Spectra Pulse

There is an article in this new magazine by Jeff Vandermeer about the Unsung Heroes of Science Fiction and Fantasy. In it he mentions my book Dr. Black and the Guerrillia, which is nice.  (I snagged the photo below from his blog.)

 

Maiko Haaaan!!!

This is a strange film starring Sadao Abe as a man working for a noodle factory (yes another noodle themed film) who is obsessed with apprentice geishas.

 Complete with a musical number, ludicrous humour and, yes, many many geishas, this film might not be for everyone, but it is surely worth a look for those interested in . . . this sort of thing.

The first half of the film is a bit more lively than the second, as it is more packed with special effects, while the second half sort of falls into a traditional story-line (boy gets girl).

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

     Before sending Marco to conduct the aforementioned business with Dr. Štrekel, Torturo had made sure that he was through with his services. The doctor had, within half a dozen surgical sessions, given the priest those miraculous relics of the saints to keep encased in his own living muscle and meat. In between operations Torturo had stretched his limbs and exercised incessantly. He ate restorative foods: tripe soup, wild pheasant and boiled marrow bones. Oils of myrrh and frankincense he rubbed on his wounds, and the proper incantations he muttered thrice daily, taking care to perform all the necessary articles of his practice.

     The priest who Vivan had once described as ‘inoffensive as a fly’ was rapidly coming into his own. That he had very little in common with a buzzing, two winged insect was now openly apparent. He had subjugated Vivan with ease. Zuccarelli could not be said to have been subjugated, but the man had clearly seen that to help Torturo was in his own best interest.

     Both men wondered about this priest, this well built man in his thirties who chain smoked Parisiennes and who, apparently, had as deep and dark a clandestine life as could be imagined. Rumours had been floating about for some weeks that he was occasionally visited by the Holy Ghost. He had been seen entering a cheese shop during a torrential rain, every inch of him completely dry. At the intersection of the via Benedetto Cairoli and the via Jacopo Avanzo a bus had run over a seven year old boy’s foot. Torturo instantly appeared upon the scene, pushed the hysterical mother aside and, after removing the boy’s shoe, rubbed his foot. The child laughed, rose to his feet and danced along the sidewalk.

Films Recently Seen

Shadows in the Palace: A slow moving Korean historical “mystery” that doesn’t seem to quite know what to do with itself.

Shaolin Abbot: A rather dull Shaw Brothers film.

Shubun: A decent Kurosawa flick. Certainly not as good as most of his films, but worth a look, as it features his standard players and some entertaining scenes.

Mafioso: An Alberto Sordi film made available by Criterion. Not one of Sordi’s best, but if you don’t speak Italian one of the few out there for you to see.

Walk Hard: Funny.

Resurrecting the Champ: Bloody Awful. Don’t see it.

Obama’s Friday Night PA Speech

Kaleidotrope 4

Just received issue 4 of Kaleidotrope, which has my story Rome (a Metrophilia) in it. It is a zine a bit (in my opinion) similar to Electric Velocipede.

The complete TOC is as follows:

Fiction
“Molting” by Andrew Howard
“Word Count: Negative 1″ by Ashley Arnold
“The Three Wishes of Miles Vander” by Bill Ward
“Premature” by Mark Rich
“Paradise” by Adam Lowe
“White Sheets” by Mike Driver
“Rome (a Metrophilia)” by Brendan Connell
“Half-Sneeze Johnny” by Kurt Kirchmeier
“My Cthulhu Story” (a comic) by G.W. Thomas
“Furrier” by Flavian Mark Lupinetti
“She’s a Hearth” by Paul Abbamondi
“The Life and Times of a Hungry World, Told Briefly” by Alex Dally MacFarlane
“The Transparency” by Michael Obilade

Poetry
“Househunting on Mars” by Bonita Kale
“Praise for What I Don’t Know” by Thomas Zimmerman
“Cracked Shells” by Beth Langford
“Spring in the Lab” by Alyce Wilson
“Farm School” by Marcie Lynn Tentchoff
“A Manual For Good Housekeeping in the Age of Global Warming” by Miranda Gaw
“Ivanikha” by Dana Koster
Two Poems by Franz K. Baskett
“Worldviews on a Desert Trail” by Jason Huskey
“Towards the Afterlife” by Aurelio Rico Lopez III

Nonfiction
“Who Goes There,” Betty Ragan’s interview with Marc Schuster and Tom Powers
“The Rise of the Fembots: A Brief Introduction to Female Android Sexuality in Film” by Eric Borer

 

The Translation of Father Torturo: Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten

      The pig had been hanging from the pine tree since morning, its hind legs secured to a branch by a rope. The doctor kicked Žnidaršič away from the pool of blood, cut the pig down and heaved its body into the centre of the court, near the well, onto the flagstones warmed by the sun.

     “This is good wholesome meat,” he murmured as he began to carve the pig.

     The dog barked.

     “Žnidaršič! Žnidaršič!” the doctor called.

     A man, probably in his mid-thirties, though with relatively boyish features, walked in. It was Marco. The dog ceased barking, approached Marco, and licked his hand and he, in turn, petted the dog

     “I was looking for a Dr. Štrekel,” he said, approaching the doctor.

     “Ah; and what do you need with him?”

     “I was told – I was told by a friend of mine that he could – That he could,” (grinning weakly). “Well . . . I was told that he could help me fulfil a certain urge.”

     “An urge, eh?” the doctor said, still leaning intently over his work and only glancing up.

     “Yes. I – I often think of spikes. Spikes and tusks. Pogo sticks, cucumbers and carrots. – Really I do need to be; – I do think of tusks so often!”

     The doctor looked at Marco archly. “Really?” he said.

     “Really. Much too often.”

     “So – you think of tusks?”

     “Yes. My general practitioner laughed when I told him what I wanted. He did not understand . . . I need someone who will do it for me.”

     “Do it?”

     “Yes. – Cut it off. Cut the left one off. I want the left one cut off.”

     “Are you serious?” The doctor’s intelligent eyes darted up and met Marco’s.

     “I have never been more serious. I have money and will pay. I want the left one removed.”

     “You have money and need some good work done, eh? . . . Well; then I suppose I am your man. Dr. Jure Štrekel at your service!” The doctor lifted up his hands. They were dripping with blood, the grim entrails of the pig hanging out of one clinched fist, like a macabre garland. “Ha!” he laughed, displaying his large, pink mouth and sparkling teeth. “I have been operating on this pork! – But come inside, I wash up and we talk things over.”

     Marco followed the doctor inside, the dog trotting at their heels. Nassa was in the kitchen, kneading dough. The doctor spoke a few words to her in Slovenian and she walked out of the room, inclining her head slightly towards Marco as she went.

     “So, what friend told you of me,” the doctor asked, rinsing his hands in the sink.

     “A friend; – an acquaintance of mine . . . A priest.”

     “Ah, the Father Torturo was it?”

     “Yes. He is my intimate friend.”

     “Then that is good. He is an honest man. – We drink wine and discuss business. It is better to talk business over wine.”

     “Certainly,” Marco agreed. “It might help me overcome my embarrassment. – I have never done anything like this before!”

     The doctor turned around and walked towards the cabinets, talking volubly as he did so about the quality of his teran, his ‘black wine’. Marco felt the pistol, which was equipped with a silencing device, in his jacket pocket and stepped behind the doctor. The doctor opened the cabinet, bent down, and reached for a plastic Sprite bottle, full of dark liquid. Marco slipped the gun from his pocket.

      “My wife will bring the prosciutto,” the doctor said, slowly rising. “We eat and drink a glass of the black wine, and then do business.” Unscrewing the top of the bottle, and lifting it to his nose: “That is our custom you know; we always drink a glass of wine before business.”

     “A good custom,” Marco said while placing the barrel of the gun a few inches from the back of the doctor’s head, and pulling the trigger. Without so much as letting out a cry, the man fell forward, slamming the cabinet door shut and then toppling to the floor. The open bottle dropped from his hand. A circle of blood leisurely expanded around him and mixed with the black wine, which flowed fluidly.

     Marco heaved a sigh. His arms hung limp at his sides. Žnidaršič licked his right hand, which still held the gun, and then began to lap at the pool of blood.

     Nassa, the doctor’s plump, blonde wife walked in carrying a plate of ham and a loaf of home baked bread which she set on the table. She smiled stiffly, cautiously at Marco. The only sound in the room was that of the dog, lapping away. Marco looked at her sadly, tenderly. Her own gaze dropped to the floor, where it fell upon the body of her husband swimming in gore. She shrieked, loudly and frantically, threw her arms in front of her face and staggered back. Marco lifted the pistol, bit his bottom lip, and shot her twice in the neck. She reeled against a wall and fell, sliding down, her legs sprawled. He approached the quivering body and dispatched a third bullet into her crown. Žnidaršič turned and barked, alarmed at the noise, which was like a melon dropped on the floor. The dog received its death, a bullet being sent into its head with cold precision.

     The young man dragged the woman’s body into the courtyard, a clear trail of blood streaking the flagstones behind her. He lifted the temperate corpse to the opening of the well, and threw it in. The doctor was quite heavy. His mouth was open and his white teeth shone in a set smile. Marco managed, with great effort, to drag him to the the well. Straining himself, he worked the heavy frame over the stone edge and watched it topple into the black hole. Žnidaršič he threw in after, and then walked back into the house and washed his hands in the sink, with hot water and soap. After drying his hands with a paper towel, he approached the table, stepping gingerly over the pool of blood. The loaf of bread, treccia, braided white bread glazed with egg, sat on a cutting board. A fly buzzed around the plate of ham, and alighted on a white spot of fat. Marco shooed it away, picked up a piece of the ham and ate it, slowly and despondently.

     “It is really quite good prosciutto,” he murmured.

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More Crazy Chinese Govt. Claims

As reported in this article, China is now claiming that “separatists” have been plotting to kidnap Olympic athletes at the Beijing games. 

Of course they supply no proof whatsoever.

The unfortunate thing is that many will undoubtedly believe this clumsy piece of propaganda. And now of course China can claim that the Tibetans are “terrorists”.

Older Brother, Younger Sister

Original Title: Ani imôto

Year: 1953

Director: Mikio Naruse

This little known Japanese film is really special. At just under 90 minutes, it starts after the story has already started and ends without any real resolution, firmly setting it apart from the vast majority of celluloid out there.

The story is about a family who were once been wealthy but, due to industrialisation, have become poor, deriving their income from a small store which sells ices, popsicles, lemonade etc., as well as the wages their son earns engraving tomb-stones.

The older daughter (played by Machiko Kyo) is pregnant by a man who has disappeared. The younger daughter is in love with the adopted son of a noodle manufacturer.

That is the story. Great acting, superb cinematography, a tight script and a truly wonderful score by Ichirô Saitô make it work. In a big way.

Flame attendants revealed as Chinese ‘paramilitaries’

Here is a very interesting article in the Independent.

It says, in part: “The mysterious Chinese guards who provoked an outcry as they aggressively protected the Olympic torch this week have been revealed as a paramilitary spin-off from the country’s army, according to reports. Chinese state television has said that the squad – who wore distinctive blue tracksuits – were handpicked from the People’s Armed Police (PAP).”

It is interesting that people have complained about the “violent protests” when the all the violence was done by these Chinese paramilitaries and the various police of London and Paris.