Writing by Jamie Evans

Tag: writing

  • A Wondrous Magic to Christmas

    Finding redemption with the festive spirit (and Rod Serling and Peter Cushing)

    ” The Night of the Meek” (The Twilight Zone Season 2, Episode 11)

    Henry Corwin in Santa costume, looking the worse for self-inflicted wear

    The Twilight Zone is inarguably one of television’s truly great series. For an anthology show it has a remarkable hit rate. Every such series had its duds but for this show, they are few and far between. Even the weakest episodes have something to them, a line of dialogue or a moment that sparkles. For this writer, Rod Serling is one of the most gifted writers the medium has ever had, and in addition to that was a compassionate person who used his work to connect audiences with their fellow humans, to illuminate the human condition, to encourage us to be better, to do better, to try again. The Twilight Zone often traded in stinging or stirring tales of fantasy, science fiction and sometimes horror. As with many shows, it also had its Christmas-themed episodes and it is one of them, “The Night of the Meek”, covered here.

    Title card for The Night of the Meek

    The macabre in Meek is people. The set up in the episode is following department store Santa and general sad sack Henry Corwin. Corwin doesn’t have much to look forward to other than his next drink. He lives in a ‘dirty rooming house’ and his world is one of hungry children and other ‘shabby’ people just like him. Corwin lives for his Santa routine but the shine has gone out of it.  His suit is old and worn and when he shows up too late and drunk with it for his gig, it’s over – he’s fired and ordered out of the store. Despite all of his woes, Corwin muses if he had one wish, it would be for the meek to actually see some rewards. When Corwin can’t even get back into the bar he frequents, he stumbles down an alleyway where the sound of sleigh bells are heard. 

    Corwin in his Santa costume in the department store, being berated by his boss

    In the alley, Corwin comes across a sack that he quickly discovers appears to have magical properties. It produces a seemingly never-ending stream of gifts. Whatever someone asks for, they get. His dream coming true, Corwin starts handing out gifts to the poor kids and down and out men nearby. The episode continues with this mix of melancholic reality and fantastical whimsy towards its hopeful conclusion.

    Corwin discovering a sack full of presents in a snowy alley

    In the episode, people are the worst. Everyone expects and looks for the worst in Corwin because that’s the type of guy they think he is. It’s the type of guy Corwin has come to think he is too, and it’s pretty obvious his idealism and hope is frayed and being drowned in a puddle of cheap booze.  Corwin is us – we want to believe in the best of people, but people make it pretty damn hard. Now, Serling had around 25 minutes an episode to do set-up, delivery and conclusion of his stories and so subtlety was not always the prime concern. The characters, Corwin included, are mostly broad sketches, with people like the shop manager Dundee being not much more than functional cliché. They’re ciphers for the point Serling is making about what Christmas can represent. 

    Corwin watching a young child enjoying a train track set up

    It can, if we let it, represent good will to each other, hope for the future and the unity such celebrations can bring.  If we let go of the hardened cynicism and the weariness, if we let such notions in, even if it’s only for one night we can believe that we’re more good than bad, that’s there something worth saving in us, that we can believe in magic. For many, that’s a hard thing to do in a world, in a world that tells us there’s no magic left, only bleakness and decline. In the time The Twilight Zone was first airing it was only 15 years or so since the end of WW2. It was before Vietnam, race riots, Watergate and innumerable other events conspired to convince even the most indefatigable optimist that we’re on a downward spiral as a species. 

    That’s not to say things were better then as many things were emphatically not. But it’s for this reason that we should arguably let a little magic into our lives. Believing in Santa Claus might have ended a long time ago for most of us but believing in each other, or that there is some goodness out there, is something we all need these days. And if anyone can convince you to believe in your bones that humans are redeemable, it would be Serling.

    Rod Serling in coat covered in totally real snow, speaking to camera

    As Rod himself puts it in the closing narration “There’s a wondrous magic to Christmas”, so here’s to Henry Corwin and here’s to The Twilight Zone and a momentary respite, a sliver of the brightest light in the darkness of winter.

    Cash on Demand

    Cash on Demand title card

    How does Cash on Demand (1961, dir. Quentin Lawrence) evoke a similar joy? Well, it’s not just the ideal Christmas movie but a reminder that, for those of us who might despair at humanity’s worst instincts more days than not, change is possible. Based on the play, it’s the tale of bank manager Harry Fordyce (Peter Cushing), a fussily fastidious man who rules over his branch not so much with a clenched fist but a puckered sphincter. The opening scenes set up the tight-knit team of staff in the bank as they await Fordyce’s arrival. When he does appear their anxious joviality is curtailed and it’s down to the business of money.

    Fordyce looking for flaws in the polished plaque outside the bank

    Not long after this, André Morell pulls up at the bank, his character Colonel Gore-Hepburn supposedly an insurance inspector but in fact a bank robber. Using threats and coercion, Gore-Hepburn forces the unravelling Fordyce to partake in robbing his own bank. Without giving anything away, the plot twists, new wrinkles are added and tension is ratcheted up. Throughout all this Cushing is wonderfully good, ensuring Fordyce is no cliche and imbuing him with humanity throughout. Morell matches him throughout as the smooth, assured, and ruthless bank robber. 

    Fordyce on the phone in his office as Gore-Hepburn looks on, his plan coming together

    Cash on Demand is a twist on A Christmas Carol. Fordyce might not be the wicked man Scrooge was, but he has forgotten what makes a person. He’s not mean to his staff so much as dismissive of their personhood and feelings, only focussing on the bank and profit. We know early on he has a child and wife he feels affection for, but that’s as far as human warmth goes for him. As Gore-Hepburn’s scheme to steal thousands of pounds unwinds, and Fordyce is forced to become part of the heist, he must confront what he has become, what is really important to him, and reconnect with the world he lives in. It’s an uplifting, very human film about hope and change and our ability for both that is just as needed in these modern times.

    Fordyce looking directly to camera, a concerned and unsettled look on his face

    The Christmas trappings aren’t window dressing either. The time of year the story is set is intrinsic to the mood and atmosphere of the piece and to Fordyce’s journey. Of course, it’s a fine film that could be shown at any time of year. But what it says about us as people is a classic Christmas message. If you want a beautifully judged thriller, full of quotable dialogue, with one great scene after another, excellent performances, and something to say about what it means to be alive, this is it.

  • The Art of the Silent Film Universe

    Whenever I sit down to a silent film or short, I know it’s going to feel like absolutely nothing else in the world of cinema, regardless of whether it’s a comedy, drama, horror, et al. Silent film is something completely unique. It’s long felt to me like a dreamworld of a kind, a doorway into another world of sensory sensation. There’s a fairly obvious difference between silent film and its sound-synced descendant, but it’s much more than just that. Finding a way to articulate this other than just using words like ‘dreamworld’ has been the hard part, because they don’t even begin to do the experience justice.

    Fortunately, for this piece I don’t have to rummage through my trusty bag of adjective clichés, because Ben Model has written what is already, in my opinion, one of the foundational texts for understanding cinema, and in this case, silent film. Model has been a silent film fan since his childhood. He turned this into a career as accompanist to thousands of showings of films and shorts across the world in the last four-plus decades, as well as introducing, lecturing on, and writing about silent film. Model is also a committed preserver of a huge range of silent film, too, with his label Undercrank Productions crowdfunding and producing invaluable releases of restored gems.

    In his new book, The Silent Film Universe, Model doesn’t want to give us a history of silent film or its performers and directors. After all, there are several classic books already out there on almost any aspect of the first few decades of film, should you want to explore. Instead, Model uses The Silent Film Universe to go into detail on just what it is that makes this form of the moving image so uniquely beguiling and enjoyable. It has been said that you cannot experience silent film in the way you might a talking picture, simply because it requires your full attention. Look away from the screen for a minute or two and you will have missed something vital. There will never be a silent film made for Netflix. It demands our investment.

    Model unpicks this relationship between viewer and film, what it asks of us as an audience, and the way it rewards us. The book covers how the lack of synced sound, the use of intertitles, the style of acting and performing, and the ways in which films are presented are essential elements that create something that stands completely on its own. These are not to be dismissed as just ‘old films’, they are vital and alive a century or more after they were made. Model’s biggest focus throughout is on cranking for shooting and frame speeds for performance and how this created an alchemy that is remarkable and not replicated anywhere else in the world of cinema. It is as deeply thought out and passionately argued a revelation on the process of creating – from production to the experience the audience has – as you will find in writing on film.

    Something that is clear from Model’s career and work is his love of silent film and also his belief that it is no thing of the past, but an art form that offers something to every successive generation that discovers it. It’s because of this that The Silent Film Universe is no dusty dissertation given a nice cover and put out for a narrow audience. Instead, the book is written in a knowledgeable but conversational way, as if Model is sitting across from you in a bar somewhere telling you how exciting and interesting silent film is in a way that sweeps you happily along. He’s also done the experimentation and research to support his theories on how silent film works and why it works. This is a book that expertly balances learning and love for its topic. He wants you to love and appreciate this wonderful universe as much as he does.

    If you have an interest in silent film or film in general and want to learn something revelatory about this beautiful, special art form, get this book. If you just enjoy reading something on a topic by someone who knows and loves what they are writing about, get this book. Ah, just get this book.

    You can buy The Silent Film Universe here: https://undercrankproductions.com/the-silent-film-universe/

  • Modern horror writing at its best

    I want to write a little bit about two recent book releases that share some thematic crossover and urge you to check them out. Both books are remarkable pieces of writing and deserve a wide audience. A fair warning: the books deal with gnarly subjects and this piece references them throughout, so if you’re put off by mentions of grief, illness, gore and the like… read no further. No spoilers, however.

    In Phengaris, we meet 17-year old Mark, a young man adrift. He is looking after his terminally ill mum, a parent with whom his relationship is conflicted to say the least, his dad disappeared years ago, and all Mark really wants to do is get high and tune out of the relentless noise of his life. He thinks he’s found the perfect spot in nearby Thurstrop Wood and an abandoned workshop yard. Unfortunately for Mark, something no longer human there has seen him and doesn’t want to let him go.

    Phengaris opens with a visceral description of a body mutilated by disease and something disturbingly unnatural. It sets the tone for what follows, as Mark becomes consumed by the mystery of Thurstrop Wood and how it connects to his family, revealing secrets that have been buried for years. There’s other things buried in the woods, too, and they are coming to the surface. Orridge writes with skill and empathy about the burden of youth, and of illness, and about the unforgiving way bodies attack themselves at the same time as the world around us weighs down on us. There’s a thread of ecological awareness, too, and a focus on the nature of parasitical behaviour.

    It’s also concerned with what it means to be human, and how family connections not even escapable by death bond us together for good and for ill. Orridge has a beautiful way with phrasing and illuminates the secondary and minor characters in a way that brings them vividly to life. Sadness and melancholy and loss knot their way through Phengaris, as does a quietly effective rage. It’s ambitious, passionately alive, and makes the personal deeply political.

    Fleischerei by Saoirse Ní Chiaragáin has some complimentary themes but is a radically different experience. In it, we are introduced to Órfhlaith, living in Berlin and working as a content moderator. Órfhlaith is a bloody ball of grief, guilt and self-loathing, punishing and exciting herself with masochistic fantasies. When she moves their focus onto her sickly, compellingly unreadable colleague Arnaud, the wall between her interior darkness and the world around her unravels. As their romance develops, they find in each other a shared yearning for emotional dislocation and physical mutilation. Órfhlaith just wants to know Arnaud, but is it ever really possible to know someone else, no matter how much a part of you they become?

    This is a troubling, affecting work. Intimacy throughout is a transgression that leads to violence and permanent scarring. It’s a confrontingly visceral book and will make you look at the concept of ‘meat’ substantially differently afterwards. It is also fearless about making bodies and consumption and grief defiantly, unapologetically political and challenging us to think about what that means.

    Fleischerei is putrid as it builds its grotesque concoction of smells, tastes, sensations and consumption. It’s about the interior as pungent reflection of what is outside of us, what is done to us. Again, this is a book concerned with what makes us human and what it is to be human, and offers no easy answers, preferring instead challenges to expected narrative conventions. An unrelentingly brave, compassionate work of art.

    Phengaris and Fleischerei are both outstanding, personal, feminine, bleakly beautiful works of modern horror writing at its best. I highly recommend you experience them.

  • Motherfucker

    (A short fiction)

    I have been waiting too long for you to come and pick me up. It’s cold and wet; this mist rain is papercutting my eyes. Getting darker too, and the cars passing by now have their headlights on. The change from day to night usually creeps up on me, so I don’t notice until I look up and everything is shaded with black. But headlights jar my brain into paying attention in a way I don’t care for. 

    Where are you? 

    I don’t want to get into another stranger’s car, but I’ll do it if you’re not coming. 

    If you’re trying to hitch a ride and you’re not pretty, it’s hard fucking work. I stick out my thumb and try to look as pathetic as possible. My shirt jacket is getting soaked through and my hair is getting welded to my forehead. The rain is making me blink, like I’m crying. It’s going to be some fucking psycho that picks me up, but if he’s got a warm heater running, I’ll take my chances.

    Where are you?

    A few cars drive by me, splashing my boots and the bottom of my jeans with water, until a flatbed truck pulls over. I run up to the door and don’t even look in before I open it and slide into the seat, slipping my backpack between my legs. I look over at whatever abomination took pity on me. He’s twice my age, hair growing out of every hole in his head, even his eyes, I swear to God.

    “Not a good road to be thumbing a lift on, buddy,” he says. 

    “I know, I know,” I say, looking down at my hand gripping the bag’s top loop. “I’m just glad someone stopped. Thank you.”

    I look up and catch him giving me a disgusted appraisal. He turns his head to the road and pulls the truck back into the descending night.

    “Been a few people killed along here. I mean, there’s been lots over the years, but more than a few recently.”

    I let his statement hang in the air long enough for both of us to move on.

    “I only need the next town along, if you’re going that way?”

    “I’ll drive through it,” he says, and it sounds like a threat somehow.

    Where are you? 

    I was sick of waiting but I think this is a bad idea.

    This guy isn’t a talker, thankfully, and we slip into silence. The sound of his windscreen wipers scrapes the glass like some doomsday metronome. 

    I sweep my hair back with one hand and rub my palm down my damp jeans like it’ll somehow dry it. I’m starting to get warm now, my clothes still clinging to me, but not enough now I can’t feel I haven’t had a shower or bath in days. Not since we argued. Not since you told me it was done. We were done. You said being with me was like a slow suicide. 

    Do you remember when we were new and I got lost so easily? You told me whatever happened between us and wherever I ended up, you would find me. Come get me.

    Where are you?

    I hear the guy trying to clear his throat like a fist is stuck in it. He can’t do it. It starts to sound like choking. When I look over at him, he’s already going purple. The truck drifts to the side of the road, running over gravel towards the ditch. I feel the lurch in my stomach as we tip into it and grind to a halt, the truck deep enough in to nearly be on its side. 

    Dirty water starts collecting around me. The guy is gone now, slumped towards me, looking down at me like some distended old ventriloquist puppet, only his seatbelt stopping him from crushing me down into the black water that’s filling up the cab, reaching up for my head. I don’t know how I’m going to get out of this one. 

    I have been waiting too long for you to come and pick me up. 

    It’s cold and wet; this mist rain is papercutting my eyes. Getting darker too, and the cars passing by now have their headlights on. The change from day to night usually creeps up on me, so I don’t notice until I look up and everything is shaded in black. But headlights jar my brain into paying attention in a way I don’t care for. 

    Where are you? 

    I don’t want to get into another stranger’s car, but I’ll do it if you’re not coming. 

    (This story inspired in part by Greet Death’s song ‘Motherfucker’)

    https://greetdeath.bandcamp.com/track/motherfucker