Dark Carnival 75th Anniversary Retrospective: “The Lake”

[For the previous Dark Carnival post, click here.]


“The Lake” (1944)

The title conjures images of summertime amusement, but this is a story that determinedly defies expectations. Bradbury sets the piece in late September, when the lakeshore is depopulated and a sense of “the lonely autumn” has begun to take hold. Boarded-over hot-dog stands suggest “a series of coffins,” and the merry-go-round has been “hidden with canvas, all of the horses frozen in mid-air on their brass poles, showing teeth, galloping on. With only the wind for music, slipping through canvas.” Such ominous autumn atmosphere forecasts Something Wicked This Way Comes, indicating that the dark-carnival train was tracking through Bradbury’s imagination from an early age.

In “The Lake,” Bradbury plays with the conventions of the ghost story. His adolescent narrator mourns the loss of childhood friend/crush Tally, who used to build sandcastles with him but drowned in the lake the previous summer. A decade later, the narrator (now a married man) returns from California to visit the Illinois town where he was born, but as he walks the streets of Lake Bluff, he appears to have mortality on his mind (he’s “filled up inside with all those memories, like leaves stacked for autumn burning”). The hitherto-unrecovered corpse of Tally washes up, seemingly only after performing a ritual act: the narrator discovers a half-built sandcastle on the shore, as well as “small prints of feet coming in from the lake.” But the tonality of the narrative marks this as a more solemn than thrilling turn of events–hardly evidence of some dreadful revenant at large. Ultimately, “The Lake” is concerned less with Tally’s life after death than with the narrator’s death-in-life. He did not perish alongside Tally on that fateful day years earlier, but has drowned himself in nostalgia ever since. Viewing the girl’s strangely preserved corpse, the narrator thinks: “She is still small. She is still young. Death does not permit growth or change. She still has golden hair. She will be forever young and I will love her forever, oh God, I will love her forever.”

A poignant and haunting Weird Tale, “The Lake” (like the collection-opening “Homecoming”) furnishes early proof that Bradbury was much more than a pulp fiction writer. The author himself recognized it as his first great story; by striking upon the approach of mining childhood memories and then refining the ore by mixing elements of fantasy with autobiography, Bradbury mapped out his future as a wordsmith. As biographer Sam Weller notes, “the themes of the story would one day become classic Bradbury motifs–nostalgia, loneliness, lost love, and death.” Bradbury’s narrator might avow (as he turns away at tale’s end so as not to watch the waves take the sandcastle) that “all things crumble,” but this instant-classic of a literary construction has certainly stood the test of time.


Dark Carnival 75th Anniversary Retrospective: “The Jar”

[For the previous Dark Carnival post, click here.]


“The Jar” (1944)

It was one of those things they keep in a jar in the tent of a sideshow on the outskirts of a little, drowsy town. One of those pale things drifting in alcohol plasma, forever dreaming and circling, with its peeled, dead eyes staring out at you and never seeing you. It went with the noiselessness of late night, and only the crickets chirping, the frogs sobbing off in the moist swampland. One of those things in a big jar that makes your stomach jump as it does when you see a preserved arm in a laboratory vat.

Fascinated by the titular object (observed at a summertime carnival in the Louisiana bayou), the protagonist Charlie purchases the jar and gives it pride of place in his home. A thing of “wonder, awe, and strangeness,” the jar quickly becomes a conversation piece: a contingent of visiting neighbors form “a rude church gathering,” reverently viewing the relic and speculating on its origins. The uncanny nature of the jar’s contents stirs up the “secret fear juice” in those who behold it and see “something of the life and the pale life after life, and the life in death and the death in life.”

Charlie’s mean-spirited bride Thedy, meanwhile, only seethes. Jealous of all of the attention Charlie is receiving because of his purchase, she sets out to set the record straight about the jar. She tracks down the carny-boss and gets his story of having sold a cheap fake (“Rubber, papier-mache, silk, cotton, boric-acid!”) to some dumb hick. Her taunting revelation to Charlie, though, direly backfires, leading to an ironic, E.C. Comics-style comeuppance. Furious at his hellcat wife’s determination to spoil his happiness (the “rich evenings of friends and talk”), Charlie attacks Thedy and (Bradbury’s narrative implies) places her head in the jar after murdering her. A tale that appeared poised to take a leap into the supernatural instead immerses itself in the reality of dark crime. Profundity gives way to funnin’ (in Charlie’s parlance), as the persistent inscrutability concerning the jarred figure is replaced by a knowing wink from the author to his audience.

While Bradbury’s debut fiction collection is titled Dark Carnival, it surprisingly (especially for later readers whose first exposure to the author’s work was the novel Something Wicked This Way Comes) does not venture very far at all into the fairground shadows for its subject matter. But this classic and oft-adapted story (which, with its mystery dynamic and climactic twist, still holds up quite well 75 years later) singularly justifies the collection’s heading.


Firestarter (2022): Rapid-Fire Reaction

Some immediate thoughts on the Firestarter remake (now playing in theaters and streaming on Peacock):

*In contrast to the frenetically paced 1984 original (which, like the Stephen King novel, begins in medias res, with Andy and Charlie already on the run), the remake operates at a slow burn. The film takes the time in its opening scenes to delve into the domestic life of all three McGees: Charlie, Andy, and Vicky (who are all living without cell phones or wifi, for fear of being traced and tracked down). The parents’ struggle to raise their special child–the debate over whether to suppress Charlie’s pyrokinesis or train her how to use her abilities–makes for compelling drama.

*From the outset, the upgrade in acting (vs. the original) is evident. Zac Efron brings emotional depth and range to the role of Andy McGee, whereas David Keith in the original was a one-note character who presented as little more than a washed-out oaf. Similarly, Ryan Kiera Armstrong as Charlie proves herself to be a much more skilled performer than Drew Barrymore (whose talent at that age basically consisted of being cute). Anyone who watched Armstrong’s killer turn in the most recent season of American Horror Story won’t be surprised to find that the young actress has the chops to play a gifted/cursed child such as Charlie.

*Because of the film’s tight focus on McGee family dynamics, the Shop does get a bit shortchanged here. The story of the shadowy agency and its questionable experiments is mostly confined to an opening-credits-scene montage. A strong sense of the Shop as a sinister U.S. government operation is lacking in the remake.

*The new Firestarter does correct one of the most dubious aspects of the original, by casting an actual Native American (Michael Greyeyes) to play John Rainbird. At the same time, the remake alters the character drastically. SPOILER ALERT: This version of Rainbird was also subjected to the Lot 6 drug experiment, and developed psionic powers of his own. An unnecessary and not very rewarding development of the character, one that threatened to push the plot towards an X-Men-type showdown. But the bigger issue is that the film doesn’t seem quite sure what to do with Rainbird, and muddles matters by attempting to turn him into a quasi-sympathetic figure. Rainbird’s devious manipulation of Charlie (so central to King’s novel and George C. Scott’s portrayal in the 1984 film) is completely lost here.

*Contra the original, the climax of the remake is not terribly pyrotechnic (although the images of Charlie projecting her rage like a blowtorch are effective throughout the film). All this is in keeping with the more restrained and intimate approach of the 2022 Firestarter, and thus does not seem like a letdown or failure to live up to the fiery spectacle of the 1984 version.

*The final scene–all I will note here is that it involves Charlie and Rainbird–is one likely to polarize viewers (perhaps like none other since Hannibal). I wasn’t very satisfied by it (it’s hard to supply my reasons why without getting into spoilers), but will reserve the right to change my mind should a sequel film ever follow from it.

*1984’s Firestarter drew closely from the Stephen King novel; it played all the requisite notes, yet ultimately failed to capture the “music” of King’s narrative. The more greatly deviating remake features a stronger script, more convincing acting, and better FX than the original. By no means can it be viewed as a classic adaptation of King’s work, but the 2022 Firestarter does make for an entertaining update of its cinematic predecessor.


Dark Carnival 75th Anniversary Retrospective: “Skeleton”

[For the previous Dark Carnival post, click here.]


“Skeleton” (1945)

This quintessential Bradbury story provides an early demonstration of the author’s uncanny knack for making the commonplace appear weird and unusual. Bradbury takes a traditional Gothic prop (“Skeletons are horrors; they clink and tinkle and rattle in old castles, hung from oaken beams, making long, indolently rustling pendulums on the wind…”) and turns it into a sinister, seemingly sentient force. When the hypochondriac Mr. Harris, fretting about the perceived aches in his bones, seeks out the specialist M. Munigant, the latter warns that Harris “must be on guard. Skeletons were strange, unwieldy things.” Clued in by the peculiar Munigant, Harris obsesses over his own infrastructure: “His spine felt horribly–unfamiliar. Like the brittle shards of a fish, freshly eaten, its bones left strewn on a cold china platter.” Harris marvels to himself: “All these years I’ve gone around with a–SKELETON–inside me! How is it we take ourselves for granted? How is it we never question our bodies and our being?” The nervous Harris’s fixation steadily grows to a Poe-protagonist level of monomania; he imagines(?) his skeleton is in active, if stealthy, revolt against his flesh and blood self. Harris’s deep concern with being wasted away from within allows Bradbury to wax poetic throughout the narrative (e.g. “His heart cringed from the fanning motion of ribs like pale spiders crouched and fiddling with their prey”).

Bradbury deftly connects the bones of his story, building toward an ironic twist: Harris is so preoccupied with being taken over by his skeleton, he doesn’t realize that his skeleton is going to be taken out of him (the “invader,” the “alien” Thing isn’t his skeletal system but the bone-munching Munigant). There’s also a darkly carnivalesque element to the story; Harris undergoes a Rabelaisian transformation into an “improvised instrument” as Munigant makes a flute of one of his bones. But Bradbury offers more than twisted humor in this piece. The story’s central conceit taps into a serious human concern–the persistent dread that our bodies might betray us, unexpectedly sickening and failing. A tale ahead of its time, one that has hardly grown brittle with age, “Skeleton” shows that body horror can be marked by unsettling concepts and stunning imagery, not just pulpy grotesquerie.


Dark Carnival 75th Anniversary Retrospective: “Homecoming”

In honor of the 75th anniversary of the publication of Dark Carnival (Arkham House, 1947), Dispatches from the Macabre Republic is taking a look back at Ray Bradbury’s debut fiction collection. Adding a new post to this recurring feature every few days, I will work my way through the book’s table of contents, considering the significance of each story and also its present relevance. (Disclaimer: the stories “Reunion” and “The Night Sets” will not be included in this retrospective, as they only appear in super-pricey collectible volumes [the Arkham House original or the 2001 Gauntlet Press special edition] of Dark Carnival, a copy of which I do not own. For the remaining stories, the text is drawn from other Bradbury books in which they have been published subsequently, such as The October Country.)


“Homecoming” (1946)

Batting leadoff is a tale full of dark bats and resplendent with Gothic atmosphere. “Homecoming” treats the gathering of monsters (e.g., vampires, werewolves, mummies) from across the world at a Victorian mansion in the American Midwest; they have come to celebrate a family reunion on Allhallows Eve. The narrative is steeped in nostalgia, as Bradbury (who admits to basing many of the supernatural figures on his own relatives) recalls the cherished Halloween festivities of his own childhood home in Waukegan, Illinois. This inaugural literary foray into the October Country testifies to the seminal influence of the autumn holiday on Bradbury, a writer whose name has since become synonymous with the Halloween season.

There’s nothing saccharine about “Homecoming,” though, as a strong sense of alienation also runs through the story (which, according to Bradbury biographer Sam Weller, “sprang from Ray’s own experience as a sensitive, imaginative, oft-misunderstood boy”). The condition of fourteen-year-old protagonist Timothy–reflection-casting, darkness-fearing, coffin-eschewing–is deemed an “illness” by his more traditionally vampiric family members. His siblings and cousins tease him about his obvious difference and constantly remind him of his outcast status. Timothy keenly senses that he is out of place at the monster bash (“The party happened around him but not to him”) and longs to show that he belongs at the celebration. While the carnivalesque inversion of normalcy would later be mined for plentiful gags on The Munsters (i.e. the relative “ugliness” of the humanly beautiful Marilyn), Bradbury strikes a more poignant note. The homecoming–and “Homecoming”–concludes with Timothy “crying to himself,” sadly aware of his own eventual extinction and his lone fate in a family of the undead and undying. Mortality arguably is the grand concern of Bradbury’s fiction; it’s a theme that never ages, because we all inevitably do. The treatment of such theme here, more than the colorful, outré cast and festive Halloween setting, is what makes the tale a timeless classic.

Bradbury’s personal regard for the piece is evident in its selection for the opening slot in Dark Carnival, but the placement is also somewhat ironic. The Arkham House collection intended to showcase the author’s weird-fiction efforts (indeed, many of the stories were first published in Weird Tales). But “Homecoming” was actually rejected by Weird Tales as too far afield of the magazine’s eldritch sensibilities; the story instead saw initial print in a special October issue of the mainstream publication Mademoiselle. So from the very outset, Dark Carnival forecasts Bradbury’s destiny to transcend the pulp fiction ghetto and ultimately form a genre unto himself: imaginer extraordinaire, a storyteller of human truths, who uses the trappings of fantasy to capture 20th Century reality for his legions of readers.


Lore Report: “Curtain Call” (Episode 198)

Theater has long been the home of the unexpected. It’s a realm where ego and skill are put on full display, and where audiences are thrilled by scenes they might never experience anywhere else. To attend a show is to guarantee a certain amount of surprise and thrill. But there’s one truth above all others that’s proven itself time and again over the centuries. When it comes to those temples of performance and personality, the drama rarely ends just because the curtain has dropped.

The Lore podcast takes a dramatic turn in Episode 198, as host Aaron Mahnke focuses on the world of the London stage. The first half of the episode is devoted to the story of William Terriss, a star performer who was stabbed to death–by another, disgruntled actor–while entering the Adelphi Theater in 1897. A sensational crime at the time, for sure, but what makes the story Lore-worthy is the series of sightings of Terriss’s ghost at the scene over the next several decades. From here, Mahnke proceeds to catalogue various superstitions associated with stagecraft–a subject that’s as rich as it is interesting (and one I wish had been lingered on here). But the episode ends on a strong note by visiting the Theatre Royal of Drury Lane and exploring the building’s haunting by a mysterious figure dubbed the Man in Grey. “Curtain Call” isn’t the most substantive episode, but makes for a breezy listen and generates a satisfying bit of frisson.


Beyond Sleepy Hollow: “Guests From Gibbet-Island”

A long overdue dispatch from the Macabre Republic, and return to this particular blog feature (a follow-up to my eBook The Legend of Sleepy Hollow: Ultimate Annotated Edition). “Beyond Sleepy Hollow” explores further Washington Irving works of ghosts, goblins, and the Gothic.

In “Guests From Gibbet-Island: A Legend of Communipaw” (first published in the Knickerbocker Magazine in 1839 and collected in Wolfert’s Roost and Other Miscellanies in 1855), Washington Irving returns to the Dutch American material that established his literary reputation. The tale–framed as a manuscript submission to the editor of the Knickerbocker by Barent Van Shaick–is set not in a sleepy region of the Hudson Valley but a few miles southwest in “the ancient and renowned village of Communipaw” (modern-day Jersey City). Shaick’s narrative opens, in venerable spook-story tradition, with the description of a desolate building “of most ruinous and sinister appearance.” The place was once a village tavern of “primeval tranquility” (despite being the stronghold of Nederlander patriots hoping to take back control of Manhattan from British invaders and American Yankees alike) before being turned into a private residence when inherited by the tavern owner’s nephew, Yan Yost Vanderscamp. A “real scamp by nature,” Vanderscamp recalls the “rough waggery” of Brom Bones in “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.” As a youngster, Vanderscamp was notorious throughout Communipaw for

[…] playing tricks upon the frequenters of the Wild Goose; putting gunpowder in their pipes, or squibs in their pockets, and astonishing them with an explosion, while they sat nodding around the fire-place in the bar-room; and if perchance some worthy burgher from some distant part of Pavonia had lingered until dark over his potation, it was odds but that the young Vanderscamp would slip a briar under his horse’s tail, as he mounted, and send him clattering along the road, in neck-or-nothing style, to his infinite astonishment or discomfiture.

This “propensity for mischief” displayed from an early age only develops when Vanderscamp falls in with an impish black figure named Pluto, who is viewed with “superstitious awe” by the locals. Together the two engage in a spree of neighborhood thievery. They later disappear from the area for a time, and some inhabitants of Communipaw maintain (in terms echoing the seeming fate of Ichabod Crane) “that old Pluto, being none other than his namesake in disguise, had spirited away the boy to the nether regions.”

Eventually, Vanderscamp and Pluto do return, along with a crew of rough-looking roisterers. The whole jolly gang hunkers down at the Wild Goose and proceeds to stir up the quiet community with its “orgies”: “Such drinking, singing, whooping, swearing; with an occasional interlude of quarreling and fighting.” It soon grows obvious to all around the Vanderscamp and company are pirates using the site as a hideaway. The scandalous upheaval continues, until governmental crackdown on the pirate lifestyle (which includes the execution of a trio of Vanderscamp’s comrades on nearby Gibbet-Island) leads the captain to settle down into marriage and resort to more covert smuggling activities. During one such operation on a stormy night, Vanderscamp is rowed by Pluto close past Gibbet-Island and beholds “the bodies of his three pot companions and brothers in iniquity dangling in the moonlight, their rags fluttering, and their chains creaking, as they were slowly swung backward and forward by the rising breeze.” Vanderscamp is visibly unnerved by the grim scene, but responds to Pluto’s taunting with a show of bravado: “Here’s fair weather to you in the other world,” he calls out to his late lads, “and if you should be walking the rounds to-night, odds fish! but I’ll be happy if you will drop in to supper.”

According to Shaick’s narrative, “old Pluto chuckled to himself” upon hearing Vanderscamp’s invitation to the dead pirates–a reaction that suggests he knows more about the situation than he lets on. When the drunken Vanderscamp returns home, he is greeted by a sobering sight: his three former friends are already sitting there “with halters around their necks, and bobbing their cups together, as if they were hob-or-nobbing.” The frightful image of the revenant revelers causes Vanderscamp to fall down the staircase to his death; his demise leads to the place being pronounced “a haunted house.” Its uncanny reputation only grows with reports of further hellraising by supernatural guests invited there by Pluto. Then, following an especially tempestuous night filled with “sounds of diabolical merriment,” a disturbing scene is discovered: “The house [cf. the description of Ichabod Crane’s schoolhouse following the mischief of the Sleepy Hollow Boys] had indeed the air of having been possessed by devils. Every thing was topsy-turvy.” Worse, the widow Vanderscamp is found lying “with the marks of a deadly gripe on her wind-pipe.” She might simply have been murdered and her house robbed by some actual buccaneers let in by Pluto. But the more superstitious members of the Communipaw populace “surmised that the negro was nothing more or less than a devil incarnate, who had now accomplished his ends, and made off with his dues.” The ambiguity–so typical of Irving’s Gothic fictions–remains unresolved, even after Pluto’s body washes up on the rocks of Gibbet-Island following a skiff wreck.

“Guests From Gibbet-Island: A Legend of Communipaw” has aged poorly in its resort to racial caricature, its extensive demonizing/dehumanizing of the black character Pluto. Readers willing to overlook this facet, though, are rewarded with a thrilling experience. The tale goes lighter on the satirical humor that marks a Knickerbocker-framed work like “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow,” but offers plenty of dark atmosphere and sinister resonance.


Lore Report: “Taken” (Episode 197)

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned over the years, it’s that whimsical stories are often just a costume wrapped around a darker core. And when it comes to one corner of folklore in particular, that core might be more than just a little  frightening. It could very well be true.

Aaron Mahnke heads for the hills (and into the woods) in the latest episode of the Lore podcast, which is devoted to the subject of faerie lore. Countering the popular, innocuous image (think Disney’s Tinkerbell), Mahnke emphasizes the dark nature of faeries. These “creatures of bad behavior” are reportedly responsible for such nasty pranks as abduction of humans to the otherworld and the replacement of babies with changelings. Faerie mischief indeed is a rich topic, so it’s no surprise that Mahnke supplies several arresting tales (he also delves into the intriguing work of “faerie women”–well-versed humans for hire whose machinations counteract uncanny abductions). If lore functions to make the incredible comprehensible and perhaps even plausible, then “Taken” (the punning title references fascination as well as extraction) furnishes a quintessential example. This episode exploring the good folk is bound to leave Lore listeners more than a wee bit enchanted.


The Sopranos of Sleepy Hollow

From dark dream sequences to Christopher’s comatose glimpse of hell and Paulie’s eerie vision of the Virgin Mary on the Bada Bing stage, The Sopranos repeatedly invoked the uncanny and the supernatural. So it’s no surprise that show also featured two prominent references to one of the greatest spook tales of all time, Washington Irving’s “The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.”

The first occurs in “Cold Cuts” (Season 5, Episode 10). On the drive upstate to Uncle Pat’s farm in Kinderhook (to exhume some murder victims from their graves), Tony Blundetto randomly admits to Christopher that “some very sorry people” (presumably kids who suffered for insulting him) used to call him Ichabod Crane. The line then gets a callback in a later scene in the episode. Tony Soprano joins his cousin Tony in ribbing Christopher and mocking his beak nose as they all eat dinner together, until the aggravated Christopher finally snaps at the relentlessly joking Blundetto, “You know I could have called you Ichabod Crane, but I didn’t!” A petulant retort, for sure, but also a pretty funny one, because if ever there was someone who could be cast as Ichabod, it’s Steve Buscemi’s Blundetto.

The second reference is in “Luxury Lounge” (Season 6, Episode 7). Phil Leotardo passes along to Tony Soprano Johnny Sack’s appreciation for his taking out Rusty Millio, but Tony acts coy and claims to have had nothing to do with the hit. Phil laughs off Tony’s cautiousness, and says, “Anyway, Rusty’s gone, and we’ll chalk it up to the Headless Horseman.” A strange name drop, although it does make geographic sense that a New York crime boss would reference Sleepy Hollow’s favorite specter. Phil’s line also has some sinister resonance, considering that Rusty was dispatched by a shot to the head (an assault of brain-scrambling impact, akin to a Horseman gourd toss).

More than just another mob story, The Sopranos was a pop cultural phenomenon. How apropos, then, that the series referenced a pair of legendary Irving characters that have been imprinted on American consciousness for over two centuries now.


Lore Report: “Bad Seed” (Episode 196)

For thousands of years, the things above us have altered the way we live our lives down below. It’s a realm of folklore that might seem boring and predictable, but in reality it’s one of the darkest homes of our weirdest behavior. And I promise you this: you’ll never look at the sky the same way again.

Aaron Mahnke talks about the weather in the latest episode of the Lore podcast, but the host’s discourse proves anything but banal. Sojourning back through world history, Mahnke discusses how the dependence on healthy crops led many cultures to adopt unusual measures to try to control the weather (ritualistic acts that make a Native American rain dance seem quaint by comparison). The central portion of the narrative is devoted to the Eastern European belief that the burial of decedents deemed “unclean” (contaminated by wickedness or awful misfortune) would spark a divine wrath that manifested in meteorological terms. When such a foolish burial occurred, and was superstitiously connected with drought conditions, the subsequent desperate and fear-driven act of disinterment could lead to a wild mob scene. The adjective of this episode’s title urns out to be the only negative here; superlative from beginning (an explanation of the mysterious phenomenon of crop marks) to end (an examination of lightning strikes), “Bad Seed” forecasts a sublime listening experience for Lore lovers.