Since today is Sigourney Weaver’s birthday, I think it’s probably a given that today’s scene of the day would feature her defeating an alien. In this scene from 1979’s Alien, Ripley shows why she is the last human survivor of the Nostromo.
(As cool as Ripley is, she’s still nowhere close to being as much of a badass as Jonesy the Cat. Jonesy just had to hiss and the alien knew better than to mess with the ship’s cat.)
Yesterday, I wrote about a Canadian horror film called The Pit. I mentioned that it was a film about a creepy 12 year-old named Jamie who had conversations with his teddy bear, developed a not-so-innocent crush on his babysitter, and who regularly fed the people he disliked to a bunch of underground monsters who lived in a pit in the woods.
Yesterday, I also read Teddy, the 1980 novelization of The Pit.
(The Pit was originally titled Teddy.)
Teddy is even more creepy than The Pit, largely because it includes all of the disturbing details that were either cut from the finished film or perhaps dropped when the script was rewritten. Jamie is still a creepy 12 year-old who talks to his teddy bear. Unlike the film, the novel makes it clear that Teddy is actually a living force of evil and that his words are not just a figment of Jamie’s imagination. The book actually suggests that Teddy moves from child to child, corrupting each of its owners. Teddy in the book is also a hundred times more pervy than Teddy in the movie, making some rather crude comments about Jamie’s mom and later encouraging Jamie to join him in checking out some porno magazines.
The book also delves into the investigations surrounding the disappearance of Jamie’s many victims. As a result, we get to know the victims a bit better in the book than we did in the movie. Also as a result, Jamie also comes across as much more deliberately evil in the book than he does in the movie. Even if he is under the possible demonic influence of Teddy, Jamie still seems to take way too much pleasure in people dying. This is especially true of the scene where his babysitter falls into the pit. In the movie, Jamie tries to help her escape. In the book, Jamie not only pushes her but smiles afterwards as he listens to her screams.
Agck! What a creepy kid!
Teddy is a pretty effective little horror novelization. It’s also not easy to find a physical copy. However, you can read it at Open Library.
Robert McCammon’s 1981 novel They Thirst stands as a significant yet often overlooked contribution to the vampire horror genre and to modern horror literature more broadly. The novel deftly marries Gothic vampire traditions with contemporary anxieties surrounding urban decay, societal collapse, and the limitations of scientific reasoning. McCammon’s approach—transforming vampirism from a supernatural curse into a viral, apocalyptic force—presents a fresh perspective that elevates the narrative beyond conventional monster fiction. The result is a richly detailed and thought-provoking story that explores not just the nature of evil, but humanity’s fragile relationship with belief, knowledge, and survival.
The novel’s geographical and thematic scope is ambitious from the outset. It begins in Eastern Europe, grounding the story firmly in vampire mythology, before making a dramatic shift to Los Angeles, California. This transition is more than a change of location; it serves as a potent narrative device. While Stephen King’s ’Salem’s Lot confines the vampire threat to the insular setting of a small New England town, They Thirst imagines an entire sprawling metropolis consumed from within. Los Angeles—with its sprawling excesses, cultural contrasts, and complicated history—becomes a perfect backdrop for the ancient evil of McCammon’s story. In many ways, the city and the novel’s antagonist are made for one another: Vulkan, a 13th-century Hungarian prince turned vampire, and his undead legion prey on humanity’s vulnerable underbelly, just as Los Angeles has often been depicted as a city feeding off the dreams—and the desperation—of its most naive and downtrodden residents.
This parallel between city and vampire empire is one of the novel’s strongest thematic elements. Both embody forms of false promise: Los Angeles offers fame, wealth, and a kind of modern immortality through celebrity culture, while Vulkan offers literal immortality through vampirism. Yet both promises are double-edged. The city’s glittering surface conceals poverty, violence, and spiritual emptiness; Vulkan’s offer of eternal life masks the curse of undeath and loss of humanity. In that sense, Vulkan and Los Angeles mirror each other, feeding off hope and desperation alike. This symbiotic relationship deepens the horror: it’s not just that vampires invade the city, but that they thrive there because the city, in its essence, is already broken and hungry.
The antagonist, Prince Vulkan, represents the archetypal vampire lord but is also reimagined as a force of apocalyptic renewal. His ambition is to establish a vampiric empire within Los Angeles, turning the city into a dark kingdom under his rule. The irony of this choice is palpable; Los Angeles is a city obsessed with youth, image, and perpetual reinvention, and Vulkan exploits those cultural values by offering something seemingly eternal. His infiltration begins subtly—with grave robberies, disappearances, and escalating violence—until the infestation becomes impossible to ignore. The city’s sprawling nature, its labyrinthine neighborhoods, and its social divides become the perfect terrain for an epidemic to spread unchecked.
McCammon stays true to Bram Stoker’s legacy, incorporating essential vampire lore: vulnerability to sunlight, the necessity of native soil in coffins, and the insatiable craving for blood remain central to the story. But he sets these paranormal elements against a starkly modern world, making their impact feel immediate and unavoidable. One striking subplot involves a wealthy coffin manufacturer whose industrial-scale production unwittingly supports Vulkan’s legion by supplying coffins in large quantities. This detail reinforces the novel’s critique of modernity: progress and capitalism, while often celebrated, can be co-opted by darkness when divorced from awareness and wisdom.
Central to the narrative is the novel’s sharp examination of science and superstition. McCammon critiques modern rationalism’s limits when confronted with the inexplicable. As the vampire epidemic grows, institutions built on evidence and strict rationality—police departments, medical professionals, the press—are shown to be inadequate. Police officers demand forensic proof; scientists dismiss eyewitness accounts as hysteria or fabrication; journalists prioritize sensationalism over truth. This widespread skepticism, while understandable in a culture founded on empiricism, ironically becomes what allows the vampires to thrive. McCammon suggests that humanity’s overreliance on logic and denial is itself a fatal vulnerability. The story implies that what civilization labels “superstition” may hold the very keys to survival against threats outside the realm of science.
This tension—between modern science and the supernatural—gives the novel a distinctively unsettling atmosphere. The city’s collapse is not solely due to the vampires themselves but also because humanity’s intellectual arrogance leaves it vulnerable. The horror grows as reason twists into denial, and disbelief becomes as lethal as the vampires’ bite. McCammon doesn’t dismiss science but critiques a worldview that excludes anything it can’t measure or rationalize. The vampires are, in a way, as much the product of this intellectual blindness as they are physical monsters.
From this thematic core comes one of the novel’s most compelling characters: Detective Andy Palatizin. A man haunted by his past in Hungary, Palatizin has already faced these same creatures in his youth. His instincts and knowledge make him an outlier in the modern police force, where skeptics and bureaucrats dismiss his warnings as superstition. Palatizin’s struggle embodies the tension between ancient wisdom and modern disbelief. Alongside him are characters who represent various facets of Los Angeles life: Wes Richer, a hopeful comedian whose life is upended by the chaos; Solange, his psychic partner who senses the darkness; Tommy Chandler, a youth thrust unwillingly into the fight against evil; and Kobra, a dangerous albino gang leader whose alliance with Vulkan underscores the novel’s bleak view of human nature. Through these characters, McCammon presents a cross-section of humanity reacting to incomprehensible horror in ways both brave and flawed.
The novel’s pacing builds steadily, escalating from subtle unease to urban apocalypse. McCammon’s detailed descriptions of Los Angeles falling apart—freeways clogged with abandoned vehicles, entire neighborhoods burned out, power grids failing—create a vivid portrait of a civilization unraveling. It is in this progression that They Thirst transcends the conventional vampire tale, transforming into a mythic story of apocalypse. The battle grows beyond individual survival into a symbolic contest between light and darkness, belief and denial.
In this way, They Thirst invites comparison not only to ’Salem’s Lot but also to Stephen King’s The Stand. Both novels begin with localized catastrophe but evolve toward apocalyptic narrative arcs that weigh heavily on the theme of good versus evil. Palatizin’s final confrontation with Prince Vulkan mirrors the spiritual and philosophical duels seen in The Stand—a struggle not only between man and monster but between faith and nihilism. This heightened mythic tone gives They Thirst a resonance that extends beyond its genre, engaging with questions about human nature, belief, and the limits of reason.
The novel’s themes also echo the Japanese vampire tale Shiki, which similarly explores a community’s devastating response to supernatural infection and the corrosive effects of denial. Although Shiki is set in a small rural village as opposed to a vast city, both stories articulate the dangers of refusing to confront inconvenient truths, particularly when those truths conflict with scientific rationality or cultural blindness. McCammon’s choice of Los Angeles as a setting magnifies this theme, illustrating how sprawling urban environments—with their anonymity, social stratification, and competing belief systems—become fertile ground for supernatural and existential threats alike.
Moreover, They Thirst represents a crucial moment in Robert McCammon’s development as a writer of expansive horror fiction. The novel’s sophisticated interplay between individual characters and large-scale disaster foreshadows the narrative techniques he would later perfect in Swan Song. If They Thirst can be considered McCammon’s ’Salem’s Lot—an exploration of vampirism growing into an epic struggle—then Swan Song stands as his The Stand—a sweeping post-apocalyptic saga combining horror, hope, and human resilience on a grand scale. Seen in this light, They Thirst is not only a memorable and impactful vampire narrative but also the author’s foundational work in epic horror storytelling.
In sum, They Thirst is a novel of considerable ambition and thematic richness. It successfully unites Gothic vampire mythology with contemporary social concerns, delivering a story that is both thrilling and intellectually engaging. The interplay of science and superstition, the vivid portrayal of Los Angeles as a city on the brink, and the moral complexity of its characters elevate the book beyond simple genre fare. This novel offers a challenging and unforgettable journey — a reminder that some darkness is older than reason and that even the brightest city lights may hide the longest shadows.
Would further assistance be welcome in preparing this review for publication or tailoring it to a specific format or audience?Robert McCammon’s 1981 novel They Thirst stands as a significant yet often overlooked contribution to the vampire horror genre and to modern horror literature more broadly. The novel deftly marries Gothic vampire traditions with contemporary anxieties surrounding urban decay, societal collapse, and the limitations of scientific reasoning. McCammon’s approach—transforming vampirism from a supernatural curse into a viral, apocalyptic force—presents a fresh perspective that elevates the narrative beyond conventional monster fiction. The result is a richly detailed and thought-provoking story that explores not just the nature of evil, but humanity’s fragile relationship with belief, knowledge, and survival.
The novel’s geographical and thematic scope is ambitious from the outset. It begins in Eastern Europe, grounding the story firmly in vampire mythology, before making a dramatic shift to Los Angeles, California. This transition is more than a change of location; it serves as a potent narrative device. While Stephen King’s ’Salem’s Lot confines the vampire threat to the insular setting of a small New England town, They Thirst imagines an entire sprawling metropolis consumed from within. Los Angeles—with its sprawling excesses, cultural contrasts, and complicated history—becomes a perfect backdrop for the ancient evil of McCammon’s story. In many ways, the city and the novel’s antagonist are made for one another: Vulkan, a 13th-century Hungarian prince turned vampire, and his undead legion prey on humanity’s vulnerable underbelly, just as Los Angeles has often been depicted as a city feeding off the dreams—and the desperation—of its most naive and downtrodden residents.
This parallel between city and vampire empire is one of the novel’s strongest thematic elements. Both embody forms of false promise: Los Angeles offers fame, wealth, and a kind of modern immortality through celebrity culture, while Vulkan offers literal immortality through vampirism. Yet both promises are double-edged. The city’s glittering surface conceals poverty, violence, and spiritual emptiness; Vulkan’s offer of eternal life masks the curse of undeath and loss of humanity. In that sense, Vulkan and Los Angeles mirror each other, feeding off hope and desperation alike. This symbiotic relationship deepens the horror: it’s not just that vampires invade the city, but that they thrive there because the city, in its essence, is already broken and hungry.
The antagonist, Prince Vulkan, represents the archetypal vampire lord but is also reimagined as a force of apocalyptic renewal. His ambition is to establish a vampiric empire within Los Angeles, turning the city into a dark kingdom under his rule. The irony of this choice is palpable; Los Angeles is a city obsessed with youth, image, and perpetual reinvention, and Vulkan exploits those cultural values by offering something seemingly eternal. His infiltration begins subtly—with grave robberies, disappearances, and escalating violence—until the infestation becomes impossible to ignore. The city’s sprawling nature, its labyrinthine neighborhoods, and its social divides become the perfect terrain for an epidemic to spread unchecked.
McCammon stays true to Bram Stoker’s legacy, incorporating essential vampire lore: vulnerability to sunlight, the necessity of native soil in coffins, and the insatiable craving for blood remain central to the story. But he sets these paranormal elements against a starkly modern world, making their impact feel immediate and unavoidable. One striking subplot involves a wealthy coffin manufacturer whose industrial-scale production unwittingly supports Vulkan’s legion by supplying coffins in large quantities. This detail reinforces the novel’s critique of modernity: progress and capitalism, while often celebrated, can be co-opted by darkness when divorced from awareness and wisdom.
Central to the narrative is the novel’s sharp examination of science and superstition. McCammon critiques modern rationalism’s limits when confronted with the inexplicable. As the vampire epidemic grows, institutions built on evidence and strict rationality—police departments, medical professionals, the press—are shown to be inadequate. Police officers demand forensic proof; scientists dismiss eyewitness accounts as hysteria or fabrication; journalists prioritize sensationalism over truth. This widespread skepticism, while understandable in a culture founded on empiricism, ironically becomes what allows the vampires to thrive. McCammon suggests that humanity’s overreliance on logic and denial is itself a fatal vulnerability. The story implies that what civilization labels “superstition” may hold the very keys to survival against threats outside the realm of science.
This tension—between modern science and the supernatural—gives the novel a distinctively unsettling atmosphere. The city’s collapse is not solely due to the vampires themselves but also because humanity’s intellectual arrogance leaves it vulnerable. The horror grows as reason twists into denial, and disbelief becomes as lethal as the vampires’ bite. McCammon doesn’t dismiss science but critiques a worldview that excludes anything it can’t measure or rationalize. The vampires are, in a way, as much the product of this intellectual blindness as they are physical monsters.
From this thematic core comes one of the novel’s most compelling characters: Detective Andy Palatizin. A man haunted by his past in Hungary, Palatizin has already faced these same creatures in his youth. His instincts and knowledge make him an outlier in the modern police force, where skeptics and bureaucrats dismiss his warnings as superstition. Palatizin’s struggle embodies the tension between ancient wisdom and modern disbelief. Alongside him are characters who represent various facets of Los Angeles life: Wes Richer, a hopeful comedian whose life is upended by the chaos; Solange, his psychic partner who senses the darkness; Tommy Chandler, a youth thrust unwillingly into the fight against evil; and Kobra, a dangerous albino gang leader whose alliance with Vulkan underscores the novel’s bleak view of human nature. Through these characters, McCammon presents a cross-section of humanity reacting to incomprehensible horror in ways both brave and flawed.
The novel’s pacing builds steadily, escalating from subtle unease to urban apocalypse. McCammon’s detailed descriptions of Los Angeles falling apart—freeways clogged with abandoned vehicles, entire neighborhoods burned out, power grids failing—create a vivid portrait of a civilization unraveling. It is in this progression that They Thirst transcends the conventional vampire tale, transforming into a mythic story of apocalypse. The battle grows beyond individual survival into a symbolic contest between light and darkness, belief and denial.
In this way, They Thirst invites comparison not only to ’Salem’s Lot but also to Stephen King’s The Stand. Both novels begin with localized catastrophe but evolve toward apocalyptic narrative arcs that weigh heavily on the theme of good versus evil. Palatizin’s final confrontation with Prince Vulkan mirrors the spiritual and philosophical duels seen in The Stand—a struggle not only between man and monster but between faith and nihilism. This heightened mythic tone gives They Thirst a resonance that extends beyond its genre, engaging with questions about human nature, belief, and the limits of reason.
The novel’s themes also echo the Japanese vampire tale Shiki, which similarly explores a community’s devastating response to supernatural infection and the corrosive effects of denial. Although Shiki is set in a small rural village as opposed to a vast city, both stories articulate the dangers of refusing to confront inconvenient truths, particularly when those truths conflict with scientific rationality or cultural blindness. McCammon’s choice of Los Angeles as a setting magnifies this theme, illustrating how sprawling urban environments—with their anonymity, social stratification, and competing belief systems—become fertile ground for supernatural and existential threats alike.
Moreover, They Thirst represents a crucial moment in Robert McCammon’s development as a writer of expansive horror fiction. The novel’s sophisticated interplay between individual characters and large-scale disaster foreshadows the narrative techniques he would later perfect in Swan Song. If They Thirst can be considered McCammon’s ’Salem’s Lot—an exploration of vampirism growing into an epic struggle—then Swan Song stands as his The Stand—a sweeping post-apocalyptic saga combining horror, hope, and human resilience on a grand scale. Seen in this light, They Thirst is not only a memorable and impactful vampire narrative but also the author’s foundational work in epic horror storytelling.
In sum, They Thirst is a novel of considerable ambition and thematic richness. It successfully unites Gothic vampire mythology with contemporary social concerns, delivering a story that is both thrilling and intellectually engaging. The interplay of science and superstition, the vivid portrayal of Los Angeles as a city on the brink, and the moral complexity of its characters elevate the book beyond simple genre fare. This novel offers a challenging and unforgettable journey — a reminder that some darkness is older than reason and that even the brightest city lights may hide the longest shadows.
1993’s Murder So Sweet, also known a Poisoned By The Love: The Kern County Murders (seriously, try to say that ten times fast), tells the story of Steven David Catlin.
Steven David Catlin lived in Bakersfield, California. Catlin was a career criminal who was married six times and who found some personal redemption for himself as a member of the pit crew for a professional race car driver in Fresno. Trust me, I’ve lived in enough small, country towns to know that people will overlook a lot as long as someone knows how to work on a car.
One thing that people noticed about Catlin is that the people around him had a habit of dying of mysterious illnesses. Multiple wives, his adoptive parents, they all died with fluid in their lungs and they left behind not only a medical mystery but also quite a bit of money for Steven David Catlin. Catlin would always insist on holding a cremation just days after his loved ones passed away. Not only did that allow Catlin to move on but also kept anyone from being able to do a thorough autopsy.
Eventually, the police figured out that Catlin was just poisoning anyone who got on his nerves or threatened to divorce him. He wasn’t even a particularly clever poisoner. He used paraquet, a highly toxic herbicide and he kept the bottle sitting in plain view in his garage. He might as well have just labeled it his “Poisoning Thermos.” Catlin was convicted of multiple murders and he was sentenced to die in 1990. Of course, this being California, Catlin is sill alive and sitting in San Quentin. This really is a case of “If you lived in Texas, you’d be dead by now.”
In Murder My Sweet, Catlin is played Harry Hamlin, who steals the film as a dumb but charming redneck who walks with a confident swagger and has no fear of hitting on his ex-wife, even after he realizes that she’s trying to convince the police that he’s a murderer. Helen Shaver played Edie Bellew, the ex who knows better than to trust Catlin. Her current husband is played by Terence Knox and there’s plenty of scenes of him telling Edie that she needs to back off and that everyone knows that Steve Catlin isn’t a murderer. In many ways, this is the ultimate Lifetime film in that Edie Bellew not only gets to put her ex-husband in prison but she also proves that her current husband doesn’t know what he’s talking about.
Murder My Sweet takes place in rural California and, as a result, everyone in the film speaks with a shrill country accent and we spend a lot of time in a really tacky beauty parlor. Indeed, the film portrayal of country eccentricity is so over-the-top that I was tempted to say that it seemed as if the director was trying to rip-off David Lynch. However, Lynch may have made films about eccentric characters but he never portrayed them as being caricatures. Lynch loved his eccentrics while this film takes a bit of a condescending attitude towards them. Still, it’s worth watching for Harry Hamlin’s sleazy turn as Steve Catlin, a guy who enjoys fast cars and making ice cream.
Just don’t eat that ice cream….
Today, the Shattered Lens wishes a happy birthday to the one and only Sigourney Weaver. Seen here with Jonesy the Cat, Weaver will always be best-remembered for bringing to life Ellen Ripley and totally revolutionizing both horror and science fiction!
Today’s song of the day comes from Jerry Goldsmith’s iconic score for Alien.
This October, I’m going to be doing something a little bit different with my contribution to 4 Shots From 4 Films. I’m going to be taking a little chronological tour of the history of horror cinema, moving from decade to decade.
Today, we complete the 1930s.
4 Shots From 4 Films
Dracula’s Daughter (1936, dir by Lambert Hillyer)
Revolt of the Zombies (1936, dir by Victor Halperin)
Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (1936, dir by George King)
Son of Frankenstein (1939, dir by Rowland V. Lee)
Get to know your neighbors, people!
That’s really the main message that I took away from the 1982 film, The Seduction. In The Seduction, Morgan Fairchild stars as Jamie Douglas. Jamie is a anchorwoman for a local news channel in Los Angeles. She has an older boyfriend named Brandon (Michael Sarrazin). She has a sex-crazed best friend named Robin (Colleen Camp). She has a beautiful home in the Hollywood Hills. She’s doing wonderfully for someone whose main talent is the ability to read what’s on the teleprompter. Much like Ron Burgundy, she’ll read whatever is put on that teleprompter without even thinking about it. Some might say that indicates that Jamie is a fairly vacuous character and …. well, they’re right. She is.
Jamie starts receiving flowers at work and mysterious phone calls from someone named Derek. Derek (Andrew Stevens) is a fashion photographer. He’s young. He’s handsome. He’s charismatic. His assistant, Julie (Wendy Smith Howard), is absolutely in love with him. In fact, Derek would seem to have it all but he’s obsessed with Jamie. Soon, he’s breaking into Jamie’s house so that he can watch her undress and then confronting her at the mall. At one point, he shows up in her living room and starts taking pictures of her. Jamie screams. Brandon beats him up. After Derek leaves, Jamie and Brandon go to the police and ask if there’s something that they can do about Derek. The police say that there are not many options because Derek has not technically broken the law …. uhm, what? I get that things were different in the 80s but I still find it hard to believe that showing up in someone else’s living ro0om without an invitation and then refusing to leave would have been considered legal back then. As you probably already guessed, Derek’s obsession soon turns lethal.
Perhaps the weirdest thing about The Seduction is that Derek is basically Jamie’s neighbor but she doesn’t ever seem to realize it. Watching this film, there were time when I really had to wonder if maybe Jamie was just an idiot. As well, throughout the film, Jamie reports on an unknown serial killer who is terrorizing Los Angeles. The killer is dubbed the Sweetheart Killer and, when I watched this film, I wondered if the Sweetheart Killer and Derek were one in the same. I don’t think that they were but, still, why introduce an unknown serial killer without providing any sort of resolution? It’s all indicative of just how sloppy the plotting on The Seduction truly was. That’s especially true of the ludicrous ending of the film. A murder is committed in Jamie’s hot tub and when Jamie calls the police to report it, she’s put on hold. Meanwhile, Derek buries the body in Jamie’s backyard and somehow manages to do it without really breaking a sweat or being noticed by anyone. Derek’s big secret turns out to be not that much of a shock.
Morgan Fairchild’s performance isn’t great but that’s largely because she’s stuck with a character who is never allowed to behave in a consistent manner. Andrew Stevens is a bit more convincing as Derek, playing him as a photographer who doesn’t need cocaine because he’s already get his obsessive personality keeping up at nights. Michael Sarrazin, as Brandon, bellows nearly all of his lines and gives a performance that just shouts out, “Why did I agree to do this movie!?” He’s amusing. As for director David Schmoeller, he did much better with both Tourist Trap and Crawlspace.
Seriously, though, a lot of the horror and drama in this film could have been avoided by Jamie just getting to know her neighbors. I’ve been very lucky to have some very good neighbors over the years. When my Dad passed away, my neighbors Hunter and Hannah checked in on my nearly every day afterwards and let me use their hot tub whenever I wanted to. Neighbors, they can be pretty special.
“Another name for Mars is …. DEATH!”
The 1958 sci-fi/horror hybrid, It! The Terror From Beyond Space, opens with a NASA press conference. The assembled reporters are reminded that, earlier in the year, America’s first manned mission to Mars was presumed to have been lost. However, a second mission was sent to Mars and they discovered that the commander of the first mission, Edward L. Carruthers (Marshall Thompson), was still alive.
Unfortunately, all of Carruthers’s crewmates were dead. Carruthers claimed that the murders were committed by a monster. The commander of the second mission, Col. Van Heusen (Kim Spalding), instead suspected that Carruthers killed his crewmates when he realized they were stranded on Mars. The ship had enough provisions to last the entire crew for one year or ten years for just one man.
The second mission is now on their way back to Earth, with Carruthers under house arrest. While one crewman does believe that Carruthers’s story could be true, the others are convinced that Carruthers is a murderer. What they don’t know is that the monster from Carruthers’s story is not only real but that it also snuck onto their ship during lift-off. Tall and scaly with huge claws and a permanently angry face, the Monster — It, for lack of a more formal name — is lurking in the lower levels of the ship and hunting for food.
To state what is probably already obvious, It! is not a film that worries much about being scientifically accurate. While it does explain how living on the surface of Mars caused It to develop into the predator that it is, this is also a science fiction film from 1958. It’s a film where, instead of going to the Moon, the first manned spaceflight is to Mars. It’s also a film where there’s no weightlessness in space, the two women on the ship serve everyone coffee, and a nuclear reactor is casually unshielded at one point in an attempt to destroy It. Bullets are fired on the spaceship. Grenades are tossed. Airlocks are rather casually opened.
Fortunately, none of that matters. Clocking in at a mere 69 minutes, It! is a surprisingly suspenseful horror film, one that makes good use of its claustrophobic locations (a lot of the action takes place in an air duct) and which features a surprisingly convincing and, at times, even scary monster. It may be a man in a rubber suit but that doesn’t make it any less shocking when its claw bursts out of an an open hatch and starts trying to grab everything nearby. The cast of It! are all convincing in their roles. Watching them, you really do believe that they are a crew who have seen a lot together and it makes the subsequent deaths all the more effective,
It! was a troubled production, The monster was played by veteran stuntman Ray Corrigan, who reportedly showed up drunk a few times and also managed to damage the monster suit. Many members of the cast were not happy about being cast in a B-movie. (Fortunately, their resentment probably helped their performances as the similarly resentful crew of the second mission to Mars.) Marshall Thompson, who played Carruthers, was one of the few cast members who enjoyed making It! and, perhaps not surprisingly, he also gives the best performance in the film.
Troubled production or not, It! was not only a box office success but, along with Mario Bava’s Planet of the Vampires, it was later cited as one of the inspiration for Alien. At its best, It! has the same sort of claustrophobic feel as Alien. The scene where one of the crewman is found in an air duct brings to mind the fate of Tom Skerritt’s character in Alien.
It! is still a very effective work of sci-fi horror. Remember, another name for Mars is …. DEATH!
We are NOT powerless! We don’t have to let Alex Magana films happen. Alex Magana films being created is not a requirement of life, unless we permit it! I know that many of you think that he is inevitable like Thanos or getting herpes, BUT it is not! Thanos, herpes, and Alex Magana films don’t have to be part of your life!
Speaking of herpes, we need to go into a deeper dive of our cultural heroes sleeping with Aliens! Whatever they evolved from, it wasn’t on Earth!
You’re gonna give all COVID 1000! They probably have sapient cold sores! Cut it out!
The green alien especially because just wait until the Jolly Green Giant gets home! Yes, I did hold myself back from the obvious she is a
Yes, this was a tangent, but it delayed my review and that is a good thing. The story is very simple a woman does her laundry, the laundry alarm buzzes, and…..nothing just a high pitched boyfriend. The boyfriend investigates the laundry and is eaten by a monster hiding the dryer.
She also investigates and the monster is her laundry.
I do not understand the monster’s lifecycle or why this movie had to be. We could stop Alex Magana! Think on this, if 100 guys can stop a gorilla, 20 guys could stop Alex!
If you want to see something terrible, see below.
Miike Takashi’s 2001 film Visitor Q (called Bizita Q in Japan) is definitely one of the most bizarre and disturbing movies out there. It often gets compared to the work of Quentin Tarantino, but that comparison really doesn’t do Miike justice. Tarantino’s style is all about showing violence in a flashy, stylized way that sometimes feels more like entertainment or homage than outright shock. Miike, on the other hand, takes a very different approach—his films are much more raw, unfiltered, and transgressive. Where Tarantino’s violence can almost feel like a performance, Miike’s hits you in a way that’s meant to provoke and unsettle on a deeper level.
Visitor Q is a wild, surreal ride that dives headfirst into the messy mix of violence and sex that’s so common in today’s media, with a cheeky nod toward reality TV culture. The film came out of Japan at a really interesting time, when the culture was pretty conflicted about Western influences. Japan often points fingers at the West for “decadence” and moral decline, but at the same time, it produces some of the most intense and boundary-pushing entertainment around—like anime and manga filled with everything from weirdly sexualized creatures (yes, tentacles, lots of tentacles) to ultra-violent stories that Western media would blush at.
The plot itself is maybe the simplest part of the whole thing. It’s about a down-on-his-luck former TV reporter named Q Takahashi who’s trying to support his dysfunctional family by filming a documentary about how violence and sex in media affects young people today. From there, the story quickly spins into something much darker and more uncomfortable, focusing on his family’s raw problems: drug abuse, emotional numbness, incest, necrophilia, and other twisted stuff that’s hard to even put into words.
What really makes Visitor Q stand out is how Miike doesn’t hold anything back. This film isn’t trying to make you comfortable or distract you with flashy effects. Instead, it confronts you with some very real, very uncomfortable issues. Miike has a fearless way of showing violence and sex that feels totally unfiltered and even brutal, forcing you to face parts of human nature and society that most movies would shy away from or sugarcoat.
It’s easy to see how this movie channels the spirit of the Marquis de Sade, that infamous figure known for embracing taboo and shock to criticize societal hypocrisy. Miike takes this spirit and uses it to spotlight the way media—and especially the voyeuristic culture of reality TV—turns personal pain and dysfunction into public spectacle. The movie asks us to think about how watching violence and sex over and over might warp not just society’s values, but how people actually relate to one another.
One thing Visitor Q pokes at pretty hard is voyeurism, the idea of watching other people’s lives like it’s entertainment. The former TV reporter filming his family for the documentary is both an observer and a participant, and the film forces viewers to question the ethics of watching intimate, often tragic moments unfold just for the sake of entertainment. It’s a powerful reminder of what media voyeurism can do to real lives.
Another theme that hits home is how desensitized people have become to violence and sex. The family in the movie often reacts to brutal, horrible things with complete indifference—almost like they’re numb from being exposed to this stuff all the time. Miike seems to be saying that when we see violence and sex as everyday entertainment, it dulls our emotions and disconnects us from the human suffering behind those images. This is especially relevant for young people growing up in a media-saturated world, which is exactly what the film’s documentary narrator is trying to get at.
Some of the film’s more extreme themes, like incest and necrophilia, are obviously shocking, but Miike uses them to highlight just how broken the family is. These aren’t just there for shock value—they’re symbols of how far relationships can fall apart when love, respect, and communication break down entirely. The film uses these taboos as metaphors for emotional neglect and societal decay, asking us to look hard at the dark corners of family life and human nature that most media avoids.
Watching Visitor Q is definitely not an easy ride. At first, most people find themselves looking away or flinching because the content is so wild and graphic. But it’s interesting how, over time, viewers start watching the movie without turning away, even if what they see is still deeply disturbing. The film somehow pulls you in with its surreal style and brutal honesty, making you confront just how far you’re willing to go in understanding these messed-up family dynamics and cultural critiques.
Stylistically, the film bounces between stark realism and surreal, almost absurd imagery. This gives it a rollercoaster tone that keeps you off balance—one moment it’s brutally raw, the next it’s almost darkly comedic or bizarre. This mix mirrors the instability of the family and the unpredictable nature of their world. Miike really embraces both the artistic and the extreme exploitation sides of filmmaking here, unapologetically pushing boundaries with each scene.
Despite all the shocking stuff, the film comes with a clear message about the relationship between media, sex, and violence. It’s not just reflecting society’s problems; it’s suggesting that media actually shapes how we think, feel, and behave—especially for kids. The film also takes a swipe at reality TV, highlighting how people get a twisted sense of pleasure from watching others’ suffering and humiliation. This is even more relevant today with social media and constant livestreams making all aspects of life a public show.
Miike’s gritty and unfiltered take makes it clear he isn’t just copying Western transgressive directors—he’s got his own voice and style that’s as challenging as it is unique. Where Tarantino’s films entertain and provoke with wit and style, Miike’s work disturbs and pushes, asking viewers to get uncomfortable and reflect. Comparisons to Pasolini, the Italian filmmaker known for his raw and provocative films, fit well here. Like Pasolini, Miike straddles the line between art and exploitation, using shock to force deeper questions about society.
In the end, Visitor Q isn’t a movie for casual watching or easy enjoyment. It’s intense, often repugnant, and demands a tough kind of attention. But for those willing to dive into its messy, surreal, and disturbing world, it offers a powerful look at how media influences family, society, and morality. Miike Takashi is definitely not Japan’s Tarantino—he’s a far more transgressive filmmaker who dares to challenge audiences by taking them into the most uncomfortable and raw parts of human experience. If one has the courage and curiosity, Visitor Q is an unforgettable, provocative film that forces us to think hard about voyeurism, media excess, and just how dark and strange life can get behind closed doors.
Through the Shattered Lens 