Showing posts with label Weird Tales. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Weird Tales. Show all posts

Sunday, January 19, 2014

TC Television Review: The Top Five Episodes of the Alfred Hitchcock Hour, by Amber Doll Diaz. Ep. 5 - 'The Jar'


A Review of “The Jar”, Alfred Hitchcock Hour.
Amber Doll Diaz


Episode title - “The Jar”
Director – Norman Lloyd
Series - The Alfred Hitchcock Hour
Broadcast date - 14 February 1964
Teleplay by - James Bridges
Based on - “The Jar” by Ray Bradbury
First print appearance - Weird Tales November 1944



Good Evening. Within the first five minutes of this popular installment of Alfred Hitchcock Hour entitled “The Jar”, you will suppose you are witnessing an account which merely pries at the mystery of a grim sideshow extraordinaire. Instead, it assumes a much more psychosomatic cast as it chronicles the nightmarish realities of a simple country life unexamined, a marriage not infallible, and the death of innocence. Originally penned by Ray Bradbury, and featured in Weird Tales in November of 1944, “The Jar” was later reprinted in Hitchcock’s anthology Fear and Trembling in October 1963. Without surprise, the episode garnered teleplay writer James Bridges an Emmy nomination for Outstanding Writing Achievement in Adapted Drama the same year. Lacking the win, “The Jar” regardless remains stellar in its effectiveness, certainly rivaling even the best of The Twilight Zone, a deservedly decorated feat all on its own.


Charlie Hill, played by Pat Buttram, is a discontented jellyfish of a Southerner who seems Faustian in his willingness to bargain for his deep rooted desires. Craving the admiration of his peers and the reigniting of his perforated marriage to the attractive but vain and insolent Thedy, Charlie makes an unusual purchase while visiting the carnival near his home. A sign there reads, “The Magic Jar... What Is It?” and thus he happens upon a standard mason jar, filled with inky water, which houses a strange amorphous creature. The glossy, seemingly tentacled, unearthly-eyed being within is indiscernible, captivating all who come into contact with it- including the viewer. Charlie convinces the sideshow barker to sell it to him for twelve dollars.

Many of the townsfolk and neighbors Charlie shares his simple life with are entranced, and flock to his home by nightfall to have a fellowship centered on guessing what exactly is in the jar. In an interesting plot point, each citizen gazes into its ghoulish waters and begin to vent while projecting their own personal misfortunes, fears and sorrows upon the jar. For a time it is something therapeutic for all who attend, especially Charlie, who is grateful and relishes his find, but not for the jealous and disgusted Thedy, who fumes in a corner.

This disturbing, atmospheric episode featured a fairly impressive cast, with Collin Wilcox (1935-2009) playing Thedy, the cunning, self-involved young wife of Charlie Hill, and who very deservedly becomes the episode’s “center of attention”. Collin Wilcox is remembered largely by fans of the iconic The Twilight Zone episode “The Number 12 Looks Just Like You”, but instantly recognized by myself as the young actress who portrayed Mayella Ewell in To Kill A Mockingbird (1962). A truly convincing and capable actress, and by golly, she sure did have a knack for playing conniving southern tarts!

Much like the backwoods low-life social commentary of Stephen King’s first novel Salem’s Lot, "The Jar" affords viewers a glimpse into the existence of darkness in prosaic men. Evil often goes hand-in-hand with banality, be it a lifestyle or mindset. Charlie and Thedy lead lives of such uneducated mundanity and longing, which ultimately drives them hellwards. Fans of Hitchcock seeking their noir fix will delight in the star-crossed pair’s mutual internal corruption as well as the deep disillusionment Charlie feels – a function of his lowly communal standing.

“The Jar” is a masterwork of character development, but mostly where it doesn't really count. It seems the more minor townspeople were given further reflective monologues than the three leads, including a cringe-worthy scene in which a character sinks in quicksand while a slave-like farm hand drones on and on about what he believes the innards of the jar to be, rather than assisting the victim at hand. I am certain this was meant to be an attempt at generating suspense, but it more irritated than captured me. Not to impugn his work too harshly, but perhaps if Hitchcock had directed in place of Norman Lloyd, (a fantasy, I know, with only 17 out of 268 Alfred Hitchcock Presents episodes directed by him, and but one Alfred Hitchcock Hour episode: “I Saw The Whole Thing” starring John Forsythe) this scene might have properly intensified the overall tension.

On a side note, happily I have found through research that the actual jar prop remains perfectly intact (albeit dusty) and never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting upon a collector’s nightstand. In my estimation, Bradbury's original short story is a crowning achievement of psychological horror, and supersedes this adaptation in terms of excellence as more than a matter of principle. I remain spellbound by his nebulously twisted imagery and often philosophical ability to describe a physical object of horror. However “The Jar”, when re-published in his 1955 collection The October Country was tossed to and fro by contemporary reviewers. The critical reception of the story was polarized when articulated by Carlos Baker for the New York Times, who harshly cataloged Bradbury as “a gifted writer making a play for the designation of the poor man's Poe…” and with Time Magazine calling him “the arrived monster-monger” and “fit replacement for August Derleth, eldritch statesman of the well-informed witchlover”. Typically I’d begin to lead you astray, Reader, with my absolute opinion on the silly matter of “replacements” for August Derleth, but for you I shall leave that door ajar.

Saturday, March 5, 2011

Robert E. Howard: Bringing Brawn to The Weird... Completing The Triangle

I've always thought of the Big Three of Dark Pulp to be Howard Phillips Lovecraft, Clark Ashton Smith, and Robert E. Howard.  I might be off in this supposition, but to me, those three stand elite from all others that blazed the trail in those heady, creative days before the Second Great War.
It was an era when books, magazines, comics, and radio filled up the space in one's brain now occupied by television, multi-media noise, and electronic clutter.  Fantasy entertainment had to be earned via active involvement (outside of the cinema, which wasn't doing much in the way of the fantastic and strange back then).  Imagination was crafted, not given, and was bolstered by such pulpy gems as Adventure, Amazing Stories, Black Mask, Dime Detective, Flying Aces, Horror Stories, Marvel Tales, Oriental Stories, Planet Stories, Spicy Detective (SPICY DETECTIVE?! YES!! I so love that this exists), Startling Stories, Thrilling Wonder Stories, Unknown and, of course, Weird Tales, which brought HPL, CAS, and REH to the masses (such as they were).
In terms of physical stature and creative scope, H.P. was the bookish outsider, the fragile and sickly New England gentleman who reached beyond the very conception of the cosmos through his startling imagination, taking him places he'd never dare go in person, and creating new vistas and entities of  horror rooted deeply in xenophobic, sexual, and social fears.  Cosmic terror.  Nameless dread from beyond rooted time and space.  A cold, disinterested universe, roiling with ageless creatures of chaos birthed before our reality blinked into existence.  Humanity as a fly speck upon the bleached desert of a billion strange realities.

Robert E. Howard - "Two-Gun Bob" - was the beer swigging southern brawler, as bold and gritty as the plains of west/central Texas, who seemed to relish crafting characters and lands based on his reverence for physical strength and primal violence.  Barbarism.  Battle.  Bloodshed.  Noble death.

While he also explored a few classically "Lovecraftian" tales, REH is best know for his hulking heroes, all ropey muscle and swinging blade. "Thews."  Conan the Cimmerian, Bran Mak Morn, Kull of Atlantis - smashing skulls, cleaving torsos, and bedding maidens, with a sort of brutish innocence found in a humanity unencumbered by civilizing laws.  A celebration of the steel inside human flesh.


Clark Ashton Smith always seemed to bridge the gap between the two disparate pen pals and admiring contemporaries, both stylistically and physically.  One part dipped in the squishy and squamous of Lovecraft, another part bathed in the blood, sweat, and iron of Howard's newly minted "sword and sorcery."  A third part pulpy, poetic sci-fi all his own.  CAS lived a frugal, yet rugged existence in the hill country of Auburn, California.  More Renaissance Man than Mountain Man (yet both just the same), who divided his time between sculpting, painting, poetry, dazzling wordsmithery, and other artistic pursuits.  He was refined, but also sturdy.  A deft creator of high fantasy and sword and sorcery, while also a master, in his own right, of true cosmic horror, sci-fi, and weird fiction.

I've discussed HPL and CAS a bit here at The Cosmicomicon already, but I haven't yet delved into Robert E. Howard.  Part of that is due to my creative focus at the moment, which is very much in the House of Lovecraft, buttressed (*snicker*) by Columns of Clark Ashton.  But the other reason is based on my own ignorance.  Sure, like any starry eyed 70's child with a rapid and searching imagination, deeply steeped in fertile and seemingly limitless womb of Dungeons& Dragons, comics, and Dragon Magazine, not to mention the genre-establishing art of His Highness Frank Frazetta, I've always grown up with an awareness and zeal for Conan the Cimmerian.  How could one not?  He was the epitome of the Invincible Noble Savage.  The non-super yet impossibly heroic SuperSavage who lived by basic principles of honor, strength, and deadly justice.  He was an Old West gunslinger who brandished a blade instead of a six shooter.  He was all I wanted to be as a kid, aside from a bit of book learning and some general standards relating to modesty and hygiene.  Conan was the pre-history Ultimate Warrior before the WWF was a glint in Vinnie McMahon's greed-bulged eye.
He was Conan, and he was all Robert E. Howard.  What an achievement.  What a contribution to fantasy.
The strangely (at the time) black 'n white artwork, magazine-size comic Savage Sword of Conan looms large in my mind during my comic frenzy years of teenage years.  This was in the days before the explosion of truly graphic "graphic novels," and the unbridled violence and blood lust of "comic book character" thrilled me to the marrow.
Soon came John Milius' gritty film Conan The Barbarian, starring a my state's current governor (and a Viking Jew Fro that will last throughout the ages), looms as one of the "biggest" films of my childhood, even though the production values became a bit suspect as I aged into adulthood, when magic dimmed in the face of cut-rate props and costuming).
But, I plan on changing all of that in the coming months.  I've heard the clarion call of the battle horn from beyond The Black River, and will attend to my deadly duty.  Digesting "The Hyborian Age" and "Almuric" in the last week has re-lit my fire to reacquaint myself with with this giant, pugilist of a writer, with a legacy of stellar work and legions of extremely loyal fans.

As we gear up for the coming new Conan movie, lets all remember to pay homage to the the Brainfather of it all - Robert E. Howard. He was respected and admired by all of the Pulp Masters, especially HPL, who carried on an extensive epistolary relationship with REH for years.  They were tight.  Tight in a way that is surprising to me, based on their individual personalities.  But nothing bonds the blood tighter than a shared love of the strange, the threatening... the Weird Horror.
So, I raise my froth rimmed goblet to you, Robert E. Howard.  Long may your words ring out, like the sound of clashing steel on the battle plain, till the last glint of human savagery is sucked from this mortal coil.  The time will come.  But in the mean time, let us remember the words of your best-born son:

Mongol General: What is best in life?
Conan: To crush your enemies, to see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentations of their women.

Advice to live by, my fine feathered friends.

Okay... Off with you.  Jog on.

I'm reading... I'm remembering...

Friday, November 5, 2010

Day Tripping to Yoh-Vombis

 
"If the doctors are correct in their prognostication, I have only a few Martian hours of life remaining to me. In those hours I shall endeavor to relate, as a warning to others who might follow in our footsteps, the singular and frightful happenings that terminated our researches among the ruins of Yoh-Vombis. Somehow, even in my extremity, I shall contrive to tell the story; since there is no one else to do it. But the telling will be toilsome and broken; and after I am done, the madness will recur, and several men will restrain me, lest I should leave the hospital and return across many desert leagues to those abominable vaults beneath the compulsion of the malignant and malevolent virus which is permeating my brain. Perhaps death will release me from that abhorrent control, which would urge me down to bottomless underworld warrens of terror for which the saner planets of the solar system can have no analogue. I say perhaps . . . for, remembering what I have seen, I am not sure that even death will end my bondage . . . ."

When I recently read this article, about NASA's plans to launch one-way missions to Mars, I immediately though of one of my favorite masters of the pen, clay and ink, Clark Ashton Smith, and his fascination with the possibly menacing nature of Mars, most famously explored in his The Vaults of Yoh-Vombis, which has come to be his second-most famous story (after the dark fantasy masterpiece The City of Singing Flame, which, in my humble opinion, rivals anything written by Smith's contemporaries, including HPL).

Smith - hereafter referred to as "CAS," as he's known to all annoying fanboys like me - completed the original version of "Yoh-Vombis" on the 12th of September, 1931, and after several frustrating re-writes at the behest of Weird Tales editor Farnsworth Wright, the magazine finally accepted a pared-down version of the story in late October.

"The Vaults of Yoh-Vombis" was later published by Arkham House as the 19th tale in the CAS anthology Out of Space and Time, first released in 1942 with a print run of just over 1,000 copies.


Later editions were also published by Arkham House.


In "The Vaults of Yoh-Vombis," CAS describes an ancient cosmic horror that dwells under the ruined Martian city of Yoh-Vombis, discovered by a group of intrepid archeologists, after being abandoned by their two hesitant Martian guides.  I don't want to give away the plot points, but let's just say they don't discover grumpy little creatures with broom-topped green helmets and oversize sneakers.
With NASA's push to Mars, we might uncover something a bit more... "substantial" and less Warner Bros. in the dusty dark of the Red Planet that doesn't necessarily cotton to the sudden presence of biped humanity - or worse yet, decides to do something about it.
Sending squishy human beings to Mars without a return ticket could leave us at the mercy of things unimaginably strange, and potentially quite nasty.  Or, we could just find ancient, dried out waterways and lifeless rock.  We don't really now.  Yet, we MUST know.  Isn't that what drives us?  Isn't that why Eve plucked the apple (and then quickly invented biodegradable pasties)?  The constant quest to uncover the Unknown, and possibly even the Unknowable?  In the last fifty years, we've just taken the first, shaky baby step into physically exploring the cosmos.  What if don't like what we find?  Worse yet, what if we jostle something that was best left undisturbed?

It's the height of human hubris to believe that we could the only possible sentient life in this vast, immeasurable and constantly expanding universe (without taking into account dimensions and spheres beyond our reckoning, understanding, and ability to locate).

That brash arrogance will be tested very soon...

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND!   WE ALL MIGHT DIE SOON!

Oh, and read some Clark Ashton Smith very soon.  He's old school tough, a rough hewn American badass and naturalist gentleman of the weird and wonderful.
One of the Godfathers of the Cosmic - Clark Ashton Smith