Stephen King, who kinda knows his shit when it comes to horror, declared Shirley Jackson’s 1959 novel, “The Haunting of Hill House” one of the “most important horror novels of the 20th century.” I’ll see Mr. King’s assessment and raise it to one of the most important novels of the 20th century, period.
Those of us of a certain age who love horror, had already been thoroughly terrified by writers like Lovecraft and Jackson before King blew into town, and indeed, “The Haunting of Hill House” remains, for millions, the consummate tale of a haunted house.
Who could guess that terrors unimagined awaited readers inside such a harmless looking book?
It’s as though the artist couldn’t bring her or himself to present Hill House in more than an outline form and then covered it with a jungle’s worth of foliage, lest the house notice the effort and…object.
Shirley Jackson’s place in the pantheon of horror masters was won fair and square, and “The Haunting of Hill House” remains the haunted house story by which subsequent efforts are judged.
Why, oh why, then, did Amblin Television/Paramount Television and producer/writer/director Mike Flanagan conspire to take this pristine example of American Gothic literature and crap all over it? And why did Netflix take a look, shrug its corporate shoulders and say, “Yeah, sure why not?”
There be spoilers ahead, matey.
If you’ve already watched this catastrophe and loved it, just…go away. If you haven’t watched, but are planning to because you love Jackson’s book, or Robert Wise’s perfect 1963 film adaptation, go back! If you’re determined to proceed, beware.
Jackson’s creepy and ultimately terrifying Hugh Crain, whose titanic personality infests every inch of the house he built for a wife who would never set foot inside the monstrosity…alive…has been morphed by Flanagan into an oddly jejune flipper of houses played to perfection as a young father by Henry Thomas.
And played to equal perfection as the older, world-weary and perennially haunted, PTSD survivor by Timothy Hutton.
A flipper of houses? Yes, dewy-eyed Hugh and his somewhat wifty wife, Olivia (the excellent Carla Gugino) have somehow acquired Hill House which they intend to renovate (over a mere summer!) and sell for YUGE money. I guess Mr. Flanagan forgot what happened to real estate in the ’90’s.
The entire re-imagined Crain clan, which includes Hugh and Olivia’s five children, Steven, Shirley (!), Theodora, Luke and Nell, move into Hill House and the haunting begins.
Flanagan’s story toggles back and forth between then and now. Then, he focuses on the children’s experiences in the house, and now he focuses on what those experiences have produced. Luke has become a heroin addict. Shirley has become a mortician. Steven has become an author of books about hauntings. Theo has become a child psychologist. Nell has become a widow. Hugh has become estranged from his family, and Olivia has become dead.
Every episode alludes to the terrible events of the family’s last night in Hill House in which Olivia’s life was claimed by the spirits that literally prowl the carpeted corridors with abandon. By the time I groggily fired up the final episode and observed Flanagan’s big reveal, my only response was: Oh.
Here’s the deal: Jackson’s story was so freaking terrifying because you never SAW anything. You heard things, disturbing things. Who could ever forget the pounding on the walls? “God! Whose hand was I holding?” remains one of the scariest lines ever committed to paper. (Spoiler: Flanagan decided we need to SEE the ghostly hand in question. Sigh.) Jackson’s characters THOUGHT they saw things, out of the corners of their eyes. The phantom black dog that leads half the group out of the house on a chase, leaving the real Nell and Theo alone and ripe for an epic ghostly encounter. The breathing doors…I’ve literally got goosebumps. Jackson knew that the suggested unknown is what really wriggles into our hypothalamus and gets it to command our adrenals to start blasting out cortisol and adrenaline.
Not so with Mr. Flanagan, who has populated his Hill House with an army of corporeal ghosts, some straight out of the Asian horror film handbook, and some from Mr. King’s inviolate cabinet of spooks. Some are menacing, and some are just silly. But poor Hill House is lousy with them. Here’s the kicker: if you don’t LOOK at them, they’ll pretty much leave you alone, so just pull those covers over your heads, kids.
A word about the Dudleys.
Mrs. Dudley gave birth to every single crazy old man or woman who warns the Scooby Gang not to proceed. As created by Jackson and portrayed by the great Rosalie Crutchley in 1963, Mrs, Dudley convinces us from the beginning to GET OUT. Her husband, Mr. Dudley is a nearly silent presence of menace. Flanagan decided that the Dudley’s needed reinvention. His Mrs. Dudley, played by the always amazing Annabeth Gish, is a kindly soul, who happily interacts with the family, while her husband is a somewhat goofy aged hippie who is also always around to lend a hand. In one scene, Gish is placed front of an angel statue so it appears that the celestial wings are actually hers. Flanagan, you bastard!
Anyhoo, Flanagan plucks elements from Jackson’s novel like the last vulture to arrive at the rotting corpse. He takes unforgettable lines and moments and tosses them into his word salad teleplays to whatever character can catch them. He averages 2.5 thoroughly horrible theatrical monologues per episode. His characters are completely uneven, and most are just cyphers. Nothing about the family Crain is ever truly explained, leaving us with overly drawn out examinations of moments in characters’ lives that have little to zero interest because so much is missing from their backstory. We know WHAT they are, not WHO they are.
But Flanagan’s biggest crime was his casual omission of the main character in Shirley Jackson’s story: Hill House.
Jackson’s Hill House is a living breathing entity. It sits in the New England forest, waiting, patiently. It allows the Dudley’s to keep it running – during the day – and it keeps it’s own counsel during the night…in the dark. Hill House is often portrayed by artists as having eyes, so palpable is its personality. A house born bad and now ruled by a single entity: Hugh Crain. Hill House is larger than life…
…and it certainly isn’t something that a house-flipper would buy and renovate in a freaking SUMMER. As described, Hill House is at LEAST 8,000 square feet, probably closer to 10. It would takes YEARS to renovate such a beast. Flanagan’s Hill House is merely a work in progress. There’s black mold to contend with. Windows to replace. Blueprints to create. It’s a container of spirits, but is, itself, without life. And therein lies the ultimate shame of this truly terrible adaptation.
That, and Flanagan has – for whatever reason – provided his adaptation with a relatively HAPPY ENDING which plays over COUNTRY WESTERN MUSIC. What the literal fuck? AND he has decided in his delusional hubris to change one word of Jackson’s final line that morphs the entire project into a treacly salmagundi as usually found in more wholesome fare like, “This is Us.”
The acting is superb. The scripts suck (especially those monologues). The production design is a boring monochromatic mush. (I smell Tisch grads.) The omnipresent video flare (which prevents true black) is unforgivable. The acting is superb.
Mike Flanagan: you suffer from the presumption of interest. I suggest you make a pilgrimage to Shirley Jackson’s grave in Vermont (in which she’s still spinning, trust me) and apologize.
‘Tis the season. I highly recommend watching or rewatching Robert Wise’s faithful 1963 adaptation, staring Julie Harris and Claire Bloom for real scares that stay with you. And no matter what Mike Flanagan says, Hill House remains a solid part of our collective unconscious. It’s that inexplicable place that is just bad because it was always meant to be bad. And whatever walks there, walks ALONE.
I was raised by a cat-hating family. While the hatred never took in my heart, I arrived at adulthood with neutral feelings regarding felines. I enjoyed interacting with my friends’ cats, but never really considered sharing my life with one until my horrible beast childe, Blythe, came along and started yammering that she wanted a kitty when she was first able to form the words.
One day young Blythe and I were in our (previously) trusted vet’s office with one of our countless dogs, and I gave him the parent-to-parent look, and asked: “Oh, Dr. Randall, there certainly isn’t any way that we could bring a cat into a house with so many ferocious dogs, is there?”
Dr. Randall totally missed the look.
“Sure you can!” he responded cheerfully while Blythe began to shriek and squeal like a small monkey who’d just been handed a crate of bananas. “You just have to introduce them slowly and….”
And I stopped listening, because I knew we were getting a freaking cat.
That was many moons and many cats ago.
Now, like many of you, I am a cat slave. I love cats. I admire their completely alien personalities and supernatural abilities and I fear their swift justice. I secretly watch cat videos that pop up in my social media feeds, and go out of my way to make friends with as many cats as I encounter. I am devoted to all things cat.
I am particularly devoted to our cat, Cassiopeia, who was diagnosed with cancer this morning.
Many of our cats have received cosmological names, and Cassie has been a Cassiopeia in every possible way.
Like the fabled Queen, Cassie loves to recline. Usually on your chest while you sleep.
When not reclining, Cassie loves to explore the woods and fields outside our home, and is a celebrated huntswoman, having brought home an endless supply of corpses once having belonged to everything from voles to snakes.
Now an elder in our family, Cassie has raised several generations of cats and dogs, and can put a Jack Russell Terrier in his or her place in a nanosecond. Her presence in our family has been a gift most joyful.
After discussing options with our vet (there really aren’t any), we’ve made her final appointment for this Monday. Knowing the day and time really sucks. As I putter around the house, I catch Cassie reclining out of the corner of my eye, stop what I’m doing, and offer her some love, which she still clearly acknowledges as tribute she is due. She is a Queen, after all.
After 10 o’clock in the morning on Monday, I think Cassie may take up residence in her constellation, where she can be delighted by whatever our universe reveals to her while happily reclining somewhere in-between Tsih and Shedir.
I’m positive that she’ll look down at the Andromeda Galaxy from time to time and scowl – as only cats can scowl – with disapproval.
As I try, unsuccessfully, not to freak about the short time we have left with Cassie, I’m reminded that our time is short in general. Give your animal companions some extra love this weekend, and never stop looking at the night sky.
I don’t know about you, but I have a bad habit of saying “Yeah, sure! I’ll do that!”
When I was approached to direct Young Frankenstein at Theatreworks in New Milford, CT, my first thought should have been: I better read the script before I say anything…remember what happened when you agreed to direct Dirty Rotten Scoundrels without reading the script?
But there was no thought. Just a “Yeah, sure! I’ll do that!” that flew out of my mouth like a fruit bat zeroing in on a ripe banana.
I’ve directed a lot of shows, and I thought I’d seen and done most of what I was most likely to encounter in theatre until I finally sat down and read Mr. Brooks’ script.
To be fair, Young Frankenstein isn’t exactly great American theatre. It is, however, a beloved and revered piece of our collective comedic mythos. Only those of you with the stoniest of hearts don’t crack a smile for at least one of the terrified horse whinnies that dutifully follow the mention of the iconic Frau Blucher.
But the script! Mel Brooks basically took his screenplay, reformatted it for the stage, and added a LOT of music.
I’m sure that all sounds well and good, and you’re wondering what on earth I have to blather about. Well, I’ll tell ya what I have to blather about: Spectacle musicals taken directly from the screen to the stage.
Now that I’ve directed several of these beasts, I have this to say to the show creators: Since a huge part of your residual profits from these shows occur AFTER they’ve closed on Broadway or the West End, take a moment to consider what community theaters all over the world have to put themselves through in order to properly produce something that you spent millions on.
It all rests on this: There are no traditional black outs between scenes, just the mystifying: “…as we transition to…”
Transition to? Sub-text: this was a jump-cut from one location to another in the film.
Musicals like Young Frankenstein are filled with jaw-dropping transitions. With a dollar and a dream, you can make these transitions happen quite nicely. The thing is: most community theaters only have dreams, not dollars.
So why even attempt such shows? Because audiences want to see them. Actors want to be in them. Set designers want to design them. And crazy people, like me, want to direct them.
So, getting back to my message to the men and women who create these monster shows: Out here in the hinterlands, where a budget for a musical like Young Frankenstein wouldn’t even have covered the catering for the first read-through with the original cast, we’re learning. And while we learn, we create. We problem-solve and improvise. We’re self-taught. We turn ourselves inside out making your transitions happen. And we never back down from the challenges left behind in your scripts. At this point, there’s probably more talent for this work out here in Community Theatreville than exists in all your unions…combined.
There’s no feeling in the world that compares to pulling off a show like Young Frankenstein in a house with less than 200 seats. Of course we haven’t opened yet, but we will on May 4, and the Heavens will tremble at our audacity, despite the impossible transition-filled
To my sisters and brothers around the world, I salute you! We do what we do with virtually no money, buoyed only by our love of theatre and the support of our loved ones and our communities. Imagine what we could do with the resources a show like this one originally consumed!
Transition to: the Heavens trembling at the thought.
Something about the fact that the creator of the iconic Scream was also capable of observing and capturing beauty makes me smile. On a cold, rainy day this really hits the spot. Thanks, Edvard!
Thanks to the #CycloneBomb, we’ve been relatively housebound for a few days.
In my pre-Donner Party mental state, I thought that watching the new-ish Sundance series “Riviera” would at least provide warm, sunny visuals that would take my mind off the sub-zero crap raging outside.
Well, the warm, sunny visuals are there. No argument.
What isn’t included in this episodic soap are:
1. A story
2. A viable script
3. Dialogue that manages to rise above anything uttered at the Mad Hatter’s Tea Party.
4. With the exception of a few, performances noted for anything other than how awful they are.
I admit “Riviera” had the car crash-effect on me. It was simply so horrifying I couldn’t stop watching, mainly because I HAD to see what gawd awful schmata they were going to shove Julia Styles into next. (I had no idea there were THAT many shirt dresses in the world, I shit you not.)
Does this look like an über-wealthy denizen of Monaco to you? Also, take a good look at that thousand yard stare. That pretty much compromises the entirety of her performance.
Poor Lena Olin also suffered from the sadistic “Riviera” wardrobe team.
It’s the freaking RIVIERA, not Oslo! And yes, I know it gets cold in the South of France, I’ve been there, but you tell me: what IS that? Everyone else was happily cavorting in bathing suits and sun dresses ) except for the previously mentioned hideous shirt dresses.)
To her credit, Olin did her best to rise above the inane storytelling (by Neil Jordan, of all people) and morphed into a neo-Euro-version of Joan Collin’s character on the much missed “Dynasty.” But even the accomplished Olin could barely get out some of the most stupid lines ever written for an actress.
The plot, such as it is, has something to do with the world of wealthy art patrons (all of whom apparently live in the Riviera), a mysterious hard drive (the contents of which are never revealed, so it could have been someone’s complete collection of Sponge Bob for all we know) that the “Russian government” may or may not be interested in, mean brothel owners…well, one in particular, and…..(trying to think of SOMETHING) oh, rehab. Yes, heroin is bad! None of it makes a lick of sense.
Oh! But it does feature everybody’s favorite bad guy from GoT!
And this young lady:
How come she doesn’t need furs?
Some messes are glorious, like “The Fifth Element.” Some are just messes.
Unless you’re a straight up masochist, I recommend a hard pass.
Find someplace warmer and sunnier to take your mind off the chilling winds.
I spent a good portion of New Year’s Day binge watching this haunting Netflix docudrama. Directed by Errol Morris of “Thin Blue Line” and “Fog of War” fame, “Wormwood” is a unique and truly frightening journey into post-WWII America in which maniacs at the CIA were busy developing what would eventually become MKUltra. What’s a little LSD between friends, right?
When Army scientist, Frank Olson, mysteriously flew out of his window at NY’s Statler Hotel in November of 1953, his death presented his young son, Eric, with a Quixotic life’s quest: to find out what really happened to his father.
The episodes cut between chilling and tragic interviews with Eric, and exceptionally atmospheric dramatic scenes as imagined by Morris. Peter Sarsgaard’s Frank Olson is a perfectly crafted cypher, challenging us to wonder if ANYONE actually knew this man, let alone his family. Also turning in wondrous performances are Tim Blake Nelson, Molly Parker, a totally sinister Jimmi Simpson and the much beloved Bob Balaban.
The documentary scenes are filled with heartache and the kind of despair that allows us to glimpse beyond a stranger’s event horizon to the black hole that has begun to devour them. If the story being told wasn’t so monumentally important, I doubt I could have finished watching.
Perhaps one of the most tantalizing scenes in the series was an interview between Errol Morris and American journalist legend, Seymour Hersh.
No longer the swaggering young hero who exposed the My Lai Massacre and nabbed the 1970 Pulitzer, Hersh has morphed into the Fourth Estate’s Jabba the Hut, not in size but in attitude. Puffed-up with comfort and hubris, Hersh dismissively stares down Morris and then smugly assures him that he knows exactly what happened to Frank Olson in 1953. Of course he can’t spill the beans because that would allegedly jeopardize his source. Hersh definitely believed that he was totally owning Morris, but he foolishly forgot that the cameras trained on him belonged solely to the filmmaker. Oops, Seymour! Your callous pomposity is now forever preserved in an age when we’ve come to treat journalists like snakes that we can’t immediately identify as being venomous.
If you’re turned on by riveting documentaries, moody murder mysteries, great performances, the Cold War, CIA skullduggery, MKUltra, and genuine human pathos – the kind that makes you question pretty much everything – then I highly recommend “Wormwood.”
It’s a slow burn, but once the fire finally catches, you simply can’t look away. And if you’re wondering about the title, check Revelation 8 verse 10.
Was it my imagination, or was 2017 the longest year on record? Tweet after laborious Tweet, a never-ending avalanche of political imbroglios, mass shootings, terror attacks, repeated threats of the deployment of nuclear weapons, alternate facts, tiki torches… You know, Billy Joel should haul his ass out of his La-Z Boy and add about 10 more verses to “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”
Of course, keeping your eye trained on the rearview mirror won’t help much with navigation. That’s what our world needs: Navigators. Waters once relatively calm and free from hidden shoals have become storm-battled, treacherous maelstroms. Friendly harbors have become ideologically entrenched and unapproachable.
We need Navigators.
Twister champions, downhill skiers, World of Warcraft end-gamers, mountain climbers, people who read AND understand Proust, underwater cave explorers, people who instantly understood why the Elder Wand didn’t answer to Voldemort, crossword puzzle champs who complete the Sunday Times puzzle in under 6 minutes, Disney Park maintenance personnel, really good tap dancers, half-pipe champions, and Grand prix riders. These are the people we need.
We don’t need old men and women who behave like Jim Henson’s Skeksis from “The Dark Crystal.”
We desperately need our 40 and 50-somethings to rise. The world, and our ability to experience it resets itself by the nano-second. We need young navigators who have come of age in the time of rapidly changing technology to step up and take the helm. Of course, the incentive to do so is kinda lacking, except for the whole “let’s save the world before it’s too late.” Happily, that’s enough for many, but not nearly enough for most.
I think that’s our challenge for 2018. We’ve got to find our Navigators and get them woke and motivated. Our Voldemort is the rapidly encroaching blanket of Nihilism that’s spreading itself around the world, erupting in bouts of truly senseless violence. But we don’t need an Elder Wand because we ARE the Elders.
I wish you all a safe and prosperous 2018. Start keeping your eyes peeled for Navigators, and if you find one, don’t let go. Lindsey Graham, of all people – stated today that 2018 is going to be very “dangerous.” Today, and perhaps only today, I believe him. But it would be so sweet to prove him wrong.