Models & Toys

On 4th and Broadway: Remembering Tower Records

We Are the Mutants -

Michael Gonzales / April 12, 2023

Tower Records on 4th Street and Broadway, 1984. Photo by Brandi Merolla

Having grown up in the 1970s, an era when record shops were a fixture in communities and often served as neighborhood social centers, I became obsessed with a small store located on 146th and Broadway. Owned by my father’s friend Mr. Freddy, I visited that record shop weekly to buy 45s to jam on my blue record player. From the Jackson 5 to Gladys Knight & the Pips, he carried all the latest soul records. There were promotional posters taped in the windows and tacked to the exterior walls, and packages of fragrant incense on the counter next to the register. If needed, Mr. Freddy, a sharp-dressed and kindly man, played the disc for me to make sure it was the right one.

As I got older and my musical taste broadened, I began spreading my wings throughout Manhattan, where I discovered other record stores, including Kappy’s in Washington Heights, Bobby’s Happy House in Central Harlem, and Bondy’s, which was across the street from City Hall. Often, I went alone and spent hours flipping through the stacks in search of old soul, new wave, early rap, free jazz, and on-the-money funk. I was a fiend for cut-out bins where I could find discounted records, mostly from artists I’d never heard of—but I liked the covers.

I dug all them shops, but I had no particular favorite until 1983, when Tower Records opened on Fourth and Broadway. Back then the neighborhood was rather bleak. With the exception of New York University and music venue The Bottom Line, there wasn’t much else. Recently, while watching the wonderful Tower Records documentary All Things Must Pass (2015), a senior West Coast employee described the location as “the bowels of the East Village” and claimed he saw a dead dog in the gutter. As the talking heads dropped Tower Records history and lore, I thought about the many hours I spent in that store as both patron and employee. 

With their custom designed window displays that were done by in-house artists, Tower Records was bigger than most New York City record stores. They had large jazz and classical departments, sold cool import and rap singles, and carried an array of music publications, including British papers Melody Maker and New Music Express (NME). Inside the trademarked yellow bags stamped with the red logo, I often carried out lots of goodies. Additionally, Tower stayed open until midnight, which made it the perfect place to drift into after happy hour when some jukebox song was stuck in your head. I can remember my buddy Jerry and I going down there one night when my drunk self believed I needed to buy the soundtrack for Valley of the Dolls just to hear Dionne Warwick singing the theme. 

Though I lived in Harlem and Jerry dwelled in Brooklyn, we often met in front of Tower when we planned on “hangin’ in the village.” We’d flip through racks of records for an hour or so, which was usually followed by smoking a joint in Washington Square Park while watching comedian Charlie Barnett. Back in those days, I had a bad habit of running late and, on one occasion, he befriended a guy begging for change in front of the store. An aspiring playwright, Jerry wrote a one-act about the encounter. Years later, I heard how fallen Grandmaster Flowers, a pioneering DJ from Brooklyn, used to shake his coin cup on that spot and I just knew that’s who Jerry had met. That same year I hung out with Jerry as he waited in line overnight to buy tickets for The Police’s Synchronicity Tour. That year we both worked as messengers in Manhattan, but we were ready to splurge our minimum wages on Sting.

In 1985, two years after Tower’s doors opened, I abruptly quit my gig at midtown coffee shop Miss Brooks after a transgression with a married older woman manager. After leaving, I went to Baltimore for a few weeks. I’d gone to high school there and my mom still called it home. For two weeks I bummed around with old friends and had a fling with a former classmate. When I returned to the Big Apple, I needed to find a new job. As a lover of books and music, my first thought was going to a favorite bookshop, but I was afraid I might get fired for hiding in the aisle reading the latest Harlan Ellison short story collection or a Chester Himes reissue. Instead, I went down to Tower Records the first week in September.

After being directed to the cassette department, I met with the manager, who had me fill out an application. During that era, when most Americans had tape players in their homes and cars, as well as the millions that carried Walkman’s every day, cassettes were a popular format. Tower also sold a variety of blank tapes, cassette player head cleaners, and carrying cases. There were numerous blank tape companies including TDK, Maxell, Fuji, and Memorex.            

With his neo-rockabilly style, the manager was a few years older than me. I don’t recall much about the interview process, but when he asked who my favorite artists were, I went back to my old standards: “James Brown and Led Zeppelin,” I replied. He smiled and hired me. If I had said Lionel Richie and A-Ha I might’ve been kicked to the curb, but instead I was asked to report on Saturday morning at 8:00. As with most retail stores, Saturday was Tower’s busiest day and I was thrown straight into the fire. 

Beastie Boys display window designed by Brandi Merolla, 1986. Photo by Brandi Merolla

That morning I was shown around the cassette department and, for the next few hours, restocked the shelves with co-worker Barry Walters, an NYU student as well as a music critic for The Village Voice. As an aspiring writer and music critic myself, I was both impressed and a little jealous. Barry was a soft-spoken white guy who helped get me through that first day. Later that morning he introduced me to Bryan Ferry’s smooth solo album Boys and Girls and the music of an English band called Prefab Sprout, whose second album Two Wheels Good (aka Steve McQueen) he was reviewing for the Voice. From the first listen I loved the songs (“When Love Break Down,” “Horsin’ Around,” and “Appetite”) written and sung by Prefab’s bitterly charming leader Paddy McAloon, with whom I connected as I pulled overstock from beneath the bins. With each repeated listening, the album only got better, richer, and more tragically poetic.

At noon my manager instructed me to go upstairs and work bag check. That was the area where, for security purposes, customers checked their various sized briefcases, duffle bags, shopping bags, and knapsacks. It was the most rowdy section of the store. Though there was a security guard a few feet away, that didn’t stop people from not making a line, barking orders, flinging their sacks, and basically treating me like a non-person. What made it worse was that I was alone for the first forty-five minutes—and I was a mess. People were throwing bags and yelling as I handed out numbers and placed the belongings in lockers. I felt as though I’d been jumped, punched, and kicked into a gang. Thankfully, one of the guys from the 12-inch singles section on the mezzanine saw that I was struggling and came downstairs to help. At the end of the hour I bolted to the basement and hid in the back. Later, someone told me that if I learned to work the register I could get out of the bag check nightmare.

I enjoyed running the register and was sometimes impressed with the people who popped up in line. Fourth Street and Broadway was still an arty hood that consisted of various galleries, artist lofts, recording studios, and restaurants. Jean-Michel Basquiat lived a few blocks away at 57 Great Jones Street. One afternoon film director Jim Jarmusch came to the counter carrying an assortment of musical genres. I’d seen Stranger than Paradise the previous year, a flick that inspired me to take a few film classes—until I realized it was cheaper to be a writer.

On another day, artist Keith Haring was my customer, and that time I got excited. “I saw you a few months back in the 145th Street subway station doing one of those radiant babies in chalk,” I said. “I love your work.” Keith smiled. “Thank you,” he replied. Before I knew it I blurted, “Can you do a sketch for me?” He looked at me and nodded his head. “Sure, no problem.” I got my notebook from beneath the counter and handed him a black marker. He drew one of his trademark men dancing across the page. Three minutes later he passed the pad back. There was a plain clothes security guard standing next to me. “Can you do one for me too?” he asked. Keith chuckled, but he complied. Later, the security guy regaled me with stories of catching guys shoplifting. “One was that crazy bassist Jaco Pastorius. He came in and tried to steal Weather Report albums that he’d played on. When I caught him he kept screaming, insisting that the records belonged to him.”

A few weeks after I was hired, New York City was supposed to be hit hard by Hurricane Gloria. I was recruited to be part of the Tower team to tape giant X’s across the windows. While goofing around with one of my co-workers, I saw an earth angel descending the stairs. Her name was Pauline and she was a beautiful black woman with long, curly hair and a full figure. Later, I overheard her Brit accent, which made her even more alluring. I went back to taping the windows, but I never released her from my mind. That night the winds were strong and the heavy rain lasted for hours. 

As the King of Crushes, I instantly fell in love with Pauline, though she had no idea that I existed. Unfortunately, every time I ventured upstairs to play the Romeo role, I chickened out. One night I called Jerry and asked if he’d do me a favor. He agreed and the following day met me outside of the store. I’d written Pauline a secret admirer letter with a poem and bought her a dozen roses. In those days, I was always writing poetry, filling notebooks with words of joyful decadence as though I was an uptown Rimbaud. Jerry was assigned to deliver the package for me. Everything went as planned and the following day I introduced myself. Pauline and I stood in the front of the store next to stacks of Pulse magazine, Tower’s own music rag.

“So you’re my secret admirer,” she smiled. “The poem you wrote was very nice.”

“Thank you,” I said, nervous as a school boy. “I was hoping, maybe… can I take you out to dinner?” As Beaver Cleaver would say, I think I sounded creepy, but she was still smiling.

“You’re sweet,” she said, “but I’m dating someone right now.”

I chuckled to keep from weeping. “Of course you are,” I sighed. “It’s cool.” Pauline and I became friendly, and a week later she invited me to a get-together at the Rivington Street apartment she shared with her boyfriend. She scribbled the address on the back of a Pulse that had Stevie Wonder on the cover. The night of the party, “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” played at least four times. Outside, a couple of teenagers set fire to Pauline’s boyfriend’s motorcycle. From their fourth floor window, I watched the rising flames.

Preparing for Hurricane Gloria by taping up all the plate glass windows. Photo: Brandi Merolla

Back then “in-stores,” when artists came by for a few hours and signed their latest release, were a major part of the industry. Though I’d never attended any before, I was thrilled when word went around that Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam were coming to the store. The year before, when the group’s debut single “I Wonder If I Take You Home” came out, they’d been a sensation in the city. Radio played Lisa Lisa constantly and at the nightclubs, especially the Roxy and the Funhouse, that track was elevated to an anthem. 

Hours before the band arrived, there were young girls of all races and nationalities dressed like Lisa, with hair swept over to cover their right eye. Thankfully, when the group arrived, they were just as excited as their fans. Lisa’s smile was genuine as she chatted with her fans and signed autographs. I was checking out the scene from the mezzanine with my security guard buddy, who decided to dis Lisa. “She sure has put on weight since the video came out,” he said. Mocking her song, he sang, “I wonder if I take you home if you’ll fit through my door.” I glared at him. “That’s rude,” I snapped. “Why is it always you fat, ugly dudes trying to call somebody unattractive?” Nervously, he chuckled. “Damn Mike, you act like she’s your woman or something.”

Everyone in the cassette department got along, but there was always a little tension when it was time to change the music. One person might want to hear L.L. Cool J or Mantronix while someone else might want to play The Smiths or Eurythmics; my choice was usually Prince or something he wrote, including “The Dance Electric” (André Cymone), “Screams of Passion” (The Family) or “A Love Bizarre” (Shelia E.). After a while it was comical the way people raced to the tape deck to (hopefully) jam their favorite joint.

Upstairs, not far from the employee bathrooms, was where the art team worked. Though not much of a visual artist myself, I’ve always been an aficionado—a fan of comics, commercial illustration, and fine art equally. If I’m not mistaken, it was mostly women working in the art department, and they were overseen by Brandi Merolla. Though I didn’t know her personally, her team’s work was seen throughout the store in the many 3D displays. In 2011, when writer/musician Greg Tate co-founded and edited the lit-mag Coon Bidness with poet Latasha Natasha Diggs, I contributed the short story “Daddy Gone Blues,” about fem-rocker Andrea Holiday, who works in Tower’s art department while trying to be a star. Merolla got to be creative with band posters of Tears for Fears, a-Ha, Lisa Lisa and Cult Jam, Wham!, Scritti Politti, Prefab Sprout, Aretha Franklin, and everybody else who put out a hit record in 1985.

Although Tower Records was a chain, the owners allowed staff to be as creative as they wanted to be and, personally, I never felt any corporate pressure to act or dress in any certain way. Our managers were cool folks who had our backs. One afternoon I went to lunch with my mother at a nearby Mexican place called Camambra where I drank three very strong frozen margaritas and stumbled back to the store with “cocktail flu.” After standing behind the register for a few minutes, the manager came over and whispered, “I’m not firing you, but you have to go home. I can’t have you drunk behind the register.” The following day I apologized. “Don’t worry about it, man, it happens.” If I was anywhere else, I would’ve been picking up my last check. 

For struggling writers, visual artists, musicians, and future record company executives, Tower was the starting place for many creative souls who needed a job, but didn’t want to work around “regular” people. That 4th and Broadway store had many oddballs who went on to greatness, including bassist Melvin Gibbs, jazz producer Brian Michel Bacchus, A&R man Gary Harris, composer/conductor Butch Morris, and Burnt Sugar keyboardist Bruce Mack.

I was there for a year before I left to work at a homeless shelter the city opened in part of the psychiatric ward at Bellevue Hospital. However, eight years later, when I’d finally become a full-time writer, I was commissioned by Tower Pulse editor Marc Weidenbaum to write the Gang Starr cover story for the May 1994 issue. That relationship lasted for the next two years.

Days before my Tower Records closed down in 2006, I visited the damn near empty store and almost wept. To this day, I’ve never stopped thinking about that music sanctuary for the twenty years it existed at that location. 

Michael A. Gonzales is an essayist/short story writer who has published fiction in The Oxford American, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, and Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. He contributes pop culture/true crime features to CrimeReads, Soulhead, and Longreads.

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“It’s A Great Life If You Don’t Weaken”: ‘The Friends of Eddie Coyle’ at 50

We Are the Mutants -

Johnny Restall / March 20, 2023

American cinema of the 1970s has long been recognized for its downbeat, character-led crime dramas. From Alan J. Pakula’s Klute (1971) to Arthur Penn’s Night Moves (1975) and Ulu Grosbard’s Straight Time (1978), the decade saw a wealth of unusually complex thrillers released by major Hollywood studios. While the critical reception to such films was largely positive, they frequently drew more mixed responses from contemporary audiences, as well as from nervous studio executives. Director Peter Yates’s 1973 The Friends of Eddie Coyle stands as a particularly bleak and restrained example of this cycle, adapted by Paul Monash from George V. Higgins’s 1970 novel of the same name. A deliberately low-key tale of a struggling small-time criminal clinging to the dark underbelly of Boston, it failed to make its money back at the box office, despite generally favorable reviews. Compelling and brilliantly understated, it remains a somewhat unsung gem of the period, ripe for reconsideration as we approach the 50th anniversary of its initial release.

We first see Eddie Coyle (Robert Mitchum) through the window of a run-down cafeteria. He approaches the glass from outside, slowly emerging from the evening crowds to stare warily into the interior, quietly surveying the scene inside in a way that suggests experience has taught him not to be hasty. His gray clothes match his exhausted, lugubrious features, with his cautious, hooded eyes the only expressive part of his appearance. Already, the film has subtly established Eddie as a shabby, lonely figure, forever on the outside looking in, still seeking his chance but more from habit than any residual self-belief. He is framed above the flowers on the interior windowsill, and their bright bloom contrasts with his drab shape like a funeral bouquet against a gravestone; almost subliminally, the visuals inform the audience that he is essentially a dead man walking.

Eddie is an aging professional criminal, painfully aware that his time and his options are inexorably running out. He is due to be sentenced for his part in a truck hijacking and has little reason to expect clemency, having already served time for previous offenses. He knows better than to inform on the people behind the job, partly from a shop-worn sense of honor and partly from simple self-preservation, having already earned an extra set of knuckles from his associates for a past mistake. He is also trying to make ends meet by supplying handguns to a gang of bank robbers, and his ears prick up when cocky young gunrunner Jackie Brown (Steven Keats) mentions another customer who is buying machine guns. If he passes this information on to the authorities, he might earn a reprieve from the law—he’s too old and tired to face prison again, and has a wife and children to provide for. But can he trust either the cops or the criminals? Eddie’s titular “friends” are closer to jackals nipping at his threadbare carcass, and the scent of his desperation may only bring them in for the kill.

While the plot synopsis may sound formulaic, the approach taken by Yates and Monash repeatedly confounds expectations. Echoing the ground-breaking style of Higgins’s book, the film provides little overt explanation or exposition. The characters, their relationships to one another, and the twists and turns of the labyrinthine plot are conveyed almost entirely through the sharp but sometimes oblique dialogue, forcing the viewer to draw their own conclusions from what is (or indeed isn’t) said. Most of the key scenes consist of innocuous-sounding but heavily freighted conversations between the duplicitous players, and we are never made privy to their inner thoughts or motivations beyond an occasional unguarded word or a vulnerability in their body language. Victor J. Kemper’s unobtrusive cinematography captures the characters under sickly fluorescent lights or lurking uncomfortably in the Autumn sunshine, inviting the audience to study them in their natural habitat as though they were anthropological exhibits. While this admittedly cold approach may alienate casual viewers, it contributes greatly to the film’s sense of realism. It often feels as if we just happen to be in the same dive bars and municipal parks as the cast, eavesdropping on their meetings and quietly connecting the fragments for ourselves—a notion taken further in Francis Ford Coppola’s deliberately disorientating The Conversation, released the following year.

The distinctly unglamorous documentary style of the film also extends to its brief bursts of violence. Yates made his name with the iconic 1968 Steve McQueen thriller Bullitt, as well as his underrated 1967 British feature Robbery, but while all three films share brilliant use of authentic locations, viewers hoping for a repeat of his earlier kinetic car chases will be disappointed here. The closest Eddie Coyle comes to an action scene is Jackie Brown’s abortive attempt to escape the police in the train station car park: barely 20 seconds of wayward driving leading only to an abrupt, clumsy crash. Perversely, Eddie Coyle is a thriller without any traditional thrills. The bank robberies are played with more of an eye for detail than for visceral excitement, as are the arrests. Even the climactic murder of Coyle himself is over almost as soon as it has begun, the victim deep in a drunken slumber and executed unawares while the experienced gunman casually discusses his choice of weapon and disposal plans for the body with the callow driver. The uncharacteristically restrained score by jazz musician Dave Grusin is used only sparingly, and even when it is allowed to breathe and build tension, the pay-off is always swift and matter-of-fact.

In part, this approach reflects the story’s focus on aging gangsters rather than hot-headed young hoodlums. Most of the characters are dull professional men who no longer have the energy or inclination to be incautious in their chosen line of work. Crucially, it also reflects the novel’s preoccupation with presenting crime as simply another form of employment, a thread shared with several other genre films in the age of Watergate. Again and again, The Friends of Eddie Coyle emphasizes the tedious practicalities of the illegal jobs in hand rather than their novelty or danger. The film opens with the robbers tailing an unsuspecting bank manager to his workplace, calmly monitoring his morning routine, casing the branch, and painstakingly setting up their plans, with the resulting heist defined by a similar attention to minutiae. Likewise, we follow the laborious processes of how Eddie buys and delivers his guns, how Brown sources them in the first place, how the criminals communicate with each other below the radar, and eventually how a hit is placed, performed, and dispensed with.

Tellingly, almost every one of these criminal actions is executed in everyday public locations, from a supermarket car park to a bowling alley, as if they were simply a part of ordinary life. We see Eddie at home in the city suburbs, taking out the trash as his children run for the school bus, looking for all the world like any other downtrodden blue collar worker. His wife Sheila (Helena Carroll) appears relatively sanguine about his chosen occupation, with their domestic life presented with a warmth absent from the novel’s more fractious depiction. The film seems to suggest that, while his career may be empty and crushing, it is little more so than several other legal forms of menial employment.

The universe inhabited by the film’s gangsters could barely be further from the epic grandeur of Francis Ford Coppola’s The Godfather, released the previous year to great critical and commercial acclaim. Eddie and his “friends” are at the bottom of the pile struggling to make ends meet, far from Coppola’s affluent if troubled Mafia clan. If the Corleones represent moral and political corruption reaching for the apex of US society (particularly in the 1974 sequel), Yates’s film deals with the lowest of the low, who are barely chiseling out a criminal living at the shabbiest, sharpest end of the American Dream. While Vito Corleone dreams of his son Michael becoming a senator, Coyle and his associates show little awareness of nationwide politics, let alone any ambitions in that direction. They are not even on the periphery of the kind of multi-million dollar deals attempted by the New York mobsters of William Friedkin’s The French Connection (1971). They gamble everything on a relative pittance, and fail to recognize their losing hand. Scalise (Alex Rocco) and his bank robbers may drive a Mercedes-Benz (presumably stolen), but this only serves to symbolize the way their desire overreaches their actual opportunities and abilities: their greedy decision to pull “one more move” even after a job goes murderously wrong seals their fate.

While the small-time crooks we see in the film scrounge a living from a life of crime, the police live off the criminals. There is a deeply parasitic relationship between the two, embodied by the ruthless agent Foley (Richard Jordan) and the quietly sinister Dillon (Peter Boyle), ostensibly a bartender but actually the man behind the truck hijacking that led to Eddie’s capture, as well as a secret police informer. Foley is ambitious, arrogant, and exploitative, happy to go back on his word or ignore a felony if it suits his purposes. He may share a lack of uniform and longer hair with the upstanding protagonist of Sidney Lumet’s Serpico, released the same year, but Foley’s duplicitous crusade is entirely for the benefit of his own career. He brags about driving fast cars confiscated from criminals, happy to profit from their ill-gotten gains, and thinks nothing of manipulating and exposing the lowly likes of Eddie, contemptuous of the fatal costs for his underworld connections. He regularly meets Dillon, paying him $20 for information and turning a blind eye to the bartender’s suspected illegalities in return, an arrangement tacitly endorsed by his cynical superior Waters (Mitchell Ryan). Foley blithely insists that a beleaguered nobody like Eddie puts his “whole soul” into informing, while effectively giving the more cunning and dangerous Dillon a free pass to run rings around him.

Like almost every other relationship in the film, enforcement of the law is a game rigged against the weakest. American society is depicted as being riddled with division and contempt, with everybody at odds with everyone else and playing entirely for their own advantage. The hippy radicals trying to buy machine guns are despised by professionals like Brown and vice versa, the criminals frequently betray each other, and the mob is rife with casual bigotry against Black activists and the ghetto, with the police working against them all and encouraging their mutual antipathies for fear of the various underclasses one day working together. Even the affluent, apolitical middle-classes are unwillingly dragged into the maelstrom, represented by the bemused bank managers and their terrified families, forced to endure violent reminders of the precariousness of their apparent social safety.

Naturally, such a bleak story requires strong performances if it is to be brought to life without entirely repulsing its audience. Mitchum’s work as Eddie must rank among the finest of his career, playing to his hangdog, world-weary strengths without allowing him to slip into the bored detachment that mars his lesser films. Coyle is no hero, and in many ways he is not even likable: he is bigoted, he arms violent men, and while he is far from stupid he is never quite smart enough, failing even to turn informer successfully. Yet Mitchum imbues the character with a dignity and pathos that ensures his downfall is as pitiful as it is inevitable, a deeply flawed but compellingly human victim of the hard and unforgiving world around him.

Despite the prominence of his name, Mitchum’s character is actually only on screen intermittently, with much of the film carried by the universally superb supporting cast. Jackie Brown is almost a second lead, with Keats playing him with just the right amount of intriguing obnoxiousness. He seems the polar opposite of Coyle: young, loudly dressed, driving a flashy car, and full of tough, cocksure bravado. Yet the two are inextricably linked, sharing the first scene post-credits, and reuniting at several other key moments. It is with Brown that Eddie shares his care-worn wisdom and back story—not that it does either of them any good in the long run. Brown is too arrogant to heed Eddie’s warnings that “You don’t understand like I understand,” and is dismissive of the older man’s complaints, failing to see that Coyle is essentially a mirror reflecting Brown’s own probable future. Eddie, meanwhile, seems to resent the younger man’s opportunities and vigor, seizing his opportunity to sell the gunrunner out with only the mildest sense of distaste. Neither quite has the wit to escape his respective fate, and both are too mistrustful and scheming to consider anything beyond immediate personal profit, inadvertently ensuring that they become easy prey for the venal likes of Foley and Dillon.

The conclusion of Monash’s screenplay departs from Higgins’s book to deliver a last pessimistic twist of the narrative knife. In the novel, Scalise is secretly betrayed by his mistreated girlfriend Wanda, but the mob suspects Eddie of being the informer and orders his murder at Dillon’s hands. (The desperate Eddie does in fact decide to inform on the thieves, only to find he has left his decision too late, with the men already in custody and his information now useless.) In the film, the informer is revealed to be Dillon, who has maneuvered himself into the clear with an utterly sociopathic coldness. He has eliminated Eddie, who could have informed on Dillon’s role in the hijacking that started his troubles, and he has avoided any mob suspicion of being the informer himself by framing and assassinating a (relatively) innocent man for his own treachery, even earning himself $5,000 in the process. Further, he has correctly calculated that the ambitious Foley will be so delighted with the capture of the prolific bank robbers that he will have no interest in the murder of a small-fry like Eddie. The agent simply shrugs off Dillon’s suspected role in the killing in favor of remaining on good terms with his prize informant.

While the book ends with Brown’s lawyer and prosecutor lamenting the repetitive parade of criminals passing through their courtroom, the film closes even more cynically by showing both sides of the law actively perpetuating the cycle. The most ruthless and corrupt cops and criminals play the system for their own ends, walking away with virtual impunity and leaving hapless souls like Eddie and his family crushed in their wake. Hardened robber Scalise gleefully describes crime as “a great life if you don’t weaken”—loaded words that could be applied to the entire dog-eat-dog world depicted within the film—but even he underestimates just how cruelly and duplicitously the game will be played by the eventual victors.

Johnny Restall writes freelance about films, music, and books. He specializes in Cult and Horror. You can find links to his published work here

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Russian Amazons.

Fantasy Toy Soldiers -

These are the last of the Russian made figures I was able to buy off of ebay before the war started and all the Russian sellers got kicked off.  A few Russian sellers are back on ebay but they are listed as operating out of Albania.  Imagine that.  


Some of the figures are made to be classic greek style Amazons and others are just female Viking style warriors. 


Publius classic Amazons. 



















Viking Women











Scale Shots.





We Are the Mutants: The Book!

We Are the Mutants -

Announcements / January 1, 2023

If you haven’t heard, we wrote a book! And it’s out right now! If you’ve followed us over the last six plus years, you know our MO: we get deep down into the berserk array of popular and outsider media produced during the Cold War and talk about what these various artifacts—lost, forgotten, seemingly disposable—mean in the larger arenas of politics and culture, then and now. We Are the Mutants: The Battle for Hollywood from Rosemary’s Baby to Lethal Weapon takes that approach and applies it to American films released between the arrival of US combat troops in Vietnam and the end of President Ronald Reagan’s second term—probably the most discussed and beloved stretch of movies in Hollywood history. 

Read more about the book at our publisher, Repeater

We talk about the book in an interview with Joe Banks at The Quietus.

Check out Andrew Nette’s review at Pulp Curry.

Have a look at Johnny Restall’s review at Diabolique.

You can buy the book pretty much anywhere books are sold, including bookshop.org, Amazon, and Penguin Random House. If you dig it, please rate it and/or review it. We need all the word of mouth we can get. Thank you and keep an eye on the site—we’ll be back soon in some (altered) way, shape or form.

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“Have a Good Time All the Time”: ‘This Is Spinal Tap’ and the Art of Longing

We Are the Mutants -

Lisa Fernandes / November 7, 2022

1984’s This Is Spinal Tap is all about the pining—epic pining, as high and fulsome as the band’s hair and the wailing notes they (try to) hit. Every single member of the band and their entourage is longing after something they want, something they need, but the real world thwarts them with a passionate glee. They’re either too recalcitrant to claim what they need, assuming that if they keep plowing on as they have been, glory will return to them; or, when their heart’s desire finally falls into their lap like a willing groupie, they’re completely unprepared for the responsibility of the task at hand.

Nobody in the band is content with how things are going, except for perhaps bassist Derek Smalls (Harry Shearer), whose storyline—which originally contained divorce-based angst—was generally abandoned to the cutting room floor, and Viv Savage (David Kaff), who seems to require nothing more than a good time and a keyboard to be happy. Lead singer David St. Hubbins (Michael McKean) longs for the respect the band once earned, and if he can’t be seen as a purveyor of popular music, he at least wants to be enrobed in the sort of dignity that most elder statesmen of rock are afforded. His wife on the astral plane, Jeanine Pettibone (June Chadwick), longs to prove that she has the skill and smarts to manage the band and isn’t just an astrologically-obsessed groupie who happened to get lucky with the lead singer. Manager Ian Faith (Tony Hendra) wants someone, anyone, to respect his authority and listen to what he has to say as chaos unspools around him. And newbie drummer Mick Shrimpton (R.J. Parnell), one in a long line of ill-fated skin-pounders who have lived and died by Spinal Tap’s ethos, just wants to make it through the tour without spontaneously combusting.

At the center of the movie—occasionally apoplectic, mostly filled with a cool and detached sense of calm—stands lead guitarist Nigel Tufnel (Christopher Guest). His longing is the most ardent of them all: he’s nearly visibly boiling beneath his skin with an obvious and ardent desire for the rest of the world to disappear and leave him alone with David. 

This Is Spinal Tap has undergone multiple queer readings over the years, one of the very first suggested by Roger Ebert himself, who, in his Great Movies review of the film, declares that Nigel “longs for St. Hubbins with big wet spaniel eyes.” The movie’s cast is definitely aware of this interpretation of events. During a live-streamed 2020 reunion to benefit Pennsylvania’s Democratic party, McKean declared that someone once told him that This Is Spinal Tap is “the world’s greatest love story,” a statement McKean seemed to agree with and find flattering.

The film is also a story of watchful envy. It’s hard to ignore the look in Nigel’s eyes as he watches David, who is watching Jeanine, who is watching the stars. When Jeanine shows up in the middle of the tour and David races off to hug her, the camera lingers on Nigel’s downtrodden face as they hold each other. Later in the film, when Nigel enters the room with his Japanese tour trump card, the frame takes in Jeanine’s fury and disappointment. The tables turn in Nigel’s favor, firmly and utterly. The triangle cannot remain neatly balanced: Jeanine may have David’s body, but Nigel has captured his heart.

David’s physical affection for Nigel shows up in various moments in the film—most notably in the way he jollies Nigel into the room so he can hear a local radio station playing their early hit “Cups and Cakes.” There’s more proof in the pudding of the deleted scenes. Nigel teases David about “Nino Bidungo,” a sailor David had an affair with when the two shared an apartment; the two of them play “All the Way Home,” a skiffle-esque tune and their first composition, as a way to apologize to each other for the vicious fight they’ve just had. With David’s fingers dancing along the fretboard and Nigel plucking away at the strings, there’s a sense of harmony and affection, and the look on David’s face says it all. 

Jeanine’s story would be a pitiable one were she not her own worst enemy, so hungry for power that she forces Ian out of his managerial role so that she can run things. It’s possible that she’s looking for control here because she never sees David and—in excised scenes from the film—he is not faithful to her while he’s on the road. If she runs his career and holds his purse strings, then he’ll have to respect her and she’ll be able to keep an eye on him. And in the meantime she can get onstage and bang a tambourine for a few minutes—after all, Linda Eastman got started the same way. But in Jeanine’s case the situation is actually sort of tragic, and just as emotionally provoking as David and Nigel’s unspoken love. The trouble with Jeanine’s attempt at climbing the band’s social ladder is, naturally, that she’s even worse than Ian is at booking the band into suitable venues. Working via astrology and David’s star charts, shoving him out front and letting him indulge his worst tendencies, her machinations are ultimately so clumsy that they result in Spinal Tap playing an amusement park where they’re billed second to a puppet show. What Jeanine longs for—David’s respect—she will never get. She’s left on the sidelines with nothing to be proud of, her influence on the band completely wiped away, longing for somebody to give her attention. But David’s attention remains fixed on Nigel’s face—perhaps forever.

In the very center of this push-pull triangle stands Ian, who just wants the band to get through the tour intact without any further disasters blowing the entire enterprise apart. Once upon a time, one assumes, he sat in some towering office complex, managing the careers of hard-rocking bands that were successful if not famous: a B-grade Led Zeppelin, an off-market Journey. Whatever led him to the door of this down-at-heel rock band, Ian is determined to at least gain some respect from these kids. But the band could care less about respecting him, and he takes his frustration out on inanimate objects. It’s not that the members of Spinal Tap set out to embarrass their fearless managerial forces; it’s that inept staff members, out of pocket creative decisions, and poorly operating stage props embarrass him, staining and straining the tour. 

All of this tension is paid off by an orgasmic on-stage reunion and triumphant Japanese tour, which Jeanine can only watch from the sidelines as Ian smugly keeps an eye on her, tapping his cricket bat against his palm. The film chronicles a long, muddy battle for the band’s soul, and Nigel undeniably wins. Yet it’s not a sexist victory; while rock ‘n’ roll and brotherhood win the day, none of this is due to Ian developing a sudden ability to direct the band successfully. While Jeanine might be a bad manager and a worse girlfriend, the film’s other female characters—Bobbi Fleckman (Fran Drescher) and Polly Deutsch (Anjelica Huston)—are shown to be smart about their individual talents and the music business at large: they exist to point up the fact that Ian’s managerial skills are fairly terrible. What they want is for Ian to act like a sensible person. 

Spinal Tap goes through a long conga line of humiliations before receiving its Japanese rebirth. While most of the movie’s characters get exactly what they need out of the long, strange trip they take to overseas stardom, some are left with their noses pressed against the plate glass window. But as the Rolling Stones famously sang: “You can’t always get what you want/But if you try sometime you’ll find/You get what you need.”

Lisa Fernandes has been writing since she could talk. Her bylines include Newsweek; Women Write About Comics; Smart Bitches, Trashy Books; and All About Romance.

“One Nite Only”: When Frank Zappa Played at State U

We Are the Mutants -

James Higgins / September 26, 2022

 

In the summer of 1970, the launch of the humor magazine National Lampoon was not going well. In his memoir of his time as publisher of the Lampoon, Matty Simmons observed that the first six months of the magazine’s existence were troubled ones: “By the fifth issue, the magazine was floundering. It was funny but haphazard. Circulation, after a first issue [i.e., March 1970] sale of 225,000, was now lingering around the 175,000 mark. Advertising was minimal. But some interesting things were happening.” (To put these numbers in perspective, Esquire‘s monthly circulation rate in summer 1970 was nearly 1.2 million.)

Those interesting things included increasing orders from college bookstores, a signal that the magazine was gaining popularity with young people. Dissatisfied with what he felt was artwork that failed to make the magazine stand out on newsstands, Simmons took charge of the cover for the September 1970 issue, commissioning Sagebrush Studios to create a garish red-and-yellow color scheme that promised (among other things) “Raquel Welch Undressed.” The cover showcased Minnie Mouse in disarray: “Minnie flashed tiny little titties covered somewhat discreetly by flowery pasties.” 

Two days after the September issue went on sale, Walt Disney sued the Lampoon for $8 million (eventually dropping the suit in exchange for a promise by the magazine to never again misappropriate Disney characters). But the September issue was a turning point, as circulation thereafter began to rise. A standout feature was “College Concert Cut-Ups,” a parody of Archie Comics created by Michel Choquette, a Canadian from Montreal who ultimately would spend three years at the magazine and contribute some of its most celebrated comic book parodies.

32-years-old in 1970, Choquette was knowledgeable about the rock ‘n’ roll music scene, including one of the most idiosyncratic bands then performing, Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention. In 1970, the group released two albums, Burnt Weeny Sandwich and Weasels Ripped My Flesh. Both relied on freeform, avant-garde-flavored compositions that were the antithesis of the songs then appearing on the Top 40 singles charts. Along with poking fun at the idea of wholesome, Midwestern college kids being subjected to Zappa’s anything-goes approach to music (and life), “College Concert” found humor in the vagaries of life on the road for a rock band, a theme that Zappa was to cover in-depth in his 1971 movie 200 Motels.

The lead artist for “College Concert” was Joe Orlando, a veteran of the comic book industry who, in 1985, would be made the Vice President of DC Comics. Assisting with the art was Henry Scarpelli, who in fact went on to work for Archie Comic Publications, and Peter Bramley, the Lampoon’s Art Director.

Alas, there is no record of what Zappa thought of “College Concert,” but he must have liked it to some degree, as he contributed to Choquette’s comic book history of the 1960s, the Someday Funnies (which, unfortunately, didn’t see print until 2011).

James Higgins grew up in upstate New York and, like many baby boomers, thrived on a steady diet of sci-fi, fantasy, and horror content in movies, TV, and print media. Now retired, he devotes his days to excavating and examining pop culture artifacts from the Cold War era, both to generate nostalgia among his peers and to ensure that newer generations of young minds are themselves irreparably warped.

Dollar General Witch Characters

Fantasy Toy Soldiers -

Dollar General has released  another new set of figures for Halloween this year.  The new set is called Witch Characters and has traditional pointy hat witchs in eight poses.  These are not as cool as the skeletons or the mummy army, but the are much better than last year's so called Ghost Pirates which were really just lame pirates with nothing ghostly about them.  These girls are made in the same scale as the other sets (42mm - 50mm).  They seem to be flying off the shelves.  Get them while you can.  

I think the one the with the star wand was moleled after a woman I dated in the 1990s.   


















Pop Culture Jam: The Mainstream Subversion of Rocky Morton and Annabel Jankel

We Are the Mutants -

Andy Prisbylla / June 22, 2022

Like it or not, we’re all casualties of the cola wars. What began as a pissing contest between beverage barons PepsiCo and the Coca-Cola Company in 1902 eventually became a cultural phenomenon in the mid-1980s. With Coca-Cola’s sugary supremacy challenged in a series of blind taste tests, combined with Pepsi’s subliminal marketing of American patriotism through its red, white, and blue branding, New Coke was introduced in early 1985—a new formula engineered to replace the original company recipe. Within three months, the product was pulled due to overwhelming backlash from the public, the original formula reinstated as Coca-Cola Classic. This led to a boost in sales, with industry insiders speculating that the “great new taste” was nothing more than a marketing scam used to generate renewed product interest. Whatever the motive, the original Coke was here to stay—even if it never really left. Now it was just a matter of selling it back to the young audience who dominated ‘80s consumer culture. While previous promotional campaigns focused on virtuous Americana, marketing mavens now needed something more radical and irreverent. At the time, a certain computer generated media personality created solely to showcase music videos was becoming quite popular. Only this image wasn’t computer generated at all, and it was born from a distinctly anti-corporate sensibility. In 1986, Coca-Cola launched its “Catch the Wave” campaign: the new face of Coke belonged to Max Headroom. 

The subversive paradox created when Max Headroom turned pitchman for corporate cola is just one of many in the career of Rocky Morton and Annabel Jankel. While the creative duo had nothing to do with the Coke campaign, their creation was now leaving an imprint on the consumer landscape. As post-punk pioneers with a heavy situationist bent, Morton and Jankel took being on the cutting edge of pop culture seriously. But the method of their engagement with the Spectacle might have turned off Situationism’s founder Guy Debord. While culture jammers like Craig Baldwin and John Law fought the consumer wars from the trenches of the underground, Morton and Jankel were performing hand-to-hand combat with mass media marauders in the corporate arena: a dangerous place to be. The deconstruction that Morton and Jankel utilized in their commercials, music videos, and films was not only satirical but self-reflexive, the kind of artistic-expression-as-critique that can prove problematic within a capitalist society. 

The term “culture jam” was coined by Mark Dery in the post-punk climate of 1984, right where Morton and Jankel made their bones. Hailing from working-class British backgrounds before studying film and animation—Morton worked on the famous marching hammers in the 1982 feature film adaptation of Pink Floyd’s The Wall before being fired—the duo would embrace the eclectic, avant-garde fusion that followed traditional three-chord punk. Jankel’s older brother Chaz—who would go on to score the couple’s 1988 neo-noir deconstruction D.O.A.—played guitar and keyboards in Ian Dury’s band the Blockheads, and served as an entry point for his sister to enter the scene. What Chaz brought musically, Morton and Jankel complemented visually with an assortment of videos and promos created through their innovative production company Cucumber Studios. 

Culture Jam logo created by Tolga Kocak in 1996

Cucumber Studios Animated Logo

Based out of London, the production house soon burned bright in the post-punk/new wave scene as the de-facto stop for commercial record companies looking to merge their tunes with dynamic visuals. While traditional analog animation was utilized—evident in their early promo for the animated adaptation of Marx for Beginners and their music video for the Tom Tom Club’s “Gangster of Love”—the pair also employed experimental computer graphics. In a hybrid mix of analog and digital, their 1979 music video for “Accidents Will Happen” by Elvis Costello & The Attractions combined rotoscoping techniques with early computer generated imagery to create a vector readout of Costello in an early instance of CGI used in a music video. These innovations with the medium eventually led to the duo writing and curating 1984’s Creative Computer Graphics, which chronicled pioneering achievements in CGI while introducing new digital technologies to a wider audience. 

Image excerpt from Creative Computer Graphics by Morton and Jankel, 1984

The success of Cucumber Studios caught the attention of programming purveyor Peter Wagg of Chrysalis Records, who was looking to package a series of music videos within the framework of a television talk show. Wagg turned to advertising creative George Stone, who took this idea and subverted it. Car parks in Britain at the time were outfitted with yellow-and-black-striped safety signs labeled “Max Headroom,” and Stone believed the term would not only make a great title but also allow the program to use the parking signs as a form of subvertising. Morton and Jankel, meeting with Stone, suggested that something more was needed than just generic graphics to introduce each video. The media landscape of 1980s television was saturated with talking heads, and at the same time the MTV VJ was coming into prominence. Bored by the idea of just another flesh and blood huckster, Morton, Jankel, and Stone thought a fully formed computer-generated figurehead would work better. The only issue was that this technology hadn’t been created yet. Predating the bait-and-switch tactics of his future Coca-Cola overlords, the CGI aesthetic of Max Headroom was faked using prosthetics and opticals—inadvertently constructing a situationist prank and fooling the public at large.

Actor Matt Frewer in Max Headroom make-up created by John Humphreys

When Max Headroom: 20 Minutes Into The Future premiered in the UK on April 4, 1985, the hour-long cyberpunk telefeature not only served as backstory to Max’s forthcoming Tonight Show-style talk program The Max Headroom Show, but also spawned an ABC Network television series in the US that continued the original film’s story. Morton and Jankel had no involvement with the ABC series and criticized it for its homogeneous approach to the material and lack of credit to the creators. Set in a dystopian future, the original telefilm showcased a world where television programming is the leading commodity and society is controlled by a cabal of networks run by a ruthless media oligarchy. Within this framing, Morton and Jankel simultaneously used the character of Max Headroom to spotlight the mechanisms of corporate greed while allowing said greed to thrive. Max existed between these two worlds and created a paradoxical paradigm. Not only was he a figurehead for the music and soda-pop industries; he was also a symbol of radical intervention—which would later be displayed in the infamous broadcast signal intrusion of WGN-TV’s newscast on November 22, 1987.  

The dichotomy devised during the Max Headroom years would continue to follow Morton and Jankel into their feature film career with 1988’s D.O.A. and 1993’s Super Mario Bros. The concept of remix theory is paramount in understanding these films and how it affected the duo’s time in Hollywood. Remix culture encourages the transformation of derivative works through a mash-up mix of one or more media, and as remix expert Eduardo Navas suggests, there are three types of remix methods to explore. Extended remix is a longer version of an original work, while selective remix consists of adding or subtracting elements from the work to create something new. Reflexive remix allegorizes or transforms the aesthetic and ethos of the original work—challenging the original intent and claiming autonomy. 

B&W turns to color in Morton and Jankel’s 1988 remix of the 1950 film noir classic D.O.A.

Morton and Jankel’s tinseltown rebellion is one of a reflexive remix and deserving of reappraisal—something both D.O.A and Super Mario Bros have received in recent years. The wave of irony that dominated the Hollywood filmmaking aesthetic in the early ‘80s was soon on the wane, and both films were met with derision from audiences and critics alike, with Super Mario Bros receiving the most volatile response. Where D.O.A. won positive reviews by some for its colorful neo-noir deconstruction of Rudolph Mate’s 1950 classic, Morton and Jankel’s dissection of the popular Nintendo video game opened to nearly universal disdain. Regardless of the behind-the-scenes drama and production hell that has been unfairly presented in the press, the cultural zeitgeist shifted from a pop sensibility of kitsch experimentation in the 1980s to a cynical worldview of uniformity and stasis in the 1990s. The duo’s Max-inspired interpretation of the lovable plumbers taking on King Koopa to save Princess Daisy was too esoteric for children to understand or adults to enjoy. Script revisions and loss of creative control at the hands of the studio didn’t help matters much, and Morton and Jankel’s Hollywood career was over before it even really began. They would return to the world of commercial advertising, where their radical tendencies were more (illicitly) successful—such as using subversive sex to sell fast food for Hardees. Soon after, they formed the highly successful commercial production company MJZ, which represents a host of acclaimed filmmakers like Craig Gillespie, Harmony Korine, and Mike Mills. Within time the duo would dissolve their partnership—both creatively and romantically. Jankel would move on to direct more features after a long hiatus—such as 2009’s Skellig: The Owl Man and 2018’s Tell It to the Bees—while Morton continues to produce commercial campaigns for numerous corporate clients. 

As ‘80s eclecticism gave birth to a 21st century postmodern world, where reality is fluid and nothing is free, the careers of Rocky Morton and Annabel Jankel seem to suggest that the only response to late capitalism is through disruptive action. When corporate interests seek legitimacy on the backs of creative originals, sometimes the only recourse you have is protest by insurgency. Each project during their partnership, whether intended or not, has acted as a media virus whose effects continue to alter perspectives both old and new. If there’s one lesson to be learned from Morton and Jankel, it’s that infiltration is key.

Andy Prisbylla is the nucleus behind a series of pen names for underground filmmaker and media theorist Psycho Gnostic of Steel City, PA. Connect with them on Twitter.

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One Last Set of Russian Made Orcs

Fantasy Toy Soldiers -

This is the last set of Russian made orcs I have left to post.  I do not know who made them.  There are a bunch of amazingly talented people producing their own figures in the Tehnolog Fantasy Battles style.  These orcs have a primitive look with excellent detail and mean looking faces.













Scale Shot





Battletech buildings

Bri's Battle Blog -

 So, my 1/144 battletech game needs a good city terrain.  there are tons of great paper model options for free online, but This Akhibara diorama 


is a perfect starting place...but I wanted to pump it up with textures and lots of signage like you see in Hong Kong  so I've been retexturing/recoloring the model, Once that's done I'll resize it from the Z scale it's native to into N scale.  Z is great for standard Battletech minis, but I like the 1/144 model kits...anyhow, here are some pages;





and here's the "base plates" for same.






 
 I haven't finished this project, there are a LOT of pieces left to retexture, but this is a great sample, and it's in the normal Battletech/Renegade legion 1/300ish scale.



NANOFORCE: Star Trek

Fantasy Toy Soldiers -

After being delayed for months, EMCE finally relaased their Nanoforce Star Trek figures.  There are two sets of 12 figures from the Original Series and Next Generation.  The figures are around 50mm but 3mm of that is base.  They feel a bit smaller than they stand.  Excellent detail, 


Original Series










































Next Generation





















Female Orcs from Russia

Fantasy Toy Soldiers -

I am going to post about all of the Russian figures I have in backlog over the next few days/weeks.  Ebay has cut off Russian sellers and I do not have the direct links I had a few years ago.  Who knows when, or if, this stuff will ever be on the market again.  Sadly, the soldiers that Russia is exporting these days are no longer toys.  
These are around 54mm - 60mm.  The detail is outstanding.  This is only the second set of Russiam made Orcs I have found that includes a magic user.  









Authentic Music from Another Planet: The Howard Menger Story

We Are the Mutants -

Stephen Canner / March 8, 2022

From the opening years of the 1950s, various terrestrials came forward claiming to be in contact with the occupants of flying saucers. Their stories were often quite similar. The discs usually came from our own solar system: Venus, Jupiter, or Saturn. Communication was sometimes accomplished via telepathy, sometimes verbally. Perhaps most importantly, the aliens were portrayed as “perfect” specimens of Homo sapiens, although this ideal was almost always a suspiciously Northern European one. Dressed in crisply tailored ski wear, they preached pacifism, universal love, and a cosmic version of the perennial philosophy. A fundamental disagreement over economic theory coupled with the recent discovery of atomic weapons may have driven humanity to the brink of self-destruction, but there was no reason to fear. The “space brothers”—along with a few space sisters—had arrived in their saucers to show us the true path.

Early contactees such as George Van Tassel, Daniel Fry, and George Adamski appeared before microphones, in television studios, and in front of movie cameras, with claims that seemed more like something from the pages of a pulp magazine than from any consensus reality. Even by the standards of the era their tales were simplistic, like the plots of bad B-movies, not believable anecdotes of actual experience. Despite this, credulous souls flocked to these men, eagerly tape recording their public speeches and jotting down the details of their claims. If there was an A-list star among the contactees, it was Adamski. Born in what is now Poland in 1891, Adamski immigrated to the United States with his family when he was about two years old. As a young adult, he became interested in theosophy, an early gateway philosophy to things esoteric. By the early 1930s he had relocated to Laguna Beach, California, where he founded the Royal Order of Tibet. A Los Angeles Times report of the period referred to Adamski as “Professor”—a title he would use for the rest of his life, despite his lack of any academic degrees—and added that his father was Polish, his mother Egyptian, and that he had spent his childhood “in the ancient monasteries in Tibet and learned the laws of the lamas.” He was already, long before he was associated with flying saucers, spinning a fictional web of mystery around himself. In interviews, Adamski went out of his way to make it clear that his organization was not anti-Christian. He told the paper that “The Order of Tibet acknowledges God and Christ. We hold to the basic thought of Hinduism, Buddhism, Christianity, to which are added the ancient law of Tibet.” This is a basic philosophical position that the space brothers of two decades later would certainly recognize.

By the end of World War II, Adamski and his wife were living on the southwestern slopes of Palomar Mountain, northeast of San Diego, where he opened a café. By 1950 he was lecturing on flying saucers, appearing on local television, and showing his soon-to-be-famous photographs. His fame exploded when Flying Saucers Have Landed—a book that bore his name as co-author, although actually mostly written by Anglo-Irish aristocrat Desmond Leslie—was published in 1953. A large part of the volume’s appeal was undoubtedly its inclusion of photographs of flying discs that Adamski had allegedly taken. These images, although proven to be fakes shortly after they were published, provided the original model for what we still think of as the “classic” flying saucer. Two years later, Adamski continued his unlikely tale in a ghostwritten follow-up, Inside the Space Ships (1955). By the late 1950s, Adamski was as close to a superstar as it was possible to be in the tiny world of ufology. He and Leslie had together created the basic template that would inform the dominant UFO narrative for many years to come. Following this model, a number of other contactees emerged making claims very similar to Adamski’s. It was in this environment that Howard Menger first appeared on the scene.

Howard Menger was born in Brooklyn in 1922. When he was eight years old his family relocated to the small town of High Bridge in rural northern New Jersey. These facts are relatively reliable and stable. The rest of Menger’s story, however, is a web of claims and counterclaims that subtly changed in detail from week to week and month to month, even when he himself told it. With that in mind, what follows should not be viewed as the story of Howard Menger, but simply one possibility among many. As recounted in his 1959 book From Outer Space to You, Menger and his younger brother had begun to see unidentified objects in the sky as early as the summer of 1931. After one particularly dramatic close encounter experience in which the brothers witnessed a landed saucer that quickly shot off into the sky, Howard began to wander the woods alone, drawn by an “impulse” to do so. It was on one of these impulsive rambles in 1932, at the age of ten, that he met “the most exquisite woman” he had ever seen sitting on a rock. Wearing what appeared to be a ski outfit, she addressed him by name and told him that her people had been watching him for a very long time. She explained that he had a special purpose on Earth, one that he was still too young to understand, but that in time would become clear. “We are contacting our own,” she told him mysteriously. She began to teach him things that she admitted were still beyond his grasp, then added that over time his mind would play them back “like a phonograph,” with the meaning becoming clearer after each replay. After much talk of “frequency,” “vibration,” “evolvement,” and “universal laws,” she stood to depart. As he began to cry from the emotion of the powerful experience, she comforted him by suggesting that they might meet again, although not until many years in the future.

“Throughout my life the things I had learned in the forest were to lead to conflict with the traditional ideas of the world,” he later wrote. For the rest of his childhood he became something of an outsider, with teachers and classmates finding him odd. After graduating from high school in 1941, he went to work at Picatinny Arsenal in northern New Jersey, where he met a co-worker named Rose Mary Pusinelli. Howard enlisted in the Army in November 1942, and soon afterwards he and Rose were married. While in the Army he saw discs in the sky outside El Paso and encountered more beautiful space people—all of them male—in Mexico, California, Hawaii, and on Okinawa. It was on Okinawa that he again began having “impulses” that drove him to do unwise things, like wander off alone into territory infested with enemy troops who had dug in. After an encounter with three Japanese soldiers who he managed to incapacitate, but not kill, he returned to camp, where he met another space brother. They began to discuss the space people’s pacifist philosophy and the futility of war. Here Menger learned of “universal law,” according to which, in the words of the space brother: “The soul lives on eternally, learning by its mistakes, always progressing. The good that is done is accredited to that soul. The mistakes are forgotten.” He then explained that the aliens effectively controlled advanced technology through the will of the “Infinite Creator;” humans were still too irresponsible to use it for creative, not destructive, purposes. The Venusian also assured him that the war would end soon, with the Japanese “blasted into submission by a power which will shock the world.” Once this prophecy came true, Menger was discharged and returned home fully indoctrinated in the basics of the space brothers’ proto-New Age philosophy.

He settled in the town of Washington, New Jersey, just up the road from his hometown of High Bridge. There he opened a sign painting business, and he and Rose soon had three children. On the surface, their life seemed one of small-town normalcy, but Menger was not destined to lead a normal life. In June 1946 he again met the beautiful alien woman he had first encountered as a child. After a bit of mild flirtation, she told him more about cosmic philosophy and what his mission on Earth was to entail: “You will form groups and teach people,” she said. “Some of these whom you will teach will themselves become teachers and assist you in your mission.” Menger’s own account of the next few years, as told in his book, reads like a very bad and somewhat tedious science fiction espionage novel. Using prearranged meeting sites called Field Locations #1 and #2, he claims that he was telepathically summoned into the woods to meet robust, healthy Venusians filled with interplanetary vim and vigor. It was during this period, after moving his home and business back to High Bridge in 1955, that Menger was allowed to photograph the Venusian spacecraft. The pictures always came out fuzzy, however. At first, he thought this might indicate a problem with the camera. But the aliens told him that the difficulty in photographing the saucers was due to the radiation field around them. Eventually, he began taking photographs using a Polaroid, which produced reasonably clear pictures. As a bonus, there were no inconvenient negatives for doubters of his story to analyze.

In the autumn of 1956, Menger seemed to pop up out of nowhere as a full-blown media personality. Few accounts of his career consider how this occurred, but evidence suggests that the photos he had taken were the key. In late October of that year, contactee George Van Tassel was scheduled to give a talk at a New York hotel. Van Tassel was already famous in UFO circles due to his role as host of the annual Giant Rock Spacecraft Convention held at his private airport in the Southern California desert. He had also published a book in 1952 called I Rode in a Flying Saucer! Menger heard that Van Tassel was going to be in the city—the aliens told him—and traveled there to meet him. Van Tassel was impressed enough with the fantastic story, and especially the photographs, that he invited Howard and Rose to appear on Long John Nebel’s radio show with him on October 30. This was quickly followed by a television appearance on The Steve Allen Show on Thursday, November 1. Long John Nebel, an overnight talk show host on local station WOR, hadn’t been on the air long at this point, but he would soon become a fixture of late-night New York radio. His show would also become a primary big market media outlet for the saucer crowd, with Nebel himself becoming well-known in those circles. The appearance on Steve Allen’s show, a very popular mainstream program, was an even bigger coup. Newspapers jumped on the story and, when United Press picked it up, it went national. Immediately after his return to California, Van Tassel published a long piece on Menger’s photographs in the November 1956 issue of his Proceedings of the College of Universal Wisdom. In the tiny world of saucer fanatics, at least, Howard Menger had arrived. 

The Mengers were soon bombarded with telephone calls, letters, and visits from both the credulous and the skeptical. Independent witnesses also began to come forward, such as Mrs. Joseph Tharp, who said she was taken into a field by the Mengers where she witnessed three saucers, including one from which a man emerged. Howard and Rose were now a hot local news item, with reporters interviewing waitresses and auto mechanics for their opinions on the couple’s unlikely tale. In general, the tone of these articles was both playful and skeptical. The furor prompted Leonard Randolph of The Pocono Record in Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania—only about 35 miles from High Bridge—to begin an in-depth, seven-part series on the subject of UFOs that ran throughout the middle of November. Although the Mengers’ appearance as local celebrities was the catalyst for the series, it also provided a solid overview of the various angles of the phenomenon. The articles approached the subject with a healthy skepticism that still allowed for the possibility that there were things science did not yet understand. Randolph seems to have been very familiar with the subject. In the sixth installment, through a point-by-point comparison, he carefully analyzed the similarities between George Adamski’s claims and Menger’s. He concluded that for all intents and purposes they were identical, right down to the philosophy of the aliens. He went so far as to point out that both sets of aliens were fond of ski trousers and turtleneck sweaters. A media-savvy observer at the time may also have noticed that in both sartorial taste and philosophy these visitors sounded very much like Michael Rennie’s portrayal of the alien Klaatu in the 1951 film The Day the Earth Stood Still.

Curiously, on November 14, on the same page as the first article in Randolph’s series on UFOs, the paper ran a report that in late October four men had sighted an object with a “long cigar-shaped body roughly resembling a Liberator bomber in general shape” over Tobyhanna, Pennsylvania. The object was completely silent and seemed to be moving at about 150 to 200 mph. Instead of wings, it had “two appendages, one on each side, which were not projected away from the body.” A number of other witnesses also claimed to have seen the same thing. The date of the sighting roughly coincides with Menger’s first meeting with Van Tassel. It seems, if nothing else, that a certain synchronicity may have been at work here. 

Throughout the first half of 1957, Menger lectured, appeared on the radio, and was the subject of a reasonable amount of press coverage. In May, he and Rose traveled to California to speak at Van Tassel’s fourth annual Giant Rock Spacecraft Convention in Yucca Valley. Howard now found himself among the heavyweights in the field. Others scheduled to speak during the weekend were Donald Keyhoe, Daniel Fry, Orfeo Angelucci, George Adamski, Desmond Leslie, Edward Ruppelt, Frank Scully, and Truman Bethurum. This list is very close to a complete “Who’s Who” of the biggest names in 1950s saucerdom. The newspaper coverage the convention attracted intensified the spotlight on Menger. In June, The Morning Call in Allentown, Pennsylvania, ran a feature article on him. For the first time, the press explored the metaphysical aspects of his story. In the piece, reporter Russ Davis called Menger “a deeply religious man although inclined, he admits, ‘to be independent.’” Echoing George Adamski’s perennialism of the 1930s, Menger explained the aliens’ philosophy: “There is a definite plan to everything and everybody worships the same creator. They are not against any religion that seeks God and the truth. Jesus, Moses, and Buddha are regarded by them as great teachers among hundreds of great teachers whom they acknowledge.”

Menger was soon to have his faith tested. On June 13, his 12-year-old son died of a brain tumor. Less than three months later, his father died. This string of tragedies that began with the loss of his brother in an auto accident two years earlier had to have a huge impact on every aspect of Menger’s life. His ideas, plans, attitudes, and personal relationships would have all emerged from an underlying foundation of grief. To add to his stress, it appears that his father had disinherited him; Howard Senior divided his estate equally between a nephew and a niece. It would be easy to spin a story in which Howard’s father was disappointed in him for publicly espousing such wild claims and bringing unwanted attention to the family. But in light of future events, it’s also tempting to surmise that the disinheritance may have been because his father simply did not approve of how Howard was handling his own domestic affairs. By the end of the year the family farm had been sold, and Menger’s time in High Bridge was about to come to an end.

The first mention of Howard’s new wife in the media comes as something of a shock to anyone reading through the record chronologically. It is a bit like turning on the television in the fall of 1969 to find that Dick Sargent had replaced Dick York as Samantha’s husband on Bewitched, with no explanation whatsoever. The actor had changed; the role was the same. It is not certain exactly when Howard met recently widowed Connie Weber. In his book, Menger claims that he first met her at George Van Tassel’s lecture in New York in October of 1956. Elsewhere, Connie has implied that she was one of the “believers” who enthusiastically showed up at the Menger home in droves after the news of his experiences broke. Either way, Menger quickly decided that they were “a natural couple”—reincarnated Venusians, in fact, who had known each other in a previous life—and this was why they were “irresistibly drawn to each other.” He wrote that, “though both of us tried to fight off the predicted outcome, we were caught up in the overwhelming remembrance of a long ago promise to each other.” An obvious interpretation would be that this is euphemistic language used to indicate that the two had had an affair. Menger spends an entire chapter of his book defending the “naturalness” of their union, couched in the language of the “cosmic philosophy.” He does, however, clearly state that his first marriage had not been altogether happy since his return from the war, and that he and Rose had been at “different states of development.” And of course, even under the best of circumstances, the loss of a child often drives couples apart. According to the records of the Clark County Recorder’s Office in Las Vegas, Connie and Howard were married there on May 26, 1958. 

Like many in the saucer crowd of the era, Menger was quick to use modern audio technology. Just two weeks after his appearance on The Steve Allen Show, he was playing a tape recording of the account of his experiences to visitors at his home, one originally recorded for a radio broadcast. This undoubtedly saved him the tedium of repeating his story to each new group of the steady stream of visitors that appeared daily at his door. He was known to use a tape recorder as part of his presentation in his formal lectures as well. Menger was also the first major name in saucerdom to make use of another current technology: the microgroove record. Sometime during the first half of 1958, he released a phonograph album called Authentic Music from Another Planet. This was an ingenious new way to promote his message, but was also likely an attempt to further monetize his fame, which was taking a large amount of time away from his business but not bringing in a corresponding amount of income. 

In his book, Menger told a curious story about how the record came to be. One day while driving in the countryside, he realized he no longer had control over his car, which seemed to be driving itself. By now he was used to such bizarre occurrences, so he thought little of it. The car took him to a cabin some distance into the woods. As he approached the building, he could hear the strains of the “most inspiring, soul-tingling music” he had ever heard coming from within. Entering, he encountered a man with long brown hair, seated at a strange piano-like instrument. Around him, spread across the floor, were a number of other bizarre musical instruments. Soon two blonde men entered the room and greeted Howard by name. They told him that they were from Venus, and the pianist was from Saturn. When Menger complimented him on his playing, the Saturnian invited him to sit down and play a tune. Howard protested that he had no musical talent. The alien then told him, “From this time on you will be able to play a piano whenever you are moved to do so, and not only this tune, but any melody you wish.” At this point, the analytical reader might well ask how this superpower—for this is what it amounts to—would help Menger in his stated mission to spread cosmic philosophy among the inhabitants of the Earth. The aliens explained to him that anyone who heard this music “would get a feeling, or reach an awareness, which would act as a mental assist to release something from the subconscious. People hearing the theme would react in their conscious state with increased understanding and brotherly love toward one another.” This was quite the superpower, indeed.

Menger soon began to play this new space music on the (terrestrial) piano for friends. He claimed that the “congenial president of Slate Enterprises” in Newark was “so impressed with the music” that he suggested the company release an album. It is more likely that Howard arranged for a custom pressing with the label, but this explanation still leaves room for doubt. In any case, Menger had a copy of the album to play for guests on Sunday, July 13, 1958. The Slate label itself appeared in 1946 and primarily released singles of light rhythm and blues, first on 78 and later on 45. Very little else is known about the company except for what appears on the labels of its handful of releases. The problem with assuming that Authentic Music from Another Planet was a custom release is that Slate is not known to have done any other custom work of this sort. In fact, it is also the only known LP on the label. It is possible that, like many other outfits, Slate released its custom works using other label names. So far, however, no such examples have come to light. There is another purely speculative possibility. Perhaps the “congenial president” of the label was also a saucer fan and made an exception in working with Menger?

The cover of Authentic Music from Another Planet shows one of Menger’s fuzzy black and white Polaroids, tinted blue, with the caption: “Actual photograph of interplanetary spacecraft.” At first it seems nothing more than an abstracted landscape, but looking carefully the viewer can pick out a figure at the bottom of the composition who appears to be looking at an indistinct smear in the sky through binoculars. The image is vague enough that it actually works. Unlike many photos of the era, even today it can instill a twinge of doubt in the viewer—that moment of indecision that tells us we may be in the realm of the impossible. More of his saucer images appear on the back cover, as do photos of Howard and Connie. Although Connie’s real biography is provided—including the intriguing fact that in her youth she had worked as a model for a “famous Cuban sculptor” while living in Mexico City—she is identified as “Marla Baxter.” This was a pseudonym she was already using for her “fantastic” writing and the name Howard used to refer to her in his book.

The album opens with Howard’s narration. Here he gives a condensed version of the unlikely story of how this music came to him. He introduces the first track, “Marla,” as being about “the young lady pictured with me on the album cover.” He then adds that “she is the sister of the beautiful blonde Venusian who spoke to me many years ago.” This track and the next, “Theme from the Song from Saturn,” he says are “interpretations that are taken from the actual music that has come to me from another planet.” He then instructs the listener to “turn the record over and listen to ‘The Song from Saturn,’ as it is played by me while my fingers are guided by this strange force.” In other words, he appears to claim that side two is channeled. This was a strategy that many early contactees adopted, but not one that was common elsewhere in Menger’s narrative.

The truth is that Authentic Music from Another Planet is basically an exploitation album, a record that promises something beyond anything the listener has ever experienced, only to ultimately disappoint. After the consumer has spent his or her money, the album reveals itself to be nothing more than noodly, easy listening piano tracks with a bit of explanatory narration tacked on. Fittingly, this follows a model used by many low budget science fiction films at the time, where more effort was spent on promotion and hype than on the actual product. Had Menger made his compositions sound more avant-garde, especially by creative use of an early electronic instrument such as an ondes Martenot or a theremin, listeners might have believed the music originated “from elsewhere,” and his album would now be a heavily sought-after cult item, commanding hundreds if not thousands of dollars from collectors. In truth, it would have been a more interesting record had he simply banged randomly and atonally on the keyboard for two sides. Unfortunately, the record sounds like what it undoubtedly is, a recording of someone from New Jersey who has had a few piano lessons playing uninspired “light classics.”

Given the paucity of information on the album, it is not known how many copies were pressed. It shows up for sale often enough not to be considered truly rare, but is uncommon enough for a large print run to be unlikely. In 1974, during the middle of a huge revival of interest in UFOs, the album was reissued on the Gold-A label out of Maplewood, New Jersey, its title shortened to Music from Another Planet. It is unclear whether Menger was involved in this reissue or not. Sealed copies of the reissue were still being advertised for sale as late as 1982

One of the major events in the career of Howard and Connie Menger was their East Coast Interplanetary Space Convention—held on Connie’s 100-acre farm near Lebanon, New Jersey, where the couple was then living—on September 13 and 14, 1958. This followed an appearance by the couple on Jack Paar’s television program the previous week, and was covered heavily in the local media. Among the convention’s attendees were Long John Nebel, Ellery Lanier of Fantastic Science Fiction magazine, arch-skeptic Jules St. Germain, and Major Wayne Aho. These back-to-back media events were excellent opportunities for Menger to promote the new album. It seems, though, that the response to the disc ranged from lukewarm to actively hostile. One participant in the crowd was quoted as saying, “It sounds like an 8-year-old practicing music for a teacher and not very good at that.” There will always be believers, however. In the September 1959 issue of its newsletter, the Spacecraft Research Association, a UFO club in the Phoenix area, reported that its members had listened to the album at a recent meeting. They were evidently so impressed that at the next meeting they listened to it again, followed by a talk by one David Moore on “the composition of the music and its differences from music of earth.”

Another of the attendees at Howard and Connie’s UFO convention that summer was Saucer News publisher and sometimes-prankster Gray Barker. According to Jim Moseley, it was here that Barker made the deal with Menger to publish an account of his experiences via his Saucerian Books imprint. The deal must have already been in the works, though, as Howard mentions the name of the book on the album, which certainly already existed at this point. Also, on the following Monday, the local paper reported that Menger was taking advance orders for the book. Connie (as Marla Baxter) had released a novel earlier in the year, My Saturnian Lover, which was mentioned on the liner notes of Menger’s LP and during the opening narration. There was no mystery as to who the author was, though, and the local press had fun pointing out that it “might be the story of [the Mengers’] astral love affair—but neither will admit it.” Howard’s book, called From Outer Space to You, was published in 1959. A case could be made that it was actually Connie’s second book, because it is extremely probable that it was largely, if not entirely, ghost written by her. On the back flap of the dust jacket was a large ad for Authentic Music from Another Planet, evidently being distributed by Barker, which also hints at the slight possibility of his involvement in the production of the record.

One aspect that sets Howard Menger’s story apart from other contactees of the era is the constant presence of the feminine. The first alien he encountered was not a virile space soldier, but a beautiful woman. While on the surface the story of a ten-year-old boy meeting a grown woman who teaches him things might seem to hint at maternal symbolism, there is a definite sexual undertone to Menger’s telling of the event. When he meets her again as a grown man, freshly returned from combat and probably in the best physical shape of his life, the sexual attraction is now obviously mutual. And although most of the aliens Menger reported meeting were men, there were a number of women among them, and they seemed to be quite independent. In one scene in his book, a group of space women tell Howard that they do not wear bras on their planet. This subtle, sexually-charged undercurrent could explain some of the appeal that audiences found in these tales.

It is also important to consider the real women in Menger’s life. Despite whatever differences they may have had, his first wife Rose was very supportive of him and his extraordinary claims. Besides helping explain the finer points of his tales to journalists, she even reported to have seen a saucer after getting a “strong impulse” to go outside, the same sort of impulse that drove many of Howard’s actions. Anyone who has ever met their soulmate will probably understand Howard’s idea that there exists such a thing as a “natural couple.” It’s not necessary to believe his complex story of interplanetary reincarnation in order to relate to the deeper truth of the claim. Some individuals just click so perfectly, sharing interests, attitudes, and a fundamental outlook, that it seems they were indeed made for each other. Whatever other chemistry existed between Howard and Connie, it is likely that both were avid readers of esoteric books when they met. Although never specific, references in their writings as well as statements made to the press often revealed knowledge of ideas from both eastern religion and the newly emerging New Age movement. Howard got most of the press, but there is no question that they were a team. In any case, even if they didn’t prove it, they tested the “natural couple” hypothesis pretty thoroughly. Their marriage lasted for 51 years, ending only with Howard’s death. 

Howard and Connie had a son in late April 1959. A week later, Howard was arrested on probation violations for “falling in arrears in support payments to his first wife and their two children, now living in Paterson.” He quickly paid the debt to avoid further incarceration, but was again arrested in mid-August on the same charge. He was taken to the Passaic County jail, but again paid his outstanding debt and was released. By the end of the month, Connie’s farm had been sold for the sum of $43,000. Whether or not the sale was necessitated by Howard’s financial troubles is an open question. Not long after this period of chaos in his personal life, on July 17, 1960, Howard appeared on Long John Nebel’s short-lived television show. Here he explicitly backed away from his original claims, announcing that he may have been “hoaxed or hypnotized” during the events described in his book, and was not at all certain that his experiences had been real. This reportedly did not go over well with Nebel.

Howard and Connie, circa 1950s

In 1963, there were rumors that Howard planned to host another convention similar to the one the Mengers held five years earlier. During this time, he was rumored to be developing a prototype saucer somewhere in the mountains of northeastern Pennsylvania. Throughout his life Menger tinkered with technology, and this appears to be one of the many projects that never got further than his workshop. Soon afterwards, Connie and Howard relocated to Florida, with a new baby daughter in tow. There, Howard continued his sign painting business, but seemingly could not resist the lure of the spotlight. In August 1965, he convinced the Civic Association of Sebastian, Florida, to hold an Aeronautical and Space Convention with himself serving as chair. The idea was approved, but in mid-September the association learned of Menger’s past. The convention plans were soon canceled. Immediately after this unwelcome publicity, Howard put his name on the ballot to run for Sebastian city council. During the campaign he further backed away from his original claims, telling the press that From Outer Space to You was a “fact/fiction” book. The winners of the election received 182 and 174 votes respectively. Howard came in dead last with an embarrassing 20 votes.

The couple soon relocated a bit farther down the coast to Vero Beach. Howard continued to appear occasionally on radio and television. Connie continued her writing, working as a reporter on general interest topics for a local newspaper. In the spring of 1967, a second edition of Menger’s book was published. That June, he was invited to be a speaker at Jim Moseley’s Congress of Scientific UFOlogists in New York City, held to mark the 20th anniversary of Kenneth Arnold’s first UFO sighting, the event that spawned the saucer craze. Here Howard delivered a rambling speech in which he mentioned his tinkering with saucer technology. In contrast to what he told Long John Nebel in 1960, he defended the original claims made in his book as fact. He then complained at great length and in great detail about the cancellation of his planned 1965 space convention. Other speakers on the roster were Nebel, Ivan T. Sanderson, Gray Barker, Ray Palmer, and contactee-come-lately Frank Stranges. These were big names, but this was to be Howard’s last great moment in the spotlight.

Howard and Connie lived out their remaining years together quietly in Vero Beach. They self-published a few books on esoteric subjects, including a 1991 follow-up to Howard’s first book called The High Bridge Incident, and from time to time would briefly resurface in the media. In 1992, they appeared together in Robert Stone’s documentary Farewell, Good Brothers. In the film, they seem very relaxed and at ease in each other’s company, a “natural couple.” Howard Menger died on February 25, 2009. Connie followed him on January 7, 2017. In a letter to Saucer Smear just after Howard’s death, ufologist Jerome Clark wrote:

Perhaps Adamski and Menger created fantasy worlds for their followers and at some point entered those worlds themselves. Human beings experience that elusive thing called ‘reality’ in sometimes peculiar, hard-to-define ways. Contactees, mediums, and other self-identified communicators between worlds may be able to create imagined alternative realities, which coexist with, possibly even overwhelm, consensus understanding and experience. I suspect that anything you could say, good, bad, or indifferent, about the motives of Adamski or Menger needs to be appended with an asterisk.

The claims made by contactees like George Adamski and Howard Menger seem so very absurd today that we can’t help but wonder about their motives. It is always possible that a story originated with an actual anomalous experience and grew from there. I do have a hypothesis about Howard, though. He seemed to truly believe the things that he said about brotherly love, the soul, and the nature of God. What if it were his goal all along to simply become a teacher of these New Age ideas? To accomplish this requires some form of authority. The traditional path is to attend a university and get an advanced degree in the subject you wish to teach. An alternative path would be to call yourself “Professor” and claim to be the son of an Egyptian mother who grew up in a lamasery in Tibet, as Adamski did in 1934. When this story became a bit rusty, Adamski simply updated it to one in which he was a “chosen” contactee of the occupants of those things in the sky so many people were reportedly seeing in those days. By adopting Adamski’s later model and publicizing it via the mass media, Menger imbued upon himself a certain authority and soon had a number of followers. He became in reality a teacher of the ideas the space people allegedly taught him. It doesn’t matter whether his claims were literally true or not. The ideas existed, and he was teaching them to mankind, just like the guy in his story.

Stephen Canner is an archivist, discographer, musician (The Victor Mourning, Swarme of Beese), and historian of artifacts that emerge from the margins of culture. He blogs at Mediated Signals.

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No Bondage, No More: ‘Poly Styrene: I Am a Cliché’

We Are the Mutants -

Eve Tushnet / February 28, 2022

“Oh, I saw a flying saucer last night. It told me to give up the electric, plastic way of life.” 

I first heard about the X-Ray Spex from a Riot Grrrl flier handed out at punk concerts in the mid-’90s. Their one album, Germfree Adolescents, was on a list of woman-led punk music, alongside the Raincoats, the Delta 5, Crass, and Jayne County. I loved the band’s name, so I haunted record stores pawing through the XYZ bin until I found the album on cassette during a beach vacation in the summer of ’95. I stuck it in the player and from the moment I heard Poly Styrene’s inimitable voice—at once forthright and teasing, poppy and punishing, skidding from a husky croon to a paint-stripping wail—I was in love.

And that’s the public story of Poly Styrene, née Marianne Elliott: Poly the pioneer, an Afro-British woman fronting a punk band in the overwhelmingly white and male scene of the late 1970s; Poly the artist, the singer/songwriter/designer whose Day-Glo sensibility was the candy coating over lyrics exploring the convergence of consumer culture and personal identity. Poly Styrene: I Am a Cliché, the new documentary co-created by Poly’s daughter Celeste Bell and Paul Sng, gives you plenty of Poly the pioneer. Musicians like Bikini Kill’s Kathleen Hanna cite her as an inspiration; Neneh Cherry says, “I actually started singing because of her.” Poly’s artistic influences and choices aren’t explored in as much depth, but maybe all you have to do is play some footage of her howling into the microphone, in a dress that looks like bacon and eggs, to paint the picture. What I Am a Cliche does that no other documentary could do is close the gap between Poly Styrene and Marianne Elliott.

It would be easy to think that Poly Styrene had a band, and then Marianne Elliott had a baby; that Poly Styrene had insights, and Marianne Elliott had a nervous breakdown. But I Am a Cliché doesn’t just show you life after the X-Ray Spex—Elliott’s brief marriage, the birth of her daughter, her mental health crises, her stints in hospitals and with the Hare Krishnas. Bell’s act of insight and mercy is that she allows us to see that Poly Styrene was her mother all along, and vice versa. The documentary is a moving portrait of, among many other things, someone whose struggles with mental health interweave with her incisive cultural critique. You can talk about this interweaving in many ways: maybe Poly expressed her first break with reality in terms of a rejection of “electric, plastic” consumer culture because that’s what she was thinking about anyway. Maybe she rejected the culture of advertisement and consumption, glitz and fame, because it was making her ill. But this film lets its subject salvage wisdom from the wreckage of reason. It’s rare and precious to find a film that doesn’t glamorize mental illness, but also doesn’t let it discredit the sufferer.

There are a lot of inspirational angles to I Am a Cliché, a lot of things it will make you feel okay about, if feeling okay about these things is something you struggle with. It’s okay to be mixed-race in a world that wants to force you to pick sides; it’s okay to be plump in a world that wants to airbrush you for your album cover; it’s okay to have a council-estate accent and the sweetest smile in punk. It’s okay to be a divorced single mother struggling with mental health. It’s okay if you can’t forgive your mother for abandoning you; and if you find that time, against your will, is wearing you down into forgiveness, that’s okay too. But maybe the most unexpected inspirational message of this film is: if you’ve been given something true to say, it’s okay if you say it while taking your clothes off and explaining to your bewildered bandmates that you heard it from a flying saucer. 

***

As art, I Am a Cliché’s most notable feature is Celeste Bell’s slow, deliberate speaking style. Her quiet retrospective is itself a critique of the high-speed punk life—her mother’s career got started in 1976 and crash-landed three years later. This is mostly a straightforward documentary. Bell’s voice, not the images or storytelling techniques (or the bland instrumental music), is what makes space for meditation. The movie opens, “My mother was a punk rock icon. People often ask me if she was a good mum.” It’s not a question anyone could answer briskly. Bell does her mother the honor, and offers viewers the subtle rebuke, of not even asking it too fast. She lets it sink in: what it would mean to be asked that, and to take on the responsibility of answering.

“Marianne Elliott from Brixton” taught her daughter “to love the sea, because water is the beginning and the end of life on earth.” Elliott spent her childhood in public housing, with “a bath in the kitchen with a lid on.” An early poem, “Half Caste,” describes the violence she faced as the child of a Somali father and a white mother, and the violence others projected onto her: “Do you wanna fight…. Will she cut me with a flick knife.” “I remember her coming home with bruises on her legs where boys had kicked her,” Elliott’s sister Hazel recalls. “She was a fighter.” 

A fighter and a seeker, always. Someone always aware of what others saw when they looked at her; who struggled to see herself in the mirror. Poly was “obsessed with fashion,” and her DIY Space Age, Pop Art look defines her punk image almost as much as her lacerating voice—goggles and helmet, bright blocks of clashing color, braids hiding her eyes and braces flashing on her teeth: Mad Max by way of Lisa Frank. People who have long wished they could dress cool like Poly Styrene will be startled and ruefully delighted by Bell’s complaint, “I pretty much hated everything she wore… especially when she forced me into ridiculous outfits too, like the matching mother-and-daughter Laura Ashley phase she got into.” Poly’s style wasn’t a protective coating: watch her still, sad, hopeful eyes and listen to her silence after a TV interviewer cracks, “With those braces on, she’s hardly Linda Ronstadt.” Fame, for Poly Styrene, meant being handled by other people’s eyes.

The documentary presents the X-Ray Spex’s New York debut as a turning point. In New York, Poly discovered that the commercial apocalypse was now. New York was neon, cocaine, the future punching you in the face every time you turned around. Poly felt that New Yorkers really lived the stuff she sang about, and her reaction was horror: “God, if that’s what it’s gonna be like, I don’t want it.” New York refined Poly’s philosophy, as well as her “perverse fondness” for the plastic, throwaway culture she found equal parts seductive and threatening. New York, obsessed with fame, also provided the spark for her bipolar disorder. It was after New York that people close to her began to notice erratic behavior—like that night she saw the flying saucer. Once she started tipping into mental illness, she fell fast: “The first time she saw herself singing on the telly,” Bell recounts, “she was on the psychiatric ward.”

“Lots of episodes” followed. Marianne Elliott was misdiagnosed with schizophrenia—another false identity imposed from the outside. Bell doesn’t sugarcoat it: “I saw my mum being sedated many times… I was scared of her.” Elliot sought solace with the Hare Krishnas, where she received another new name, Maharani Dasi, and reconciled with Lora Logic, the X-Ray Spex’s first saxophonist. The peace Elliot found with the Hare Krishnas was intermittent at best. She still wasn’t able to care for her daughter, and losing Bell, who was primarily raised by Elliott’s own mother, “broke her heart.”

Yet her belief remained firm and sincere. Toward the end of her life, Poly Styrene returned to the stage, doing a comeback concert in which she called Bell onstage to join her in singing one of the X-Ray Spex’s most famous songs, the feminist provocation, “Oh Bondage! Up Yours!” It’s an edgy song, but there’s nothing but tenderness in Bell’s voice as she recalls, “It was amazing.” Elliott and Poly flow together here; but Elliott was Maharani Dasi too, and Maharani was Poly, the seeker, the rejecter of modern tech-based life in favor of ascetic community. And so the film ends not with the shared concert, but with a different mother-daughter ritual. Bell honors her mother’s last wish, to have her ashes scattered in the city believers consider the birthplace of the god Krishna.

To my surprise, this movie reminds me of nothing so much as Daniel Kelly’s 2014 Living on Fire: The Life of L. Brent Bozell, Jr. Marianne Elliott was a generation younger than the conservative Catholic firebrand and co-founder of National Review, and differed from him on almost every other demographic marker too. And yet their stories resonate with one another: both founded a vigorous cultural critique on personal alienation from contemporary complacency; both were harrowed by bipolar disorder, which disrupted the family they loved; both sought a deeper truth in religion and found it to be no cure for their suffering, but remained true to their faith anyway, at last experiencing reconciliation and peace. Both found wisdom in experiences that, to unsympathetic normal eyes, might look like nothing but symptoms.

Eve Tushnet is the author of two novels, Amends and Punishment: A Love Story, as well as the nonfiction Gay and Catholic: Accepting My Sexuality, Finding Community, Living My Faith. She lives in Washington, DC and writes and speaks on topics ranging from medieval covenants of friendship to underrated vampire films. Her hobbies include sin, confession, and ecstasy.Patreon Button

Shopping Mauled: Revisiting ‘The Mall: An Attempted Escape from Everyday Life’

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Ty Matejowsky / February 9, 2022

By now, dead shopping malls are as much a part of the popular imagination as they are blighted fixtures of suburban landscapes: sprawling vestiges of a bygone era when droves of consumers flocked to self-contained hubs of retail commerce, embracing late stage capitalism’s aspirational promises, seeking distraction from the inertia of edge-city ennui. Today, abandoned shopping malls haunt spaces of modernity in ways both real and notional, leaving baby boomers and Gen-Xers to confront varying levels of nostalgia and angst as memories of frequenting the enclosed facilities during their halcyon heyday collide with the stark realities of their prolonged and seemingly irreversible decline.

Doubtless, part of the sentimentality surrounding this emergent “mallstalgia” is the conspicuous foregrounding of multi-tier shopping centers in recent popular culture, including Stranger Things Season 3 (2019) and Wonder Woman 1984 (2020). Such depictions—what with their gleaming chrome surfaces, pastel-tinged aesthetics, and requisite new wave needle-drops—exert an outsized influence over how we (mis)remember indoor malls, never mind the commercial primacy and unique subcultures (e.g., mall rats, mall walkers) they once engendered. Amid such vivid renderings, it’s instructive to revisit contemporaneous accounts of mall life published at the height of their 1980s popularity, if for no other reason than to avoid overly romanticizing or essentializing these prevailing generational touchstones.

Notable among these is sociologist Jerry Jacobs’s slender 1984 monograph The Mall: An Attempted Escape from Everyday Life, which makes for some curious if occasionally vexing reading nearly 40 years after its initial publication. Boasting perhaps the least inspiring cover image of all time—a blurry black and white photo of a giant concrete planter sitting amid the half-shadows of a nondescript mall interior—the book came out as part of Waveland Press’s Case Studies, a multivolume academic series familiar to most ‘70s and ‘80s anthropology students.

In The Mall, Jacobs trades the indigenous societies and far-flung research locales of his series peers for the apparently pseudonymous Oldtown Shoptime Mall, an L-shaped, 750,000 square foot retail venue built in 1975, housing some 115 individual stores, and presumably located in upstate New York near his home institution of Syracuse University. Like most other early ‘80s malls, the Oldtown featured a healthy mix of retail and entertainment offerings: video arcades, banks, restaurants, department stores, and specialty shops selling jewelry, music, shoes, men’s/women’s/children’s apparel, sporting goods, books, greeting cards, and gifts. Local teenagers, housewives, and retirees are among those Jacobs identifies as frequent mall-goers, their comings and goings overseen by management staff and minimum wage-earning security guards.

Jacobs’s stated aim is to present “a documentary and ethnographic study of shopping malls in the United States and their profound influence on transforming our urban and suburban landscapes.” He largely achieves this objective when discussing things like tenant composition, mall security measures, and crime statistics (it is employees and not shoplifters who inflict the most “shrinkage,” or store inventory losses). More effective is when he documents the attitudes and behaviors of mall denizens, capturing in sometimes granular detail the ephemera of their casual conversations and social interactions. To wit, Jacobs records some bored high schoolers detailing what they find “weird” in other mall guests (“people who do their hair weird, wear dumb clothes, or wear ‘high waters’”).

Less productive are Jacobs’s attempts to situate his findings within established theoretical concepts. For example, he argues that the social life of shopping malls approaches Durkheim’s “society of saints.” That is, since “nothing unusual is happening” at malls, any untoward teenage or adult behavior, however slight, is unduly magnified and labeled deviant. Unlike the aberrant behavior that he associates with downtown business districts and their various “stigmatized persons” (“vagrants, drunks, prostitutes, street people, ex-mental patients, the retarded, or many blacks and ethnics”), the threshold for appropriate shopping mall behavior is so high, according to Jacobs, that any misstep can invite serious reprimand or sanction.

He further critiques malls by arguing that those frequenting them indulge in what he terms a “shrinking world,” a place where people seek out “a wide range of diversions, e.g., T.V., video games, the ‘walkman’ craze, alcohol, drugs, transcendental meditation, mental illness, art, science or rubic [sic] cubes” to avoid interpersonal interactions and escape the tedium of everyday life. For Jacobs, shopping malls remain places where the tacit promises of social transcendence and personal gratification ultimately go unfulfilled. If these assertions seem a bit tentative or lacking rigor, then readers had best brace themselves for the gratuitous editorializing and anecdotal asides that Jacobs deploys throughout The Mall. The book is chock full of strange digressions that only tangentially relate to its stated research aims.

For instance, when theorizing why shopping malls lack adequate restrooms, Jacobs suggests that they not only serve as potential sites of “crime against persons” but also “other sorts of offences such as ‘tea room trades’ (casual homosexual activities in public restrooms),” adding, inexplicably, that “the author [Jacobs] inadvertently blundered in on a situation of this sort in the restroom of an upper-class department store that anchored one end of a large shopping mall in Northern California.” Similarly, he devotes considerable pages to the perceived socio-psychological effects of coin-operated arcade machines on impressionable ‘80s youth. When addressing the future implications of adolescents spending so much time in mall arcades, Jacobs assumes the moral panic posturing of then U.S. Surgeon General Dr. C. Everett Koop, who said in 1982: “Their body language is tremendous and everything is Zap the enemy. There’s nothing constructive in the video games.” As if to further challenge the legitimacy of video games, Jacobs then relates how an Oldtown Shoptime Mall arcade was moved from its original location near a mall entrance to a less accessible area within the shopping center’s basement owing to the actions and threatening presence of “lower class black and white teenagers,” “dope dealers,” and other “undesirables.”

Such finger-wagging gives way to hyperbole and heavy-handedness in the book’s final section. Here, Jacobs drops any pretense at understatement, arguing, for example, that the “promised safety, comfort, and entertainment” of malls are on a “scale [that] has not been seen since the court at Versailles.” No less excessive is the book’s curveball ending. On the last two pages Jacobs warns against seeking escape in things like shopping malls by abruptly recounting the tragic 1983 news story of a 13-year-old California boy who killed himself after his father removed a bedroom television to prevent him from binging soap operas.

So, what to make of this obscure bit of academic ephemera? How should 21st century readers approach what is arguably the first in-depth account of American mall culture compiled by a social scientist, never mind one that inexplicably ends with a teen suicide note. Does this flawed account of a once novel topic of ethnographic inquiry add any new dimension or counterweight to the generalized and deepening nostalgia gaining currency nowadays across popular culture? In considering such questions, it may prove useful to juxtapose this on-the-ground snapshot of early ‘80s mall life with another critique of American modernity, one also suffused with an underlying sense of dread that showcases the ultimate emptiness of Reagan-era consumerism and media information overload. That is to say, The Mall can and maybe should be read as an addendum or companion piece to Don DeLillo’s darkly comic novel White Noise (1985), the story of Hitler Studies professor Jack Gladney and his fourth wife Babette searching for meaning amid a stitched-together family of children from previous marriages, a drug that suppresses the fear of death (Dylar), and an “airborne toxic event” that completely upends their middle-class existence.

A central setting of White Noise—a book itself with no shortage of digressions and seemingly pointless anecdotes—is the ten-story Mid-Village Mall (“a vast shopping center out on the interstate”) where, encouraged by his wife and (step)children, Jack spends an evening roaming fugue-like from store to store buying stuff he doesn’t need, and then driving home in contemplative silence. So immense is the Mid-Village Mall, in fact, that an elderly couple gets lost for two days among its vaulted interior spaces, eventually taking refuge in “an abandoned cookie shack,” before finally being discovered “alive but shaken.” As a sociological primer for the themes DeLillo more trenchantly explores in White Noise, The Mall provides some real-life observations grounded in ethnographic fieldwork. Read together, these nearly 40-year-old books work to demystify some of the idealized trappings retroactively projected onto enclosed shopping centers. More readily, they emphasize inchoate or latent existentialism characterizing mall-going at the height of its ‘80s popularity, as well as the gaping void that persists within so much of our consumerist lifestyle. Jacobs’s The Mall hints at many of the same issues as White Noise, now considered among DeLillo’s most popular and enduring works, albeit with much less eloquence and intentional humor, perhaps leaving some to ponder just how this curious retail ethnography got greenlighted, much less published.

Either way, the malls that Jacobs and DeLillo variously documented in the 1980s no longer wield the same cultural cachet they once did. As resonant reminders of time’s forward lurch and the impermanence of all things once ascendant, the ubiquity of dead shopping malls—analogous to “ghost” or “zombie” malls, which still operate but at much diminished capacity, scattered with mom and pop vape shops and nail salons—elicits visceral pangs of wistfulness even as Amazon buys them up to serve as massive fulfillment centers

Ty Matejowsky is a Professor of Anthropology at the University of Central Florida in Orlando.  He is a Libra who enjoys sunsets and long walks on the beach.
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Doom, Détente, Dr Pepper: ‘Godzilla 1984’ and ‘Godzilla 1985’

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Alex Adams / January 31, 2022

As Godzilla walked away into the sea in the closing shot of Terror of Mechagodzilla (1975), Japanese film studio Toho seemed to kiss their bellicose lizard goodbye forever. After fifteen explosive (and increasingly audacious) films over the course of 21 delirious years, the curtain finally fell and the lights finally came up. But of course, Godzilla is immortal: after nine long years, Toho resurrected the creature for Godzilla 1984, a thirtieth anniversary blank slate follow-up to the 1954 original. Also known as The Return of Godzilla and simply Godzilla, Godzilla 1984 is what we would now call a reboot: part remake, part sequel, a fresh start that retrieved some things from Godzilla’s past while discarding others.

And it discarded a lot. Every character and event—every wacky monster, every alien invasion—featured in every previous sequel, from the often-overlooked quickie follow-up Godzilla Raids Again (1955) to Terror of Mechagodzilla, was unceremoniously chucked in the bin. Retrieved: the aesthetic restraint and doom-laden tone of Ishiro Honda’s 1954 original. Godzilla was back, and it was mean. This new iteration, the last of the Cold War period, is something of an outlier in the Godzilla canon: stylistically distinct from the movies that precede and follow it, with a unique monster design and a feel all of its own. But it is also an interesting oddity among pop culture of the time, because the movie shows the Soviet and American nuclear powers, usually at one another’s throats, cooperating to eliminate an existential threat bigger than either of them. The film also reflects with unusual frankness on Japan’s geopolitical position as a minor power forced to stand up to both the US and the Russians, and, much like other high-profile sci-fi of the age, it is a powerful warning about the perils—and futility—of nuclear confrontation. A Godzilla movie of unusual sobriety, Godzilla 1984 tells us a lot about Cold War Japan, and the film’s Americanization as Godzilla 1985 a year later tells us perhaps even more about the politics of Cold War cultural production in the United States.

Close to the Brink: Godzilla 1984 and Nuclear Confrontation

Godzilla 1984 has a straightforward plot that interweaves two main stories, one focused on the scientific attempts to understand and contain Godzilla, and the other on the political ramifications of the monster’s unexpected rebirth. When Godzilla (played here with characteristic muscularity by Heisei-era suit actor Kenpachiro Satsuma) bursts out of a volcano, the Japanese authorities attempt, at first, to keep its re-emergence a secret, hoping that the creature will lay low and not cause any trouble. However, Godzilla soon forces their hand by destroying a Soviet submarine and almost provoking a catastrophic confrontation between the two nuclear superpowers. The uncovering of this secret quells the international tension, as it proves that no intentional provocation took place. Soon enough, however, Godzilla rampages through Tokyo, devastating the city and causing a Soviet nuclear missile to be remotely launched by accident. The Japanese Self-Defense Forces stop Godzilla with cadmium bombs and the US military launches a counter-missile, detonating the rogue warhead in the atmosphere above Tokyo. But the fallout from the blast reanimates Godzilla once again, and the only way to stop the beast is to lure it into another volcano using the insights gleaned from the scientific research of Professor Hayashida (Yosuke Natsuki). Falling back into the flames and lava of the underworld, Godzilla burns to death.

Godzilla 1984 is, then, the most direct engagement with Cold War themes to be found in the Godzilla series. Where the earlier films of the Shōwa period (1954-1975) addressed geopolitical matters playfully and obliquely through surreal symbolism and space opera allegory, Godzilla 1984 has explicit political themes front and center and throughout. Godzilla’s rebirth is the trigger event so widely dreaded in the 1980s: a sudden, destabilizing, and unpredictable crisis that threatens the delicate geopolitical balance and pushes the world closer to mutually assured destruction.

But though World War 3 may loom menacingly, Godzilla 1984 dispels the threat of nuclear war relatively quickly. The film’s concern is not the fear that an apocalyptic exchange of annihilations will take place between the nuclear powers, because, as mentioned above, the revelation of Godzilla’s responsibility for the destruction of the nuclear submarine quickly calms these fears. The specific and more nuanced fear that the film exploits is that a “slippery slope” effect could result from the use of nuclear weapons in this emergency. Times of crisis are, after all, times of temptation: when things get tough, the option to discard sensitive ethical principles and use brute force to solve problems seems ever more persuasive—as the Japanese were, of course, well aware, having been the victims of American nuclear aggression. Godzilla 1984 is that rare cultural artifact that doesn’t portray crisis as a time when an exception can be made. Instead, the movie foregrounds the struggle to stand by one’s principles when they are most sorely tested.          

This concern is most pronounced in a scene roughly halfway through the film. American and Soviet negotiators attempt to persuade the Japanese Prime Minister Seiki Mitamura (Keiju Kobayashi) to allow the use of nuclear weapons against Godzilla on Japanese territory. Harangued on both sides, the Prime Minister eventually stands firm in his anti-nuclear convictions. Pacifist principles mean nothing, he says, if we abandon them when they become inconvenient. More than anything, then, the film is a reaffirmation of Japan’s anti-militarist credo, enshrined into their post-war constitution in the form of a commitment to never again wage war. Even using nuclear weapons “defensively” is rejected: any deployment at all will legitimize their use and thus set a precedent that will encourage, however indirectly, their use in the future. (Of course, nuclear weapons are used, as a US missile intercepts the rogue Soviet warhead; but this is a tragic eventuality, an outcome that shows that the only justified use of nuclear weapons is itself anti-nuclear.)

This long negotiation scene also articulates a clear and passionate commentary on the Japanese national position during the Cold War. When the Japanese Prime Minister, once he’s finished discussing matters with his cabinet, plainly refuses to allow nuclear weapons to be used against Godzilla, he finishes his remarks by asking by what right the USA or Russia can demand to use these weapons on Japanese soil. “You accuse us of acting out of national pride, and maybe we are guilty of that. But what of your attitude? What right do you have to say that we should follow you? You are being selfish too.” Like the much later Shin Godzilla (2016), which sees Japanese authorities collaborating with American and French forces in their attempts to destroy the monster, Godzilla 1984 shows a Japan that can assert itself as a nation among equals, refusing to be dictated to. There is a certain nationalism here, of course, but also a tentative anti-imperialism. Both the US and Soviet ambassadors are pushy, aggressive, overconfidently combative; the Japanese PM is calm, reserved, above all human, his hands trembling as he holds his cigarette in his office and explains to his ministers how he finally managed to resolve the situation. Unlike the representatives of the nuclear powers, who seem to feel they have finally found the opportunity they crave to push the nuclear button, the Japanese—the only nation to have actually been on the receiving end of a nuclear strike—have a uniquely intimate insight into the human costs of nuclear aggression. This insight demands that they exhibit the vigilance and courage to say no, always, to nuclear weapons.

Rebirth, Resurrection

It’s not only the film’s more open approach to its political commitments that sets Godzilla 1984 apart from previous Godzilla movies. It also has grittier visuals and a more realist narrative approach, blending elements of the horror and political thriller genres into a more stylistically austere version of giant monster science fiction. The tone is darker, tragic, more serious; there are no more victory dances, special moves, speech bubbles, child protagonists, or plucky kaiju sidekicks. In place of these fun, carnivalesque elements that characterize many of Godzilla’s later Shōwa features, Godzilla 1984 prioritizes Godzilla annihilating Tokyo by night while the itchy trigger fingers of global superpowers threaten nuclear winter. The film’s opening has a pulpy horror feel, featuring spooky green lighting, grisly gloop and grue, and corpses sucked dry by a giant facehugger-esque sea-tick. Its closing movement is slow, quiet, elegiac, full of moments of aching stillness as the confused monster is led to its doom. Like only three other Godzilla films (the original, Roland Emmerich’s 1998 Godzilla, and Shin Godzilla), Godzilla does not fight another monster, allowing the primal majesty of the monster itself to take center stage.

This majesty feels a little understated, though, as Godzilla’s redesign is only partially successful. There is lots to love, particularly in the creature’s auditory profile. The crashes and booms of its stomping feet are satisfyingly cacophonous, and the roar is more animalistic, guttural, and thunderous—more, in short, like the roar found in the original Godzilla and less like the more jovial skreeonk heard throughout the comparatively light-hearted sequels of the 1960s and ’70s. On the other hand, the suit often looks goofy due to its clunky articulation and static, inexpressive eyes; and compared with Godzilla’s previous destructive antics, the rampage through Tokyo feels lukewarm and low-energy. But it is the characterization of Godzilla as what director Koji Hashimoto calls “a living conflict of evil and sadness” that ultimately makes the new Godzilla an effective beast. Though critics have dismissed Godzilla’s slow movement in this movie as aimless, dawdling, and boring, the monster seems more sympathetic, and more interesting, when interpreted as a confused, hapless, and hungry creature struggling to understand the world around it. Neither a conquering embodiment of sheer, malicious onslaught or a swashbuckling, child-friendly superhero, Godzilla appears here as a tragic, doomed figure, lost in a baffling and hostile environment. This iteration of Godzilla speaks to the confusion and helplessness felt by many in the face of the absurd yet terrifyingly real nuclear threat.

The deliberate strategy of positioning Godzilla 1984 as more grown-up, more aesthetically mature, is an attempt to refurbish Godzilla’s reputation, to wipe away the embarrassment of the increasingly goofy Shōwa years. Many fans (myself included) love the more freewheeling 1970s films, with their wackier stories and more outré characterizations—such as the space cockroaches using an amusement park to infiltrate human society in Godzilla Vs. Gigan (1972), the sentient robot Jet Jaguar who helps Godzilla destroy an avenging hollow earth cockroach in Godzilla Vs. Megalon (1973), and the dog-god King Caesar who helps destroy Godzilla’s metal doppelganger in Godzilla Vs. Mechagodzilla (1974). But Steve Ryfle, in his book Japan’s Favorite Mon-Star, speaks for many when he calls the post-Destroy All Monsters (1968) movies Godzilla’s “dark days” because of the dramatic drop in both seriousness and production value.

And it is true that these later stock footage-laden sequels were made on lower budgets, catered to a younger audience, and saw decreasing ticket sales. The rise of TV kept audiences away from the cinema, and genre competition from the likes of American import Star Wars, rival studio Daiei’s turtle kaiju Gamera, and TV sensation Ultraman dethroned Godzilla from his status as King of the Monsters, demoting him into a mid-field also-ran no longer able to dominate at the box office. This reduction in quality is reflected in the critical consensus around these later movies, which very often dismisses them as tacky pop culture crap that reflects poorly on the brooding arthouse gravitas of the 1954 original. “Americans in particular,” writes Den of Geek, “were coming to see Godzilla films as a punchline, as the cheapest of the cheap and the dumbest of the dumb.” The child-friendly animation series by Hanna-Barbera (1978-79), with its fairy-tale tone, grating levity, and the Scrappy Doo-esque mini-monster Godzooky, did nothing to counter this reputation.

These judgements about the cultural value of entertainment clearly influenced the creative process of Godzilla 1984. If this new incarnation was to be taken as seriously as its creators felt Godzilla deserved, the film needed to comprehensively parade its seriousness. It has its moments of humor and brightness, of course, but the movie’s color palette is dominated by blacks, grays, and reds; its soundtrack is an opulent mixture of the heavily percussive and the orchestrally mournful; and its conclusions (both narrative and philosophical) are somber. For some critics—notably the condescending Roger Ebert, who said in his error-filled one-star review that the movie deliberately echoed “the absurd dialogue, the bad lip-synching, the unbelievable special effects, the phony profundity” of the original—this was not a task worth taking time over. But for others, the return to darkness is a return to form, and the movie was successful enough to initiate a run of six increasingly flamboyant sequels. From 1989 to 1995, a new series of “versus films” would feature wild, bizarre plots worthy of the Shōwa era and a newly threatening, grimly charismatic Godzilla.   

Your Favorite Fire-Breathing Monster… Like You’ve Never Seen Him Before! 

Godzilla’s history is, to an extent at least, a history of cross-cultural communication. As Japan modernized rapidly in the decades after the Second World War, its popular cultural export business, including anime and manga (from the surreal darkness of Akira and Ghost in the Shell to the melancholy whimsy of Studio Ghibli), extreme horror movies by auteurs such as Takashi Miike (whose 1999 Audition and 2001 Ichi the Killer pushed the horror envelope at home and abroad), video gaming platforms and characters including Nintendo, PlayStation, and Pokemon, and popular toy lines such as Gundam Wing and Bandai’s two brands Transformers and Machine Robo (known in the West as Gobots), constituted one of the most important aspects of its economic recovery. Tokusatsu—special effects movies, including kaiju movies—were no small part of this outpouring of soft power.

But Godzilla’s history in the West is also, in large part, a history of bowdlerization. Godzilla: King of the Monsters! (1956) was a tonally sympathetic adaptation of the 1954 original; it retained a great deal of the original performances and much of the best effects work, adding Steve Martin (Raymond Burr), an American journalist functioning as a focalizing character who narrated the plot more or less directly to the audience. For years, however, Toho’s poor grasp of overseas licensing meant that US distributors (keen to exploit the films financially, but utterly unsentimental about their content) were often free to butcher subsequent movies willy-nilly, adding stock footage, new music, and comically bad dubbing. Though the rationale for these editorial intrusions was usually that such changes were intended to make the films more accessible to non-Japanese audiences, some of the interventions seem brutal and ludicrous to later viewers, many of whom prefer to see the films as close to the way their original creators intended as possible. Godzilla’s first sequel, Godzilla Raids Again, was recut and retitled Gigantis! The Fire Monster (1959)—as well as stuffing it with stock footage and giving it a patronizing explanatory voice-over, the adaptors even changed Godzilla’s name—and sequel number two, King Kong Vs. Godzilla, had vital scenes of exposition, comedy, and characterization stripped out and replaced with a talking head newscaster who directly and listlessly explained the plot to the audience.

Compared with rough handling like this, Godzilla 1985 is a mostly thoughtful and considerate adaptation of Godzilla 1984. Much as the Japanese version is a blank slate reboot of the original Godzilla, the American recut is a direct sequel to Godzilla: King of the Monsters! And, like its predecessor, Godzilla 1985 features a light-touch streamlining of the narrative, a reasonably proficient dub, and the retention of much of the original score. That said, Godzilla 1985 has its share of problems. Reviews were generally poor, with critics often targeting the special effects, which seemed old-fashioned and underwhelming to US audiences now used to the visual wonders experienced in films like Alien (1979), Blade Runner (1982), and The Terminator (1984). “Though special-effects experts in Japan and around the world have vastly improved their craft in the last 30 years,” wrote the New York Times, “you wouldn’t know it from this film.” Elsewhere, the adaptation process itself took flak. A redundant sub-plot featuring American military characters, which is shot on a visibly flimsy set and padded with silly jokes, was added. On this count, Steve Ryfle is particularly withering, noting that this narrative element makes Godzilla 1985 “a dead serious Japanese monster movie interrupted every ten minutes or so by pointless vignettes featuring (mostly bad) American actors, including a wisecracking military punk who should be shot.”     

But this is the least of it. Godzilla 1985 is now notorious for its extraordinarily heavy-handed Dr Pepper product placement. Dr Pepper stumped up a proportion of the cash for the reshoots, and they demanded a lot in return. As a result, the American characters approvingly sip the beverage in the war room and converse in front of a dazzlingly bright vending machine. In the campy tie-in promo adverts, Godzilla attacks Tokyo in search of the soft drink, and his picky girlfriend Lady Godzilla demands the diet version. Though the tonal reset of Godzilla 1984 sought to distance Godzilla from the sillier aspects of the monster’s reputation, the studios responsible were clearly happy enough to exploit this reputation for marketing and promotional purposes.       

Perhaps most importantly, however, Raymond Burr reprises his role as the journalist Steve Martin, appearing here as a world-weary father figure summoned by the US military for his insight into the original disaster. Legend has it that Burr had a profound influence on the project, rewriting or extemporizing lines, refusing to drink Dr Pepper, and forcing the production team to take the subject matter seriously. Whether or not these stories are apocryphal—a recent piece in fanzine Kaiju Ramen suggests that there is little evidence to actually support such tales—Burr definitely brings a certain hammy seriousness to the new scenes without which they would be much the poorer. Much as the Japanese Prime Minister is the voice of conscience in Godzilla 1984, in Godzilla 1985 Martin is a grizzled and wise elder who dampens the youthful enthusiasm of the American military officers with his cynical testimony from the past. Martin offers nuggets of expertise about Godzilla’s behavior, expertise gained from his exposure to the beast but also, it is implied, from years of thoughtful reflection on the matter. He is clear, for instance, that military force will yield no results. “Firepower of any kind or magnitude is not the answer,” he states. “Godzilla’s like a hurricane or a tidal wave. We must approach him as we would a force of nature. We must understand him, deal with him, perhaps even try to communicate with him.”

The movie closes with an ominous monolog delivered by Burr, which is rich in metaphysical claims about humanity’s inability to challenge the colossal natural forces that Godzilla represents:

Nature has a way sometimes of reminding man of just how small he is. She occasionally throws up the terrible offsprings of our pride and carelessness to remind us of how puny we really are in the face of a tornado, an earthquake, or a Godzilla. The reckless ambitions of man are often dwarfed by their dangerous consequences. For now, Godzilla, that strangely innocent and tragic monster, has gone to her. Whether he returns or not, or is never again seen by human eyes, the things he has taught us remain.

Godzilla 1985 is, then, much more didactic than Godzilla 1984, and by hammering the message home so hard it also loses a lot of its subtlety and sophistication. Much of the complexity of the negotiation scenes is stripped out, for example, replacing the debate among the Japanese cabinet with a straightforward refusal to countenance nuclear weapons. This retains the superficial anti-nuclear message of Godzilla 1984 but cuts out the discussion of Japan’s right to participate as an international equal, reducing the thorny discussion of Japan’s delicate geopolitical position to a flat and peremptory rejection of nuclear weapons. Removing these scenes and inserting far less interesting pontifications on man’s relationship with nature—“Godzilla’s a product of civilization. Men are the only real monsters,” says Professor Hayashida—may make the film more palatable to international audiences (although it’s not clear how we would know whether this is really true), but they do so at the cost of dampening and impoverishing the movie’s political insights. Godzilla 1984 gives us a glimpse into Japan’s Cold War position; Godzilla 1985 gives us pompous platitudes about the power of nature.

This distortion is found throughout other American adaptations of Godzilla. In Emmerich’s Godzilla, the monster is awoken by French nuclear testing in the Pacific, and Gareth Edwards’s Godzilla (2014) reframes US nuclear testing in the 1950s as attempts to kill Godzilla. Edwards’s film (as well as its sequel, 2019’s Godzilla: King of the Monsters) does feature Dr. Serizawa’s father’s stopped pocket watch, a family heirloom from Hiroshima, but in general there is a tendency in US adaptations to minimize American historical responsibility for the actual use of nuclear weapons against human targets. Godzilla 1985 is notable in this regard, as perhaps its most striking change is that the Russians are transformed into nuclear aggressors. Where the Russian officer tries desperately to stop the launch in Godzilla 1984, in Godzilla 1985 this scene is subtly recut to indicate that the Russian’s dying struggle is in fact motivated by his desire to ensure that the missile is launched. To the last breath, the Soviets are murderous villains.   

This extraordinary political about-face, in which the movie is changed from a piece of anti-nuclear pacifism to a piece of Reaganite anti-Soviet propaganda, is explained, in part at least, by the conservative politics of the owners of New World Pictures. Originally started by B-movie legend Roger Corman, by 1985 New World was owned by execs Larry Kupin, Harry E. Sloan, and Larry A. Thompson, whose conservative affiliations led to the studio cutting out valuable scenes examining Japan’s right to refuse the demands of the two nuclear superpowers, as well as cynically turning the Soviets into villains. For many viewers this change is not only nonsensical and ridiculous but actively undermines the longstanding political commitments of the Godzilla franchise. Another reviewer writes that in Godzilla 1985 “the Russians take the place of all those goofy alien races that populated the 1960s and 70s-era Godzilla movies.” The Kilaaks and Xiliens were, I have written elsewhere, allegories for aggressive imperial powers; in this light, it is particularly disappointing that Godzilla 1985 makes this change. Where Toho’s previous films—and, indeed, Godzilla 1984—are critical of imperialism, Godzilla 1985 is a piece of imperial propaganda directly engaged in the Reaganite public relations project of demonizing Communism.

In the final analysis, however, Godzilla 1985 is perhaps more interesting than Godzilla 1984. Its distortions of the Japanese version throw light on what is most compelling about the original, and there is a lot of apocrypha to go around to boot. It is fun, for instance, to imagine the trepidation of the production staffer tasked with asking Raymond Burr to approvingly quaff Dr Pepper before delivering a line about man’s fragility in the face of the overwhelming mystery of nature. And home video sales of Godzilla 1985 were a major success, contributing massively to the continued overseas popularity of Godzilla. It is only a shame, then, that no official home video release of Godzilla 1985 exists, at least not here in the UK where I’m writing from. While Toho is putting out Godzilla hot sauce, Godzilla coffee, and Godzilla drinking chocolate, it remains the task of amateur preservationists to ensure that the films themselves remain in circulation. 

Godzilla 1984 generated six sequels over the next eleven years, with a revamped Godzilla battling old foes King Ghidorah, Mothra, and Mechagodzilla, as well as new creatures Biollante, Spacegodzilla, and Destoroyah. These Heisei-era versus films represent the franchise’s first sustained attempt at the sort of inter-film continuity that modern audiences recognize and expect, with a consistent set of characters, later films following up on previous movies, and something of a long-term narrative arc. For me, this sequence of films also represents some of the highest points of the entire franchise, as they feature glittering and pyrotechnically adventurous practical effects at their most wondrous, monster design that is iconic and inventive, and some of the most interesting themes in the series, from the dystopian vision of bioweaponry and espionage in Godzilla Vs Biollante (1989), to the hopeful environmentalism of Godzilla Vs Mothra (1992), to the detonation-heavy antimilitarism of Godzilla Vs Mechagodzilla II (1993). The late Cold War oddity of Godzilla 1984, then, and its much-maligned recut Godzilla 1985, would be the catalyst for a resurgence in Toho’s tokusatsu fortunes that continued long after the tensions the movie took as its subject matter were permanently transformed. The world may change around the monster, but the monster itself is immortal.

Alex Adams is a cultural critic and writer based in North East England. His most recent book, How to Justify Torture, was published by Repeater Books in 2019. He loves dogs.

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