Del and Mladen review ‘The Arbors’

Image courtesy of The Arbors Production with The Red Arrow Studios Company.

“The Arbors” Starring Drew Matthews, Ryan Davenport, Sarah Cochrane and Alexandra Rose. Directed by Clayton Witmer. 1 hour, 59 minutes. Unrated. Streaming on Amazon Prime, Tubi TV.

Del’s take

Ethan Duanes (Drew Matthews) has a problem.

His problem is life.

Ethan is a locksmith but he cannot unlock the secret to happiness. All he can do is remember an earlier time when his parents were still alive and his younger brother a constant companion. The world seemed better then.

Now, the world isn’t better. His parents have passed away and his brother, Shane (Ryan Davenport), has started a family. The ancestral home, like Ethan, is slowly succumbing to rot and ruin, and the future seems as dark as the night shifts Ethan works.

One night, as Ethan is driving back to his rented house after a call, he comes across a dead deer in the road. He notices something moving inside the deer, a kind of insect or arachnid. He takes the carcass home, builds a container to hold the strange creature and lures it inside with cuts of meat. Then, he proceeds to care for it.

Until the creature breaks out. And people in the community begin to die.

That is the premise of “The Arbors,” a “monster movie” that isn’t a “monster movie.” It is less about things that go bump in the night as things that go bump in the heart.

“The Arbors” earns high marks for its layers and its obvious pathos. Ethan is a sympathetic loser to whom many people can relate: He is overwhelmed by life, fearful of change and nostalgic for the simpler times of the past. This theme of resistance to change operates throughout the movie – Ethan says it more than once by rhetorically asking, “Can’t this all be over?” His fidelity to the past is expressed in other ways, too. He is constantly sorting through photographs of him and his brother when they were kids. He gives his brother the gift of a toy soldier from a game they played as children called Out of Time! Ethan has kept the game; his brother absent-mindedly drops the toy soldier on the floor and before movie’s end it returns to Ethan’s possession. Ethan tells his young niece, Robin (Sarah Cochrane), he hopes to purchase the family home and restore it so that he may live there again. When Shane reveals he and his wife, Lynn (Alexandra Rose) are contemplating a move out of state, Ethan becomes agitated and for once, shows strong emotion.

Where “The Arbors” fails is its glacial pacing and the infuriating passivity of its viewpoint character. Ethan doesn’t simply miss the past; he is mired in it and will never escape. He rejects chance after chance to change his circumstances, at one point avoiding a former friend who has offered to take him away from his ennui and show him the world. In truth he doesn’t want to escape, and he would draw everybody around him into the tar pit of his inertia. This slow vortex of apathy oozes over both character and audience alike, preserving the misery in a sluggish and vapid shadowbox that never answers the question “Why?” 

And when the “monster” kills people who have threatened Ethan’s attempt to restore the past to the present, “The Arbors” morphs into “Donnie Darko” and the audience is left with a new batch of questions.

What’s remarkable about “The Arbors” is that it was shot in the Winston-Salem, N.C., area in 25 days on a budget of $14,000, then finished for another $11,000.

Witmer deserves kudos for trying to rise above the meager expectations of the genre, but “The Arbors” has some deficiencies that outweigh its virtues. Still, it’s not a bad movie. Just slow, with unanswered questions and motivations. I expect Witmer will do better his next time out of the gate.

I grade “The Arbors” a C+.

Mladen’s take

Through much of “The Arbors” I kept telling myself, “Wow, the kid playing the principal misfit really looks like a young Dennis Quaid.”

That’s how I managed to stay entertained when “The Arbors” got batty or the story cryptic or incoherent, which wasn’t all the time. Just much of the time.

Del blew a lot of words summing the plot. I’ll do it for you with one, short sentence: Rogue nostalgia is a deadly when you’re connected to person-sized spider with a mammal-like mouth packing white shark teeth.

One of my biggest problems with the movie is that I have no idea how or why Ethan and pseudo-spider are telepathically linked. If I was the angry wayward mutant arachnid, I’d be pissed at Ethan for putting me in a cage when I was but a maggot or whatever. That would be reason enough to eat his eyeballs rather than serve as an executioner for the human.

And, who the hell where those guys in the white hazmat suits? And, why didn’t at least one of them have a gun for self-defense because they were chasing an aberration of nature?

I don’t mind that “The Arbors” portrays itself as horror but is really about shitty, navel-gazing stuff like hurt feelings. People, after all, are more frightening than zombie werewolves with rabies waving Trump is My President flags. But, at times, I felt like I was watching, I don’t know, “Kramer v. Kramer” or “Steel Magnolias.”

The problem is that the film seems to want to get good and then backs off. A scene of driving at night might be too long. Or there’s the crappy voice acting when Ethan is talking to someone on his flip phone. Yes, director, I get it that Ethan is stuck in a time that no longer exists. And, why the fuck does “Connie” care about Ethan? She didn’t even sign his high school yearbook. What proof is there that she let him feel her up when they were teenagers or that they went to prom together? She materializes, tries to get him to leave town, and then de-materializes.

On the plus side, “The Arbors” provides a holistic moodiness as the backdrop of life in an unnamed town somewhere in the foothills of the Appalachians. Everything seems afflicted by Ethan’s desperate unhappiness. I liked the score. It meshed nicely with the moodiness.

The movie gets a C- because it failed to meet its promise to me like life failed to meet its promise to Ethan. It didn’t allow him to stay 13 years old forever. And, the film failed to create a sympathetic, lonely man with control of a monster who I could like.

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.

Image courtesy of Signature Entertainment.

“Sea Fever” Starring Hermoine Corfield, Dag Malmberg, Jack Hickey, Dougray Scott and others. Directed by Neasa Hardiman. 95 minutes. Unrated. Hulu, Vudu, Google Play, Amazon Prime, Apple TV+, YouTube.

Del’s take

Oh goodie. Let’s distract ourselves from the pandemic by watching a movie about a pandemic.

Not a pandemic per se but a parasitic infection that threatens to wipe out the crew of an Irish fishing trawler plying the chilly waters of the North Atlantic. That’s the gist of “Sea Fever,” a pretty good little monster movie from director Neasa Hardiman. If films speak to the times, “Sea Fever” is the voice of our COVID-19 consciousness, transposing our empty streets and restaurants with the vacant horizon of the open ocean.

The plot is familiar to fans of “Alien,” “The Thing” and even “The Shining.” Lonely, friendless PhD student Siobhán (Hermoine Corfield) has booked passage on the Niamh Cinn Óir, a rust bucket Irish fishing trawler, to study the behavior patterns of aquatic fauna. The Niamh Cinn Óir is owned and operated by the husband-and-wife team of Gerard (Dougray Scott) and Freya (Connie Nielson); and a crew of four others. Life has not been grand for Gerard and Freya, and they need a good haul this trip or they’ll lose the trawler.

On the trip out they detect a large mass of fish which unfortunately lies within a government-declared exclusion zone. It would be a terrible thing if they accidentally drifted into that exclusion zone and caught a hold full of mackerel, thus saving the Niamh Cinn Óir from receivership and preserving the crew’s livelihoods. Well gosh darn it, guess what happens.

Sometimes exclusion zones exist for more reasons than bureaucratic capriciousness, especially in movies that isolate a small group of people and pits them against a seemingly unbeatable antagonist. It is at this point “Sea Fever” becomes a metaphor for the COVID-19 pandemic as the fishing trawler crew battles a weird aquatic parasite that threatens to kill them all.

But “Sea Fever” operates on a second level, one that addresses the pandemic of loneliness that has infected the world since the invention of digital technology. On her first field study, Siobhán is forced to step out of her reclusive shell and interact, if not befriend, the crew, especially after they discover she’s a redhead (apparently redheads are considered bad luck among Irish fishermen). As the movie progresses along its somewhat predictable trajectory, Siobhán becomes more and more human as her environment descends into science fiction nightmare.

Somehow indie directors always manage to find strong actors to fill their roles and “Sea Fever” is no exception. All the performances are very good but my favorite was Olwen Fouéré as Ciara, the boat’s cook, who carried herself with a chafing blue collar dignity that seemed to perfectly capture the soul of the part. Another strong performance was delivered by Ardalan Esmaili as the boat’s principled and skillful engineer. Weakest was Dougray Scott, whose character hovered somewhere between effective leader and simpering cad. He seemed incapable of communicating the moral ambivalence of a man caught between financial necessity and obeyance of the law.

My gripes with “Sea Fever” are that it wraps up with an anticlimax that feels rushed and out of character for protagonist Siobhán, and the crew’s attempts to resolve their problem seem truncated and drama-less. What would Ellen Ripley have done had she been aboard the Niamh Cinn Óir? That might have elevated the tension considerably.

Still, “Sea Fever” is, as I said, a pretty good little monster movie and your time will not have been wasted, if monster movies are your bag. As American movies become more and more templated by the MBAs working in Hollywood these days, it’s nice to see a movie that still has character and a beating heart.

I grade “Sea Fever” a B or maybe even a B+.

Mladen’s take

Desperation. Superstition. Science. And, a cnidarian. Say it with me, “cnidarian.” I adore that word. It wasn’t in my plain old lexicon of the English language. I had to look it up in my Oxford Dictionary of Science. Cnidarian. Cnidaria is a phylum of aquatic invertebrates that includes hydra, jellyfish, sea anemones, and coral, by the way.

In “Sea Fever,” the crew of the fishing vessel Niamh Cinn Óir become the victims of a cnidarian unknown to humanity. First, the oversized spineless predator whose centrally placed orifice is both mouth and anus, attacks their boat and then it attacks them with its eye-eating larvae.

Where Del sees a SARS-COV-2 angle to “Sea Fever,” I see a straight-up Nature will always kick Man’s ass statement in the film. Humanity believes it controls the planet. The planet disagrees. That disagreement takes many shapes. Climate change. Water shortages. Invasive species. A snowstorm in Texas that has Tumbleweed Cruz abandoning the state he represents in the U.S. Senate to flee to warm and socialist Mexico.     

Though the encounter with the cnidarian drives the plot of “Sea Fever,” the story is also about society-induced desperation. The boat owner, who’s married to the captain, has to land a good catch to earn euros to keep the vessel. With that thought plaguing the couple, the captain takes a risk and then the boat owner takes a risk. Both prove fateful.

There is superstition aboard Niamh Cinn Óir. Marine biologist Siobhán, on the boat to conduct field research that her PhD advisor ordered her to do, has red hair, which, as Del points out, the crew consider bad luck. But, there’s also the superstition of religion. There is prayer for a safe journey. There is prayer for a good haul of fish. There are prayers for the dearly departed. And there’s the belief that God will yet protect the crew.

There is science aboard the boat. Siobhán, applying her knowledge, figures out enough about the big cnidarian to give the crew somewhat of a fighting chance to live.

But, in the end, neither God nor science are much help. What mattered was one person sacrificing for another.

“Sea Fever,” as Del claims, is a pretty good little monster movie. I would amend that observation with, “pretty good little sci-fi monster movie.” Though not laden with science, the movie has moments of science-y jargon – “cnidarian” for example – and “bioluminescence” and “holopalegic” and a portable, computer-powered microscope, and talk of water filtration system design. There was the hypothesis that the cnidarian normally parasitizes whales (the fishing boat was in an exclusion zone that existed to protect cetaceans and their calves) and might have mistook the passing shadow of the vessel as a sign of its normal prey.

Between trying to stay alive while a gelatinous, tentacled predator treats them as a larder for its babies and keeping themselves from going berserk under the pressure of looming infection, the crew has to struggle with a bigger question. Is it ethical to return to port when some, if not all, of the crew are nurseries for a novel parasite that could, or is it would, infect landlubbers? Poof, see you later, humanity.

The problem with “Sea Fever” is that it added baggage that didn’t need to be in the film. Too much time was used to set up Siobhán as a loner and it was unconvincing. Del mentioned that the cook carried herself “with a chafing blue collar dignity.” Chafing she was, but it was me who got chafed. The cook went from a semi-pleasant grandmotherly type to an old crone who wanted to kill my beloved Siobhán. What would be the point of killing the one person who had the technical know-how to help people stay alive?

Regrettably, I find myself in the unforgivable situation of agreeing with Del. “Sea Fever” is a B. But for a couple of tweaks, including more encounters with momma cnidarian, this movie would have easily catapulted to an A. 

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical writer. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.

Image courtesy of Warner Brothers.

“Godzilla” Starring Aaron Taylor Johnson, Elizabeth Olsen, Brian Cranston. Directed by Gareth Edwards. 123 minutes. Rated PG-13.

Mladen’s take:

The obvious first. The new Godzilla film stinks. Don’t let Del’s opinion fool you. He doesn’t know Godzilla from Godthab … the capital of Greenland.

Discussing the movie’s plot and acting is pointless because its star is nothing more than Godzilla-like. For example, I’m Brad Pitt-like because I’m an upright walking biped.

So, let’s talk monster morphology and physiology from a purist’s perspective.

I’ll use Toho Studio’s last major Godzilla type, the one that debuted in the film “Godzilla 2000.” It’s labeled AG for “Authentic Godzilla.” The Godzilla-like animal in the new film is “Poser.”

Godzilla from afar.

• AG: An upright walking monster with distinct body parts, such as a neck, prominent spine plates mimicking curved blades, and contoured limbs. The tail is longer than AG is tall.

• Poser: A hunched garden slug-like silhouette with a small head attached to an anorexic body that terminates in legs with, get this, cankles. Its back plates are stunted and the tail short, almost stubby.

Godzilla up close.

• AG: Sleek, cat-like head large, expressive eyes looking forward and a mouth featuring large, expressive canines.

• Poser: Small head with nearly colorless beads for eyes tucked into a puffy face, as though the animal was dehydrated from an all-night drinking party. Put together, the face is a blur with its major components – snout, forehead, and jaw – blending into each other almost indistinguishably.

Godzilla’s fire breath.

• AG: A searing plasma, white-amber in color and liquid in texture, projected from the monster’s mouth. It’s launched with a head movement. AG’s head rotates sideways 30, 40 degrees and then juts forward. The monster sometimes takes a step toward its target, maybe to brace against the death ray’s recoil. When the fire breath hits, it explodes, engulfing the target. It is preceded by the spine plates glowing the same vivid color. They heat the air around them, causing convection currents.

• Poser: A feeble blue that looks like its origin is a LED light someone stuck into Poser’s throat. Come on, the death ray is supposed to be generated by nuclear fission, not your local electric company. The spines glow the same soothing blue. There’s nothing intimidating about Poser’s fire breath attack and it barely damages the critter it’s fighting.

A caveat before I address Godzilla’s signature physiological trait, the one that stays the same no matter the monster’s Toho iterations. It could have rescued the new Godzilla film, though the creature’s morphology was sullied.

I appreciate the director taking Godzilla seriously. The monster isn’t mocked as it was in the other Hollywood re-make of Godzilla starring Matthew Broderick. And, there a couple of deferential nods to the Godzilla franchise’s early years.

That three, let alone one, giant monster, can exist today is treated plausibly and sincerely. The acting wasn’t bad and the plot good. 

It’s just tough for me to accept that there’s not enough imagination out there in moviemaking land despite the graphics computing power available to modern-day producers and directors to render a classic Godzilla as a force of nature by making it look, well, natural and fearsome and indestructible.

Okay, now the one indelible physiological must for all Godzillas: its roar-screech.

• AG: A growling rumble rapidly ascending in pitch to a banshee wail that then trails off. I don’t know, it’s the sound of a titanium spike scraping across a steel ingot with the frequency slowed and amplified. Or, the roar-screech mimics an elephant’s trumpet inside an echo chamber that amplifies lower tones, while distorting all of the sound.

• Poser: A grizzly bear with laryngitis.

I give the new Godzilla an A for effort and C+ for execution.

And, I’m still trying to figure out why Godzilla faints near the end of the movie. Was it tired from its battle against the other monsters, which resembled a cross between the Gyaos in Gamera movies and the alien invader in “Cloverfield.”

Or, was the director trying to build sympathy for the monster by making it look like it had died to save mankind?

If it was the latter, the director failed because he never developed Godzilla’s personality and, believe me when I say, Godzilla in past renditions had a lot of it.   

Del’s take:

I broke Mladen’s heart because I wouldn’t come to his house and listen to a proper Godzilla roar in Dolby SurroundSound.

Sorry, Mladen. Godzilla’s roar, or whether he was fat, or if his head was too small, weren’t on my list of priorities.

What I wanted from “Godzilla” is what I want from every movie – interesting characters who generate empathy, a decent plot, dialogue that works, and a set of rules consistent with the movie’s internal logic.

What I got was boring characters about whom I cared little, a bullet-riddled plot, flat-affect dialogue, and a set of rules that were indeed consistent with the movie’s absurd internal logic.

“Godzilla” opens with a cool segment of backstory: The Pacific nuclear “tests” of the 1940s and ’50s were attempts to kill the giant serpent. The movie then segues to a Fukishima-style disaster at a nuclear facility in Japan. Brian Cranston’s character is the director of the facility, and during the disaster his wife dies in a reactor breach. Jump to today – Cranston’s son, played by Aaron Taylor Johnson, is an explosive ordnance disposal technician who flies to Japan to bail his father out of jail. Seems daddy believes Japanese authorities are hiding something at the reactor disaster site and he’s right – a giant monster has been feeding on the radiation and springs into the world – make that “stomps” – just as Cranston and son arrive at the site.

What follows is a jaunt halfway across the world as the monster makes its way to Yucca Mountain, America’s nuclear waste disposal site (which, by the way, contains no nuclear waste, as its commission was halted by the Obama administration) to meet up with a second MUTO (massive unidentified terrestrial organism) and hatch a batch of monster babies (totally overlooking the two Diablo Canyon nuclear facilities between Los Angeles and San Francisco).

Luckily for mankind, Godzilla is in pursuit as its place as the top alpha predator is threatened by the MUTOs (which bear more than a family resemblance to the monster in “Cloverfield”).

Cranston is able to imbue his role with emotion, but Johnson and Olsen spend most of the film gazing dumbly into the distance. They simply have nothing to say, and it was impossible for me to develop any affection for either. A Japanese scientist, played by Ken Watanabe, is kept by the military as an adviser, but spends most of his time mouthing gassy admonitions about the perils of pissing off Mother Nature.

The characters are wasted.

Special effects are superb, though I grew tired of the gray and brown color palette. The score is at times shrieky, helping the action on the screen to lapse into farce. Edwards’ directorial style is interesting, though I’d say he relied to heavily on foreshadowing. After we’ve seen the monsters, there’s no point in showing us the aftermath of their rampages. Let’s see the buildings tumble!

To me, Godzilla is a metaphor for whatever issue rules the day – nuclear warfare, man tampering with nature, you name it.

But in “Godzilla,” the monster strikes me as a metaphor for the inability of modern storytellers to tell a decent tale.

Overall, I’d rate it a C+.

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical editor. Del Stone Jr. is a journalist and author.

Image courtesy of Universal Pictures.

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“The Thing” Starring Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Joel Edgerton and Ulrich Thomsen. Directed by Matthijs van Heijningen Jr. 103 minutes. Rated R.

Mladen’s take

Let’s call Director John Carpenter’s 1982 film “The Thing, A.” Let’s call Director Matthijs Van Heijningen’s released-on-Friday movie “The Thing, B.” I do that for two reasons. Those are the grades each movie deserves – actually it’s A+ and B+, respectively. And, it’ll be easier to keep track of which movie I’m referring to because comparisons are inevitable. “The Thing, B” is the prequel to “The Thing, A.”

The “Thing, A” in one of the two finest sci-fi horror movies made. The other is “Alien.”

The formula for success is retained in “The Thing, B.” An isolated group of humans, in this case a multinational research team in the Antarctic. A creature that mercilessly and vividly parasitizes bodies. And, suspense.

My pal Del will probably disagree with the last attribute. Always grumpy and a quibbler, he’d exchange “suspense” for “cheap-shot fear” because there are at least three jump-out-of-your seat moments in “The Thing, B.”

To a degree, I agree with Del.

In the superb “The Thing, A,” the body-snatching, body-cloning alien is portrayed as an amorphous, almost cautious being. It’d prefer to nail you when you’re handy and lashes out only when pursued. That makes the creature scarier because it’s clearly thinking.

In the “The Thing, B,” the alien has a shape of its own. In its original state, the technologically sophisticated arthropod looks like an overgrown wood louse. And, rather than being an ambush predator, like say a praying mantis, it’s an aggressive stalker of anything that moves, like say former U.S. vice president Dick Cheney. That makes the creature more of a monstrosity.

There are implausible moments in the “The Thing, B.” The lead Norwegian scientist ignores American paleontologist Kate Lloyd, portrayed very effectively by Mary Elizabeth Winstead, when she urges that carefully controlled laboratory techniques, including isolation, be used to un-entomb the alien from the ice in which it’s frozen.

Also, the soundtrack used to frame “The Thing, B” is very weak. A day after seeing the film, I’m unable to recall its rhythm or tempo. This is in stark contrast to Ennio Morricone’s foreboding, subtly pulsing, and ingenious score in “The Thing, A.” Sometimes, simple is better. Much, much better.

But, let’s not quibble.

“The Thing, B” takes advantage of the unique elements at its disposal.

Computer-generated graphics are very good and used to enhance the plot, not substitute for it.

Van Heijningen imagines very nicely what would likely happen to a small group of humans confronted by a terrifying fact: If it walks like a human, if it talks like a human, if it behaves like a human, it might not be a human. The scientists act rationally and irrationally as each tries to avoid becoming food for the alien’s DNA. Most notably, as the situation at the Antarctic research outpost deteriorates, the Norwegians and Americans periodically rely on nationality as a source of trust to form us-against-them alliances, though the Thing is uninterested in which flag would hang above its next human victim’s grave. Assuming, of course, there’s anything of the victim’s own remains to recover.

There’s another reason to see “The Thing, B” while it’s in theaters.

Van Heijningen pays tribute, maybe it’s more like deference, to Carpenter’s “The Thing.”

To appreciate the gesture, make sure you’ve seen Carpenter’s film before seeing Heijningen’s and stick around for the credits. Many in the audience started to leave, only to stop, while standing, to watch the end of “The Thing, B.”

Del’s take

Despite Mladen’s warning that I “expect to be disappointed,” I sat down to watch “The Thing” with a degree of hope and not a few questions:

Billed as a prequel to John Carpenter’s 1982 horror-science fiction classic of the same name, would 2011’s “The Thing” merely replicate its masterful predecessor or bring something new to the story?

Would it scare me intellectually or, like so many “scary” films today, employ a CGI festival of fake gore and monsters jumping out of closets to generate cheap thrills?

How successfully would director Heijningen marry this film to – again – Carpenter’s 1982 horror-science fiction classic? (And I emphasize that Carpenter’s film is a classic despite the scorn of critics and moviegoers of the Reagan era. “The Thing” is a testament to tension done right. Heijningen stands much to lose by treading on such ground, as did the creators of the Keannu Reeves sapfest “The Day the Earth Stood Still”).

First, a word about “The Thing’s” lineage. In 1938 author-editor John W. Campbell wrote a novella for a pulp magazine, Astounding Stories, called “Who Goes There?” about a group of Antarctic explorers who discover a crashed UFO and its pilot frozen into the ice. They accidentally destroy the ship but recover the pilot’s body which, upon thawing, reanimates and begins assimilating the crew, mimicking their appearances and manners. What ensues is the familiar, creepy tale of a small group of human beings struggling for survival against a faceless foe, a story that resonates well with today’s terrorism-infused culture in which the enemy walks among us, unseen.

In 1951 “Who Goes There?” became a movie, “The Thing from Another World,” directed by Christian Nyby (although many consider Howard Hawks the real director). It was loosely based on Campbell’s story but deviated in significant and disappointing ways. In 1982 Carpenter’s iteration more closely followed the plot laid down by Campbell and featured nausea-inducing special effects and a depressing storyline that torpedoed the movie at the box office. Fortunately the movie survived in video, then digital form, to become a cult favorite and, dare I say, a mainstream draw for audiences inured to gory nihilism in moviemaking. Both movies effectively conveyed a building sense of dread that pitted an isolated group of humanity against an invisible enemy – in 1951 it was communism; in 1982 it was ourselves.

Along comes Heijningen’s prequel, which takes up a few days before Carpenter’s movie began. Kate Lloyd is an American anthropologist brought to Antarctica by Dr. Sander Halvorson (Thomsen) to examine a mysterious structure and “specimen” the Norwegians have discovered under the ice. When the specimen is recovered and an ill-advised tissue sample taken, shape-shifting hell breaks loose as the thing goes after the camp crew with the ultimate goal of reaching the larger world, where it can infect everybody.

I have a number of gripes with this “Thing,” some small, some not. The small stuff first:

Score: Marco Beltrami’s score is at best forgettable, at worst an opportunity lost. It conveys little of the tension so effectively embodied by Ennio Morricone’s score for the Carpenter film.

Continuity: As a period piece “The Thing” looks pretty much like a 1982 movie. Computer monitors are correctly hulking and snippets of popular music, from bands like Men at Work, reflect the flavor of the times. But then you have lines of dialogue from, let’s say, a character who’s been told to go and get something and answers, “I’m on it.” That expression wasn’t used in 1982 and I know this because I was around in 1982.

Who’s in charge? In Carpenter’s “The Thing” we knew from the first scene that Kurt Russell was in charge. Even when he wasn’t in charge, he was in charge. In this version Winstead oscillates between leadership and submission. You might think that’s an understandable consequence of a woman being immersed in a 1982-era all-male community, but that’s not what I’m talking about. Authority springs from viewpoint, and authority is not effectively conveyed through Winstead’s character. Sigourney Weaver has proved what an effective female lead can do within an all-male community.

My larger gripes include this iteration’s duplication of the Carpenter movie. At times I thought it was the Carpenter movie. Several scenes seem lifted directly from the earlier film, and the overall structure of “The Thing” copies what Carpenter did in 1982 – with some unfortunate exceptions:

While Carpenter filled his movie with quirky, quixotic characters – almost all of whom were dysfunctionally sympathetic – Heijningen’s prequel features only one person I actually cared about, a lethal deficiency for a horror movie. None of the characters stands out as an individual with a unique personality; they’re all just cardboard cut-outs filling roles as they scream their way down the alien’s gullet.

Worse, this version of “The Thing” does not emulate the brooding, palpable dread Carpenter built into his 1982 film. We are quickly thrown into the fray and forgettable people start dying, stalked by a malevolent force, yet another deviation from Carpenter’s classic. In that film you could almost feel a whiff of sympathy for the creature – it was, after all, a hapless castaway thrust into a hostile environment and was trying to survive the only way it knew how. But now we have a stalking predator that, if it wants to escape to the larger world and propagate, thwarts its own intentions time and again.

On a positive note Heijningen brings his movie to a perfect conclusion, matching it directly to Carpenter’s film. This takes place as the end credits roll so be sure not to leave the theater. It’s actually very cool.

Still, the 2011 “The Thing” has assimilated its earlier classic and produced an inferior copy. On a scale of 1 to 10 I would rate it a 5.

Mladen Rudman is a former journalist and technical editor. Del Stone Jr. is a former journalist and author.

THE CLOSET

A short horror story

By Del Stone Jr.

—

Introduction

This story violates one of the big rules of horror – never place a child in peril.

Which is odd. I see movies do it all the time. “Pet Sematary” anyone?

Be that as it may, in 1982, which is when I am guessing I wrote the first version of this story, I didn’t know about a prohibition against placing children in peril. I wrote what I thought was a scary story. (Actually it’s not so much a story as a vignette, but again I’m splitting hairs.)

Even in 1991, when I obviously revised the story after Operation Desert Storm, I didn’t know about such a prohibition. I didn’t start selling professionally until 1992 and it was then I learned about the no-kids-in-peril rule.

These days, with demon-possessed children, zombified children, vampiric children and God alone knows what else horror moviemakers do to kids, I think this story, about a boogeyman that may or may not be in the protagonist’s imagination, will be OK.

Who knows? Maybe it’ll influence some irresponsible parent into being a better Mom or Dad.

One can hope.

—

THE CLOSET

There. She heard it again, recognition sinking in with an ache, the voice touching her like a stone cast into a deep, dark pool. That small voice calling against the torrents of dark that had come spilling over the apartment as afternoon slumbered into twilight. He called that way every night, lately. Something had changed in the boy. He was afraid.

Aereal wrapped herself against the cold crouching at the edge of her thoughts. The apartment seemed big. Too big. And empty. Max filled the place, made it a home – when he was here. He took away the cathedral silence, the echo that lurked at the edge of every sound she and Kelly made, and filled the place so that it seemed too small for the three of them. Until the next six months when he’d be gone.

“Momee.”

Blink.

His voice dug at her. She moved without thought across the living room, her feet tracing a quiet, susurrating path through the deep, blonde carpet.

Where the hell is Qatar anyway?

Mother had warned her. Ever wise, mother, with that patronizing, self-satisfied I-told-you-so smile, her eyes glittering with an almost predator smugness. “Mark my words,” she’d said. “You’ll regret setting up house with that young man. His line of work? You’ll be lucky if you see him three months out of the year. He may be a good man, but that isn’t everything, Aereal. You know? I’m talking about companionship. How will you ever get to know a man who’ll be gone as often as he will? How will you ever know what he’s up to?”

Mark my words. …

The memory of her mother faded. Aereal was standing in the hallway, a huge tunnel of dark. Somewhere at the end of that pit was her son. Her hand automatically went to the light switch.

Oh, it hasn’t been that bad, she tried to tell herself. The longest he’d been gone was what? Six months? Eight months? Not like some of those husbands who go remote for a year or more. And after this Qatar thing he was supposed to get an assignment stateside.

“Momee!”

Blink.

She said in a hushed voice, “Yes, kiddo. I’m coming.”

It hadn’t been that bad. She had the Military Wives meeting on Thursday night, and the batik classes.

Kelly had come along somewhere between Panama and Dakar, she thought. Wasn’t it odd she couldn’t remember … only five years ago. And thank God Max had gotten extended leave to stay with her that first six months. Otherwise, she couldn’t have done it. Not alone.

I don’t want to depend on him so much.

She closed her eyes.

But I need him.

And Kelly. Lying here in the dark. Didn’t he need his father too? Because they were both afraid; she had tried to convince herself otherwise, had tried to deny the fact with distractions and phony bravado, but even through the most elaborate curtains of self-duplicity she could still see a light of fear burning, a fear of being left alone.

“Momee!”

Her fingers curled around the door jamb, finding the light switch and flicking it on. She raised her hand against the sudden brilliance and hurried into the room, shielding her eyes. The boy began to emerge from under the covers.

“Momee?”

At first she only saw a blonde thatch of hair, flattened on the sides and tousled into a chaos of curls on the top. Eight fingers, then all ten gripped the top of the bedspread as it were a trapdoor into which he would flee.

All at once, Aereal was filled with awe, and a helpless, crazy love. Had she and Max really made this perfect creation?

“Momee, Momee – ”

The tightness in his expression was working out, shifting and smoothing to relief, then love. She felt herself going soft and helpless. She sat on the edge of the mattress. Kelly reached out, took her hand and gazed at her.

“Momee, I saw a monster. In the closet. A real monster.”

Aereal smiled and let out a pent-up breath.

Blink.

A monster. She knew the feeling.

“It was a big one,” he added, his head bobbing in an exaggerated nod. “In the closet.”

She began running her fingers through his hair, straightening the curls.

He’s too young to look like Max. Yet … she stared hard. Those eyes … she blinked and smiled.

“And why would there be a monster in the closet?” she said softly.

“I saw it.”

“And what did this monster look like?”

The boy began to think; his forehead drew lines of concentration. When he spoke, it was in a slow, careful voice, as if he were describing an image that might change if the words didn’t come out just right.

“It was big … very big … like a gorilla. And it was hairy, and it had all these sharp teeth with gooky stuff dripping off. And its face was all yucky and ugly.”

He paused.

“And it had big yellow eyes that glowed in the dark.”

Areal chuckled to herself. Sounds like your father when he gets up in the morning.

“ – as big as a monster. And he’s in there right now, Momee.”

Aereal stood up, walked over to the closet. Kelly squealed, “No, Momee! It’s in there! An’ it’ll eat you all up!”

She held up a hand, shushed him and smiled. When she spoke, her voice was like fingers running through his soft hair.

“I want to show you something.”

She pulled the closet door open. The boy gasped.

Blink.

Izod shirts; neat, unmoving rows of Hagar slacks for boys; Levis; Ocean Pacific; Roos shoes; a plastic ‘65 Mustang which, if the battery hadn’t gone dead, could shine its headlights – ”right into your eyes and probably blind you,” or so Max had said, quoting Aereal’s mother when she had given it to Kelly.

“See? No monsters.” Aereal smiled.

Blink.

No monsters. Not in the closet.

She saw the terror going out of him, saw him fill with bafflement, as if she had pulled off some arcane magic trick.

“There never was a monster,” she explained. “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

The boy looked confused. “But I saw – ”

“You had a bad dream.”

And his eyes seemed to say: a dream?

She went to his side and took his hand. “A dream. You dreamed it. There’s no such thing as monsters. Besides, how could a monster the size of a big, hair gorilla fit inside your closet?” She giggled and cuffed his chin. He smiled uneasily. “That teeny-weeny closet? Why, a monster would squash himself to death trying to fit in there.”

The boy smiled broadly, a spontaneous grin that said all was understood. Aereal bent, kissed his forehead, her lips barely brushing his cooling flesh as he dodged shyly.

He’s so small. She stood, a thread of unease pulling at the corners of her smile. God, I wish Max were here.

“Now you go to sleep, young man. And I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about monsters – or this’ll be the last time you eat Showbiz pizza before bedtime.”

“Does pizza make you have bad dreams?”

“Sometimes spicy food makes you have bad dreams, yes. So if you see another monster, it’ll just be the singing gorilla you saw at Showbiz.”

Blink.

“`Night, Momee.”

He was pulling the covers up around his neck, wriggling beneath the sheets in a boneless squirm. She slid the closet door shut, paused at the bedroom door, and whispered, “Good night! Sleep tight! Don’t let the bed bugs bite!” The boy giggled. Then she turned out the light.

The darkness lunged at her, grabbing her and threatening to swallow her. She frowned. Had she turned off the living room lamp? It seemed darker. She felt another tickle of disquiet stir inside her, something she couldn’t quite scratch. She touched a finger to the wall and traced her way along the hall. Then she was walking on carpet, in light, and she let out a tiny, keening sigh of relief.

Where the hell is Qatar? When is he coming – no, don’t think about it anymore. There’s no point making yourself miserable … more miserable.

She curled into the La-Z-Boy. A Time magazine hung over the armrest. She curled her feet beneath her and began to rock … gently. The magazine plopped to the floor, the pages flipping open to a photograph of Saddam Hussein, still in power, shaking a defiant fist at the rest of the world.

Blink.

“I am not built for solitude,” she whispered to herself. She crossed her arms and tried to squeeze warmth into her. I thought I could deal with it … all those other wives who hold down the fort while the troops are off in some God-forsaken little stinkhole country. How in God’s name do they stand it? Aren’t they in love?

Darkness seeped in around the window panes and beneath the door. Across the room it took the form of a mist, coming no closer than the light.

Can they turn it off, like I could turn off this lamp? She did not move her head; her eyes rotated in their sockets until she was staring at the shade. She reached for the lamp switch –

Where the hell is Qatar? Where the hell is Max?

“Momee!”

 – and snatched her hand away as if it had been bitten.

Did I make a mistake, or am I just being selfish? Oh God, why couldn’t Mother have just kept her mouth shut … putting those thoughts in my head. Christ! Why can’t I be sure of myself? So he’s gone six months out of the year … eight months … that’s OK. Not great but OK. I should be able to cope. If it weren’t for these … fears? Qatar. Tank traps and mustard gas and Scuds. Maybe something will happen. Maybe I won’t be able to handle it.

She squinted against a sob. There were tears here, somewhere. She felt them oozing into focus, as everything else began to slip out of focus.

“MOMEE!”

I love Max. She flipped on the TV. CNN was airing a feature story. But damn it, I need him here … with me … God, I’m too small for this loneliness. I can’t beat it –

“MOMEE!”

Blink.

CNN broke into its broadcast with a telephone report from correspondent Peter Arnett. Explosions were occurring over Baghdad. Aereal’s blood turned to slush. Something whipped out of her, a shout of fear, blind and unintentional. She blinked uncomprehendingly, shook her head, and yelled, “Kelly! What is it?”

“MOMEETHE MONSTER IS BACK! THESHOWBIZMONSTERHE’SGONNAGETME – ”

Something serrated and feral, a growl, took the darkness at the end of the hall and ripped it to shreds, mixing the pieces into something darker and more terrifying.

Blink.

What in the name of God was that?

“MAW – ”

The wall thudded, the sound of something soft and ripe splattering against hard sheetrock.

Bombs were falling over Baghdad.

Horror drove through Aereal like a knife. It penetrated every nerve, every muscle, until it engulfed her body, finding all the soft parts, snaking around her throat in reptile bands of tightness, squeezing, squeezing –

Blink.

I can’t breath –

She moved with surreal slowness. The living room seemed to flicker out of focus. A wall came at her and she grabbed it.

And then she screamed.

She ran into the hall, felt the scream come back at her from crazy angles, rebounding from the pits of shadow in terror-filled pulses. The hallway seemed to unwind into a tunnel, a throat, ringed with cartlidge, swallowing her. She ran; she tripped and stumbled.

Blink.

She crashed into the door. The knob hit her between the ribcage and pelvis. It drove the wind from her, sent spangles of raw pain thumping up through the middle of her brain, the burning trails momentarily erasing thought.

Blink.

She winced and lunged at the door knob, attacking it, twisting and battering at the door until it gave way and she stumbled into the room.

Blink.

An ingot of pallid light fell through the thick, greasy air. Aereal raised herself on one elbow, grabbed a corner of the bedspread and tried to haul herself up. The bed started to pull itself away from the wall but she was up, overbalancing, toppling toward the sheets. Momentum drove her face-first into the mattress.

It squished.

Blink.

“Kelly?”

The bed was empty. From the living room she could hear the tinny CNN announcer saying: bombs, air strikes, bombs, air strikes. … Terror settled over her like rigor mortis, clotting her thoughts. She forgot to breath. Her hands scuttled automatically, pulling at the sheets, which were heavy, reluctant, slicked down in. …

Blink.

What?

Oily and black, like tar, in the half-light. She held up her hand and stared at the palm, stared into it as if something were crawling beneath the flesh, stared glassy-eyed as a reddish-black drop oozed across the palm, gathered at the lip of her hand and then dripped, splashing against the Ninja Turtles on Kelly’s pillowcase.

Blink.

“KELLY!”

Blink.

Blink.

Blink.

Her terror multiplied three-fold, four-fold, became something primal and uncontrollable, something she could not understand. It was beyond Kelly now. Beyond Max. Beyond any fear she had known. And it was growing.

Blink.

 – Max –

Blink.

 – Kelly –

Blink.

 – me –

She began to scream. It seemed to peel her, diminish her, make her smaller and more vulnerable. So the cold could creep in. The terror.

Behind her, the closet door began to slide open.

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 .