Four Color Fear: Forgotten Horror Comics of the 1950s

 

Four Color Fear: Forgotten Horror Comics of the 1950s by Greg Sadowski
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Last summer, while on a trip to see family out west, we stopped in Denver and my wife humored me by letting me spend some time at Mile High Comics. That was a lifelong dream, truth be told. I had known about Mile High since seeing their advertisements in old Marvel comics when I was a kid. I have to say: it did not disappoint. I was able to flesh out a good deal of my Grimjack collection, I picked up one issue of Savage Sword of Conan, the issue that probably corrupted me into who I am today, and pick up a couple of other goodies along the way. Most of all, I think I realized how many thousands of dollars worth of comics that my mom gave to the thrift store when we moved from Italy to Minnesota. It had to happen, and at 9 years old, I couldn't really fight it, but . . . ugh.

One of my favorite comics as a kid was Weird War . It was the closest thing to a horror comic that my mom would let me buy. Of course, those issues of Savage Sword of Conan (which my mom did let me buy, for some unknowable reason) sat on the magazine rack right alongside Eerie and Creepy in the old Stars and Stripes Bookstore. But mom would have none of those in the house.

Well, I've got my own house now. And mom is probably turning over in her grave as I'm typing this. Sorry, Mom.

Sorry/not sorry.

To make up for lost childhood time, I bought Four Color Fear. While visiting Mile High, I realized how bloody expensive, how . . . terrifyingly expensive old horror comics can be. Honestly, I was stunned. Apparently these are extremely rare. I'm guessing the 1954 Comics Code has something to do with this. Look it up - I'll spare you the details - but suffice it to say that Mom wasn't the only person opposed to horrific comics. Now, however, we live in a more tolerant age, thankfully. So something like Four Color Fear can be obtained without fear of censorship by the Comics Code Authority . . . or Mom.

The book presents several stories from a wide variety of comic's publishers not named "EC". You'll find some surprising names in here: Harry Harrison, for instance. Or Frank Frazetta. Yes, that Frank Frazetta (as if there could be any other). Quality varies wildly. Most of the stories are schlock horror with highly-predictable "plots," the proverbial stupid people doing stupid things and being killed, eaten, etc., and horrible (and yet not horrifying) dialogue.

But there are several exceptions, some real gems.

"Nightmare" might be one of the best. A weird fiction writer is out of ideas for his horror stories, which are not gruesome enough, according to his editor. So fate provides ideas, with a couple of unexpected twists. This was great!

What's the comic book equivalent to good cinematography? Is it called good "storyboarding". Whatever it is, it's excellent in "Dust to Dust". A (very) mildly surprise ending helps this one along. Still missing that certain something that would make it a truly great story, but it's good.

"Green Horror" is one of the stupidest, wackiest . . . and BEST stories in this collection! This story of a jealous cactus (yes, you read that correctly) doesn't flinch - it takes its campiness with deadly seriousness. This is one of those tales told in a treehouse by 10 year olds (Sandlot-style) with flashlights under the chin. It's so utterly ridiculous and over the top that it works!

"Colorama" is just the sort of weird horror I came looking for in this volume. I wish most of the stories were this strange. The comic medium is used to great effect here, leveraging the inherent power of images on a page to drive home the horror in a way that only a comic book can. It's polychromatic meta-horror . . . until it's not! And when it's not, well, that's when you need to start to worry.

"The Man Who Outdistanced Death" is an original story of mythic proportions that I really liked. Rod Serling would have been proud to have written this tale about distance running and longevity. If all the stories were of this quality, this would be a five star book, no question. Unfortunately . . . the other stories can't quite keep up.

(see what I did there?)

I wouldn't call "Art for Death's Sake" super-original, but it stands out from most of the other stories here for its subject matter and twisted ending. Some of the panels are beautiful and almost expressionistic, which fits, thematically, with the story.

"Here Today" is a unique, capital "W" Weird story. The plot is simple, but so bizarre that this tale seems ahead of its time. Another Twilight Zone-esque offering. One wonders how much Rod Serling read these comics as a kid! Or as an adult, for that matter.

"The Wall of Flesh" was predictable, to say the least, but the unique premise and use of a flesh wall absorbing its victim, superimposed over the image of a clock was absolute brilliance. Time is running out, indeed. If only 1950s plots weren't so dumb and predictable, this would have been something rather masterful. Still, it sets a high aesthetic standard for horror comics.

"Reefer Madness" meets a hybrid between a flying squirrel and The Creature from the Black Lagoon in "Nightmare World". The only thing terrifying about this story is its predictability. But the art is distinct, I have to give it that.

If Thomas Ligotti, Robert Crumb, and, I dunno, Philip K. Dick, maybe? If these three got together and wrote a horror comic, it might be "What Happens at 8:30 PM". This one is very different than the rest and shows the breadth of horror comics in the 1950's. Not all of them were cookie cutter. I'd like more oddballs like this in Four Color Fear.

In the center of the book is a series of glossy comic covers from an incredible variety of comics that I'll never be able to afford. And after all the gore is done, the editor, Greg Sadowski, includes an admirable, well-researched essay with commentary on every one of the comic stories included in the book. The commentary centers mostly on the creative process and the comings and goings of various artists and writers - there appeared to be a LOT of fluidity from company to company - giving a sort of historiography of the horror comic creative scene before the code became law. The glossy covers and commentary make the book a "whole" artifact, very similar to a museum catalog. You might say that Sadowski's editorials really . . . flesh things out?

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The Immortality Key: Uncovering the Secret History of the Religion With No Name

 

The Immortality Key: Uncovering the Secret History of the Religion with No Name by Brian C. Muraresku
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

At the risk of sounding like a 1950's B-horror movie title, I was a teenage drug-fiend. I was 12 or 13, I can't quite remember, when I started experimenting with pot, speed, cocaine, opium, depressants, and, of course, one of the most insidious drugs of all, alcohol. By the time I was 18, I had pumped enough chemicals in my body for a lifetime, so when I came about one judge's signature away form a term in federal prison, I quit. Cold turkey. Everything. And I've been clean since.

One thing I never tried was psychedelics. The war on drugs and the (now comical) portrayal of psychedelic's use on '70s and '80s television frankly scared me away from them. I "knew" that PCP made people think they could fly and LSD could make you crazy forever. I'd been brainwashed really good. Thanks, Nancy.

Fast forward several decades. I have a much more "measured" view of drug and alcohol use. There are plenty of people out there who can safely and responsibly use drugs and alcohol without becoming an addict, like I did. And I realize now that medications have their place and can really benefit people's lives. Then again, as an aside, I think there should be MUCH stiffer penalties for drunk driving, but that's a rant for a different time. And I avoid alcohol like the plague. I know that its no good for me and I'm not good with it.

Now I've done a fair amount of research into psychedelics, mostly being interested in micro-dosing after having listened to a couple of podcasts that touched on the subject. Pretty soon, I started seeing articles popping up here and there - my UW alumni magazine, for instance, or Discover Magazine - about the efficacy of psychedelic treatments for PTSD, in particular, and in easing the fears and worries of terminal cancer patients. It's been a bit of a revelation, so much so that I think we might be on the edge of a revolution in medicine.

I was discussing this with my oldest son this past Thanksgiving as he was visiting from grad school. He told me about a podcast interview regarding this very subject . . . well, sort of. I asked for a link and took some time to listen to Lex Fridman's interview of author Brian Muraresku about his new book The Immortality Key. After listening to that, I put the book on my Christmas wish list, and my son obliged. I raised that boy (well, he's a man now) right.

The general premise of Muraresku's thesis is this: There is a possibility, a strong possibility, backed by some thin threads of evidence, that the history of psychedelics in societal use may be the backbone of the history of religion, particularly sacramental religions like the cult of Dionysus or even Christianity.

Of course, he's crazy, right?

I don't think so.

That's not to say that I'm fully convinced. The evidence is oftentimes tentative, with much more research needing to be done. Or it's based on what I will call "negative historiography," the notion that a certain things absence from the historical record proves its existence by the very void created in the process of the intentional removal of such evidence by the winners of history; in this case, the Catholic Church.

But that's not to say I'm not fully convinced, either. I'm taking a tentative lean towards believing Muraresku's thesis, partly because he acknowledges, in the end, that this is a work-in-progress. I will say, though, that some evidentiary gaps that are "leaped" in the middle of the text, are later given some logical breathing room, some more critical looks, in the afterword.

My biggest issue with the book is connecting the dots from the Dionysian cultic use of psychedelics in the Middle East to the early Christian house churches of Anatolia. In the midst of the presentation of evidence, Muraresku's arguments sound like they apply to all of Christianity, even if he doesn't explicitly say so. But later he acknowledges that it may have been only a very small part of the initial Christian movement across the Mediterranean. The evidence is scant, but Muraresku's eagerness to get the point across makes his arguments sound like there is tacit proof that the use of psychedelics in the early Christian sacrament was a given. Over-enthusiasm sometimes clouds the argument. A little more restraint might have gone a great way in easing me into accepting the trail of evidence more readily.

Time will tell if archaeobotanical and archaeochemical analysis can fill the gaps. I sincerely hope they do. Because what Muraresku is talking about here is not a bunch of stoners sitting in the basement with a bong listening to Phish. He's talking about humans finding real meaning in the psychedelic experience. He's talking about "dying before you die," which has an absolutely profound effect on those who experience it - he goes over this extensively. He's talking about experiential religion, the type of real life events that can make real life changes in the way people view themselves, each other, nature, and reality, seeing the cosmos, the earth, and all humans anew. There is an optimism here that "the religion with no name" can bring some fundamental changes to the whole of the human race, Aldous Huxley's dream come true.

And he might just be right.

Time will tell.

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The Lich Keep Getting Licher

 I've been in love with Liches since 1979. It was this picture, from the Official Advanced Dungeons and Dragons Coloring Album that caught my eye. 

It was love at first sight. And I was reunited with this, my first undead crush, a few years back. Curiosity got the best of me in the years between, and I . . . um . . . got to know others: Vecna, Vlaakith, and Acererak, to name a few. I learned to love them for who they were (and eternally are). Don't judge. There's nothing worse than Lich-shaming . . . 

But I sometimes grow weary of the old story: crazed mage/priest decides to seek eternal life through elaborate and expensive magic rituals that cause them to become even more crazed (and undead). You know all the tropes. Here, I'd like to propose a few alternate ideas for how certain ex-people (and ex-non-people) became liches. You can figure out how their powers manifest, stat them out, etc. These are just ideas of origin-stories, if you will. Consider this a surprise gift to kick-start your imagination, your campaign, or whatever. The details are all up to you.

Variant Liches:

1. A young boy with an oversized nose wishes upon a star. That star happens to be a manifestation of Orcus (a gleam in his eye, to be exact). The boy gets his wish and lives forever in undeath. Orcus even gives him a pet, a sentient cricket wearing a tuxedo and top-hat whose initials are the same as one very famous religious figure. The cricket is not as nice as he seems. And the boy . . . well, let's just say he's not like all the other boys.
2. A young maiden waits for the perfect lover. She is saving her love for them. She has been searching for a long, long time. She is . . . er, charming. Nearly irresistible. This would explain the dense pile of bones in her cottage's basement. Who knows? Maybe you are The One. She's going to do everything she can to find out. She keeps searching for a heart of gold, and she's not getting old.
3. Fido has been waiting for his master to come home. But the master of the castle will not be returning. So the dog waits. And waits. And waits. Visitors come, but not his master. And the visitors never seem to leave. At least Fido has a good supply of bones to gnaw on. He's been thinking, lately, that maybe he should leave the castle and go hunting for his master, come what may.
4. A certain merchant wants nothing more than to keep the wheels of commerce turning. And he does. He's been in business longer than he can remember, going from city to city in his horse-drawn wagon. He's gone through a lot of horses . . . He's a powerful trader, buy low, sell high, or sometimes don't sell at all. He admits to keeping a few things he's bought (though, again, he can't remember how long ago he bought them). There's that silver amulet with a certain aura. And the colorful scrolls he reads nightly before going to bed. The gold ring he bought from a gravedigger. And that strange mummified hand with the sigils tattooed in the palm. These are things he will never sell. Never.

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Writer's Hideaway, Redux

 Several years ago, I wrote a post on my "Writer's Hideaway". Since that time, well, a lot has happened, not the least of which is a move from Madison, Wisconsin to Janesville, Wisconsin, at the height of the pandemic. This was to cut the commute from Madison to my then-new job in Whitewater in half. Very long story short, after having a house in Delevan fall through on us (a dream house, in many ways - that one still hurts), we found a place in Janesville, which has its benefits (living a mile away from my grandkids, for example). 

One big benefit was being able to move out of my basement writing cave in Madison to a much less dank writing area here in Janesville, up on the second floor. I've moved up in the world, as they say. So, as I did then, I thought I'd do a mini-tour now that I'm mostly settled in there after a year and a half. Your interest may vary, but this is my little microcosmic world where I can immerse myself in the imagination and bleed my ideas onto the page. Not that all my writing takes place here - I will write anywhere and everywhere when the mood strikes. I keep a little notebook and pens with me wherever I go just for such occasions. But when I want to dig deep and experience the ritual magic that is the writing exercise, this is my holy-of-holies.

We'll start at one of two desks. In all honesty, I don't use this desk much. Once in a while, when the mood strikes. It's nice to have options, I suppose. The rocket lamp in the photo obscures the original painting I bought, which is one of two covers for The Umerican Survival Guide. This is the original oil painting of the "Delve" cover, and it's a beaut. You'll also see some of my unpainted miniatures (mainly Call of Cthulhu nasties and martians), a candle, my deck of Moebius trading cards, a can of Crazy Aaron's Thinking Putty (magnetic version) for meditative purposes, and my tarot deck by Micah Ulrich (which gets a lot of use in my writing, believe it or not). There are some skulls and spaceships back there (dunno if you can see my space battleship Yamato or not), and probably lots of other inspirational knicknacks I'm forgetting because I'm not in that room at this moment.

You can probably see why I don't often write here. This used to be an attic, and the ceiling is very low here, even for a shorter than average guy like me. It's cozy.

Here you can see my collection of art books, my very small (and very particular) vinyl collection, my very small and very particular stack of DVDs, my very small and very particular stack of CDs, my collection of Grimjack comic books (No, I don't have all of them. If you have some you want to sell, message me!), and sundry other knicknacks, some of which are original art made by me or my kids or my wife's students (when she taught - she's happily retired now). Also, a chain of pictures of my kids from when they were much younger, and an antiqued mirror, which I should buy more of . . . The antiqued mirror plays tricks and causes illusions and visions that I use in my writing; a sort of hallucinogenic scrying stone. To the right, outside of the picture, are a couple boxes of my novel Heraclix and Pomp (softcover and hardcover). If you're interested in getting a signed copy from me, message me. 

Turning clockwise, you'll see my shelf containing two rayguns, an incense burner hand-carved by famed Poppet artist Lisa Snellings, and a ceramic piece of a face I did in high school (I'm still pretty proud of that guy). Some books, of course - too many to list here - are under that. And at the bottom, a print by Valin Mattheis (who also did the cover art for my book The Varvaros Ascensions). 

Just below that is "sword corner" where I keep my Darkwood armory rapier and dagger. There's also a lantern there and a birdcage containing a paperback copy of Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven, along with over a dozen origami ravens a friend made for me. They are hard to keep fed, but I am rather fond of them.

Looking to the right of sword corner, I have couple of bottles sitting on the window sill over some art. I don't drink, but the bottle on the left was a homebrew rootbeer with the Heraclix and Pomp cover on it that my agent brewed up years ago for the H&P release party. Next to that is an empty bottle of a beer concocted by the band Droids Attack. I used to work with Brad, the lead singer, and he gave me this. If you're into heavy music, definitely check them out!

Looming above this is a wall-mounted book hanger loden with some of my favorite books. A venetian mask and the face of one of the doctors from the Twilight Zone episode "Eye of the Beholder" keep vigilant watch - except on Halloween when one or both of them attach themselves to my face. 

Lots of art in this next area. A picture of my wife on the left windowsill keeps me in line(!), while candles, bookshelves, and my old record player (more on that in a moment) underlie shelve containing a drawing by myself, more Valin Mattheis art, my World Fantasy Award 2003 trophy (replete with pinocchio nose on Lovecraft's face), a piece of art by my friend and artist Doug Kovacs, a day of the dead color-shifting lamp thingy, a faerie door made by an old co-worker, a couple pieces of statuary by Green Man Gate Keeper, and a bronze piece of an astronaut reading a book I bought from Vince Villafranca. 

Now, forgive an aging man as he grows nostalgic. After my parents died, I was going through their stuff and found my old record player. I'd listened to records on this thing from about 1979 to the late '80s, when I left home. Because of the nature of that departure (long story), I didn't take this with me. Besides, I had another stereo that went with me then (and was subsequently stolen from storage in the early '90s). But this machine, along with a really crappy cassette player/radio/boombox, was the machine on which my love of music was forged. I'm guessing that the first record I played on here was my 45 RPM of The Hobbit, you know the one, with the Glenn Yarbrough song and all?

So, when I found this in my parent's house, I honestly cried. I had so many memories, so many hours tied up in this thing. I can't overstate its importance in forming my life. It really is that meaningful. 

But it needed an update! So, I learned to do decoupage, found some awesome dark imagery, and redecorated it. I might do some more work on it, who knows? And since vinyl is now back in style, I've picked up a few select records to play on it, crappy, scratchy audio and all. A few weeks ago, I spent hours just listening to some of these records and watching the disks spin. I had forgotten how much of a calming meditative exercise that can be (even when listening to heavy music). That's some inexpensive therapy there!

Incidentally, if I used your art on my decoupage, I'm not making any money off it. Nor am I making any money off this blog. Please don't sue me, okay? Thanks.

Now, on to the writing corner. Let's see there's another original piece of Doug Kovacs' art (from The Cthulhu Alphabet - you'll see the printed version in the book at 3:46 on the video I've linked), a sculpture one of my sons made, some medieval coins (yes, genuine), and an original piece from Valin Mattheis that I bought just a few months ago. The boxes are a box of old Analog magazines I need to read through (there's a writing notebook and a handwritten letter that Rikki Ducornet sent me years ago, when we were in correspondence), and a box of slides from my parents with a slide viewer atop that. Then a tube of handmade marbled bookend paper that I'm saving for a project. There's an edison lamp, another piece of original art on the wall (can't remember the artists name - something Jamaica, I think), a wooden kaleidoscope-lens thingy, and a four foot high glass vase/beaker filled with Christmas lights. Then there is my writing desk. My actual writing desk.

Yes it's an old gramophone case. Someone had put it out on a curb in Madison and I knocked and asked if it was really available. They said yes and I stuffed that puppy in my car ASAP!!! All the guts are missing. You can't play records on this. But the case is solid and complete. I have no idea why they put it out on the curb, but I'm not asking. This is the perfect standing desk for writing. And under the hood . . . 

This is what faces me when I'm ready to write. Lots of candles, including a creepy baby doll candle holder (I need more of those), a cool wooden candle holder my wife bought for me, and a couple old Reuzel cans that make handy candle holders that reflect a lot of light. Then there's the inkewell/penholder of art nouveau design (I have no idea if it's actually from that era, but I wouldn't doubt it, given the style and craftsmanship). Oh, and there are a couple shards of antiqued/distressed mirror under that, as well. in the cabinet underneath are plenty of cheap composition books, some pens, some incense - you know, all the necessities of writing.

And there you have it: my new writing area. Now that I've gone on an on about it, I'm going to stop writing about writing and actually do some . . . writing!

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