game’s events. Henry finding proof of government experiments to track and monitor people in isolation would be incredibly relevant to today’s over-surveilled world. Instead, the game just sort of shrugs and hopes we don’t poke the narrative bubble too hard. For as stunning as some of its writing is (mainly between Henry and Delilah), Firewatch could’ve actually benefitted from going a more video game-y path to its conclusion.

 

 

The Witch Review

Robert Eggers’ directorial debut The Witch seems to have quite a bit going against it from the start: it’s the first full-length movie coming from a costume designer, it hews (sometimes exhaustingly so) firmly to the conventions of its 1630’s time setting, it stars a largely no-name cast, and it’s being dumped in the relatively barren wasteland of February releases. But here’s the thing about all of those things: none of it matter, because the Witch is one of the finest horror films of the last ten or so years.

Opening in 1630’s New England (if the locale is more specific, I didn’t catch it), a family is forced out of their Puritanical village for reasons unknown. Something is mentioned about the “sin of pride,” but otherwise we don’t get a clear reason for why the the family, led by ineffectual patriarch William (Game of Thrones’ Ralph Ineson), is seemingly banished into the ominous New England countryside.

The family is rounded out by wife Katherine (Kate Dickie, also of Game of Thrones fame), oldest daughter Thomasin (a magnetic Anya Taylor-Joy, who I suspect we’ll be seeing a lot more of), son Caleb (Harvey Scrimshaw), and a pair of twins that will have you alternately welcoming and rejecting their presence, often in the same scene. There’s also a baby, but…well, I’ll just let you figure that out for yourself, but let me mention that overexposed peekaboo scene in the trailer probably ends a little differently than you might think.

Needless to say, shit starts getting weird quick. Like, real weird. But leave it to Eggers to make all of the strange goings on seem like a real, immediate threat and not so much horror fluff that it might have turned into under a different director. Much has been made of the Witch‘s historical accuracy and, without making it sound like a crutch, it really shines through to create a unique and compelling experience. As the viewer, we too are banished into the countryside along with William and his family, and we grow concerned when William can’t farm or hunt, fearing for the safety of our protagonists. The concerns of the family become our concerns because everything just feels so completely real and immediate. The all-natural lighting, the era-specific costumes, the dialogue (largely taken from diaries and historical records of that time)—all of it creates a singular experience that could’ve sagged under its own pretension in the hands of another filmmaker.

So it looks good and it sounds good, but is it actually scary? This is, after all, a horror movie we’re paying to see. And my answer to this is a tentative maybe. Individual mileage will vary depending upon how actually frightening you may find some of the film’s scares, but I will say that there’s a palpable sense of dread and foreboding that permeates every scene. And I mean that. Every. Single. Scene. Every scene feels as though something unspeakably horrible could happen at any moment. This is another side effect of the stunning attention to historical detail, I suspect, but there isn’t a single scene where I truly felt that I could relax as a viewer. So while I hesitate to call the film “scary,” I do think it works as horror due to how generally suffocating it is as a film experience (I mean this in the best way possible).

So, the big question, should YOU go see the Witch? I will say that you definitely should if you’re looking for a horror movie that not only gets under your skin, but challenges you as a viewer. Horror, for a genre that delights in bloodshed and torture, often has stiflingly puritanical morals. This is especially true of horror movies that deal with “spiritual battle,” with God on the side of objective good and the Devil on the side of objective bad. The Witch seems to ask you to dig a little deeper, daring you to question the benevolence of a god that would make a family live like this, and the malevolence of a power that would actually allow someone to escape such a life. In that regard, the Witch actually made me (gasp) think about the implications of its ending and dwell on it for days after my initial viewing. Not many films can boast that distinction, horror or no.

Final Score: 8.5