Coltrane: The Definitive Visual Celebration of the Legend

 Coltrane: The Definitive Visual Celebration of the Legend by Ravi Coltrane with contributions from Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Wayne Coyne, Dev Hynes, Phil Lesh, Julie Mehretu, Carlos Santana, and Patti Smith

Coltrane book cover

Many thanks to Clarkson Potter/Ten Speed Press and NetGalley for allowing me to preview an advanced copy of the beautiful and thoughtful photographic collection Coltrane: The Definitive Visual Celebration of the Legend. 2026 marks the 100^th birthday of John Coltrane, one of the most significant jazz artists of the 20^th century, and in my opinion, one of the most important American musicians and composers. It’s been exciting to see all of the celebrations of Trane’s life, music, and artistry, and this collection of photographs is a beautiful addition to the celebration. This collection includes nearly 200 pages of intimate, thoughtful, and live photographs spanning Coltrane’s career from the 1950s through the late 1960s, before his untimely death in 1967 at age 40. In addition to the photos, the book also contains several brief essays from different artists and musicians that detail their first encounters with Coltrane, as well as his influence on their own music, art, and lives. Coltrane’s son, Ravi, pens a heartfelt essay to begin the book that details his encounter with his father and his performance at Temple University in a dream. Coltrane did perform at Temple about a year before his death, but Ravi Coltrane was only about a year old at the time. For anyone who has lost a parent, these kinds of dreams of encountering a lost loved one can bring many different emotions, and Ravi explains how important John’s image and music has been in understanding who his father was and shaping his legacy and impact on music and jazz. I really enjoyed this essay, and Ravi’s reflections made me appreciate the photos in the book even more, even those that I’ve seen as album covers and artwork. There are other essays from an eclectic crew including Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, Wayne Coyne, Dev Hynes, Phil Lesh, Julie Mehretu, Carlos Santana, and Patti Smith. Even though it seems like this may be a disparate group, they all seem to share the same kind of profound experience of first encountering Trane’s music, and how his music eventually shaped their own music, art, or careers. I especially appreciated the different musicians’ takes on Coltrane’s music and seeing how his evolution of sound encouraged them to take their own creative risks and recognize the spirituality and emotion that can be conveyed through music.

However, the book’s photos are central to conveying another side of John Coltrane, where we are able to visually witness his evolution from sideman to taking some giant steps to an ascension to become one of the key progenitors of avant garde and free jazz. There are some great photos of Coltrane’s time with Dizzy Gillespie’s band as well as his time with Miles Davis. Also included in the 1950s collection are photos from the Blue Train session, Coltrane’s first session as a leader. It’s fascinating to see him both in action, playing the saxophone, as well as the thoughtful, introspective shots probably from in between takes.

My favorite images in the book come from the 1960s, which is also the era of Coltrane’s music that I most enjoy. There’s a great shot of Coltrane at the Guggenheim, which I’ve never seen before. It’s a fascinating shot and communicated his interest in art and modernism- the new thing- that he shepherded through his music. The photos from the 1960s, especially the latter 1960s, feature many Coltrane performances, which often depict him playing as if possessed by some holy spirit, proclaiming a message of peace and consciousness- a love supreme. I also learned that Coltrane played with Wes Montgomery in the early 60s. Although it was never recorded, I would have loved to hear them play together. I love the motion captured in these still images, and how despite the freeze-frame nature of photographs, there’s a continual sense of fluidity and energy that these images portray. There are some powerful images from the A Love Supreme sessions, along with the cover image shot by Bob Thiele, with a note from Alice Coltrane indicating the cover shot. One of the groups of photos that resonated most with me was showing John and Alice collaborating at the piano. I’ve never seen these photos before, but they depict the synthesis of their artistic and spiritual visions for music. These are lovely images of a true artistic marriage. As Andy Beta explores in Cosmic Music: The Life, Art and Transcendence of Alice Coltrane, Alice’s impact on John’s later music was significant, and these pictures help to document this continued evolution to higher spiritual realms. These images also depict that different side of Coltrane, where he’s collaborating and sharing his vision.

This is an amazing collection, and although I previewed the digital version, I can only imagine how lovely the physical copy is. The images are high quality and well-organized in a chronological manner to depict Coltrane’s growth and evolution from sideman to group leader to the spiritual leader who shepherded the avant garde and new sound that revolutionized American jazz and experimental music. Highly recommended! 

 

A Sudden Flicker of Light: Exploring Film's Impact

 A Sudden Flicker of Light: A Revisionist History of Movies by David Thomson 

A Sudden Flicker of Light book cover

Author and film critic David Thomson

Big thanks to Simon & Schuster and NetGalley for allowing me to preview David Thomson’s provocative and expansive A Sudden Flicker of Light: A Revisionist History of Movies. I wasn’t sure exactly what to expect with this book. While I wasn’t familiar with Thomson’s writing, I’ve learned that he is one of the foremost film critics, authoring over 40 books in a career spanning nearly 60 years. He knows his stuff, and this book is touted as the culmination of all of his knowledge and thoughts about film, both celebrating and critiquing not just the artistry and magic of filmmaking, but also the commerce and industry of Hollywood and the silver screen. However, what I found most interesting was not just examining the trends and history of film, but rather examining how film has influenced individuals and society, and how the kind of imaginary pretense of stories on the screen has ended up influencing people’s expectations and understandings of the world around us. A Sudden Flicker of Light ends up being a fascinating study of the role of popular media on our own ideas and expectations about the world, which challenged my own thinking about my relationship to films, media, and others. I ended up enjoying this book, not only for Thomson’s unique, digressive style that seems to transition from one idea or film to another like a jump cut, establishing an implicit relationship, but also because Thomson’s ideas and critiques about the influence of film and popular media had me questioning and thinking more and more about why we watch films and what impact this has on us. It’s a fascinating look at the history of film, which as the book’s subtitled proclaims, challenges popular notions of films by frequently looking at influential factors, context, trends, and historical events that have influenced not just movie scripts and productions but also viewership and ticket sales.

Although Thomson’s book follows a somewhat historical progression of films, he starts the book focusing on cinematographer and director Haskell Wexler, who is often cited as one of the best cinematographers, but who was also fired from two award winning films in the 70s (The Conversation and One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest). I wasn’t exactly sure what this brief biography had to do with the rest of the book, but after finishing I can see a few themes emerge from Wexler’s career, especially as he was working with some of the directors who helped shift the Hollywood machine from entertainment to art, revising the ways that we consumed films and movies. As Thomson explains, Wexler was asking a lot of questions, sometimes pulling the actors from One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest aside to question the tone of the film, asking whether Milos Foreman was trying to elicit more comedy from a film that could possibly serve as a serious critique of society. This kind of conflict or dichotomy between artistry and themes in films and the need for commerce and audience approval is one of the oppositions that Thomson pursues and analyzes throughout the book. It’s fascinating to think about how Cuckoo’s Nest, an Oscar winner and beloved classic, may have turned out differently if it had sought to lessen the humor and been more serious or morose. Thomson raises some other examples, most notably the ending of Chinatown, which was rewritten to be dourer, which ended up subverting the audiences’ expectations for a happy ending. He also acknowledges the kind of ambiguous ending of Adolescence as another way that audiences are left with questions about the motivation, yet still can remain riveted to the screen based on the artistry of the acting, direction, and relevance of the plot. The discussion of Adolescence and Netflix’s influence on our viewing is also compelling to think about how the approach to home viewing and engaging longer form television has shaped our own consumption of films and movies.

I loved learning more about the history of cinema, and Thomson’s own reflections about how cinema has evolved over time. There’s a lot to learn about, and in particular, the chapter “Like Lightning” that deals with The Birth of a Nation, the first film to be screened at the White House, is fascinating, especially in its demonstration of how film has the power to alter the popular understanding of history and shape or reinforce personal beliefs, biases, and stereotypes. I found this chapter particularly relevant based on the ways that images, video, and other forms of media are often presented to win hearts and minds and challenge perceptions about the nature of the world. Rather than documenting a kind of truth or reflecting historical accuracy, Thomson explores the ways in which film manipulates and alters our emotions and ideas, much the same way that say videos shared of boat attacks or bombings are now shared on social media to drum up support for violent, illegal policies and unpopular attacks on other nations. In fact, Thomson’s last chapter, titled “Quiet, Piggy” raises some important observations and questions about the ways in which President Trump, a big fan of Sunset Boulevard and Gone With the Wind, two other films Thomson analyzes and critiques, has more or less become an actor in his own film, playing a kind of trope and using other motifs like violence, sex, and villainy to sell his film. It’s a fascinating deconstruction that questions how our viewership and voyeurism has shifted from watching what plays out on the screen as a kind of escapism and fantasy to actually enacting the fantasy in real life.

Thomson’s viewership and scholarship is nearly unlimited, but he seems to know a lot about film noir, as one of the chapters significantly focuses on noir. Other chapters focus on other film trends, but sometimes the chapters aren’t completely historical or thematic, and his style moves around a bit. At first, I found these transitions a little hard to follow, but as the book progressed, I appreciated his thinking and linking more and more. At times, Thomson has a kind of conversational style where it’s almost as if he’s sitting in a room sharing all of his ideas and observations that have built up over years of viewership with the reader. At other times, he makes humorous asides and suggestions about films, actors, directors, and themes. I appreciated how critical he was of the need to sustain a commercial audience, and how popular tastes and the Hays Code influenced the earlier film industry. Other chapters on Orson Welles’ brilliance are also fascinating to read to really understand how Citizen Kane both established and in some ways limited Welles’ career. Thomson goes on to examine certain trends in films that emerged in the 1930s throughout the 1970s, noting how world events like the Great Depression, World War II, and the Cold War influenced film themes and tropes, including villains, heroes, the roles of women, and the need for sex and violence in films, even if these ideas are implied more than explicitly stated or displayed. Again, through his insight, Thomson explores how films are more of a window facing inwards, in our own psyches and human nature, rather than a mirror reflecting reality, and often giving us what we may desire or want rather than showing us an objective truth.

A Sudden Flicker of Light is a fascinating read; one that will challenge readers’ understandings and thoughts about film and popular media and how it shapes our own understanding to the world. It’s a book I will need to revisit since there are so many different ideas, but it’s also an important book to consider due to how Thomson raises important questions about our own viewership (or voyeurism) and how the trends and themes films explore have not only altered us on an individual level, but also how they have shifted ideas, attitudes, and beliefs in society. I loved this book and highly recommend it! 

Muñeca by Cynthia Gomez - A Gothic Tale set in 1968

Muñeca by Cynthia Gomez

Muñeca book cover

Author Cynthia Gomez

Big thanks to G. P. Putnam’s Sons and NetGalley for sending an advanced copy of Cynthia Gomez’s spellbinding Gothic tale Muñeca. I’m so glad that I read this book, as it came after reading a deeply serious and complicated book about race and politics. While Muñeca is a short and highly engaging read, it also features some interesting commentary on race, class, gender and sexuality, as well as detailing California’s complicated history with the indigenous people, Spanish land grants and white settlement right before statehood. In fact, I was amazed at how subtly and deftly Gomez is able to include these complicated historical elements in a novel that was also fun to read. It’s a testament to her knowledge and skills as a researcher and writer. Furthermore, it’s one of the reasons that Muñeca operates on different levels and transcends typical boundaries in genres. The book was not what I was expecting, but I ended up loving the character of Natalia, or Nati, Fuentes. Although the book takes place in 1968 around the Bay Area, when young people flocked to San Francisco, leaving flowers in their hair, Nati searches for her own tribe, seeking to define herself through the women in her life. Plus, she’s got such great taste in music, especially soul and R & B, which features prominently throughout the book. Furthermore, I loved that as she’s taken on the job of caretaker for Violeta Miramontes, a young heiress who seems to be locked into a kind of paralysis that prevents her from speaking or moving, Nati secretly reads her The Autobiography of Malcolm X  covering it up with a copy of Rebecca, a book about a husband who harbors a secret from his new wife, while Malcolm X speaks to the kind of revolutionary spirit that Nati brings to the Miramontes’ estate, seeking to empower and transform those who are trapped by the oppressive forces of the house. I really loved Gomez’s subtle signaling about Nati’s character, whether it was through these book choices or her awesome musical taste in Aretha, Otis, and Carla Thomas. She just seemed like the kind of character I’d want to hang out with and listen to records.

Nati is not only really cool, but she’s also thoughtful and strategic. She takes the job as Violeta’s caretaker because her mother previously worked for the Miramontes, one of the various Mexican American housekeepers who populate and maintain the estate. However, as we learn, Nati’s mom also worked in a factory, organizing her co-workers for better conditions, but ultimately developed lung cancer, like so many of her co-workers. Through Nati’s reflections on her mother, we learn that she also considered becoming a teacher but ultimately worked for the Miramontes to help secure opportunities for Nati. We see her striving for a better life. Nati’s mom, though, differs from Nati in other ways. As we learn, Nati’s grandmom is a spiritual healer who has used her ability to make spells and potions to make money. As a young mother emigrating from Mexico who struggled to work and care for 2 daughters, she found the spells and potions a means to an end, not really caring or considering the impact they might have or how they might be used. Nati’s mother, recognizing that some of these spells are misused or end up harming others, rejects this way and ultimately distances herself from her mother. Nati, on the other hand, seeks out her grandmother as she gradually discovers her own skills and abilities with spell casting. As Nati begins to explore her newfound sense of self and seeks her grandmother’s knowledge and insight, her mother finds out and puts a stop to it. Yet Nati recovers the magic box she threw away and practices in secret. For Nati, magic and spells are not only a connection to her identity and culture, but they also serve as a means of empowerment in a society that deems Latinx women as only fit for work as maids and cooks. While Nati also pursues a college degree, she can only find work in a bank. Furthermore, Nati’s mother sought to fight this same system and worked to organize her colleagues in the factory, only to lose her job and end up working as a maid for the Miramontes, one of the more powerful landowning families in the Bay Area. And with Nati’s mother eventually contracting cancer, I couldn’t help but look at Nati’s pursuit of magic and spells as a means to power and identity outside of the system that defines and relegates women like her to pre-determined positions.

The other analogy that Nati’s life and pursuit of magic follow are the fact that Nati loves women. She never calls herself a lesbian or gay, which I’m not even sure these terms were used in the 1960s, but her language to describe her love of women and the kinship she seeks in the house parties and bars points to something more meaningful than just sexual attraction. It was really moving to see how powerful and deep her attraction to women is, and how she realized this from an early age. Similar to the magic, it’s something that she feels is deeply a part of her identity, but also something that she feels she needs to keep discrete and somewhat hidden from others who might not understand. Nevertheless, Nati moves in with Doris, and they frequently host other women whose families kick them out for their sexuality. Not only does this subtle example speak to the kind of discrimination and challenges that people identifying as LGBTQ faced in the 1960s, but it also speaks to the kind of community they established to support one another. It’s another brilliant, subtle detail of the book that I found packed in to this brief book, and I was amazed at how much it conveyed about Nati’s life and character.

The main challenge of Muñeca, though, is focused on Nati’s care of Violeta and her attempts to break Violeta out of her paralysis, which Nati believes was induced by a spell. Thus, she uses her own magic in various attempts to bring Violeta back, enabling her to walk and talk. First, though, Nati discovers a way to communicate with Violeta through blinking, something neither Violeta’s mother nor Violeta’s husband, Andrès. We later learn that Andres’ family fled Cuba during the revolution, leaving their wealth in Cuba, and ending up in California. As a result, we learn that Andrès married Violeta for her land and family’s wealth, and not for love. Furthermore, Andrès continues the bad behavior of these kind of wealthy, landowning men who seek out fortune and other women, while they know their wives must remain silent and faithful at home, seemingly powerless to divorce or alter their husband’s behavior. We see this with Mrs. Miramontes, and the cycle repeats with Violeta and Andrès, and even though Mrs. Miramontes understands the pain and suffering this causes, she continues to allow Andrès to treat her daughter harshly. Again, Gomez packs so much into brief reminiscences or memories that not only serve important plot points but also highlight the kind of gender, social, or class inequalities that existed at this time and continue to persist in some ways. Despite being a relatively short book, it’s filled with meaningful events and exchanges that operate beyond plot points.

Although Nati’s first attempts at reviving Violeta fail, she finds a way to transfer Violeta’s spirit temporarily to the body of a doll, which seems is partly where the title of the book comes from (Muñeca is Spanish for doll). I also wondered if the title was partly a reference to the roll of dolls, and how they are often silent toys who represent ideals of beauty and dress for women. They can often be shaped and altered to fit the owner’s desires and goals but have no autonomy or agency of their own. Similar to her work to free Violeta, Nati gives new power and life to the doll, bringing some sense of agency and the ability to communicate to someone who was largely ignored and relegated to a room of her own. We also learn that part of Nati’s concern for Violeta is that she is in love with Violeta. As Nati experiments with different ways to attempt to break the spell, she finds new ways for Violeta to experience the freedom of inhabiting different bodies, one of which is Nati’s. Nati develops a spell to switch bodies temporarily. I loved this kind of creativity, and how Violeta leaves Nati letters and notes before she returns to her paralyzed self. It’s an inventive element of the story and creates both tension and romance as the two women briefly become one, enabling each to inhabit the lived life of the other.

I loved this book and couldn’t put it down. The chapters are short, and this kept me reading, wanting to find out more about how Nati’s plan to rescue Violeta was going. This book was recommended to me based on my interest in Silvia Moreno-Garcia’s other books, most notably The Bewitching. I can see how Muñeca shares some similar themes with The Bewitching, including strong Latinx female protagonists willing to challenge male dominated and aristocratic, traditional families who seem to control large portions of society. Both books also feature elements of spells and magic used to gain power and access. However, I also kept thinking of Isabel Cañas’s book Vampires of El Norte, which also contains strong Mexican female protagonists who are seeking to challenge land rights that largely prevented women from being landowners at the time. Muñeca is a great book to add to growing collection of books by writers like Garcia-Moreno and Cañas, yet it’s also unique and beautiful. Although it’s a relatively short book with brief chapters, it will keep readers engaged, and there’s so much depth and meaning to the various details in the story. It’s also steeped in wonderful Gothic details and decay, and some really amazing magic spells. It’s a wonderful, fun, and exciting read, and something that should appeal to a broad range of readers, but especially those who like a good Gothic story featuring magic. Highly recommended! 

Partially Devoured: A Complete Analysis and Love for Night of the Living Dead

 Partially Devoured: How Night of the Living Dead Saved My Life and Changed the World 

by Daniel Kraus

Partially Devoured book cover

Author and NOTLD Lover Daniel Kraus

Many thanks to Catapult Counterpoint Press, Soft Skull Press and NetGalley for sharing an advanced copy of Daniel Kraus’s wildly fun and inventive deep dive into the world of Night of the Living Dead titled Partially Devoured: How Night of the Living Dead Save My Life and Changed the World. Kraus, who estimates he’s seen NOTLD over 300 times since his first viewing at age 5, took the title for this book from a line that is repeated a few times in the film. Newscasters, who appeared so realistic to me when I also first viewed this film at a young age (closer to 8-9), repeatedly describe the victims of the reanimated ghouls of the film as being partially devoured. While I love the film reference in the title, I feel like Fully Consumed might be a more fitting title since this book is so comprehensive in exploring every nook and cranny of the farmhouse, the characters, actors and extras, and the production company, as well as the various offshoots, remakes, comics, novelizations, board games, and all other ancillary and tangential products related to NOTLD that I am in awe of Kraus’s fandom and knowledge related to this film. It’s amazing and the book is truly a wealth of resources for anyone who wants to learn what seems like everything they possibly can know about this film.

While the book’s educational impact is incredible, I most enjoyed Kraus’s narration of the film. It’s a little hard to explain, but he takes readers through the film as if we are watching it with him; however, he occasionally hits the pause button to let us know about the careers of the actors involved in each scene, how they interacted with Romero or further contributed to the production of NOTLD or even how they participate in the zombie-cons that have arisen since the premiere and celebration of this iconic film. I can’t say that there’s another book that takes such a deep dive with so many fascinating digressions that still remain relevant and on topic about the film and its scenes. Jonathan Lethem did shorter, but similar approach to John Carpenter’s They Live, but didn’t really go too much into the production or legacy of the film. Rather, Lethem’s book is a scene by scene analysis and is fun, but not in the same way that Kraus’s book fully consumes all there is to know about NOTLD and Romero’s legacy in horror and film. There’s so much to love about this book, and for me it’s Kraus’s genuine enthusiasm and joy in discussing his love for this film (and horror in general).

Maybe it’s because I could relate to Kraus’s experience. We are about the same age, and like Kraus, my first encounter with NOTLD was at a young age when I caught it on TV. As Kraus notes, the lack of a copyright due to a production error caused significant issues for NOTLD and its production company, where it instantly became part of the public domain. As a result, it’s one of those films that was constantly on television in the 1980s, even though it is about possible space radiation that resurrects the dead to become flesh-devouring ghouls (not zombies). And like Kraus, this movie imprinted itself on me for some time. It was one of the most terrifying films I had ever seen, and I was not one who was easily scared by films (I begged my parents to let me watch Alien and American Werewolf in London when I was like 5—I was always seeking out scary films). However, something about this film completely frightened me, and it wasn’t until later that I realized it  was the production and how un-film-like it was. When I first watched this film, I don’t remember much about the soundtrack. It’s a point that Kraus brings up a lot throughout his analysis, and I appreciated learning more about this library soundtrack. It’s also exciting to learn that it is available on vinyl. However, when I first encountered this film, so much of the film seemed so realistic; even the newscast seemed to be so real, that the film really terrified me. I think also that this was one of the first survival films that I saw where the threat from outside is almost as bad as the threat from inside. That is, the struggle between Ben and Harry was also really terrifying for my younger self. We see that people are not working together, but are working against one another. I also think that seeing young Karen transform into a flesh-eater, and then kill her mother and eat her father was also a shocking revelation to 8 year old me. The idea of revolting against parents seemed shocking at the time. However, what was most upsetting to me is the ending of NOTLD, where we see the good guys don’t win. I’m glad that some of Kraus’s most impassioned writing about the film are focused on the end of the film, and its continued relevance to today. I won’t reveal the ending here, but it’s definitely something that shocked, angered, and left me so distraught when I first watched it. Kraus’s description and analysis gave me an even greater appreciation, and yet it still moved me to be so angry and sad about it at the same time. It’s some great writing, but it’s hard for me to say whether it’s the best part of the book. I couldn’t put this book down and just kept reading and reading to learn more about the film’s production and understand its importance to Kraus.

Other experiences Kraus describes resonated with me as well, from spending so much time in the horror section of video stores, seeking out the most disturbing, banned films to really engage my love of horror, to watching Terror in the Aisles around the same time as NOTLD and wanting to watch all of the films that were featured in this incredible documentary. A few years ago, I watched Ms 45 and was taken back to being 9 or so and seeing a gun-toting nun mow down some creeps from Terror in the Aisles. I loved the references to other Romero films as well, especially some of the lesser known films like The Crazies and Martin. Strangely enough, my dad once rented the Crazies and I still remember the dad in that film trying to kill his kids and a grandma who used knitting needles to kill a solider. I also remember watching Martin in college and being blown-away by the inventive take on the vampire film. Kraus provides some in-depth analysis and research into Romero’s career, but also takes us through the variations of NOTLD scripts that are in the Romero archives in Pittsburgh. It allows us to better understand the changes that were made during production possibly because of cost, time, or other issues. Nevertheless, Kraus, due to his astute and innumerable viewings of NOTLD is able to identify all the flaws and continuity issues in the film that only adds to its greatness. However, what I most enjoyed was Kraus’s development of backstories for each of the characters in the film. It’s both hilarious and creative and highlights the ways that he thinks about people and situations. It also made me want to read more of his books, since I could see how detailed and precise he takes the development of these characters from their hairstyles to their clothes, and mannerisms. While most of the cast were not professional actors, Kraus notes some of the bolder choices that the actors employ, whether purposeful or not, that also lend to the film’s enduring legacy. I also loved learning more about the actors and crew involved in this film. I was particularly interested in learning more about Duane Jones, who plays the lead character Ben. I took an African American film class in college, and one of the films that was out of print but constantly discussed was Ganja and Hess. I don’t remember reading about Duane Jones or putting together that Ben from NOTLD was Hess in the film, and I didn’t get to see the film until a few years after graduating, but I noticed Ben right away, a little older and wearier, but still commanding the scene. Although Duane Jones passed away nearly 40 years ago, Kraus provides some insight and hypothesizes about Jones since he was a private man who only has a few film credits to his name. It was also fascinating and sad to read about Keith Wayne, who plays Tom, a young man who seeks refuge in the farmhouse. He had a fascinating post-NOTLD career that ultimately ended in tragedy, and Kraus’s keen insight and observations provide a tragic spotlight on Wayne’s life. Despite being about one of the most terrifying and transgressive horror films ever, this book is full of joy—it’s celebratory and so much fun to read along as Kraus takes us through the film. It’s a book I will definitely revisit, especially as I will rewatch NOTLD very soon. This is a great book for those who are fans of horror films, and especially if you are a fan of Romero’s work or NOTLD in general. I highly recommend this book! It was so much fun to read.

A few random thoughts that I encountered during my reading: One was the Danny Pintauro reference from the Horror Hall of Fame show. Kraus referenced that NOTLD received a Horror Oscar during this broadcast that either Pintauro hosted or presented to Romero. While Kraus referenced Who’s the Boss?, Pintauro also played Thad in Cujo before Who’s the Boss? I’m wondering if he was included because of Cujo. Weirdly enough, the local skating rink I went to had a picture of Danny Pintauro hanging up because he skated there at one point. This rink was in Blue Bell, PA, and Kraus also referenced a possibly racially driven murder that occurred in Blue Bell in 2022, which I didn’t even realize happened. Apparently a man was found hanging on the monkey bars of a park where I’ve gone running and taken my kids to play. It was a strange coincidence and haunting reminder of the power of this film. 

 

A Thrilling Folk Horror Spy Serial Killer Combining Genres: No Man's Land by Szymon Kudranski

 No Man's Land by Szymon Kudranski

No Man's Land book cover

Author and artist Szymon Kudranski

Huge thanks to Image Comics and NetGalley for sending me an advanced copy of Szymon Kudranski’s paranoid, dark, evocative horror thriller No Man’s Land. I wasn’t sure what to expect from this comic, but the fact that this story featured a mysterious, ritualistic death in 1963 on a remote land bridge near Alaska that required investigators from the KGB and the FBI to investigate seemed really intriguing. I imagined that with 1963, the story had something to do with US-Soviet tensions and possibly the Kennedy assassination. However, I wasn’t anticipating the kind of occult and folk horror elements that haunt the pages of these issues. The story is especially compelling once FBI Agent Collins is dispatched to the remote area of Diomedes in Alaska to investigate this mysterious ritual-like murder of a young woman. Her body appeared on a land bridge that only emerges for 3 months out of the year. This bridge is literally a “no man’s land” since it spans Alaska and the USSR, but it was also the land bridge that enabled older generations of early humans to cross from Asia to the Americas. Since the local law enforcement cannot investigate, Collins is partnering with a KGB agent in a joint effort to maintain diplomatic relations during a heated cold war. 

I loved the story and plot twists in this graphic novel. The story is rooted in history, so it incorporates elements of political thrillers and spy stories; however, it also captures elements of serial killer and folk horror films. In fact, some of the alternate covers include homages to Silence of the Lambs and John Carpenter’s The Thing. I also couldn’t help but think of the most recent edition of True Detective that is set in remote Alaska. Collins’ investigation takes him to some of the indigenous people of this remote arctic region who maintain their traditional beliefs and practices and are not really a part of the Soviets or the US. One of the eeriest parts of the book is a young girl who may have encountered the killer. The girl is somewhat catatonic, and she only scribbles on paper with a twig. Her skin has erupted in odd rashes, and she claims to have seen an ocean of blood. All of these clues along with the ritualistic killing of the woman who was disemboweled and positioned with her hands pointing like Baphomet, add a kind of apocalyptic tone to the story. This also makes sense when we consider that this killing happened amid the nuclear threats from both countries, a kind of threat that promised mutually assured destruction. I won’t get into more details about this story, but I felt like it had so many of the great elements of genre stories that I enjoy. There’s mystery, horror, espionage, and folk horror, and apocalyptic dread. 

What also makes this comic stand out is the incredible artwork from Kudranski, who is also the author as well. I loved the artwork and how it has almost a kinetic feel to it as the images zoom out to give readers a sense of the vast openness of the arctic wild, making the characters seem insignificant and weak, but then zooming in to closeups to give readers a better sense of their stress, worry, dread and fear. In addition, Kudranski includes some newspaper clippings, maps, and government documents in the background to give the story both a realistic and a kind of collage like feel. This was another strength of the story for me. I loved how this created a realistic and historical feel to the story. While most of the story is in black and white, Collins visits the blood ocean, and it is done in a glorious deep red, along with other deaths and kills. The artwork complements, if not leads, the story, to make this a great historical horror thriller. Highly recommended!

The Development of a Unique Artistic American Voice: August Wilson's American Century by Laurence A. Glasco

 August Wilson's American Century: Life as Art by Laurence A. Glasco

August Wilson's American Century book cover

Author and scholar Laurence A. Glasco

Big thanks to The University of Pittsburgh Press and NetGalley for sending me an advanced copy of Laurence A. Glasco’s comprehensive artistic biography of playwright August Wilson titled August Wilson’s American Century: Life as Art. This was an incredible book, especially if you’ve read or watched any of Wilson’s plays. I’ve taught Fences and The Piano Lesson in schools, and students always enjoy the characters, dialogues and conflicts in these plays. I started teaching these plays right around the time of Wilson’s untimely death at age 60. However, there was not a lot of biographical information about Wilson beyond what he shared in interviews. Glasco’s book provides a detailed and well-researched biography of not just Wilson’s life, but also the various influences on his development as a poet and one of America’s most significant playwrights. I absolutely loved this book, and I wished that there was this kind of level of scholarship or detailed background into Wilson’s influences when I was teaching his plays. Nevertheless, it was fascinating to read about his life growing up in Pittsburgh and to recognize some of the references in plays like Fences, Joe Turner’s Come and Gone, and The Piano Lesson to events, individuals, and places in his life and hometown.

In some ways, this book could also be titled Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man, as we see how various factors influenced Wilson’s life as a poet and playwright. A majority of the book is spent on his early life, adolescence, and young adulthood, prior to his struggles and emerging fame as a playwright. Glasco identifies how Wilson’s experience growing up as the son of a single African American mother, whose father was white, distant, and married to another woman, emerged in some of his plays. Although Glasco doesn’t explicitly make these connections in his book, I couldn’t help but see how Troy’s relationship with both Cory and Lyons was mirrored in Wilson’s relationship with father and mother. Similarly, Wilson’s stepfather shared similar characteristics with Troy as an ex-felon who tried to create a positive life after his time in prison. Additionally, readers can also see how Wilson’s bi-racial identity impacted his writing and how being a Black playwright in the 1980s and 1990s in particular challenged Wilson’s writing. I found it particularly interesting to read about how the Black Arts Movement eventually made its way from New York and Newark through Amiri Baraka’s appearance in Pittsburgh and influenced Wilson and some of his colleagues. While at times Wilson appeared to be influenced by the Black Nationalism of the Black Arts Movement, it wasn’t a consistent influence on his writing as he also seemed to be influenced by Beat writers as well, which I also found fascinating since I never realized this influence from his plays. I also loved the fact that Glasco included some of Wilson’s poems and provided some biographical analysis of them to better understand their context in relation to Wilson’s life. I have never read any of Wilson’s poems, so this was definitely exciting to read. Furthermore, readers are able to see the growth and development of his writing, from the kind of obscure and abstract modernity to the realism, and how Wilson’s early experiments with poetry, in particular his performances of Dylan Thomas’ poetry in Welsh accent, mirrored his own kind of search for an identity. Readers also learn how this search for a voice and style in his writing and the focus of the Black Arts Movement in drama as a medium to reach a broader audience led him into drama. It’s this kind of questing and Wilson’s observational skills and keen ear that led him to move from the kind of agitprop, political theater that was influenced by writers like Baraka to the everyday language and conversations that are a part of award winning plays like Fences.

August Wilson’s America is more than a biography, and yet it’s also more than a critical study. It’s a careful analysis of the development of a unique, artistic voice in American literature. I loved learning more about Wilson’s life and especially learning more about the references he makes to his life in his plays. This was an incredible book, and it is recommended reading if you are a fan of Wilson’s work. Highly recommended, especially for literature and theater lovers.

 

Exploring the Works of a Master Director: Long Take by Akira Kurosawa

 Long Take by Akira Kurosawa 

(translated by Anne McKnight)

Long Take book cover

Author and director Akira Kurosawa

Many thanks to University of Minnesota Press and NetGalley for allowing me to read an advanced copy of Long Take, an amazing collection of interviews and reflections by Akira Kurosawa and his daughter, with a clear and fluid translation by Anne McKnight. I actually appreciated McKnight’s description and rationale for her approach to translating words and phrases, while keeping other Japanese terms intact in these interviews. As a fan of Kurosawa’s films, I found this book to be wonderful. I loved hearing from him about his work on films, his approach to stories and direction, and especially learning more about the production and challenges he faced during some of his most iconic works. As McKnight explains in the introduction, the only real words we have from Kurosawa in English are his  autobiography, which was translated and published in America in the early 1980s. This book provides a more detailed focus on not just formative experiences and events that helped shape the career of one of the most famous and celebrated directors of all time, but also gives us further insight into his approach to work and how he sees stories that eventually become cinema. There are conversations and interviews in the beginning of the book that range from 1970 up until 1993, which covers a wide range of Kurosawa’s later work, but where he also discusses his earlier work. Some of the conversations include similar memories and events, so there are some moments of repetition in the book (especially if you read the introduction as well). However, it’s still fascinating to read Kurosawa’s words about his work with actors and extras, and how he viewed film crews as like families. I also loved learning more about how meticulous he was about color, light, and shots, frequently mentioning how challenging it was to capture certain shots at different times of day. In addition to his own work, Kurosawa frequently talks about other directors throughout the book, discussing in particular the influence of John Ford and how he was able to meet John Ford later in the American director’s life. There are some interesting stories that Kurosawa shares.

While I loved reading these discussions and interviews with Kurosawa to learn more about his artistic process and his thoughts about literature and film, some of the best moments are also from his daughter, Kazuko, who includes a farewell essay to her father exploring memories of being on film sets with him. However, the standout for me was her compilation of Kurosawa’s top one hundred films, chronologically arranged. As McKnight noted in the introduction, much of Kurosawa’s autobiography discusses early films that influenced him, particularly from the silent era. This collection includes many films that were made by Kurosawa’s contemporaries and some films from the 70s, 80s, and 90s when Kurosawa’s output had slowed. The list is great to have. He provides some details, often citing other works from these directors that he enjoys, and briefly identifying what factors from the film led to its inclusion on his list. It was really fun to read, and I’m sure that I will revisit this list to find some classics that I haven’t yet watched. Furthermore, reading about his films made me want to revisit some of my favorite Kurosawa films. This is a great book for film fans, and if you are a fan of Kurosawa, then this book is a must read. The interviews are easy and quick reads, yet offer a lot of interesting insights into Kurosawa’s art and work, and McKnight’s translation adds to a smooth and engaging read. Highly recommended!

Tracing the History of Hijacking: The Revolutionists by Jason Burke

 The Revolutionists: The Story of the Extremists Who Hijacked the 1970s  by Jason Burke

The Revolutionists book cover

Author and Journalist Jason Burke

Big thanks to Knopf Publishers and NetGalley for providing me with an advanced copy of The Revolutionists: The Story of the Extremists Who Hijacked the 1970s by Jason Burke. This book is incredibly detailed and researched, providing a comprehensive history and analysis of the various left-wing movements that arose in the 1960s  and coalesced in the 1970s for different reasons, including political, celebrity and financial outcomes related to hijacking planes. Burke traces the history of the various movements around the globe including the Red Army Faction (Germany), The Japanese Red Army, and the various factions of the Fedayeen, as well as individual actors like Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, also known as Carlos the Jackal. I found Burke’s research and insight into these groups, detailing their backgrounds and formations, as well as the various actions they took against states to attain their goals to be well-researched, balanced, and critical. It’s interesting to consider how new technologies like satellite television, news reporting, and cheaper international flights with limited focus on security provided many of these groups with a platform and leverage to negotiate with states to release prisoners, extract money, or gain access to other countries that would be more receptive or sympathetic to their causes. Reading about these events in a post-9/11 world almost seems like a work of fiction; however, this was the reality of air travel and international terrorism in the 1970s. Burke notes that many of these hijackings aimed to limit casualties and harm to the captives. However, this changed with the 1972 Munich Olympics, which Burke details in the grisly and tragic results. The recently deployed satellites allowed ABC news to broadcast the unfolding drama to live audiences around the world, while Israel’s determination to not negotiate with terrorists further added complications to the attempts to rescue the remaining captive Israeli athletes. Some of the book focuses on the fallout of this event and Israel’s pursuit of vengeance to eliminate those suspected or tangentially involved in the attacks. It was interesting to learn more about those who were involved, especially “The Red Prince,” also known as Ali Hassan Salameh, who was involved in negotiating between the PLO and the CIA to establish a non-violent wing of the PLO advocating for statehood. Beyond providing insight into the history of these movements and groups, Burke’s book also helped me better understand the various groups that have been advocating for Palestinian statehood in both political and violent means for many years. I hadn’t realized the many different attempts to broker peace and Arafat’s movement towards politics after abandoning violence. It also helped me understand the involvement of other countries in the region, including Jordan, Lebanon, Syria, and Egypt.

The latter part of the book focuses on the 1980s, and we see the movement progress from political ideals to spiritual or religious beliefs and ideals, focusing on the Iranian Revolution that occurred in the late 70s, but actually had been simmering for many years as the Shah, an oppressive ruler who jailed and tortured political opponents, had been gradually losing power to the various factions fighting for more rights. It was interesting to see how communist and socialist student groups made the fateful decision to join with the religious clerics to oppose the Shah. I didn’t know much about the background of the revolution, except that the Shah was unpopular. Burke begins this section with a starting instance of violence committed on the Shah’s behalf, where theatergoers watching a popular, but controversial film, were trapped in the theater while it was set on fire. Burke later examines how the Ayatollah Khomeini condoned this kind of violence in the name of beliefs as a kind of divine punishment for transgressive behavior. Again, Burke notes how technology enabled clerics like Khomeini to reach illiterate and disaffected Iranian citizens with a message of hope, culture and identity that resonated with them. Khomeini used tape recordings to push out his sermons, sharing his anger and resentment towards the Shah, while calling for a new kind of revolution, using the language of politics that advocates for change. Interestingly, this revolution came on the heels of the Shah’s cancer diagnosis, which weakened him and caught America and much of the world off guard. I found this section of the book to be some of the most insightful and important to better understand the continued fractured relationships between the US and Israel and Iran. In addition to this section, Burke provides some insight into the roles that countries like Syria, Iraq, and Libya played in further destabilizing the region with violence through terrorism. The book ends examining how the Iranian revolution spread to other countries, especially Egypt and Saudi Arabia, where more groups sought more fundamentalist and theocratic approaches in society, viewing western influences as ruinous and harmful. Burke examines the Grand Mosque seizure in Saudi Arabia, as well the factors that led to the attack. Burke provides an efficient and helpful background on the Saudi royal family and its attempts to modernize the kingdom. However, we also learn that this event, along with the call to fight in Afghanistan, deeply impacted a young Osama bin Laden. Similar crackdowns on religious zealotry in  Egypt impacted a young doctor who would go on to infamy named Ayman al-Zawahiri, one of the leaders of al-Qaeda.

Burke’s book is a fascinating look at how the nature and goals of terrorism changed over time, moving from methods that involved press and publicity and used threats or the potential for violence to attain goals involving prisoner release or escape to more sympathetic lands, to increasing violence and destruction. Accompanying this shift from property and symbolic violence of destruction of corporate property like planes, we see how groups shifted from communist or socialist ideas to more fundamental religious ideas and goals, starting with the Iranian Revolution, and ultimately leading to the attacks of September 11^th. Burke’s history identifies the ideas of sacrifice and martyrdom, and how the war and violence in Beirut led to some of the most violent attacks on Americans in the 1980s. Burke not only provides a clear and detailed history of these groups and the events that shaped the conflicts of the 1960s and 1970s, but this book also helps readers better understand how these past events continue to reverberate and impact us today. Although Carlos features throughout the book, often collaborating with these various groups, Burke seems to place Carlos in a separate group that was more motivated by celebrity and money, seeking jobs to finance his expensive tastes in food, wine, cars, clothes, and women. It was interesting to see the contrast in how some of the groups often lived in harsh and impoverished conditions, readying themselves for battles, while Carlos and some other Europeans fought for different ideological motivations, often seeking more comfortable training stations. I really enjoyed this book and learned a great deal from it. The Revolutionists is a book that provides an incredibly detailed look at the various factions that shifted the nature of terrorism in the 1970s and 1980s, moving into more extreme actions to attain their goals. Highly recommended! 

Reexamining Classic Films as Domestic Horror in Scream With Me

 Scream With Me: Horror Films and the Rise of American Feminism (1968-1980) 

by Eleanor Johnson

Scream With Me book cover

Author and Professor Eleanor Johnson

Huge thanks to Atria Books and NetGalley for sending me an advanced copy of Eleanor Johnson’s excellent and timely new book Scream With Me: Horror Films and the Rise of American Feminism (1968-1980). I was so excited to receive a copy for review because I love horror movies and examining how they reflect and critique issues in society. Furthermore, to learn that Dr. Johnson was going to analyze how our post-Dobbs world reflects the horrors of women in classic horror films like Rosemary’s Baby, The Exorcist, The Stepford Wives, Alien, The Omen, and The Shining was intriguing to me. This book did not let me down either. In fact, Dr. Johnson’s analysis of these films and contextualizing them within the fight for women’s rights and equality helps to identify the ways in which we are gradually (or maybe not so gradually) regressing in the fight for women’s rights. If anything, Dr. Johnson provides a unique and timely examination of these films that feels fresh and necessary. It allowed me to reexamine these films that were a staple of my earliest experiences with horror and pointed to new directions in horror films with some analysis of more recent films.

Johnson provides some context for the book in her introduction where she explains that she was teaching Rosemary’s Baby in 2022, around the time of the Dobbs decision. Her lecture led to further questions about horror films in the 1970s, asking whether Rosemary’s Baby was “the only horror film so clearly tied to the battle for women’s reproductive rights in the 1960s or 1970s?” She then identified six films that shared “a gut-twisting awareness of women’s vulnerability to physical, reproductive, and psychological torture in their own homes,” which Johnson identifies as “Domestic Horror”, a kind of sub-genre that typically restricts its action to a confined place, has a male antagonist, inflicts horror on the female protagonist, with specific emphasis on her children, reproduction, or sex, and includes an element of physical violence. What I found particularly fascinating about Johnson’s analysis was her emphasis on connecting these films to elements of social and/or legal issues related to women’s rights in America at the time of their filming. Each film that she analyzes has a connection to issues like Roe vs. Wade, the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA- which was fascinating to learn more about), and the various laws that eventually restricted physical and sexual violence against spouses. In the past, husbands were allowed to beat their wives and children, and rape by a husband was not recognized as a crime. Johnson provides the historical background of these legal and social developments to further her argument that these films either explicitly or implicitly addressed these various issues related to women’s rights. While I appreciated her analysis of the films, often taking a descriptive and analytical look at the film’s key action, I felt like I learned more from her ability to connect the historical context of the films to these social and legal issues. The latter half of each of these chapters on the films examined the historical context. For example, the first chapter focusing on Rosemary’s Baby identifies how the support for reproductive rights was shifting at that time, especially in New York, where newspapers like the New York Times ran articles that promoted the idea that women should have more “control over whether to carry a pregnancy to term.” Although Johnson indicates that this film helped to provide more of a discussion about reproductive rights and women’s choices in their health, she also noted that there was a growing sentiment about advocating for more choices for women that resulted from grassroots campaigns, protests, and support from medical organizations. What I found particularly interesting about this analysis was how Johnson shifts the focus from the kind of campy horror of Satanism to the coercive control that Guy and the Castavets exert on Rosemary. It’s been a while since I’ve seen this film, but I remember thinking that the film wasn’t that scary. However, in thinking about the drugging scene and the gaslighting that Rosemary experiences, as well as the restrictions from seeing her friends and her doctor, it becomes clear that this is a different kind of horror film—one that Johnson rightly categorizes as a kind of domestic horror, where wives are subject to the control of their husbands and they lose autonomy and decision-making about their bodies and health. It’s not something that the 12 year-old me would have thought too much about when I initially encountered this film, but Johnson’s analysis and historical research provides a compelling and timely reading of this film.

I also appreciated her reading of The Exorcist, one of my favorite films of all time. Johnson reads this film as a domestic abuse film, and although some recent books have elaborated on the physical abuse that stars Linda Blair and Ellen Burstyn experienced, I hadn’t thought about the abuse that both female characters experienced. Some analyses of the film explain that this is a film about changing norms in society, and Johnson examines that element of The Exorcist, but also notes that Chris and Regan are punished because Chris is an independent woman who challenges the traditional roles of mother and wife as a single working professional. I’ve always loved the Catholic angle of the film, and because I attended Catholic school, I always thought that exorcisms and demons were the fun part of the religion that was left out of our theology class. Regardless, I can see how Johnson’s analysis works in that The Exorcist is both a feminist film and an anti-feminist film since we witness the extreme abuse that Chris and Regan experience. As Johnson notes, it’s men and the traditions of the Catholic church, the same church that excludes women from leadership roles, that can only save Regan from the demons that torture her when medicine and psychiatry fail to find any kind of physical or mental issues with her. The battle of good and evil always resonated with me, and I always appreciated Father Karras’s conflicts, doubts and sacrifices. However, Johnson’s analysis is incredibly interesting in framing the film more about Chris’s punishment for defying traditional roles for women. Johnson’s analysis of Chris’s meeting with Father Karras, describing her dress and actions as that of an abused woman, helped to highlight the kind of domestic horror that she faced in this film. In a later chapter, Johnson calls out the director William Friedkin for the danger and pain he inflicted on the female stars of the films (along with calling out other directors like Roman Polanski and Stanley Kubrick). As Johnson notes, Burstyn experienced a severe back injury and the screams we hear on the film are real. Blair, who was 11 or 12 at the time of filming, also experienced lasting spinal injuries because of the harnesses used in the film. One other aspect of Friedkin’s production was his initial lack of acknowledgement of Merecedes McCambridge, who provided the voice of the demon Pazuzu, and Eileen Dietz, who served as Linda Blair’s stunt double for many of the scenes in the film. While I had read about the omission of McCambridge, Nat Segaloff’s great book The Exorcist Legacy provides some additional background about the lawsuit that McCambridge initiated that eventually led to her compensation and credit for the film. What was more surprising (and abusive) was that McCambridge was encouraged to chain smoke and consume raw eggs to achieve the demonic sounding voice that is so terrifying in the film. What I found even more troubling was that it seemed like Friedkin encouraged McCambridge, an alcoholic, to continue drinking to achieve the gravelly sounding voice despite achieving sobriety prior to the film. Similarly, Eileen Dietz was not initially credited with some of the stunts in the film. Mark Kermode in his BFI Film Classics book about The Exorcist notes that Friedkin wanted to make it seem like Blair was acting in every scene and also led to Dietz not being recognized as a credited performer in the film, although Friedkin and Warner Brothers seemingly minimized her contributions by measuring them to be under 30 seconds of film time. Regardless, I think these were other instances of Friedkin’s limitations of women’s contributions to his films.

I won’t get into too many of the other reviews, but I thought that the chapter on The Omen was fascinating in presenting the idea of benign patriarchy. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen The Omen, but I didn’t realize some of the elements of the story and how horrible Robert Thorn was to his wife. As Johnson notes, this film offers a “subtle but trenchant” examination of domestic horror. Likewise, her chapter on Alien and the reproductive violence in that film was interesting to take. I remember begging my parents to let me watch Alien when I was like 5 or 6, and it’s probably a good idea that I didn’t watch it then. I first watched Aliens, which is more of an action sci-fi movie with a strong female protagonist. Johnson notes how powerful Ripley is not only for her survival skills, but also her knowledge. She represents a change in female protagonists in the book. Nevertheless, Johnson identifies some of the ways in which embryos have more rights than hosts, and by impregnating men in the film, helps to show some of the horrors of forced births and reproductive control. I also appreciated her analysis of the ERA and how it connected to this film. It’s still somewhat surprising to learn that something like the ERA, which would codify women’s equal rights, is controversial and never was ratified despite initial indication that it was well supported. As Johnson explores, some of the concerns regarding women in combat may have contributed to limiting support for the amendment. Johnson contrasts these questions with the character of Ripley, noting how some battles are not always won with strength and might. I really appreciated this chapter, especially as I’m watching the new series Alien: Earth that deals with questions regarding technology, humanity, and corporate control. While not explicitly feminist, the show critique the kind of patriarchal control in tech, where a tech mogul’s designs on creating cyborg children may suggest that reproduction will become manufactured with little need for humans. If anything, the show has raised issues around body autonomy that Johnson identifies as a staple of these domestic horror films. I also really appreciated Johnson’s chapter on The Shining, another film I encountered probably too early in my horror watching, but have always loved for its eerie design and iconic shots. Rather than presenting the film as a supernatural story or psychic horror, Johnson examines The Shining from a domestic horror standpoint, examining the film primarily through Wendy’s experiences and terror. It’s through this analysis that we see how Jack displays typical abuser attributes and how his behaviors once in the Outlook Hotel further present him as an abusive husband who wants to torture and humiliate his wife and child. Furthermore, Jack’s encounter with Grady, the previous caretaker who also murdered his own family, presents the idea that this kind of family violence is systemic and something that is passed down. We also somewhat see this in King’s sequel to The Shining, Doctor Sleep, where a grown Dan Torrance comes to grips with his own addictions after confronting a neglected child. Although Johnson notes that Doctor Sleep, the book and the movie, don’t have the same level of domestic horror that The Shining exhibits, I think that Dan Torrance in Doctor Sleep has tried to escape his dad’s influence and break the cycle of abuse. Regardless, Johnson’s analysis of The Shining, noting the kind of abuse that Shelly Duval experienced at the hands of both Kubrick and critics, presents an important examination of the film and provides a new context for understanding how normalized violence towards spouses was at the time.

The last two chapters examine two different elements of domestic horror. One chapter, as I mentioned, is dedicated to recognizing that sometimes horrible people create great art. The other chapter notes some more recent horror films that take a feminist approach to domestic horror. I was so excited to read this chapter since it examines two more recent films that really intrigued me: The First Omen and Creep. I haven’t read too much about The First Omen, but I was blown away by this film. Johnson’s analysis helped me better understand the film, especially since I didn’t rewatch The Omen before watching this film. Johnson also analyzes Immaculate, another religious horror film about forced births in a post-Dobbs era. I was really surprised to find Creep in Chapter 7. I haven’t seen Creep 2, but after reading this book, it is on my “to watch” list. Johnson presents Creep as a kind of domestic horror by examining Aaron’s victimization by Josef. Johnson notes similarities between Creep and other films, but also acknowledges that had Aaron been a woman, we would react differently to the decisions to meet a stranger for money with a promise to film with discretion. Furthermore, the decision to show Aaron’s perspective on filming leads to a unique take on the experience as Josef gradually violates typical boundaries with his brazen and bizarre behavior. Creep definitely unsettled me, largely because of Duplass’s weird performance, but also because of Aaron’s continual acceptance of Josef’s grooming. Seeing this as the kind of domestic horror that Johnson examines was interesting and provided a new perspective on the film.

Scream With Me is an amazing book for any horror fan. I can see this book being used for a course on films or as a way to apply feminist theory to examine art, whether it’s film or more traditional texts like books. Johnson provides a way to examine horror films as a kind of mirror to society, to critique the lack of progress in women’s rights. This is not only a great read, but it is an important and timely book that I highly recommend.