Still from The Lost World (1925)

There is something wonderfully flowing about Arthur Conan Doyle’s writing.

Though at first glance the much-loved Victorian writer’s style displays much of the typical archness of his august age – he doesn’t exactly shy away from long sentences or labourious descriptive passages – after finally reading through his only famous non-Sherlock Holmes novel, I feel confident in saying that his popularity could be attributed to a masterful grasp of the rhythm and flow of his sentences.

Much like his contemporary H. Rider Haggard’s King Solomon’s Mines, The Lost World plays on an undying desire for adventure, and the exploration of then still relatively unknown countries and climes.

Of course, this same desire has now been transmuted to its keener, more cutting counterpart: since the world is now pinned down, chartered and Google Mapped down to every little corner and byway, our urge to venture out into the unknown is undermined by the reality that there isn’t much of an unknown anymore. Nostalgia, that deadliest of emotional toxins, is thrown into the mix.

And thanks to Doyle’s way with words, the nostalgia is not just limited to content. We tend to prize stylistic minimalism nowadays – at least in prose – and there is a kind of guilty pleasure to be had in Doyle’s often ornate, but always easy sentences.

First edition of The Lost World (1912)

Just one look at a random passage in The Lost World is enough to confirm that while this tale of an expedition to a South American plateau populated by dinosaurs and ape-men promises unknown vistas and dangerous creatures, it will be delivered to us in distinctly ‘Victorian’ overtones – which, like a hobbit hole, essentially means comfort.

A casual bit of typical colonial bigotry from the novel’s narrator, the meek journalist Edward Malone, is an amusing-in-retrospect example of this:

‘I was plodding up the slope, turning these thoughts over in my mind, and had reached a point which may have been half-way to home, when my mind was brought back to my own position by a strange noise behind me. It was something between a snore and a growl, low, deep, and exceedingly menacing. Some strange creature was evidently near me, but nothing could be seen, so I hastened more rapidly upon my way. I had traversed half a mile or so when suddenly the sound was repeated, still behind me, but louder and more menacing than before. My heart stood still within me as it flashed across me that the beast, whatever it was, must surely be after me. My skin grew cold and my hair rose at the thought. That these monsters should tear each other to pieces was a part of the strange struggle for existence, but that they should turn upon modern man, that they should deliberately track and hunt down the predominant human, was a staggering and fearsome thought.’

This is potted exoticism; a danger confined, clipped and neutered in a cage of carefully constructed sentences. Perhaps the popular space which Doyle’s novel – serialised in The Strand magazine over 1912 – occupied has now been taken over by television, as wildlife documentaries and various reality shows offer a similar vicarious thrill.

But as The Avengers continues to smash box office records even as I type these words, I’m reminded that The Lost World also boasts another more immediately transferable nugget of delight: a superhero of his own, in the shape of the indefatigable Professor George Edward Challenger.

Over and above the fact that we basically owe Jurassic Park to Doyle – another topic for another article – Challenger is the kind of character who is remembered, loved and copied partly because he’s arrogant and insufferable, despite all adds. Indeed, this ‘cave-man in a lounge suit’, an intuitive – and unconventional – genius with a penchant for adventure that often comes with a bloody-minded disregard of his peers’ sensibility or safety, could survive a comparison to the Avengers’ own Tony Stark.

It’s hardly surprising that Winston Churchill was a fan.

Comparisons and metaphors reappear, floating like purgatorial ghosts: cigar-chomping Churchill, uncompromising but pithily articulate; booming and bearded Challenger, pig-headed and brilliant; venal and vain Tony Stark, heroic when the Iron Man suit is locked onto his alcohol-laden body – a symbol of industry and domination, of technology defeating danger, defeating nature, and mapping out the world…

Part of Schlock’s May Mashup.

May 14th, 2012
Categories: Schlock's May Mashup . Author: Teodor Reljic . Comments: 2 Comments

by Carla Said

The wonderfully crafty Carla took a break from the crochet – which you can check out by clicking on her name above – to regale Schlock with a couple of a adorable visuals for our May Mashup. Both take a unique look at L Frank Baum’s masterpiece, though we at Schlock found the explanatory passages to be just as interesting as the images themselves…

Here is Dorothy Gale’s dream. She has a show – no, a club (oh, the sheer scale of it!) completely dedicated to her extraordinary experience. But what to call it? And who to contact for the obligatory neon sign? *blink blink*

Meanwhile, a former W. W. minion waits to be interviewed for the post of flying waiter at said club. He’s sad because he’s wondering whether his hands can do the work. He needs the money to marry his simian lady love.

Part of Schlock’s May Mashup.

May 14th, 2012
Categories: Schlock's May Mashup . Author: schlockmagazine . Comments: No Comments

“Is it better to be loved or feared? If I were to choose love, then how would I know my subjects respect me truly? How can I ever know that what they say with their lips is echoed in their hearts? Of my ‘sisters’ only one other follows the same path as me. Those in the north and south employ a velvet glove in their dealings with those as are less than them. But make no mistake, an iron hand sits inside the glove, for to be a witch means to forsake all things in the pursuit of power.”

Found among the private letters of Nessarose, the Wicked Witch of the East

The first steps Dorothy Gale took in the Land of Oz were tracked in the blood of the Witch of the East, our mistress’ sister (this is obviously metaphorical blood, since her body turned to dust. My intention is to show that Dorothy Gale was far from the heroine she has been painted to be).

If you follow her movements through the Munchkinland you will find a catologue of crimes. If you were to conveniently forget the simple act of murder that punctuated her arrival in the Land of Oz you will still find the amoral child perpetrating offence after offence, including, but not limited to: theft, destruction of commonly held property, theft of private property, and MURDER.

Certain parties with an interest in rewriting history have chosen to gloss over Dorothy’s first meeting with the Scarecrow, and describe it as an act of liberation. The Scarecrow, after all, is a sentient being confined to a corn field and tied to a beanpole. Leaving aside the simple fact that that was his job, (and for the Scarecrow to seek independence is gross dereliction) think of the Munchkins whose crops were ruined by the birds it was his duty to fend off. Theft, property destruction.

Later we learn that Dorothy Gale, the Scarecrow and her hound, Toto (an unnatural beast, not found anywhere else in the Land of Oz – as mute as one of the Kalidahs, the monstrous tiger-bears of the wilderness, which Dorothy and her accomplices have no compunction in killing) having encountered a creature calling itself the Tin Woodman in the forest bordering Munchkinland, set it free. This hideous parody of a man lost its limbs after chopping them off, one after the other, until eventually all that remained was a heartless, soulless body of tin. This skeletal machine man exists for the sole purpose of killing, which it does with ruthless efficiency.

The last member in this band of lawless reprobates is a lion. An actual lion. I don’t think I need to say anything more about how dangerous that is!

In her travels around Oz we are told that Dorothy Gale’s single purpose was to return home to Kan Sass, or wherever she claimed to come from. Evidence exists which suggests that she was under the employ of Glinda, the so-called Good Witch of the South. An outside contractor. An assassin, if you will. With Glinda’s help, Dorothy slew Nessarose, the Wicked (sic) Witch of the East, then set off on a path to the Emerald City with plans to infiltrate (and perhaps kill!) that almighty humbug, the Wizard of Oz himself. Oz acted with his customary guile, after a brief audience he sent them west, to kill our mistress.

This was Glinda’s purpose all along.

Our mistress, whose name I dare not speak (may she rest in peace) gave Dorothy Gale and her cronies three warnings to stay away. In the first instance she sent a band of forty wolves to ask that they stay away. The wolves were large and ferocious, and perhaps not the best choice of ambassador, but they weren’t even given the opportunity to speak. No sooner had they met Dorothy and her band of malcontents than they were cut down by the savage arm of the Tin Woodman. We have all seen the statue erected to their sacrifice.

Next were sent a number of crows, collectively called a murder, but their aim was not malice, no. They were sent once more to entreat with Ms. Gale who was seemingly fixed on destruction. This time it was the Scarecrow who drove them off, finally remembering the purpose for which he had been made. It was murder, for the crows.

Thirdly, and finally, a swarm of bees were sent to spell out the message: Get Lost. The bees were slaughtered to a drone.

With no recourse but to defend herself, our mistress called upon the Winged Monkeys who were bound to obey whoever holds the Golden Cap. She was always loathe to use their power, for they were ever a wild and feckless bunch. She had employed the Cap twice before; to bring Peace and Prosperity to our land, the Land of the Winkies, and to drive Oz from our lands (she didn’t know at the time that he was nothing but a colossal FRAUD). So using it a third time was a desperate move and left her open to attack from Glinda. This she knew, so what did she do.

She could have ordered the Winged Monkeys to slay them all, but she didn’t. Instead she had the pair of simulacra bashed and broken, which could not hurt them, and only inconvenienced them. The girl and the lion were brought back to the castle at the heart of Winkie Country. Rather than treat them as war criminals, the mistress had them separated. The lion was put into an enclosure suitable for a beast of his size and appetite, and Dorothy Gale – who was given the freedom to roam the castle – was permitted to feed him at night.

The outcome is well known. Our mistress slain and the Wizard fled (he knew what was coming next). The Emerald City was given to the Scarecrow to rule. A suitable puppet. The lion was set free and allowed to roam the forest wild, where it’s reported he is a king. As for the Winkies, we are ruled over by the Tin Woodman now, and woe betide anyone who calls him a tyrant. His axe knows no rest. Only the Witch in the North remains to stand against Glinda in the South.

Let those who read these words remember the secret name of our mistress, and hold to the hope that one day we will be free.

Part of Schlock’s May Mashup.

May 8th, 2012
Categories: Schlock's May Mashup . Author: Kris Green . Comments: 1 Comment

Illustration by Daniela Attard

by Maxine Calleja Urry

Here’s a mystery to puzzle over: two Sherlocks, a couple of Watsons, a pair of Mycrofts, and a double helping of deliciously vicious Moriartys. Between Stephen Moffat and Mark Gatiss’ Sherlock television series and Guy Ritchie’s Sherlock Holmes film franchise, there’s a whole lot of deducing going on. Which of the two is more deserving of our discerning fan love? To whom do we, as good Conan Doyle fans, owe our allegiance?

Whenever two high-profile productions with achingly similar source material pop up within spitting distance of one another, the same war cry always goes out. The powers-that-be of Hollywood tend to have a way of playing copycat which often leaves the audience to choose between two films which seem – at a quick glance – to be more or less about the same thing.

There are plenty of examples of these kinds of twin features, and inevitably one is always touted as being better than the other. In some cases this is true; in my opinion, Neil Burger’s The Illusionist can’t really hold a candle to Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige, for example. This is not because The Illusionist is a terrible movie, not at all, it just isn’t in the same league as The Prestige. Not even Paul Giamatti could tip the scales. And I freaking love Paul Giamatti.

What I’m trying to say here is that this is a dangerous game to play, so for once let’s just look at what we have in hand: two very distinct adaptations of a hugely beloved piece of literature.

There is, however, another obstacle to get past here. As with any adaptation, people are going to ask the question “which is the better portrayal of the books?”. Well, I’m going to stop you right there. Put down the picket signs and extinguish the flaming torches; neither of these two are the most faithful adaptations of Conan Doyle’s work ever put to celluloid. That honour would probably go either the Jeremy Brett television movies, or the Basil Rathbone films of the 1940s, and that in itself is a bit of fan-boy fisticuffs for another time.

Without the distraction of vying for the crown of Ultimate Adaptation, it might just be possible to look at these two productions in their true light.

On one hand we have the Guy Ritchie film franchise, still bound in the Victorian setting which we are so thoroughly familiar with, but given a little modern edge with the addition of the subversively stylish steampunk look. The action is packed in eye-wateringly tight and Robert Downey Jr’s Holmes has the sort of glib charm that has been missing from the long procession of stoic and stodgy, dourly Victorian Holmeses that came before him. Conan Doyle actually did write the great detective as having possessed quite some degree of charm, not that you’d know it for all the looming sourness we often see portrayed. This is not to say that Downey Jr is the best Holmes, only to say that he’s certainly an interesting one. He is a Holmes for the new century, still anchored in the last century, and I believe that this is where the adaptation loses itself a little.

Ritchie keeps the films in a Victorian setting, but he’s not really content to play with Victorian toys. In my mind I always refer to these movies as SherLock, Stock, and Two Smoking Barrels, and that’s a little bit telling of how I feel about it. Playing with the steampunk idea lent the first film, and its subsequent sequel A Game of Shadows, some pinch of style, but it comes at the cost of Conan Doyle’s works. There is something sadly un-Holmesian about these films, though that doesn’t stop them from being fun romps to watch.

Adaptations, I feel, don’t have the be cut-and-paste carbon copies of their source material, but I still think they need to preserve the original tone. Plot differences are allowed, changes are acceptable, so long as they keep the soul of the book alive. It’s for just this reason that I have to love the BBC’s Sherlock.

Now, I’m having problems saying this without sounding like a crazy fangirl, so let’s just get this out of the way early: Benedict Cumberbatch. He’s the sort of man who’s irresistible to women who like their blokes tall, pale, and odd, which is fortuitous indeed because those women already like Sherlock Holmes anyway.

In this form, Holmes is a little more rude and brusque than Conan Doyle ever really wrote him, but this is a rude and brusque kind of a century we’re living in. This incarnation of Sherlock Holmes is a younger man than we’re used to, with a sharp mind and a sharper tongue. His caustic eccentricity is tempered by a better Watson than we’ve seen in decades; Martin Freeman is truly John Watson as he should always be portrayed. Not the bumbling fool of some films, but the voice of reason, an Everyman who serves to anchor Holmes in the real world. Where Cumberbatch’s performance is a stylised, effervescent brilliance of mile-a-minute rants and jibes, Freeman is grounded, real, and so achingly easy to identify with. In the books, he is the main narrator of events, connecting the audience to the great detective’s world; and fittingly in the show, he’s the character the audience can connect with.

Don’t complain that Sherlock Holmes sends text messages now, even in Conan Doyle’s works he was a man who made use of what technology was available to him. Don’t let it bother you that John Watson keeps a blog, or Lestrade is now a Detective Inspector, or Mycroft makes use of London’s plentiful security cameras. These are just details, little footnotes that help to tell a story, but the story itself remains unchanged.

The reason BBC’s Sherlock works so well is that buried down deep under the billowing greatcoats, the London cabs and the distinctly un-Victorian vernacular, there beats the heart of Arthur Conan Doyle’s great detective.

Part of Schlock’s May Mashup.

May 7th, 2012
Categories: Schlock's May Mashup . Author: schlockmagazine . Comments: 1 Comment

Here at Schlock, we’ve never shied away from going the whole hog. Very few members of our editorial team belong to what you may loosely term the ‘minimalist’ camp – as can be seen by some our indulgent themed weeks, and other stuff roaming freely around the site as we speak.

Arthur Conan Doyle. Source: Wikipedia

And when we discovered that the month of May saw the birth of not one, but two beloved literary luminaries, we couldn’t help but glut ourselves on the opportunity.

So instead of simply gorging on the work Arthur Conan Doyle (b. May 22, 1859) – who gave us Sherlock Holmes along with a spate of influential science fiction – and L. Frank Baum (May 15, 1856) – author of The Wizard of Oz – we’ve decided to pay homage to both. The brew is bound to be heavy, but we’re sure it’ll be fun too.

L. Frank Baum. Source: Wikipedia

… and it isn’t lost on us that the ever-elusive post-modern luminary Thomas Pynchon (May 8, 1937) also qualifies to be included. Eagle-eyed viewers might spot his teasing presence in a number of the pieces we’ll be presenting to you in the coming week.

Enjoy!

May 7th, 2012
Categories: Schlock's May Mashup . Author: schlockmagazine . Comments: 1 Comment

Illustration by Daniela Attard

To celebrate the centenary of Bram Stoker’s death, Schlock delved into the Gothic horror master’s oeuvre… or, at least, his most enduring and influential work – Dracula.

Who is Marlene? by Lia Sáile

Little Tito by Bettina Borg Cardona

Slains | Assuming the Role of Vampirism in Music by Alistair Rennie

Just a Pinch of Cyanide by Peter Farrugia

The Vampirism of Place by Michael Vella

Butcher Boy by Rachel Agius

Dracula | Enduringly Enigmatic by Teodor Reljic

Be sure to also check out the anniversary edition of our podcast, where Dracula gets dissected!

May 7th, 2012
Categories: Bram Stoker Centenary . Author: schlockmagazine . Comments: No Comments

Podcast: Play in new window | Download

We'd like to think Nosferatu's Count Orlok is watching over this podcast with pride.

April – is it really (groan) the cruellest month? Probably not – but this month’s subject of podcast discussion is not the nicest of characters… Count Dracula! Joining Teodor, Marco and Kris is Bram Stoker scholar Charmaine Tanti, and the subject of  Stoker’s legacy to literature gets thoroughly dissected. Can you guess how many members of the “panel” have actually bothered to read Dracula the novel? The answer might just surprise you!

We also have a selection of flash fiction, an original song by Friend of Schlock Chris Galea, and Marco’s Pop Culture Destruction (and it’s extremely wrong opinions – Ed) also gets moved to the more, ahem, audible format.

Enjoy this latest podcast, and do let us know what you think on either the comments or through an iTunes review!

Flash Fiction

00:59 – Zombie Love by Kris Green

02:11 – Ars Moriendi by Bettina Borg Cardona

40:10 – Miskatonic Monday by Pete Farrugia

48:45 – The Walls Were Awash With Blood by Michael Vella

Music

36:40 Corridors by Chris Galea

Discussion

04:45 – Teodor, Kris, Marco and Charmaine Tanti discuss Bram Stoker’s most memorable (some might say only one worth of note) creation, that damned creature of the night – Dracula! What’s Stoker’s standing amongst literary circles? What’s the best interpretation of Dracula throughout the ages? What does the Schlock team drink during these discussions? All these answers – and more – get answered in this discussion.

Feature

53:27 – Marco’s Pop Culture Destruction - Famously ranty man gives opinions on things he’s watched. This month – The New Deadwardians, The Legend of Korra and Dragon Quest IX. Please don’t bloat his ego further by listening to this (Who’s even writing these shownotes?! – Marco)

Be sure to subscribe to Schlock’s podcast on iTunes.

April 30th, 2012
Categories: Bram Stoker Centenary, podcasts, Pop Culture Destruction . Author: schlockmagazine . Comments: No Comments

Bram Stoker (1847-1912)

If Schlock’s themed week dedicated to Bram Stoker has reminded me of anything at all, it’s that certain questions insist on remaining unanswered.

A spate of them come to mind at the mere mention of the word ‘Dracula’, at least to my mind. Some of them have been touched upon in our latest podcast (though crucially, they haven’t been answered in full).

The first would be: why have vampires become the supernatural creature du jour, following the success of properties like Twilight, True Blood, Vampire Diaries and so on and so forth until some sort of infinity? One oblique non-answer to that question would be that vampires never really went out of fashion in the first place, and that one wouldn’t have to crane their neck that far to see that Anne Rice’s creations, for example, wielded a similar multi-media dominion over the past few decades.

As is the case with many of life’s essential imponderables, the easiest thing to do is to slip into easy clichés, or invitingly tangled intellectual puzzles that, in fact, leave you feeling more puzzled than you were going in.

You could, for example, entertain the notion that sex and death are inextricably intertwined facets of the human experience, and that the vampiric Count is the most lurid, seductively dressed up manifestation of this heady truth.

You could talk about the fear of the unknown – how the obstinately foreign Count Dracula (notice that he doesn’t even come with a first – ‘Christian’? – name) feeds off ‘civilised’ culture and converts his victims into sexually-charged, bloodsucking drones.

Then you could add historical heft to the mix, and like Nina Auerbach claim that every generation props up its own vampires – each carrying a distinct tang of the zeitgeist on their fangs. What does the rat-faced Max Schreck claim about the beginnings of the 20th century? And what about the suave, shape-shifting Gary Oldman in Francis Ford Coppola’ Grand Guignol of a Hollywood blockbuster, ‘Bram Stoker’s Dracula’ (1992)? I shudder at the thought that Dracula 2000 has anything to say about my generation, but there you go.

Whatever you claim about the Count intellectually will only stick based on how many people repeat it, repost it and write over it – be it in forum discussions, blogs, essays, books or conference papers – indeed, based on just how parasitic your ideas are.

And there’s another cliché for you, another lazy metaphor that’s as seductive to fall into as the Count’s hypnotic gaze (popularised once again by True Blood as the vampire’s ‘glamour’): just at Dracula himself promised within the pages of Stoker’s pioneering work of vampire fiction – he will wreak his revenge on the centuries ahead.

You can’t possibly say he hasn’t, can you?

Please enjoy our offerings, and let us know what you think.

Part of Schlock’s Bram Stoker Centenary celebrations.

April 30th, 2012
Categories: Bram Stoker Centenary . Author: Teodor Reljic . Comments: 1 Comment

The night startled itself awake with the singing of metal, the keen, enthusiastic sounds of blade against block. Deep within the bowels of the stone and mortar beast that sprawled languidly beside the river, a man rhythmically struck flesh with a cleaver. Each time the knife parted bone from muscle, a thin spray of warmth hit the butcher, his moustache, apron and arms.

Carcasses hung in various fractions about him, hooks holding up spines and thighs, heads and hooves. As midnight drew close, breathing its muffled silence over the sleepy suburb, he stopped hacking, washed his hands and face and went upstairs to wake his wife with a tender but persistent poke in the small of her back, the hard prod she had come to expect after he had spent the day slaughtering livestock.

She obliged him by turning over and he climbed on top of her, breathing heavily at her and smelling vaguely like aging blood. It never took long and soon both were snoring loudly. The quiet creak of floorboards outside their door went unnoticed, as it always had.

In the dark back room, on the cold tile bordered by dark, narrow channels, the boy stood naked, inhaling deeply, breathing in the smell of cold death, filling himself with the arousal he could find nowhere else. He listened closely and was comforted by the refrigerated silence. His father’s cleaver lay on the block, a dull glint twinkling over its blade. He counted the suspended corpses. There were ten. The only cow, a cavernous cage of ribs and a spine like a polished white snake, hung at the end of the row. The boy stroked its side, rippled with fat blushing pink as it found itself nude. He pressed his nose against it, then his cheek. Then his chest as he slid himself inside. He reached up, curling his fingers around what was once the root of the beast’s neck and raised himself upward, carefully avoiding the silver hook.

Planting cold toes between the last two ribs of the animal, he stood inside his chilly, bony fortress and briefly lamented his growing bones and broadening back which would eventually be a hindrance to his nocturnal indulgences. He began to rub himself against the marbled spine, the clammy ridges heightening his light-headed thrusting. As his ecstasy became unbearable and he spattered his watery pleasure over the inside of the creature, he lost his footing.

While he spurted and pushed his relief, he did not feel the frozen barb delicately slide up to scratch forlornly against the vault of his skull, a dog locked inside by accident, its gleaming tail caught behind his chin.

Part of Schlock’s Bram Stoker Centenary celebrations.

April 30th, 2012
Categories: Bram Stoker Centenary . Author: Rachel Agius . Comments: No Comments

Who can tell what secrets lurk in a place?

Copyright: Chris Vella

What births, what deaths. Lives are lived and lost in places that we never see. Read more…

April 30th, 2012
Categories: Bram Stoker Centenary . Author: Michael Vella . Comments: No Comments