Stylistically, Cave at times sounded like everyone from Robert Bloch to H.P. Lovecraft to William Hope Hodgson. He was a master at grabbing the reader from the outset. Consider such opening lines as these from “The Watcher in the Green Room.” “The plump, stumpy man in the double-breasted gray coat was quite obviously drunk. He walked with an exaggerated shuffle which carried him perilously close to the edge of the high curbing, whereupon he stopped short, drew his fat hands from their respective pockets, and gravely regarded the drooling gutter beneath him.” As the story proceeds, our initial interest in the man's perpetual drunkenness is repaid by a hideous revelation. And the deft anthropomorphization of the insensate street is borne out by a latter blurring of dead and living matter. Or, Cave could hook you with just a single sentence, as in “Prey of the Nightborn.” “Peter Marabeck's wife was buried on Tuesday, and he met the other woman the following Saturday night while driving home from Putney.” Now, this other woman proves to be supernatural, but I maintain that this opener, with its psychological undertones, could have just as easily graced some New Yorker-style mimetic tale. Finally, Cave would experiment with strange viewpoints, such as the second-person, present-tense POV in “The Prophecy."
And that's the great thing about Cave's stories: you always get the feel of a fairly cosmopolitan, mature mind at work. Even when he's faking, through dedicated research efforts, first-hand knowledge of some South Seas setting, his resonance with the way life might be lived in exotic places, his identification with a wide variety of characters, brings to his weird tales a solid foundation of closely imagined and rendered quotidian details. His harsh and empathetic version of the life lived by three Negro dump-dwellers in “Dead Man's Belt” is typical of his far-ranging sympathies.
This collection should serve as a cornerstone of any serious library of the supernatural, and Wildside deserves much praise for making it so generally available.
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Ocular Sweets
From July 3 to September 19, 2004, lucky visitors to the Grand Central Art Center at California State University at Fullerton could enjoy a resplendent exhibit titled “100 Artists See Satan.” A panorama of individual interpretations of evil and the devil, this showcase featured eye-popping fantastical work from artists both famous and less well-known. Now those unfortunate enough not to catch this exhibit in person can revel in its infernal glories by picking up 100 Artists See Satan (Grand Central Press/Last Gasp, trade paperback, $24.95, unpaginated, ISBN 0-86719-666-1). Essentially the catalog of the show, this book comes with a fine essay by curator Mike McGee, detailing the fascinating history of the devil in art. What follows is a stunning array of works both representational and abstract, literal and symbolic. From the devil-girl temptresses of Robert Williams and Coop, to the arcane altar of Paul Laffoley, to the Exorcist-inspired photography of Ryan McNamara, we see just how strongly the concept of evil and its avatar has penetrated the consciousness of these artists and our culture. The range of visions provokes laughter, regret, shudders, and meditations. Truly a book to make one repent—or cast one's lot with the fallen angels. The team of graphic designers involved in this catalog deserves immense credit for the witty presentation of their material—for instance, the works of the artists are arrayed in reverse alphabetical order, á là some Black Mass—and their witty juxtaposition of supporting quotations. This might be the first time ever that Homer Simpson and Shakespeare shared a page.
Faithful readers of Juxtapoz magazine www.juxtapoz.com will be long familiar with the concept of “lowbrow” art, that quasi-movement which yokes together a pop mindset with craftsmanlike skills, among a variety of independent-minded rebels. But those in need of an introduction to what might be the most vibrant art movement of the twenty-first century should look no further than Pop Surrealism (Ignition Publishing/ Last Gasp, hardcover, $39.95, unpaginated, ISBN 0-86719-818-1). Subtitled “The Rise of Underground Art” and lovingly assembled by Kristen Anderson, herself a gallery owner specializing in this type of painting, this volume features the work of nearly two dozen creators, reproduced on deluxe stock in scintillating hues and resolution. As Robert Williams informs us in his lead-in essay (two other writers, Larry Reid and Carlo McCormick, also offer keen insights), the themes and treatments of lowbrow art derive from “story illustration, comic book art, science fiction, movie poster art, motion picture production and effects, animation, music art and posters, psychedelic and punk rock art, hot rod and biker art, surfer, beach bum and skateboard graphics, graffiti art, tattoo art, pin-up art, pornography and numerous other commonplace, egalitarian art forms.” In short, just the material that floats my boat, and that of so many other like-minded folks (such as, perhaps, the readers of Asimov's). From the Cubist Tom-and-Jerry deconstructions of Anthony Ausgang to the bad girl declamations of Niagara to the Daliesque epiphanies of Todd Schorr, the artists herein prove that intellectual heft and playfulness are not mutually exclusive.
A companion volume to their Science Fiction Poster Art (2004), Tony Nourmand's and Graham Marsh's Horror Poster Art (Aurum Press, trade paperback, $29.95, 192 pages, ISBN 1-84513-101-3) exhibits the same wide-ranging and exciting selection of alluring cinematic advertising and fascinating trivia as before. (Although, as with the earlier volume, some doubts pertain as to the hard facts presented: for instance, authorship of The Invasion of the Body Snatchers is attributed to “Albert” Finney, rather than Jack.) In several instances, the compilers assemble multiple versions—both domestic and foreign—of artwork relating to the same film, providing us with educational lessons on how different minds and different cultures can profitably interpret the same product. The posters are often grouped into useful subsets: films derived from Poe's stories; films by Hitchcock, Lewton, Craven, et al; zombie films, etc. And the quality of the reproductions is magnificent. I confess to favoring the subtle glamour of the 1930's posters over the bluntness of some of the later work, but whatever era you're interested in, you'll find plenty of material here, much of it unfamiliar to even the aficionado. This is both a handy reference work on the history of horrific cinema, and a primer to intelligent graphic design.
It seems impossible for any lover of fantastic imagery not to have encountered the work of Luis Royo. His high profile in the genre, attributable to his dozen books and other projects such as trading card series, should have brought him to everyone's attention by now. But if you are yet unacquainted with his work—or even if you have a book or three of his already—then the appearance of Fantastic Art: The Best of Luis Royo (NBM, hardcover, $45.00, 240 pages, ISBN 1-56163-398-4) will be a godsend. This sumptuous showcase allows Royo's work to really shine. First off comes an introduction by Antonio Altaribba, who usefully highlights such perennial themes of Royo's as the “beauty and the beast” leitmotif. Altaribba continues to supply impressionistic text throughout the gallery of paintings that follow. Usefully divided into such sections as “The Monsters’ Embrace” and “Fallen Angels,” the subdivisions mostly feature a plethora of Royo's gorgeously haughty women. Often naked, fearsomely be-weaponed, these beauties pose against a number of evocative settings. Although Royo favors Tol-kienesque and Howardian vistas, he can also turn out vivid SF milieus, such as in the painting titled “Ties of Power,” which features some of the most unique aliens yet depicted by anyone. Royo's winning ways with transparent fabrics, skin tones, and metallic surfaces insure that his visions possess a tangible heft. In an afterword, Royo says that he prefers to call his paintings “illuminations” rather than “illustrations,” and the play of light in his canvases surely justifies such a conceit.
Recall, if you will, the glory days of Bill Watterson's Calvin and Hobbes strip. Do you remember when Calvin would indulge in his “Spaceman Spiff” fantasies? Now imagine a strip in which everything Calvin fantasized about—all the oddball aliens and balky spaceships and paranoid interstellar adventures—actually happens to some little contemporary kid. If you can wrap your mind around that concept, the
n you've got a hold on the amiably quirky and utterly engaging Astronauts of the Future (NBM, trade paperback, $14.95, unpaginated, ISBN 1-56163-407-7), co-created by Lewis Trondheim and Manu Larcenet. Gil and Martina are schoolchums who are convinced that they inhabit a solipsistic world reminiscent of Heinlein's “They.” Sure enough, one day the illusions fall away, and the pair are revealed to be the only human inhabitants of an alien world. How they got there and what their purpose is forms a complicated, humorous tale. And that's even before their whole world comes under deadly attack by a race of pompous carnivores known as the Meskimeks. This tale's dialogue, pacing, and ingenuity are unsurpassed, and the art is charmingly loose-limbed, oddball, and affectionate. Together, the two men create an all-ages adventure that truly captivates. No heavy-handed whimsy or lectures here, just a wild and woolly coming-of-age story unlike any other.
In The Fallen 2: Cold Religion (NBM, trade paper, $10.95, 48 pages, ISBN 1-56163-406-9) writer David Aaron Clark and artist David Rankin continue their descent into a hellish urban landscape where literal angels and devils battle for the souls of lost humans. Our two protagonists—art student Rena Mojica and tattooist John Savory—navigate a baffling landscape that includes S&M clubs and hallucinatory celestial visions. Clark's dialogue and plotting call to mind the best of the Hellblazer storylines, while Rankin's stained-glass art summons up comparisons to that of Sue Coe, David Mack, and Dave McKean. The book ends with a cliffhanger that surely presages more excruciations to come.
The review of Hugh Cave's Murgunstrumm above simply mentions artist Lee Brown Coye without commenting on the superb quality of his work. That's because Coye deserves a book-length study all his own, which he happens to get in the shape of Arts Unknown: The Life and Art of Lee Brown Coye (Nonstop Press, hardcover, $39.95, 176 pages, ISBN 1-933065-04-4), by Luis Ortiz. Readers with a sharp memory might recall Ortiz's name as editor and publisher of the fine small-press zine Non-Stop. But along with his flair for writing and organizing data, it is Ortiz's experience as a graphic designer that most comes into play here. Not only does Ortiz's artistic background allow him vast empathy with Coye, and extensive understanding of the art worlds in which Coye moved, but Ortiz's talents have likewise allowed him to design a smashingly beautiful book, heavy on graphic savvy. Nor is the text lacking in wonders. Ortiz sympathetically and intelligently charts Coye's life from birth (in the year 1907 in Syracuse, New York) to his death in 1981. The tale told is often a hard-luck one, with Coye's bountiful talents going unappreciated or under-utilized. Nonetheless, Ortiz stoutly defends the richness of Coye's inner and outer life. This is no sob story, but rather a depiction of how art for art's sake can flourish even despite the sometimes brutal demands of the marketplace. Coye was the product of a small-town America that no longer exists, and Ortiz brilliantly sketches out this era, rendering the lineaments of Tully, New York, where Coye's sensibilities were formed, in tactile thickness. In fact, all along Coye's career we get excellent evocations of the milieus he inhabited, from Depression-era muralist to prozine-illustrator to small-press book jacket designer. Reading this fine biography is like riding a train through the history of three-quarters of the twentieth century, and seeing Coye's monsters through every window.
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Serious and Constructive
For thirty years now, the UK publisher Savoy Books, founded by David Britton and Michael Butterworth, has been boldly pursuing a policy of “transgressive” publishing, issuing books and music of outrageous fecundity and brio, much of it experimental, that invariably gets up the noses of the prudish. The firm's many accomplishments are at last chronicled in a book worthy of its subject: David M. Mitchell's A Serious Life (Savoy Books, hardcover, £20.00, 416 pages, ISBN 0-86130-114-5). But although this is a “in-house corporate history” to some extent, it's hardly a puff piece. Mitchell compassionately slags the Savoy stuff he's not particularly fond of, while articulately praising the stuff he finds to be of lasting value. His segments of the text are the potent sinews that bind everything else together. Then come extensive interviews with the founders, full of engaging anecdotes and behind the scenes history, much of it wry and sardonic. Finally, there are reprinted essays and reviews from third-party experts. Savoy has always had a tight connection with the SF world (as explained here, the enterprise arose out of the ashes of Moorcock's New Worlds), and has published work by Platt, Ellison, Ballard, and Delany, among others. This invaluable testament to the courage and vision and persistence of everyone involved reads like a secret history of the field. And of course, under the superb art direction of John Coulthart, this lavishly illustrated and intelligently designed book is pure eye candy as well.
The latest issue—Volume XI, Nos. 1 & 2—of A. Langley Searles's long-running Fantasy Commentator (trade paper, $12.00, 173 pages, ISSN 1051-5011) is the special Fritz Leiber issue, assembled with the editorial assistance of Benjamin Szumskyj. It's a treasure trove of Leiber material, from secondary and primary sources both. Nearly every aspect of Leiber's long and varied career is examined, from his horror fiction to his fantasy to his science fiction. Thanks to the efforts of the perceptive critics herein, we see such sights as a young Leiber engaged in correspondence with Lovecraft, learning his trade. Later, a vivid selection of his letters to his lifelong fannish pal Franklin MacKnight reveal the mature Leiber facing artistic challenges while holding down a job at Science Digest magazine. Throughout the revelatory, generally insightful articles, no attempts are made to airbrush Leiber's complex personality. Both his vices and his virtues are given fair display. Careful dissections of such seminal works as the Fafhrd and the Gray Mouser series, The Wanderer (1964), and Our Lady of Darkness (1977) abound. For anyone who has ever enjoyed Leiber's sexy, solemn, scary, speculative tales, this issue is a must-have companion.
The world calls John Clute a critic and reviewer. I call him a poet. A poet whose subject matter happens to be the literature of the fantastic, in all its multifarious splendors. His impassioned, impasto language, rich with metaphors and an oft-arcane yet precisely apt vocabulary, transforms his reviews into odes and elegies, lyrics and sonnets. Reading his reviews is frequently an experience just as rich and ennobling as reading the novels under review. This is criticism as art, and nobody does it better. The proof of my assertion can be found in his latest collection: Scores: Re Views 1993-2003 (Beccon Publications, trade paperback, $27.00, 428 pages, ISBN 1-870824-48-2). The majority of these pieces are reprinted from two venues: Interzone and Science Fiction Weekly. I detect a slight difference in flavor between the two families of articles. The newer reviews, from SFW, where Clute's regular column is called “Excessive Candour,” benefit from the expansion into cyberspace and a larger, more general audience by becoming even more bold and wide-ranging than those written for Interzone, whose readership constituted something of a cocktail party of old friends. Which is not to denigrate these earlier excursions by any means. In both sets, Clute exhibits a bold, happy, eager willingness to wrestle with texts in the very arenas they stake out for themselves. Whether tackling SF or Fantasy, Horror or Slipstream, he applies a consistent toolbox of standards, but also selects just the right moral and aesthetic socket-wrenches for the job. He's funny, sobering, fair, impertinent, graceful, and brutal as the occasion demands. He conveys that reading matters. For this collection, he's not hesitated to revise and regroup and reconsider. For instance, sample this parenthetical emendation to the review of Patrick O'Leary's The Gift (1997): “I have cut an entire paragraph here. I didn't understand a word of it.” Likewise, bunching together formerly time-separated reviews of Gene Wolfe's and Peter Ackroyd's work leads to enhanced insights. Finally, if there's a critic who can synopsize the raw plot of a book more attractively and lucidly than Clute, I've yet to meet him or her. Covering almost two hundred titles, this volume is a map of both Clute's mind and the genre at large over a decade: fascinating topographies, both.
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Publisher
Addresses
Arkham House, POB 546, Sauk City, WI 53583. Aurum Press, distributed by Trafalgar Square Publishing, POB 257, Howe Hill Road, North Pomfret, VT 05053. Beccon Publications, distributed through Old Earth Books, POB 19951, Baltimore, MD 21211. Fantasy Commentator, 48 Highland Circle, Bronxville, NY 10708. Golden Gryphon Press, 3002 Perkins Road, Urbana, IL 61802. Grand Central Press, CSUF Grand Central Art Center, 125 North Broadway, Suite A, Santa Ana, CA 92701. Ignition Publishing, www.ignitionpublishing.com. Last Gasp, 777 Florida Street, SF, CA 94110. NBM, 555 Eighth Avenue, Suite 1202, NY, NY 10018. Night Shade Books, 3623 SW Baird Street, Portland, OR 97219. Nonstop Press, POB 981, Peck Slip Station, NY, NY 10272. PS Publishing, 1 New Road, Hornsea, East Yorkshire, HU18 1PG, U.K. Savoy Books, 446 Wilmslow Road, Withington, Manchester M20 3BW, U.K. Thunder's Mouth Press, 245 West 17th Street, NY, NY 10011. Wildside Press, POB 301, Holicong, PA 18928.
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The SF Conventional Calendar
Join the Glasgow WorldCon and Seattle NASFiC at the door, if not a member yet. Plan now for social weekends with your favorite SF authors, editors, artists, and fellow fans. For an explanation of con(vention)s, a sample of SF folksongs, info on fanzines and clubs, and how to get a later, longer list of cons, send me an SASE (self-addressed, stamped #10 [business] envelope) at 10 Hill #22-L, Newark NJ 07102. The hot line is (973) 242-5999. If a machine answers (with a list of the week's cons), leave a message and I'll call back on my nickel. When writing cons,send an SASE. For free listings, tell me of your con 6 months out. Look for me at cons behind the Filthy Pierre badge, playing a musical keyboard.
Asimov's SF, Sep 2005 Page 21