Tag Archives: movie

[Apr. 4, 1964] A taste of brine (the book and movie, The Amphibian)


by Margarita Mospanova

In every reader’s life there comes a time which we all dread. A time we try to forget as soon as it happens. A time when we finish reading a book that by all accounts should be a delight but that instead bores us to tears and makes us wish time travel was real just so we could go back in time and skip the experience altogether.

And sadly, dear readers, that is exactly what happened to me when I turned the last page of The Amphibian.

But first things first.

The novel was written by Alexander Beliaev in 1927 and published just a year later, first in a magazine, and then as a stand-alone book. It was published in English in 1962 by Moscow’s Foreign Languages Publishing House.

The story is set in Argentina and follows Ichthyander, an adopted son of a world-renowned surgeon, Salvator. When he was but an infant, Ichthyander was very ill and to save his life Salvator transplanted a set of shark gills onto him, giving his son the ability to breathe underwater. Hence the name, as the parts of it come from Ancient Greek, translating to “fish” and “man”. The pair live a fairly idyllic life in large mansion, the father treating locals and the son spending much of his time playing in the ocean.

However, as Ichthyander grows older, he become more reckless, attacking Argentinian fishermen and returning their hauls back to the water. Until one day, one of the local pearl gatherers, Pedro Zurita, sees him, and realizing the boy’s potential as a pearl diver, tries to catch him.

That doesn’t sound too bad, you might say. And you would be right, the plot looks quite interesting. In theory. In practice, the story has been flung head first against a truly horrendous writing style, flat characters, and unnatural dialogues.

The Russian text reads like a badly done translation. It is all the more unfortunate, when the rest of Beliaev’s books (at least the ones I’m familiar with) are written perfectly well. I suppose the author wanted to mimic the often more abrupt style favored by Western writers, but if so, he failed. And failed spectacularly.

Therefore, it will not come as a surprise when I say: read the book in English. Ignore the original Russian text and skip right to the translated version. I dare say, you will find yourselves much more satisfied with the book than I did.

Still, there were a couple of passages, all of them describing nature, the ocean specifically, that hinted at what the book might have been had the prose been more… engaging. But they were few and far between.

Out of all the characters the only ones that had at least a small spark of life in them were Baltasar, Zurita’s right hand and the father of Ichthyander’s love interest (don’t start me on that particular train wreck), and Zurita’s mother, a cranky old woman. The rest were blander than cardboard.

(You might have noticed – I really didn’t like the book.)

And now we come to the crux of the problem. The book was bad. Why would I, or anyone else for that matter, bother to read it?

And the answer, dear readers, is that in 1962 it was made into one of the best movies I’ve ever seen in my life.

The Amphibian Man turned flat and uninteresting characters into real people, dry prose into stunning visuals. It has you gripping the edges of your seat, from the beginning to the very end. You fret over Ichthyander’s naive and innocent nature, tie yourself into conflicted knots over don Pedro’s actions, empathize with Salvator, and curse the cruel Argentinian policemen.

This is a movie that, I’m sure, we will be watching even after the turn of the second millennium, no matter how optimistic that sounds.

And The Amphibian is the book that made it possible. That alone turns it into a worthy read, even if nothing else does. That is why, at the end of it, I give The Amphibian one bookish and five cinematic stars out of five.

(Now go watch the movie!)

[And come join us at Portal 55, Galactic Journey's real-time lounge!  Talk about your favorite SFF, chat with the Traveler and co., relax, sit a spell…]




[August 23, 1963] Laughing Mushrooms (Ishirō Honda's Matango)


by Rosemary Benton

August has been a good but bizarre month. Early on there were great strides made towards the curtailing worldwide nuclear testing when the United Kingdom, the Soviet Union and the United States congregated in Moscow to sign the Treaty Banning Nuclear Weapon Tests in the Atmosphere, in Outer Space and Under Water. Then, like something straight out of a western, a train heading from Glasgow to London was robbed and ₤2.6 million were stolen. And that was all within the first week of August! In short it has felt like a world tipped suddenly and momentarily on its head.

In my own world, that sense of odd juxtaposition managed to permeate my recent trip to Japan with my Aunt Mika and Uncle Ed. Knowing my interest in Japanese art, an invitation was extended to me to travel with them to Mika's home town in Hiroshima Prefecture. While there, we would sight-see and witness the opening of Sanyo Women's College, a junior women's college that my cousin would be attending.

After a six hour flight to Honolulu, another eight hour flight to Tokyo, and finally, a two hour domestic flight to the new Hiroshima airport, we were on our way to Mika's family home. Twenty-four hours beyond that the grand opening of the school had concluded and a small group of us, including my aunt, were all going into a theater for the evening to watch the new Ishirō Honda's survival horror movie Matango at the behest of the Western guests – my uncle and myself. Like the month of August, my trip was about to go from a celebration of civility and education to a chilling and eye-opening clash of film and culture.

The plot of Matango I can truthfully only retell in broad terms. With my limited understanding of Japanese, I relied on the short synopses and key dialogue that Mika and Ed were generous enough to translate for me. As it was explained to me, a group of five wealthy upper class nouveau riche and their two crew members are shipwrecked when their yacht is caught in a storm. As their dilapidated ship floats further and further off course, tempers begin to wear thin, until they come into sight of a mist shrouded tropical island.

However, they soon realize that things haven't improved for them. After consulting the logs of a beached oceanography vessel they conclude that their situation is dire. The island was previously unknown, although it was being investigated by an international team of scientists studying the effects of radiation. Strangely, members of the crew began disappearing, and while the reason is not clear, our protagonists believe that it could be traced to the abundant mushrooms that cover the humid island. Mushrooms, it is cryptically noted in the logs, that have “neurological effects.”

As time passes and they work to make the yacht sea worthy, we see tensions begin to flare. This eventually culminates in a split between the survivors. After a failed attempt to gain control of the group and force them to consume some of the fungus, two of the people are banished into the jungle. Eventually the need for food drives all but one of the men and one of the women into the depths of the jungle. Inevitably, the woman too falls to the need for food and begins eating the mushrooms. Running after her, the sole survivor finds his companion eating the fungus along with the rest of their group, all of whom are in various stages of transformation into walking piles of mushrooms. The movie concludes with the survivor admitting that he too, adrift at sea and at a breaking point devoid of all hope, succumbed to hunger and ate some of the mushrooms. He dramatically turns and we see the beginning stages of fungus enveloping his face.

Matango is, in all aspects, a well made film. Its story is well balanced in terms of pacing, and while I was not privy to the nitty gritty lines of dialogue, I was still able to tell the basic personality traits and motives for the cast of characters based nearly entirely on the body language of the actors. The special effects should also be noted for their grotesque look and very visceral texture. They not only look horrifying, but wet, painful, and as if they would possess a stomach wrenching smell. It wasn't surprising to hear the audience gasp at the first sight of a partially transformed mushroom-person, but it was telling that by the end of the movie the rest of the theater seemed to be in a state of gripped morbid fascination. I had been informed on our way to the theater that the film had nearly been banned for the special effects' close resemblance to radiation burns, but only after seeing the film myself and then witnessing the audience's reaction could I really begin to appreciate that. 

As can be expected from Ishirō Honda, the focus of Matango is not on the actual final transformation of humans into mushrooms, but the tragic fall and eventual apathy of individuals desperate to survive. The actual “horror” of this horror movie is very characteristically Japanese. By this I mean that the monster of the story, in this case the fungus, is not doing anything intentionally malicious. It simply exists and has motives for survival that are contrary to the survival of humanity. It's the monster's/fungus' very existence and ability to control and destroy humanity that is terrifying.

Other Japanese films we've seen this theme: In Godzilla the titular giant lizard was disturbed and forced out of its natural habitat by underwater hydrogen bomb testing. Rodan likewise featured a beast disturbed by nuclear testing which forced it out of its home. The “Snowman” in Half Human was a yeti-like creature defending himself against pursuing humans.

Where we see Ishirō Honda's real skill as a science fiction/horror screenwriter is his ability to take this monster-by-necessity motivation and tie it in with an even greater enemy – apathetic acceptance. In the films I mention above the protagonists eventually triumph by fighting harder and smarter than the monster. But in Matango the time spent humanizing each of the seven passengers is all the more tragic as they all succumb to an age old enemy that can't be beaten: hunger. This leads to a horror greater than the human to mushroom transformation – the calm willingness of the human characters to join the mushrooms once they have given up and stopped fighting their need for food.

As our group was walking home after the movie we were all abuzz with thoughts. The general consensus was that the movie had been very disturbing both visually and in terms of atmosphere. It wasn't the feel-good, uplifting, fun kind of Ishirō Honda film that we had been expecting, Honda, of course, being the director of the original Godzilla and the recent Godzilla vs. King Kong. Indeed it seemed that the majority of the group found it to be too dark and not what they had really been in the mood for. With other concurrent films like Bushido, Samurai Saga and Alone Across the Pacific still resonating with action, Japanese pride and intense messages of determination, seeing a film so solidly nihilistic felt off kilter. Personally I couldn't help enjoying it, being a fan of horror and science fiction, but I could definitely appreciate the hesitancy of my hosts to embrace such a film.

The rest of the trip passed too quickly. But although it was a memorable and successful trip with family, there will always be that kink in the unparalleled adventure; that event that strangely juxtaposed with the rest of my time in Japan. My “great train robbery” if you will; that very odd, fascinating, well executed but strangely timed release, Matango.




[February 18, 1963] An Odd Beast (Roger Corman's The Raven)

[It is with great pleasure that I welcome back the Journey's first Fellow Traveler, Rose Benton, who was gone on an unfortunate hiatus caused by Mundac, destroyer of All That Which is Pleasurable.  As you will see, she has not lost one whit of her touch…]


by Rosemary Benton

To come back to the science fiction genre after taking such a long break is not unlike a science fiction story itself.

Returning to her home world, the protagonist finds herself displaced as a citizen in a country she only vaguely recognizes. Undeterred, she resolves to integrate with this bizarre, new adaptation of her homeland. To begin assimilation she must start with something familiar which she can grasp onto.

For me that familiar reentry into science fiction comes via horror movies.

I would go so far as to argue that much of what has shaped the genre of science fiction in film stems from the cinematic roots science fiction and horror share. It has not been uncommon over the last decade to see directors, producers and actors of horror dabble in science fiction, or vice versa. As such, upon realizing that director Roger Corman had released another film last month I put it on my short-list of entertainment priorities.

The Raven hit theaters last month not so much to terrify audiences, but to reel them in with a star studded cast and a light, Edgar Allan Poe-flavored, fantasy comedy story. Starring Vincent Price, Boris Karloff, Peter Lorre and Hazel Court, the film is very loosely based around the narrative Edgar Allan Poe poem by the same name. By this I mean that Hazel Court is, of course, the sassy and longed-for Lenore, and Vincent Price quotes segments of the poem. There the similarities end.

The plot itself is a hilarious melodrama featuring magicians, “diabolical mind control,” and betrayal. Doctor Erasmus Craven (Vincent Price), the overly polite son of the late Grand Master of the Brotherhood of Magicians, is interrupted one evening by a raven tapping at his window. The raven, it turns out, is actually another magician named Doctor Bedlo (Peter Lorre), who was put under a spell by the current Grand Master, Doctor Scarabus (Boris Karloff). Initially Dr. Craven is hesitant to accompany the vengeful Dr. Bedlo back to Dr. Scarabus' castle, but after Dr. Bedlo tells Dr. Craven that his dearly departed wife, Lenore (Hazel Court), may be stuck at the Grand Master's castle as an enslaved spirit, both magicians set out to confront him. They are accompanied by Dr. Craven's daughter, Estelle (Olive Dora Sturgess), and Dr. Bedlo's son, Rexford (Jack Nicholson).

Greeted by a surprisingly hospitable Dr. Scarabus, Dr. Craven, Rexford and Estelle are lulled into a false sense of security before being imprisoned in Dr. Scarabus' dungeon. The treacherous Dr. Bedlo, who was promised power in exchange for luring Dr. Craven to him, is likewise thrown in the dungeon. The very much alive Lenore then appears to taunt Dr. Craven, confessing to having killed someone else and placing their body in the casket. After nearly escaping, Dr. Craven and Dr. Scarabus decide to resolve their conflict with a duel of magic. The winner absorbs the other's power, causing the loser's control of magic to be unreliable for the rest of their lives. A lengthy, whimsical battle replete with fun special effects ensues, but ultimately our heroes are victorious. Lenore futilely implores Dr. Craven to take her back, claiming ineffectively that she was under Dr. Scarabus' mind control. As the castle burns in the background they return home, Dr. Craven now all the more powerful, Estelle and Rexford are besotted with one another, and Dr. Bedlo is stuck as a raven indefinitely. The immoral Dr. Scarabus and Lenore survive as well, but are now without a home or magic. 

While still best known for his role as the monster in the Universal Pictures Frankenstein movies (or rather, his pre-Hayes Code work in general), Karloff gave a very solid performance that was both charming with a sinister undercurrent. I was very much convinced that his character, Dr. Scarabus, was a charismatic master manipulator who could realistically have backstabbed and coerced his way up the ranks of the Brotherhood of Magic. Where as Vincent Price does most of his acting through facial expressions and Peter Lorre's strengths lie in applying various degrees of bluster, slight effeminateness, and weaselly demeanor to his roles, Boris Karloff performs his lines with smooth rehearsed precision.

Although the draw for The Raven is obviously its cast and its versatile director, the real reason I would encourage anyone to pay the $0.86 for admission is the odd combination of The Raven's quirky setting and comical deadpan dialogue. Not since he was in Frankenstein has Boris Karloff acted in such an strangely pieced-together beast. It was billed as a horror movie with the tag line, “The Macabre Masterpiece of Terror,” it thanks to what was undoubtedly ad libbing by Price and Lorre, it unquestionably took on an awkward but funny tone.

No one is going to fault The Raven for being a boring movie, but will it be remembered as a well developed story? Probably not. Will it be remembered for its odd fantasy/comedy/horror angle? Definitely. A spontaneous and fun fantasy/drama in the guise of a horror movie, The Raven was well worth the ticket price even if it was a rather silly way to begin the process of reacquainting myself with my long lost science fiction. 

[P.S. If you registered for WorldCon this year, please consider nominating Galactic Journey for the "Best Fanzine" Hugo.  Your ballot should have arrived by now…]