Are books dead?
Yours truly (right) signs copies of "Full Spectrum 4" with Ray Aldridge (left) at a signing event at the Waldenbooks at Santa Rosa Mall in Mary Esther, Fla., in 1993. I don't know who took this photo.
I have been writing since the eighth grade. I began selling professionally in the mid–’90s and as recently as last year made the finals of the British Fantasy Award.
Around 2000 I began to wonder if there was any point in continuing. My sense was books were headed in the same direction as newspapers and magazines – marginalized by the web and video games and cell phones … and I guess the general illiteracy that seems to be overtaking the world.
I’ve dedicated a significant portion of my life to learning the use of words as an art form and lately I miss doing that. I suppose it has something to do with work, which has gone from providing an outlet for my creativity to confronting me with a relentless assembly line of button–pushing and software configuring.
But again, is there any point? I pose this question to the professional writers on my friends list who are still writing and, presumably, selling. Are there markets for novels? Do writers get paid for their work? Is the book an end or merely a means to an end, like a movie deal?
I would like to start writing again but I don’t want to do that if it means giving away my work or worse, having it lie fallow in my computer.
I know. That violates every tenet of the artist who is compelled to create regardless of markets and advances and licensing rights issues. Still, when I hear that Bantam Books has been shut down and mid–list writers are being muscled out of the business I wonder if my time wouldn’t be better spent at the local vocational–technical school learning a trade.
So … if you have any thoughts on the subject and would like to comment, I’d appreciate the input.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
ChatGPT
I haven’t seen my friend Dale since we were in middle school. He’s married now, to Danita, and I get a Christmas card from them every year. It just arrived today.
Danita included their e-mail address so I decided to write them a long, long note. This is what I wrote:
Dear Dale and Danita,
As you’ve probably figured out I’m a crappy correspondent. I guess typing at work all day discourages me from coming home and typing all night. Still, I should have done a better job of keeping in touch.
Let’s see, Dale, I think it was 1969 or 1970 that I last saw you – a lot of catching up to do. And Danita, we’ve never met so this will all be new and probably boring as hell. I’ll try to keep the last 40 years as short as possible.
When we moved across town to the “roach shack” as Dad called it I was forced to switch from Pryor Junior High to Meigs. I hated that place. I didn’t know anybody there and the school was run-down … but then so was Pryor. But it was a run-down I was familiar with. Luckily I moved to Choctawhatchee High School the next year, which seemed like heaven compared to Meigs. Choctaw was air-conditioned and had working equipment. Plus, I renewed friendships with some of my pals from Pryor. I took three years of ROTC at Choctaw – not a fun time to be seen marching in uniform as the Vietnam War was in full, hellish swing and everybody hated the military. I can’t count the number of times I was cussed and spit at. But my grades improved dramatically at Choctaw and I even came in second for a scholarship. While I didn’t have a car I got to do some fun things – for instance, a group of us traveled to Cape Canaveral to watch the Apollo 17 moon mission blast off.
I graduated from Choctaw in 1973 and went to OWCC for two years. I majored in playing spades, and minored in smoking cigarettes. My grades were pretty terrible but I wasn’t too worried – I was paying for it, having worked summer jobs on an assembly line at Texas Instruments, washing dishes at a restaurant or delivering newspapers. The latter two jobs were nightmares but the TI job was actually quite good. I paid for almost all of my expenses at OWCC with the money I made that summer.
I then attended the University of West Florida for two years. I majored in communication arts with a minor in English education. I was really into writing by then and wanted some kind of job that would allow me to write, though newspapers weren’t on my radar. My plan was to get a teaching job and write novels at night. UWF was hard because I had to commute from Fort Walton Beach every day. That meant a constant scramble for car pools, or borrowing Dad’s truck. I had run out of money by then so Mom and Dad floated my tuition. Later, when I tried to pay them back, they refused. I sure felt guilty at the time.
During my last quarter at UWF I did my student teaching, and you’ll never guess at what school: Pryor. It was strange because some of my old teachers during the seventh and eighth grades were still there. It was weird sitting in the teachers’ lounge with them. I became the master of the mimeograph machine and soon everybody wanted me to run off their copies for them. But I was less successful in the classroom – I couldn’t control the kids, who looked at me and treated me as though I were a slightly older version of themselves. I guess that was true. They were all 14 and 15 – I was 20. Needless to say I received a terrible evaluation from my supervising teacher and spent the next two years substitute teaching and fruitlessly searching for a teacher’s job.
Finally in 1979, with only a few bucks in the bank, I was offered a job at the Playground Daily News. I had become involved with the Fort Walton Beach Tennis Club and wrote their weekly column. I dropped it off each week at the Daily News. They had an opening for a police reporter. I wasn’t interested in that and turned it down, but later they offered me a job as a copy editor and I accepted it. I planned to stay only through the summer.
Something weird happened, however. I got used to having a regular paycheck. Dad insisted I buy my own vehicle – I was still borrowing his truck! – and my sister sold me her old Pontiac Astre. Now I had car payments. So I stayed.
My job required that I design pages, and I quickly discovered I had a knack for that. The job actually started to be fun. After my first three months the chief of the copy desk departed and I moved up to second in command. I began laying out the front page and the local leadoff page, in addition to inside news pages. I also trained others who came to work on the copy desk. Life became a comfortable routine of going to work Sunday through Thursday from 2 p.m. to midnight, and playing tennis Friday and Saturday. I got to be a pretty good tennis player and before it was all said and done I had won about 50 or 60 tournaments, and at one point had a state ranking. Bear in mind this was strictly at the club B-level. John McEnroe had nothing to fear from me.
Three years into my job I was promoted to design editor and had four other people working for me. I remained in that position for a long time, though I forget exactly how long. We won several awards for page design. In 1987 I redesigned the Daily News and we kept that design until 2006, an unusually long run for a design concept. It worked well.
It was during that time I had my only real relationship, with my girlfriend Sandee. We dated about three years and it seemed inevitable we would get married, but things didn’t work out and I didn’t seriously date anyone after that.
Throughout all this I maintained an interest in writing fiction. I had begun to write short stories when we moved to the “roach shack” in 1969. I sold my first story professionally in 1987, then a poem, to “Amazing Stories,” in 1989. But it wasn’t until 1993 that my writing career really took off. I sold a script to Marvel Comics for their “Hellraiser” series of books based on the Clive Barker movie, and a short story to Bantam Books’ “Full Spectrum” anthology. Afterwards I sold a number of short stories and comic book scripts to publishers like Pocket Books, DAW, Donald I. Fine, Barnes & Noble, Penthouse Comix and Penguin-Putnam, to name a few. My first novel, “Dead Heat,” was published in 1995 and won the International Horror Guild Award for best first novel. It was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. I’ve also had stories in anthologies that won the Stoker and the World Fantasy Award, and just this year was a finalist for the British Fantasy Award. I published two more books, “The Uninvited” in 2000 and just last year, “Black Tide.” I just sold the movie rights to that book and while it hasn’t been greenlighted for a film, I continue to hope that will happen.
Meanwhile at work, I was promoted to assistant managing editor in 1993. The newsroom was restructured in the early 2000s and I became the features editor, then in February of this year I graduated to online editor. I was recently named the assistant editor of the newsroom.
That all sounds very lofty but the truth is changes in the industry have not been kind to newspapers. Our staff has been cut dramatically and while I still have a job, we have fewer reporters than we did when I started at the Daily News in 1979. By the way, the name of the paper has been changed to the Northwest Florida Daily News. Our website continues to experience good growth. When I started as online editor the site recorded a monthly page-view average of just over 2 million; now it is closer to 3 million, and sometimes over that.
Life for me has become fairly quiet. In my 20s and 30s I was a bit of a partier and Del’s house was always Ground Zero for whoever wanted to go out and have a good time. Now, I am content to come home, get some work done, have a few beers and kick back.
Back in the early ’90s I had the big idea of adopting a couple of cats from the local animal shelter. Those cats were with me a long time. Maggie died of renal failure in 2005, and Pavlov is suffering from the same condition right now. After he goes I doublt I’ll be getting any more pets – the sadness of watching them go through this is too much!
I have two more novels in the works and I’m hopeful the day will come when I can write full time. I’m not sure there’ll be a market for them but it’s something I enjoy doing and I can’t think of a better way to spend my retirement – grubbing around in the dirt and writing.
My dad died in 1998 but Mom is still going strong. In fact, she just bought a new car – a Nissan Versa – which should serve her well as gas prices start to inch back upward. I have a clunky old Nissan Pathfinder which I can’t bear to part with, and a 2006 Scion tC.
My sister Pat lives in Crestview with her husband, George. She has three kids: Christopher, a recording studio technician, and Michael, who’s in the Air Force Reserve and is married. He has three kids. Pat’s oldest is Liz, who lives in Utah and has a son. My other sister, Sandie, lives in Ohio with her husband, Frank. They have one daughter, Susan, who’s a doctor and married to Dan. They have two boys.
And that’s it! Quite a mouthful, huh? You should drop me a line and let me know how life has been treating you the past 40 years.
OK, time to go. There’s something in the fridge with my name on it.
Take care,
Del
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Klaatus (Keanu Reeves) arrival on Earth via a giant sphere, triggers a global upheaval.
Image courtesy of 20th Century Fox.
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“The Day the Earth Stood Still,” starring Keanu Reeves, Jennifer Connelly, Kathy Bates, Jaden Smith, and John Cleese. Directed by Scott Derrickson, 103 minutes, rated PG-13.
Mladen’s take
Add the recently released re-make of “The Day the Earth Stood Still” to the ever-growing list of hokey films about redemption.
In fact, if you’re tired of watching Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer and his dwarf friend discover that they’re wonderful beings no matter what anyone else believes, consider “The Day the Earth Stood Still” as alternative holiday viewing fare. Here, the whole of humanity is redeemed.
There are no subtleties in this sci-fi movie.
Klaatu, the alien portrayed by Keanu Reeves, arrives aboard a cloudy, sparkling sphere. He’s an interstellar diplomat without portfolio sent by a god-like cabal of deep-space civilizations.
Klaatu’s mission is to evaluate Earth’s health. The prognosis ain’t good.
It isn’t too long before he tells astrobiologist and unwitting ally Helen Benson, played by Jennifer Connelly, that extra-galactic help would be needed to save the planet.
Benson assumes that means helping humanity but eventually figures out she’s mistaken. Klaatu had concluded that the only way to save Earth is by eradicating mankind.
The universal diplomat, protected by GORT, a very impressive gigantic automaton comprised of nano-sized wasps behaving as a single being, initiates Operation Roach Motel after explaining to Benson that, in essence, humanity is a cosmic error.
Meanwhile, what does the U.S. Defense Department do when it encounters hyper-intelligent, unbelievably technologically sophisticated entities from distant worlds? It tries to kill them, of course.
Throughout the movie, Klaatu or GORT turn military target acquisition devices, laser illuminators and high-performance aircraft against the troops using them. The aliens – masters of the electro-magnetic spectrum, severe traumatic injury repair, pure reason, and unemotive faces – gain control of the weapons systems by wireless hacking.
It takes Benson’s unceasing effort to protect her belligerent young stepson and a brief exchange of mathematical equations and a little conversation with a Nobel Prize-winning scientist for Klaatu to start recognizing that humanity ain’t all bad.
It seems – and this has never, ever, been expressed in other movies, books, poems, pamphlets, hieroglyphics or pre-Sumarian script – that humanity can become its best only after demonstrating its worst. The Nobel laureate argues that mankind has some kind of intrinsic sense that will let it know when there has been enough bloodletting and destruction of the environment, as well as the moral fortitude to correct those mistakes when the time comes.
Klaatu starts seeing the microscopic good among the overwhelming evil around him and reverses his decision to obliterate all traces of humanity. The mechanism for scraping clean the Earth’s surface is the neatest visual part of the movie. GORT dissolves into a swarm of flying nano-bots that consumes everything in its path, organic or inorganic.
The swarm is one of a few transparently biblical references in “The Day the Earth Stood Still.” Hell, at one point Klaatu even walks on water. Hallelujah.
“The Day the Earth Stood Still” is an OK movie, probably worth the price of a matinee ticket. But, I’m worried about Reeves. Come on, man, next time give me something as spectacular and revolutionary as “The Matrix.”
Del’s take
It isn’t the Earth that’s standing still – it’s Hollywood.
Talk about a movie that didn’t need remaking. “The Day the Earth Stood Still” circa 1951 is a Robert Wise classic that to this day presents a quietly dignified message about the follies of war.
“The Day the Earth Stood Still” circa 2008 is a diabetic coma-inducing fried Snickers bar of a mess, covered with sugar-dot cliches and gluey nuggets of contrived melodrama – all of it wrapped in a cloying caramel blanket of unconvincing CGI.
I’m still trying to figure out which cliché most nauseates me – the save-the-environment cliché, the racial-harmony cliché, the empowered woman cliché, the all-government-employees-are-evil cliché, the stupid-military cliché … see what I mean? One more cliche and you’d have a C-bomb big enough to do the aliens’ work for them.
Most of the characters in “The Day the Earth Stood Still” are cardboard cut-outs with Keanu Reeves winning the Oscar for Best Performance by a Stoned-Out Quualude Refugee. The lone exception is Will Smith’s kid, Jaden, who plays the rebellious and disrespectful stepson of Jennifer Connelly’s Helen Benson character (has there ever been a stepchild who liked his new mom or dad?).
Let’s not talk about logic flaws … well heck, let’s do.
Here’s the deal: The aliens have come to Earth because there are few habitable planets in the galaxy and humanity is ruining this one. To fix everything the aliens plan to unleash a biblical horde of tiny robots that will dismantle mankind molecule by molecule, restoring the earth to pristine form … presumably to serve as home base for a future alien megalopolis.
Stop and think about it – if E.T. has that kind of technology, why not unleash it on an uninhabitable world, making it habitable? Science calls the process “terraforming,” a piece of cake for Klaatu and pals.
But then there’d be no movie – albeit a stupid movie, and be $8 to the richer. And I could use that $8 to make the world a better place so we’d never again be afflicted with Keanu Reeves.
Or I could just buy beer to wash away the taste of this nasty movie.
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a journalist and author.
It was like climbing out of bed to discover that sometime during the night the sun had come out, melting just enough of the snow to reveal something you thought you had lost.
In this case, a magazine that featured articles.
Not factoids, text bites, or quick hits.
Actual, honest-to-God articles that sprawled across glossy page after page, the words unwinding like bird tracks across a field of fresh, downy flakes.
What delicious warmth in the long winter of my discontent. I sat back and started to read, and as I did so I felt my brain beginning to thaw, the sweating ice cracking and falling away in noisy chunks to reveal the succulent pink flesh of contemplation.
Good God. What was I doing? Text messages needed sending, e-mails answered, blogs posted and TV shows DVRed and videos edited and games played and songs downloaded and .. and. …
Screw it. I was reading. Wasting half an hour of my life on the thoughts of another. As the storm of technology howled unanswered, I basked in my snuggly oasis and allowed my mind to slip away from the present.
What an unaccustomed wonder this was and how sad I had ever set it aside – except I hadn’t set it aside, at least not in spirit. As my thoughts turned from reading to not reading I began to realize I had been stupid and lazy. I had seen this technological nor’easter approaching many years ago and did nothing to prepare. Now I was stuck.
Was it fear? I asked myself. Fear of being left behind by those immaculate creatures on park benches, their laptops humming with stock trades and pirate videos from the Beijing biterati? Would I never babble into a cell phone and bark orders to the car stereo, or sit in a restaurant wearing a Bluetooth-enabled earpiece and ignore my dinner mates to chat with Sophie in Bucharest? Would I become the source of pitying stares, like the “old people” I know who cannot customize a MySpace page or attach photos to their telephone contacts?
Would I become irrelevant?
Or was I merely seduced by all the talk and glitter – buy this device, go to this Web site, join the 21st century and multitask, or your life will no longer hold meaning?
My life is not meaningless but I think it odd and somewhat ominous that I clearly remember events from my unwired youth but, were it not for my blog, cannot recall much of what I did last year. I know that my days began around 6 and ended at midnight.
I know I was online.
I know I was not very happy.
When I was a kid I read – books that promised a future of flying cars, labor-saving gadgets and a race of poets and philosophers who would no longer discriminate or persecute or fight wars.
It hasn’t worked out that way.
The future has become a place where people no longer think because they have no time to think. They are busy doing more with less, grimly slogging through the demands technology has placed upon us, economic and cultural. The time people spent preparing dinner, meeting their neighbors and, yes, reading to their children, has been replaced by “customer care” live chats, inscrutable documentation, and the insipid prattle of wireless and online “dialogue.”
To paraphrase Garrison Keillor, technocracy has bestowed a profound ugliness on the land, and it would make you ugly too.
I am tired of hearing that people no longer read. I am tired of watching newspapers fail and turn to America’s inner 12-year-old for salvation. I am tired of buying a magazine that publishes nothing meatier than three paragraphs.
And mostly I am tired of hearing people ask: What has gone wrong?
Isn’t it obvious? We grapple with issues like crime, addiction, war, illiteracy, and turn to Big Brother for answers. Yet it is Little Sister, corporate America, that pimps and sells and tells us to click here for solutions.
Stupidly, and lazily, we click.
The written word is an art form. More importantly it is a discipline – to produce and consume. It requires cognitive shoveling, and that is the very thing that cannot be done when one is distracted by every little blinking, blaring, pulsating thing.
As we frantically scrabble for some hint of Warholian worth in this wired world, the distraction never stops flying.
We have turned on, tuned in and dropped out, but Timothy Leary must be tripping in his grave. Our grip on this world has become a fat wallowing in narcissism encouraged by the people who give us concealer and star status on YouTube.
Meanwhile, it’s a damn cold day outside. But I am warming myself by a fire, about to throw on another log, maybe a collection of essays or even a book.
As the freezing white pixels swirl around me.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
Photo courtesy of Del Stone Jr.
This morning I took Pavlov to the vet and she had The Talk with me.
The Talk amounted to this: If at any moment after today I look into his eyes and decide he’s had enough she would support my decision.
So. My old friend’s life is in my hands.
I am giving him double the insulin and double the fluids I was before. He has three kinds of food he can choose from. He gets a massage/brushing every day, a laxative to keep him from becoming constipated, and antibiotics for a persistent respiratory infection. Apart from that there’s nothing I can do.
He spends his day crouched on the Polo beach towel by the door to my office. He still eats, drinks and poops but that’s about it. Sometimes he will visit me on the couch but he always retires to the floor behind the stereo.
From a human perspective that’s not much of a life, but for a cat it may be exactly what he wants right now.
I don’t think he’s suffering. He doesn’t look like he’s in pain. But I can see he’s tired, maybe too tired. I don’t know.
Once before I said I’d give him a week. Sure enough he bounced back. But the news today suggests he may have used up all the reservoirs of strength he’s been running on.
We’ll see how he’s doing at the end of the week. I’ve got to give the insulin a chance to work.
If it doesn’t, however, then I guess I will do what a friend would do.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, Ello and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
My friend Denise believes I should get out of journalism. She thinks I could make it as a fiction writer.
Making it as a fiction writer has long been a dream for me. For the rest of the world it’s been a nightmare, which is a crude way of saying New York and Hollywood haven’t beaten a path to my door. Yes, I’ve sold a few books, short stories and comic book scripts. But if you took every penny I’ve made from writing fiction and lumped it into a single check, I could probably muster a pared-down existence for six months.
Denise frequently e-mails me subtle reminders of the problems plaguing my industry. The latest, from TechCrunch, is titled: “Newspaper death spiral continues.”
I confess to a certain morbid curiosity about articles like this. I suppose there’s a kind of pleasure in being able to say “I told you so.”
I began to suspect something was wrong in 1995 when newspapers were making money hand over fist and increasing their circulation by healthy margins. Nobody wanted to hear the sky was falling.
But the web simply made too much sense. I couldn’t understand the logic, for instance, of publishing several pages of stock listings when the information was available with the click of a mouse. Or weather boxes. Or sports agate.
I was told that not everybody owns a computer, or that few people enjoy reading online. Computers are not portable, they said. You can’t take a computer to the beach, but you can take a newspaper.
Well, guess what?
People are reading at their computers. And they are reading on cell phones or devices like the Kindle, both of which can be taken to the beach. Habits change, and so do population demographics, which is a sterile euphemism for “death.” The generation that preferred receiving its information from a static artifact is dying off.
And the information transaction itself has changed. People are no longer willing to plod through long dissertations jumped to inside pages. They want their news quickly and efficiently, which is what the web is all about – the rapid and efficient delivery of information.
Fine, print media responded. We will simply migrate to the web.
It’s a good plan, and the virtues are obvious. Publishing on the web means no more circulation department. No more press crew, or press, or the staggering kilowatts of electricity required to run it. No more messy ink and no more warehouses filled with rolls of paper imported from China. No more mailrooms stacked with inserts and people to insert them. No more loading dock foremen or propane-powered forklifts to carry them to the delivery people who will hurl your morning newspaper into the azalea bushes.
The web is print media’s ace in the hole. As convergence ties together your TV, computer, radio, stereo and cell phone into a single device, newspapers will compete with – and conquer – broadcast media due to their superior information-gathering capabilities, i.e., their reporters.
But “Newspaper death spiral continues” confirmed a suspicion I have felt since the late ’90s: Are print media going about this transition the right way?
The gist of the article was this: Print media ad sales have been declining for 10 straight quarters. Total advertising revenue for newspapers in the third quarter of 2008 was down 18.11 percent compared to last year. More disturbing was that 3Q ad revenue for newspaper web sites was down 3 percent over last year, the second quarter in a row that such a decline was recorded.
This might be attributable to the overall economic meltdown for which 2008 will be remembered. But it might also represent a fundamental flaw in the approach to online migration by print media entities.
If my own browsing habits are typical of the web user, I would say this: Most internet users only skim the surface of what is available at a web site. They look at the landing page but rarely explore the innards of the site. Also, they are deterred from exploration by the site’s static environment, i.e., the appearance that not much has changed since the last time they visited.
That’s a problem for newspaper web sites because probably 95 percent of what’s available doesn’t appear on the front page. Link galleries and such don’t seem to make much difference, and I base this on being able to see what people look at on my newspaper’s web site.
What browsers respond to are images or story links that appear on the top half of the landing page. The headline must be written in such a way as to ignite curiosity. Everything else is doomed.
So. How do you get browsers to look at the remaining 95 percent of content?
Balkanize your web site.
In migrating to the web print media entities have tried to emulate their print products by placing everything under a single umbrella. The thinking is that web surfers seek information the same way print customers seek information. For decades the printed version of a newspaper has carried discrete sections – news, local news, sports, features, business, and so forth.
That probably works fine for a rolled-up and flung-into-the-azalea-bushes product, but it’s not the way people surf the web.
Search engines allow web browsers to find exactly what they want where they want it, and a site that specializes in a subject – say, prep sports in a particular region – will do better than a web site that tunes its attention to a multitude of subjects, prep sports among them.
This approach will give information providers a much more effective “bang for their buck.” It provides browsers with an opportunity to find what they want without having to explore a labyrinth of drop-down menus and links, and allows newspapers to charge more for their advertising – the primary revenue driver for print products (most people believe subscriptions bring in the most money for newspapers, but it is in fact ad rates that produce the lion’s share of income … this rate is usually determined by “page views” of the site).
The cost of hosting of separate web sites for each section of a newspaper should fall within the means of most print products. With proper care and culture they should prosper.
Also, newspapers should give some thought to the idea of changing up the presentation of their information on the web on a daily basis. It is a given that the front page of a newspaper will look different every day, depending on the stories and art placed there. Why should it be any different for the web? Variety in design, coupled with a standing architecture of surrounding elements, will give the site a daily freshness browsers will be unable to resist.
So I think it’s too early to declare the “death spiral” for newspapers. Given the right approach, newspapers should be able to position themselves as the dominant medium for information delivery.
It might not be a rolled-up stack of paper flung into the azaleas, but it should meet the needs of everyone involved.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
ChatGPT
This Christmas I will have time to rediscover the spirit of the season.
I won’t be shopping.
Instead, I will be snug in my toasty house – until the madly spinning electric meter forces the thermostat down to 62 – as I tell myself that steaming mug of Sweet-N-Low flavored tap water is really hot chocolate. I will roll pennies. I will argue with cell phone “customer care representatives” about reducing my minutes. I will submit to the ignominy of lowering my online connection speed.
The short of it? I am afraid.
Which is odd, because I am not unemployed. In fact I have a full-time job, one that pays a respectable salary and comes with benefits. Until recently I was able to pay bills, add money to savings, subscribe to magazines, even take a trip when vacation time rolled around. I never carried a balance on my credit cards and I almost always paid cash for my purchases.
I still pay bills, add money to savings, and never carry a balance on my credit cards. But the magazine subscriptions are out, as are vacation trips. I have reduced my TV cable to the 24-channel bare bones option, and the landline is gone.
Worse, extravagant gifts are a thing of Christmas past – and when I say “extravagant” I mean the box set of Season 3 of “24.”
How did this happen? Well, it was all very subtle.
The perks and bonuses I had come to expect slowly dried up. They amounted to only $100 here, or $200 there. They were welcome but not essential to my existence, or so I thought.
The price of gasoline nudged ever higher, propelled at times by hurricanes or futures speculation or supply and demand. The price of food became ridiculous – five skimpy plastic bags in my shopping cart amounted to an $80 ordeal. Utilities crept higher, abetted by taxes, as did insurance in hurricane-ravaged Florida.
But it was the “little” things too. The cost of pressing a pair of pants jumped from $2 to $4. Soft drinks from a machine became $1. Text messages went from a nickel to a dime.
And that’s how it happened – in nickels and dimes – until I noticed the checking account balance drawing lower and lower no matter how much money I threw at it.
Now, things go undone, things that never went undone. The truck needs a new window-washer pump and the exhaust manifold is making that awful clacking sound that means another $500 infusion of TLC will be necessary to silence it. All those watermarks on the ceiling left by Hurricane Ivan will stay there awhile longer. My jeans still bear the red-and-white livery of Tommy Hilfiger, so popular in the early 2000s and so glaringly out of style now. Not a damn thing I can do about that, either.
But what I hate about this slow economic apocalypse is that I can’t buy cool Christmas presents for my family and friends. I am one of those bizarre people who actually enjoys shopping, wrapping gifts, placing them in boxes fresh from Office Max and shipping them across country. Now, I’m afraid to buy stamps for Christmas cards.
That’s not an unreasonable fear. My money market accounts are earning a whopping 2 percent interest. Since January my 401(k) has lost about 40 percent of its value. Predictions are that by the time I retire Social Security will be insolvent, and I have no guarantee a company pension will be forthcoming. Yet the cost of living will spiral higher and higher.
The government wants me to spend money. It’s almost a patriotic duty – revitalize the economy with my purchases of “High School Musical” digital cameras and Transformer educational toys. They may even send me a check to jump-start the process.
Well, if they do send me a check, I’ll tell you where it’s going: straight into my checking account to pay bills.
Meanwhile, I hope my family and friends will forgive the $5 used DVD from MovieStop, or the heartfelt but cost-effective note in the 24-for-a-dollar cards from Walmart.
Because while it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas, it’s beginning to feel a lot like the Great Depression.
About the author:
Del Stone Jr. is a professional fiction writer. He is known primarily for his work in the contemporary dark fiction field, but has also published science fiction and contemporary fantasy. Stone’s stories, poetry and scripts have appeared in publications such as Amazing Stories, Eldritch Tales, and Bantam-Spectra’s Full Spectrum. His short fiction has been published in The Year’s Best Horror Stories XXII; Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine; the Pocket Books anthology More Phobias; the Barnes & Noble anthologies 100 Wicked Little Witch Stories, Horrors! 365 Scary Stories, and 100 Astounding Little Alien Stories; the HWA anthology Psychos; and other short fiction venues, like Blood Muse, Live Without a Net, Zombiesque and Sex Macabre. Stone’s comic book debut was in the Clive Barker series of books, Hellraiser, published by Marvel/Epic and reprinted in The Best of Hellraiser anthology. He has also published stories in Penthouse Comix, and worked with artist Dave Dorman on many projects, including the illustrated novella “Roadkill,” a short story for the Andrew Vachss anthology Underground from Dark Horse, an ashcan titled “December” for Hero Illustrated, and several of Dorman’s Wasted Lands novellas and comics, such as Rail from Image and “The Uninvited.” Stone’s novel, Dead Heat, won the 1996 International Horror Guild’s award for best first novel and was a runner-up for the Bram Stoker Award. Stone has also been a finalist for the IHG award for short fiction, the British Fantasy Award for best novella, and a semifinalist for the Nebula and Writers of the Future awards. His stories have appeared in anthologies that have won the Bram Stoker Award and the World Fantasy Award. Two of his works were optioned for film, the novella “Black Tide” and short story “Crisis Line.”
Stone recently retired after a 41-year career in journalism. He won numerous awards for his work, and in 1986 was named Florida’s best columnist in his circulation division by the Florida Society of Newspaper Editors. In 2001 he received an honorable mention from the National Lesbian and Gay Journalists Association for his essay “When Freedom of Speech Ends” and in 2003 he was voted Best of the Best in the category of columnists by Emerald Coast Magazine. He participated in book signings and awareness campaigns, and was a guest on local television and radio programs.
As an addendum, Stone is single, kills tomatoes and morning glories with ruthless efficiency, once tied the stem of a cocktail cherry in a knot with his tongue, and carries a permanent scar on his chest after having been shot with a paintball gun. He’s in his 60s as of this writing but doesn’t look a day over 94.
Contact Del at [email protected]. He is also on Facebook, twitter, Pinterest, tumblr, TikTok, and Instagram. Visit his website at delstonejr.com .
James Bond (DANIEL CRAIG) and Camille (OLGA KURYLENKO) walk through the Bolivian desert. Location: Chile
Image courtesy of MGM.
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“Quantum of Solace” Starring Daniel Craig, Olga Kurylenko, Mathieu Amalric and Judi Dench. Directed by Marc Forster. 106 minutes. Rated PG-13.
Del’s take
Don’t ask a James Bond purist what he thinks of “Quantum of Solace.” He’ll likely curl his lip, let out an exasperated huff and mutter something to the effect, “They’ve ruined 007!”
And well they might. Like many fictional characters who have made the transition from 20th century escapism to 21st century realism, Bond has been transformed. “Quantum of Solace” continues that evolution.
(Warning: Spoilers follow.)
The plot is classic 007. A super-secret organization known only as Quantum angles to depose the current Bolivian government and replace it with a strongman willing to sign over that country’s most precious resource – water. Give the screenwriters credit: They anticipate the ferocious competition predicted by climatologists to result from global warming and its diminishment of potable water supplies.
Despite orders to the contrary from the redoubtable M (Judi Dench), Bond (Daniel Craig) travels to South America to discover exactly why it is ersatz environmentalist Dominic Greene (Mathieu Amalric) has taken such an interest in an apparently barren desert. Vengeance is a subplot. Bond seeks payback for the death of Vesper Lynd while Bond’s female counterpart, a Bolivian secret service agent, Camille (Olga Kurylenko) aims to kill the appointed strongman who murdered her parents.
The action is hyperkinetic and at times almost unwatchable as exquisitely choreographed fight scenes unfold at a blistering pace, leaving Bond a dirty, bloody shambles who nevertheless prevails over the bad guy de jour.
Almost lost amid Craig’s intensity is the humor – not the campy double entendres of Roger Moore’s Bond or the sly sophistication of a Sean Connery, but actual comedy that launches unexpectedly from the darkness. Upon arriving in Bolivia, Bond is escorted by a sexy British agent to a seedy hotel where they will pose as exchange teachers. Unhappy with the accommodations, Bond takes them to the ritziest hotel in town where he explains to the desk clerk, “We are exchange teachers – and we just won the lottery.”
But much goes missing in “Quantum of Solace,” and this is where purists will hold their noses. Lost is the suave, indefatigable James Bond who emerges from a wet suit wearing a tuxedo, his hair unmussed. Gone are the insane luxuries of the super-rich, the creatively dysfunctional devices of murder (death by laser emasculation) , and the over-the-top malevolence of the ultra-evil.
Worse, we see Bond bleed, and that is not part of the Sean Connery canon of an unreachable and untouchable super man. It is as if Bond has also been tainted by the economic meltdown and would trade his beloved martinis for a can of Miller Lite.
This new Bond is more Serpico than, well, James Bond, and while that may satisfy critics one must wonder if the paying public will believe its escapist dollars have been well spent. So far box office receipts have been excellent so it’s hard to argue with numbers.
Ultimately you must ask yourself: Why do people go to movies? If it is to see a reasonable facsimile of yourself then the new, evolved James Bond may work.
But if it is to see a spectacle that rises above the gritty ordinariness of life, expect a regime change in the James Bond pantheon of superheroes.
Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.
In this photo, Pavlov sits amid the ruins of tractor-feed perforation strips from my old Okidata dot-matrix computer printer. He loved playing with those strands of paper and usually created a huge mess. Photo by Del Stone Jr.
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OK, so this blog is about a cat. Pavlov. MY cat. He’s sick and it scares me. I don’t want him to die.
Pavlov was here in 1992 when I was trying to recover from a catastrophic relationship. He didn’t know it but he helped me through that.
He was here on Oct. 4, 1995, when Category 4 Hurricane Opal roared across the Florida Panhandle. He didn’t know what was happening and his calm demeanor helped me cope with the terrifying destruction I watched fly past my window.
He was here in October 1998 when my father was dying and I finally broke down and cried for the first time in 25 years. He crawled into my lap and pawed at my chest as I sobbed.
He was here on Sept. 11, 2001 as I watched airplanes fly into buildings and could not comprehend the cruelty I was seeing on TV.
He was here on Sept. 15, 2004 as Hurricane Ivan laid waste to the Panhandle and I could not bear to sleep upstairs because the sound of debris hitting the roof frightened the living hell out of me.
And he was here in December 2005 when I made the decision to have Maggie, my other cat, put to sleep after she succumbed to the very same disease that is killing Pavlov now.
Pavlov is a chore. He must be given an IV every day. He needs laxatives to do his business. I hide vitamins in his food. He eats three different kinds of very expensive cat chow – at this point anything down his gut is a good thing. I give him an antibiotic twice a day. And he needs a special “massage” to keep his alopecia at bay.
It’s very expensive and time-consuming.
I think he’s still happy. He doesn’t appear to be suffering.
But it’s clear to me he’s heading downhill. He sounds different. He’s peeing around the house, which is never a good sign. I think his diabetes has returned.
I had Maggie put to sleep the week before Christmas, and I cried for weeks afterwards. I loved that cat.
I believed I didn’t feel the same about Pavlov, but I’m seeing now that isn’t true. It will be heartbreaking to make that drive to the vet in Destin.
No more pets.
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Author’s note: Contact me at [email protected]. To read more of my opinion and humor pieces, visit delstonejr.com . I also write fiction – horror, science fiction and contemporary fantasy. If you’re a fan of such genres please check out my Amazon author’s page. Print and e-books are both available, and remember: You don’t need a Kindle device to read a Kindle e-book. Simply download the free Kindle app for your smart phone or tablet.
Video
Image courtesy of EFTI, Sveriges Television and Filmpool Nord.
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“Let the Right One In” Starring Kare Hedebrant, Lena Leandersson, Per Ragnar, Karen Bergquist. Directed by Tomas Alfredson. 115 minutes. Rated R.
Del’s take
You’re a 12-year-old boy and the bullies at school are eating your lunch. Wouldn’t it be nice if you could invoke the powers of your vampire girlfriend for a bloody session of attitude adjustment?
That’s the premise of “Let the Right One In,” a Swedish vampire flick that eerily and effectively reminds us that love comes along when it’s least expected, and from the unlikeliest of angles.
Oskar (Kare Hedebrant) is a pale, frail wisp of a boy who receives the unwanted attentions of a trio of bad boys at his school in the Stockholm suburb of Blackeberg. He fantasizes about revenge, sticking a knife into a tree and clipping newspaper articles about murders.
His home life isn’t much better. His parents are divorced. His alcoholic father lives in the country with a male friend while his mother works full-time and comes through the front door frazzled and worried. He spends much of his time at his apartment complex’s playground, dreaming of the escape he will never make happen.
He meets Eli (Lena Leandersson), the strange girl who has moved into the unit next door. She only comes out at night and seems impervious to the Swedish cold. Despite her pronouncement that she doesn’t want to be friends the two are drawn to each other, perhaps by their mutual strangeness.
Soon, bizarre murders haunt the streets of Blackeberg and Oskar, with Eli’s encouragement, stands up to his tormentors – the results are tragic. Still, “Let the Right One In” provides an option for hope.
But its most powerful virtue is the subtle elegance of its storytelling. “Let the Right One In” is flecked with moments of brutality, as any good 21st century vampire story must be. But it is also a serene journey through quiet, nighttime snowfalls, the unremitting gray of winter and the inevitable slide into dissolution that in this case is tempered by a weird redemption.
American audiences will not like the subtitles but never fear, in the tradition of “The Ring” and “The Grudge,” an Americanized version is due out this year.
“Let the Right One In” is not a movie for children or adults with timid constitutions. For everyone else it is a strange poem that will leave an uneasy impression that like water – or blood – love finds a way into the hardest of hearts.
Mladen’s take
It’s clear by watching “Let the Right One In” that a vampire-friend would be useful if you’re the victim of bullies in middle school. Any middle school. Even a middle school in Sweden, where this very good, intermittently troubling film was made.
Before proceeding, let me stress that the penultimate scene in “Let the Right One In” offers one the finest pieces of cinematic slaughter ever created. Like much of the rest of the movie, its director, Tomas Alfredson, filmed the segment sparingly but punctuated it with bits of vivid dismemberment. The soundless incident was mesmerizing, not ghastly, though the victims were a couple of pre-teenagers and one adolescent.
“Let the Right One In” defies Hollywood-homogenized vampire film plots. It isn’t a sappy romance such as “Twilight” or a bloodletting similar to “30 Days of Night.”
It’s a movie about friendship, exploring the nature of honesty, loyalty, and trust. The protagonists are 12 years old but their struggles resonate with what we face as adults.
In one scene the dark-haired vampire cutie Eli accepts Oskar’s unvoiced gesture to enter his home, though he knows she must be invited verbally. Eli willingly placed her life in his hands by crossing the threshold and endured near-disintegration before he blurted “Come in” to end the horror.
Friendships have a darker side, too.
There’s the matter of making choices that close doors leading to other forms of happiness. There’s the urge to reciprocate. And, we inevitably become a little like the people considered friends.
Eli, shortly after the threshold incident, pounces on Oskar. She urges him too become more like her, something that, in fact, had been happening since the two met. Pay attention. At this moment and a couple of others, Eli’s young, creaseless face transforms, betraying the true age of her worn soul.
The movie ends with the impression that Eli had become more mankind-like and Oskar, more vampire-like, but both were human. Each of the two beings, it seems, had let the right one in.
Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical editor. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.