- source

- source

St George Rescuing a Maiden from a Dragon (Study for a Bookplate) 

Rivalin, 1921 

Illustration for Dante Alighieri's 'The Divine Comedy'1921 

Illustration for Dante Alighieri's 'The Divine Comedy'1921 

Illustration for Dante Alighieri's 'The Divine Comedy'1921 

Guardian Moat 

Tribute to Salome, 1921 

I stumbled onto this book years ago at a used book store. This collection of Bayros's erotic drawings "The amorous drawings of the Marquis von Bayros" is now available on archive.org, check it out here.

Original artist website here..

Horoscope, 1981 

Homage to Raymond Roussel, 1970 

L'Angelus, 1972

The Night Stirs , 1974 

The Zinc Son 

The Colossus , 1990 

Crossroads, 1971 

Surrealist Salon, 1968 

Composition, 1971 

Ashes 10 

 Jorge Camacho - Reflection Corruption (Tribute to D.A.F. Sade), 1964

Alex Adams / October 6, 2021

In Toho’s 1965 tokusatsu spectacular Invasion of the Astro Monster, humanity makes contact with ruthless hive-mind aliens from Planet X, a new stellar body discovered on the far side of Jupiter. The aliens who inhabit this cold, bleak planet—the Xiliens—are a technologically advanced but blankly unemotional civilization, a race of grey-clad scientists whose remarkable intellectual development has allowed them to live safely underground in the hostile, unwelcoming environment of Planet X. They propose an interplanetary trade: if the world’s authorities—Japan, the US, and the UN—will lend them Godzilla and the fire-hawk Rodan in order to fight off the murderous three-headed space dragon King Ghidorah, who has, of late, become the scourge of Planet X, the Xiliens will provide humanity with the cure for cancer. This trade sounds like a win-win, a blessing, as Earth will simultaneously be rid of its two most troublesome inhabitants and gain a medical miracle. But, of course, it is a cynical double-cross: by stealing Godzilla and Rodan, the Xiliens have captured Earth’s only defences against Ghidorah, who is in fact a living weapon under their control that they plan to use to colonize Earth. Though the “superior” race comes offering gifts, they in fact seek to subjugate and exploit.

Invasion of the Astro Monster is a potent blend of alien invasion, mind control, and interplanetary blackmail. This story, retold several times in the Shōwa era of the Godzilla franchise, is a clear engagement with themes of anti-imperialism and anti-colonialism that were very much current across the globe in the mid-1960s, a decade featuring a panoply of gruesome colonial wars the world over in Algeria, Vietnam, Angola, Kenya, and elsewhere. It is widely acknowledged that Godzilla is, as Ian Buruma writes in the BFI DVD booklet for Ishiro Honda’s original Godzilla (1954), “a profoundly political monster.” But Godzilla’s many sequels are often written off as cheap and goofy cash-ins. Big mistake. Much as US sci-fi movies like The Blob (1958), The Thing From Another World (1951) or Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956) used alien encounters to think through themes of cross-cultural contact, colonialism, and communism, the Shōwa Ghidorah movies are a rich engagement with world-historical themes of Cold War antagonism, first contact, and imperial manipulation.

A History of the Dragon

Godzilla has long been understood as a powerful symbol of nuclear devastation and the horror of war. While this is true, Godzilla has taken many forms over his seventy-year career, and he has symbolized a great many things. Philip Brophy writes that Godzilla is “less a vessel for consistent authorial and thematic meaning as he is a shell to be used for the generation of potential and variable meanings.” This is true of many of his adversaries too. Monsters have always been tremendously flexible and evocative ways of digesting ideas, fears, and emotions, and Toho’s Kaiju are no exception.

King Ghidorah, an enormous three-headed golden dragon inspired by Yamata No Orochi—a fearsome eight-headed dragon from Shinto mythology—is perhaps Godzilla’s most frequently battled adversary. Along with Mechagodzilla, Rodan, Mothra, and Godzilla, King Ghidorah is one of the cornerstones of the Kaiju Big Five, and his antagonism with Godzilla headlines eight movies, with further variations on Ghidorah also appearing in Godzilla: Final Wars (2004) and the Heisei Mothra trilogy (1996-1998). In the Shōwa period (1954-1975), he is a villain in Ghidorah, The Three-Headed Monster (1964), its sequel Invasion of the Astro Monster, the blockbuster monster brawl Destroy All Monsters (1968), and, as a supporting character, in Godzilla vs. Gigan (1972). In the Heisei period (1984-1995), Godzilla vs. King Ghidorah (1991) would see Ghidorah inflicted on Japan by time-travelling saboteurs—not to mention his cyborgic resurrection as Mecha-King-Ghidorah at the film’s climax. Ten years later, Ghidorah’s role was reversed when he teamed up with Mothra and Baragon to save humanity from Godzilla in Shusuke Kaneko’s Godzilla, Mothra, King Ghidorah: Giant Monsters All-Out Attack (2001). Later in the twenty-first century, King Ghidorah once again features as Godzilla’s arch-nemesis in The Planet Eater (2018), the climactic movie of the Polygon Anime trilogy, and King of the Monsters (2019), the second movie in the ongoing Legendary MonsterVerse. No other monster confronts Godzilla so many times and in so many forms. His Cold War appearances are, thematically, particularly rich and rewarding.

King Ghidorah’s first movie, Ghidorah: The Three-Headed Monster, is a crossover sequel that, through its incorporation of other successful Toho monsters into the Godzilla franchise, was the Avengers: Endgame (2019) of its day. In Rodan (1957), aggressive mining operations awaken a species of enormous and destructive prehistoric birds, and in Mothra (1961) a scientific expedition to Infant Island incurs the wrath of a colossal and beautiful winged insect. Both of these monsters would return in Ghidorah, meshing together their continuities with Godzilla’s and building a wider fictional universe overflowing with Kaiju. Both Rodan and Mothra had a clear environmentalist emphasis, but Mothra is particularly explicit with its political themes. Through its characterization of the greasy capitalist Clark Nelson as an amoral and exploitative villain and its satire of the imperialist nation “Rolisica,” the movie comments on Japan’s geopolitical conundrum: caught between the two nuclear superpowers, striving for more independence from American influence, and balancing the demands of economic prosperity and modernization with the desire to preserve traditional Japanese values. After the runaway success of King Kong Vs. Godzilla (1962/3), which fused monster spectacle with a satire of the advertising industry, Rodan and Mothra too would have their opportunity to confront Godzilla, enriching the franchise with political commentary.

The central themes of power and violence are developed iteratively through the Shōwa monster movies, from the nuclear allegory of Godzilla, the environmental anti-imperialism of the two Mothra films, and on into the Ghidorah movies, which comment much more explicitly on imperial violence and conquest. Mothra’s first sequel, Mothra vs. Godzilla (retitled in the US as Godzilla vs. The Thing) was released early in 1964, and later that year Ghidorah, the Three-Headed Monster hit cinema screens as a winter blockbuster. The movie’s bombastic plot saw the virtuous Mothra persuade the quarrelsome Rodan and Godzilla to team up against the alien peril Ghidorah, a beast more threatening and dangerous than anything anyone had seen before.

Perhaps the single most notable aspect of Ghidorah: The Three-Headed Monster is its lighter, more family-friendly tone. Where once they represented different flavors of doom, Rodan, Mothra, and Godzilla now come to humanity’s aid and are openly celebrated as the triumphant heroes of the hour. This broader tonal appeal has sometimes been read as a disengagement from political themes, as the movie’s crowd-pleasing entertainment value is seen as overriding any attempt to sermonize on social or political matters. Noted Godzilla investigator Steve Ryfle, for instance, writes that in this movie “high-brow issues like nuclear weapons and commercialism are abandoned in favor of pure, fast-paced escapism.” But the central antagonism in the film—the clash between the alien Ghidorah and the trio of cooperating Earthly Kaiju—in fact extends the series’ engagement with international politics even more boldly than the previous entries in the Godzilla series.

In a short tongue-in-cheek article in a 2000 issue of the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists, Janne Nolan writes that Ghidorah’s first movie works as a compelling example of the benefits of international security cooperation. The movie “is a clear demonstration that even mutants, despite tiny brains and a Darwinian environment, can understand the imperatives of cooperative security when survival is at stake. Maybe policy-makers will be next.” Though Nolan is writing playfully here, this interpretation in fact has much to recommend it. Japan’s post-1945 constitution was written by the occupying US forces, and it placed firm restrictions on Japan’s ability to form an army of any kind. Over the following decades, this constitution and various additional security treaties that were added to it became increasingly controversial and unpopular across the political spectrum, culminating in violent protests in 1960. And there was plenty more happening abroad: China’s regional influence and nuclear weapons program were growing, and China tested its first atomic weapon two months before Ghidorah was released; the USSR was a strong and expanding regional presence; memory of the Korean War was painfully fresh; war raged, bloody and bitter, in Vietnam. Cooperative security, then (however reluctant and fragile), would be a theme that was at the forefront of many Japanese audience members’ minds in 1964.

As we have seen, the sequel Invasion of the Astro Monster (originally titled Godzilla vs. Monster Zero) followed in 1965, omitting Mothra and sophisticating the narrative. Where in his first appearance Ghidorah’s arrival on Earth had been a freak accident, in his second Ghidorah is cynically used against the Earth as part of an overtly imperialist venture by the Xiliens. Similarly, in Destroy All Monsters the Kilaak aliens hijack Earth’s monsters and unleash Ghidorah with the explicit aim of blackmailing humanity into submission. The Kilaaks announce that they come offering peace terms that humanity must accept or die; sacrifices must be made if the Kilaaks are to build the perfect world.

This rhetoric of peace is a particularly evocative element of the films’ representation of imperialism. Roman historian Tacitus famously wrote in Agricola, his history of the Roman conquest of Britain, that the Romans “make a desert and call it peace.” These words are spoken by Calgacus, a Caledonian war leader and resister of Agricola’s conquest, a “barbarian” Briton who Tacitus turns into an eloquent critic of the violence of the Roman Empire. Calgacus’s insight is that the bloodthirsty and warlike Romans, who conquer the entire world through slaughter, slavery, and pillage, cynically describe themselves as benevolent peace-bringers. Indeed, little has changed in the vocabulary of warlike empires: to this day, devastating imperial wars are justified as liberatory and civilizing, as the necessary violence that will bring enlightenment to the dark places of the world. Toho’s Astro-colonizers, too, repeatedly speak the language of peace and cooperation while preparing to annihilate or enslave humanity. In 1972’s Godzilla vs. Gigan (originally titled Earth Destruction Directive), Ghidorah is sidekick to the sinister robotic space-chicken Gigan, and once again both monsters are used against the Earth by an invading force of alien beings, this time the Nebula M aliens. In this one, huge cockroaches masquerading as humans are “striving to bring absolute peace to the whole world.” By this, the Nebula M aliens actually mean that they are plotting the eradication of humanity and the extractive exploitation of Earth’s environment and resources. 

“Oh Glenn, I am governed by electronics”

This masquerade, in which alien cockroaches appear indistinguishable from ordinary humans, is an interesting thematic overlap with a particularly politically charged Cold War form: the espionage thriller. It is of course no coincidence that the monster stories in Ghidorah movies are often complemented by espionage stories involving the human characters. This was due both to the explosive popularity of 007—Sean Connery had swaggered and snogged his way through Dr. No in 1962 and From Russia With Love in 1963, initiating a global sensation still going strong in 2021—and the rise of Japanese Yakuza crime films that were beloved by audiences. Importantly, many generic elements of Japanese crime and espionage stories (and their Western counterparts) translated particularly well to science fiction, including mind control, subterfuge, infiltration, and double-cross.

Some of the movies’ women are particularly important elements of the Cold War politics of the Shōwa Ghidorah stories. In Invasion of the Astro Monster, American astronaut Glenn’s (Nick Adams) Japanese fiancé Namikawa (Kumi Mizuno) is revealed to be in fact a Citizen of Planet X, where all women look identical—she has been sent by the ashen-faced Commander to seduce and surveil Glenn with the aim of recruiting him to the Xilien cause. Like a sexual temptress from an Ian Fleming novel, she has used her feminine wiles to compromise and manipulate our wisecracking male hero. However, in a campy yet emotionally powerful scene, she defies her programming to declare her authentic love for him—for which crime she is vaporized by her superior. “Our actions are controlled by electronic computers, not by human emotions,” explains the Xilien who coldly murders Namikawa. “When that law is violated, the offender is eliminated.” Likewise, in Destroy All Monsters, Kyoko Manabe (Yukiko Kobayashi) has a small metal receiver implanted into her earrings, and, robotically, she follows the Kilaaks’ every broadcasted command, blithely sowing destruction wherever she goes.

Brainwashing was a major cause of political panic in the late 1950s and early 1960s. American POWs, horribly traumatized by their torture in communist re-education camps, were filmed falsely accusing themselves of war crimes, refusing repatriation, and regurgitating communist propaganda. This extreme ideological indoctrination was dehumanizing, depersonalizing, humiliating, and appeared particularly terrifying because it seemed to show that the human brain could be rewired or manipulated to the extent not only that the prior personality was eliminated but, worse, that the victim appeared either blissfully unaware of or sycophantically grateful for their transformation. Very soon, however, the focus of the political panic sharpened, shifting from the suffering of the captured Americans to the possibility that repatriated soldiers could be reprogrammed into secret assassins whilst appearing, from the outside, to be respectable and well-integrated citizens.

In Richard Condon’s 1959 novel The Manchurian Candidate (famously adapted by John Frankenheimer in 1962), for example, the stepson of a prominent anti-communist senator is brainwashed and used as a remote-control communist assassin. The double agent, unaware of his own programming, is memorably described as “Caesar’s son to be sent into Caesar’s chamber to kill Caesar.” Soon enough, of course, this would shift once more into a more generalized scaremongering about Soviet indoctrination, sleeper agents, and totalitarian mind control that clearly influenced Toho’s Ghidorah movies. The enemy who seems concerned for our safety but who secretly plots our violent demise—the double-crossing double agent, the indoctrinated infiltrator—was a very widespread Cold War bogeyman, and he remains with us today in the modified form of the secretive “lone wolf” terrorist living and moving among us.

“The standard message” of the science fiction film, writes Susan Sontag in 1966’s Against Interpretation, “is the one about the proper, or humane, use of science, versus the mad, obsessional use of science.” Later: “Science is magic, and man has always known that there is black magic as well as white.” The black magic of mind control is one of the most enduring aspects of Cold War political panic. In their attempts to “scientifically” understand Communist brainwashing, the CIA developed the MKUltra program, a set of gruesome torture sessions masquerading as scientific investigations into the limits of human endurance. This program (and the assumptions about the scientific possibility of directing the human mind that underpin it) has continued to have terrible ramifications into the present, as psychologists were brought in to develop the post-9/11 torture program, pseudoscientifically dignifying scandalous mistreatment by presenting it as a controlled and methodical process of scientific investigation. In each of these cases, black magic is not magic at all, but simply, and sadly, torture. Of course, it is overreach to suggest that the Shōwa Ghidorah movies are about CIA torture; but it is clearly true that brainwashing and mind control have always been deeply political concerns.

King Ghidorah: A Political Demonology

The four Shōwa movies featuring Ghidorah are, then, remarkably thematically consistent. Alien invasion, subterfuge, mind control, and monster cooperation (a kind of Kaiju anti-imperialism) are central to each of them. Most fundamental, however, is the theme of power. Ghidorah is, after all, a King: a total sovereign, breathing fire, exercising absolute and arbitrary power over everything he surveys. It’s true that there is a lot of knockabout fun involved, but the Shōwa Ghidorah movies are also vibrant explorations of authoritarian power, of the political totalitarianism that was so powerful and such an omnipresent concern in the mid-20th century. Importantly, too, a major part of the appeal of the films is their ambiguity. It’s difficult, after all, to say exactly which empire Ghidorah’s villainous commanders are supposed to represent, and, in any case, pinning it down to one definite answer would only diminish the sloshy, sticky generosity of the metaphor.

But it is nonetheless interesting to think it through in terms of concrete possibilities. Since the relationship to the US was a matter of considerable controversy in 1960s Japan, the Astro-colonizers in these movies could well represent America—that most powerful and potentially violent of international actors, the occupier turned ally whose boot was slamming down heavily and noisily in Vietnam. The USSR was also a significant political concern, another expansionist superpower bearing down upon Japan; as we have seen, brainwashing was seen as a specifically communist tactic. But the Cold War period was also marked by precipitous decolonization and rapid, blood-soaked political reconfiguration. The French suffered humiliating and ruinous defeats in Indochina and the Maghreb, most notably in the Algerian Revolution, a bitterly violent conflict abroad that caused the downfall of the Fourth Republic at home. Britain fought dirtily in harrowing counterinsurgency wars in Kenya, Aden, Cyprus, Malaya, and elsewhere. Portugal, too, prosecuted a gruesome campaign in Angola that ended in ignominious defeat. Japan, of course, had its own share of Imperial shame.

Invasion of the Astro Monster makes explicit reference to this global unrest in a startling montage of documentary photography that follows the revelation of the Xilien betrayal.

In the 1960s, cities the world over, including Tokyo, were the stages of protests, unrest, and heavily militarized police crackdowns as groups representing a wide array of new political forces rose up against the established order. This clear visual reference to the global reconfigurations of power that were taking place in the long wake of World War 2 unambiguously situates the Xilien conquest in the tradition of Earthly political upheaval. The Xiliens could be the French, the Soviets, the US, Perfidious Albion—the British Empire—or even the militaristic Japanese Empire of recent memory. Destroy All Monsters, too, set in the utopian future of 1999, shows the fragility of international peace and its vulnerability to imperialist aggression. The futuristic society at the end of the Millennium, dedicated to cooperation and scientific discovery, is still easy prey to the calmly, arrogantly seductive Kilaaks, who are an amalgam of every negative trait ascribed to imperialists: parasitic, violent, manipulative, and smugly convinced of their own superiority. In the final analysis, it is precisely the fact that the Kilaaks, Nebula M aliens, and Xiliens represent imperialism in general, rather than any specific historical constellation, that gives these movies their power.

This condemnation of empire, of course, raises an interesting contradiction, or tension, with relation to the US. One of the defining ideological contradictions of postwar America is that it has managed to present itself as somehow “not an empire” despite its constant projection of militarized power across the planet. The demonization of the tactics of the duplicitous aliens in Invasion of the Astro Monster—a Japan-US co-production—is, for example, clearly in harmony with the political ends of American Cold War neo-imperialist ideology, and serves to cement US-Japan relations as much as it does to criticize them. That is, by using the Xiliens to caricature the crimes of the dying 19th century empires and showing the countries of the democratic capitalist West as an anti-imperial coalition defeating the villains, US-led imperial aggression is painted as a form of humanistic anti-imperialism. The fetishization of anti-imperial resistance is, after all, a core component of contemporary imperial ideology: think Star Wars or any number of similar genre pieces in which plucky Davids smash brutish Goliaths. 

In summary, then, the Shōwa Ghidorah films are extraordinary documents of Cold War politics. As they were being made, the old empires were being smashed to the ground, and in the process imperial power itself was problematized and condemned as never before. In this context of global transformation, imperialism itself took on the appearance of senseless, cruel, and openly manipulative barbarism, and imperialists were known more openly as blackmailers, villains, and torturers—or, as Glenn puts it in Invasion of the Astro Monster, as “double-crossin’ finks.” What better metaphor, then, for the arbitrary despotism of empire than a colossal golden hydra remotely controlled by forked-tongued extortionists?

Alex Adams is a writer based in North East England. He writes widely on popular culture and politics, and he is currently writing Godzilla: A Critical Demonology for Headpress Books. Follow him on Twitter at @AlexAdams5 and @GDemonology, or visit his website to read more.

Midnight Animal, 1980 

Double Cephalopod, 1973 

Half Man, Half Dark, 1976 

Behind His Double, 1973 

La Rou, 1975 

Rapture I, 1981 

The Midnight Demon, 1975 

Ge's crisis, 1978 

Le Chasseur Chassé, 1973

He Tilts Off His First Self, 1974 

The Present Past, 1960-80 

The Prey of Water, 1970 

Rebel Bird, 1970 

Born, 1937 

Walker in the Dark, 1980 

They Were Looking For The Light

Illustration for "In the sky she saw a vast shadowy figure." from “Under the Sunset” by Bram Stoker, 1882

Illustration for "Prince Zaphir slays the Giant" from “Under the Sunset” by Bram Stoker, 1882 

Artworks found thanks to Leo Boudreau.

Piero di Cosimo - Perseus Rescuing Andromeda, 1510-13 

Master of Serumido (from piero di cosimo), Perseus Rescuing Andromeda, 1500-15 

 

The Piero di Cosimo artwork was originally shared here in 2007. 

The Piero di Cosimo artwork was found thanks to Peter's flickr account. I highly recommend browsing his vast collection of mostly ancient art on up through 18th - 19th century works.

 

The Master of Serumido artwork was found on Wikipedia Commons.

 

"Wilhelm Trübner (1851 – 1917) was a German realist painter, greatly influenced by fellow artists Gustave Courbet and Wilhelm Leibl.

Trübner returns to Ancient Greece in a modern, realistic way with his 1891 work, A Gorgon’s Head. The gorgons were Ancient Greek winged female creatures with living snakes as hair and protruding tongues. They would transform to stone anyone who looked at their dreadful faces and place the stone statues in front of their cave as a warning.

Among them, the most known today is the only mortal gorgon, Medusa, killed by the demigod Perseus. Her immortal sisters were Stheno and Euryale. According to Greek mythology, the goddess Athena transformed them into terrible monsters after Medusa was raped by Poseidon in Athena’s Temple. Finding no fault in Poseidon, Athena took her rage on Medusa and on her two sisters who were siding with her. 

In spite of Trübner’s take on mythology, he doesn’t idealize or use a large-scale scene as the context for his painting. We don’t even see the gorgon’s body nor have any real indication as to which one of the three sisters he depicts. The head is hovering in space with a drowsy, satiated face expression, the snakes on her head hissing ominously. If we stare long enough at her face, we might be turned to stone." - image and quote source 

 

 Image found thanks to Peter's flickr account. I highly recommend browsing his vast collection of mostly ancient art on up through 18th - 19th century works.

Mike Apichella / September 23, 2021

Outside of David Cronenberg’s work and stray oddities like 1980’s The Changeling, the Canadian horror and sci-fi movies of the 1970s and ‘80s often get overshadowed by their counterparts from the US and Europe. Unlike gory scares from other nations, these films reflect the fears of a society deeply impacted and alienated by the goals of close political allies. When viewed through the prism of the Canadian diplomacy that helped diffuse tension during some of the Cold War’s most dangerous moments, America’s patriotic vanity, the remnants of Old World imperialism, and other messy political controversies appear self-destructive and excessive at worst, futile and absurd at best. The 1988 film The Brain presents a grotesque rumination on suburban neurosis, mass media, and Canada’s place in the tangled mass of global politics. A film whose complex special effects, creature designs, dangerous stunts, and high-speed pacing place it a step above many other ‘80s horror works, The Brain is a seamless hybrid of sci-fi adventure and insane spectacle with political symbolism burning at the core of every scene and characterization.

The Brain was directed by Ed Hunt and written by Barry Pearson, two indie stalwarts who’d been active for the better part of two decades by the time of the film’s release. Los Angeles expat Hunt didn’t begin his film career until relocating to Canada in 1969, where his twisted vision brought life to sci-fi/crime hybrid Point Of No Return (1976) and the cult-classic “documentary” UFO’s Are Real (1979). Hunt and Pearson collaborated on several interesting cheapies, including the convoluted but colorful Starship Invasions (1977) and the kids-on-a-rampage flick Bloody Birthday (1981). The Brain premiered in Toronto on November 4, 1988, generating little interest before quickly fading into the blurry late-night glare of cable TV and the home video market. 

Much of The Brain was shot on location at Ontario’s Xerox Research Center, a gargantuan example of architectural modernism that looks like a cross between an alien spaceship and a megastadium. Interior scenes are shot with the stark ambience of a morgue, which emphasizes the building’s grim fictional repurposing as headquarters of the P.R.I. (Psychological Research Institute). The faux medical facility functions primarily as the secret hideout for the film’s titular alien monster, a huge, tentacled, telekinetic mutant brain with gaping jaws, beady bulbous eyes, and an insatiable hunger for human flesh. The Brain works hard to control Earth’s population via a hypnotic P.R.I.-produced TV program called Independent Thinking, which is hosted by the creature’s smooth-talking lackey Doctor Blakely (David Gale of Re-Animator fame) in the guise of a Tony Robbins-like motivational speaker. Unbeknownst to its loyal viewers, however, the broadcast progressively drains their free will whenever it airs.

This process is illustrated when mischievous science prodigy Jim Majelewski (the smirking, Ferris Bueller-ish Tom Brezahan) is punished by his high school principal after one prank too many. The uptight administrator (Kenneth MacGregor) orders Majelewski to get psychiatric treatment at P.R.I. or face expulsion from school. When Jim arrives at the site, he’s greeted by silence and the cold stares of line upon line of emotionless Independent Thinking audience members and P.R.I. “patients,” his wisecracks answered only by the surly mumbling of security guards. P.R.I. isn’t so much a medical entity as it is a psychic meat processing plant where victims are primed for consumption by the operation’s grotesque mastermind.     

The giant Brain draws power from the sheep-like “independent thinkers,” whose loyalty springs from the desperate search for an efficient solution to everyday suburban problems—workplace stress, financial woes, marital dramas, and, most of all, raucous teens and juvenile delinquents. Much of the program’s loyal fan base is made up of educators, school administrators, police, and parents, who represent the authority figures who struggle with huge moral decisions that can make or break young lives. They flock like lemmings to the fluffy pop psychology of Independent Thinking and its glorious potential as a universal stress remedy.  

Even before Majelewski discovers the grim secret of P.R.I.’s “therapeutic” behavioral modification, he’s shown to be one of the few people who refuse to watch Independent Thinking, and he frequently tries to stop friends and relatives from watching once he notices the show’s damaging mental effects. When P.R.I. thugs and other local authoritarians take note of his disruptive influence, the teen becomes a target and is forced to go on the lam. In the film’s most 1984-esque twist, there’s even a short, PG-rated love scene that occurs while Majelewski and his girlfriend Janet (Cynthia Preston) hide from pursuers in a shuttered school library, a structure dedicated to knowledge and enlightenment—both of which are subverted when Majelewski wakes up the next morning to find Janet watching TV, mesmerized. The latest episode of Independent Thinking comes on, featuring a false portrayal of Majelewski as a psychotic serial killer. Janet starts screaming her head off and rushes out of the library to alert authorities, revealing that the Brain’s power can instill emotional instability just as well as destructive passivity,

Although The Brain does offer something of a critique of the power of television, it does not demonize the medium, much to its credit. The plot revolves around the idea that mass media can only be destructive in a society that refuses to question its authority. What saves Ontario (and ultimately the world) from mass zombification is not technology or Luddism, but Majelewski’s emotional concern for the well-being of his community. Conversely, the monstrous Brain and its violent appetites are cold-blooded and antisocial in the extreme: the creature treats people—from TV audiences, to unsuspecting home viewers, to Dr. Blakely and other acolytes—like interchangeable tools to be used and abused at will (that is, of course, when it’s not busy eating every living thing in sight). The monster is ego and gluttony, a combination of crazed dictator and rabid animal. 

That brutal inhumanity is fleshed out in growling, spitting, drooling visuals inspired by a patchwork of iconic sci-fi influences: bits of Audrey II from Little Shop Of Horrors, rubberized ‘50s sci-fi monsters (with nods to 1957’s The Brain from Planet Arous and 1958’s Fiend Without a Face), and Dark Crystal-esque acid nightmares all congeal in the gooey weirdness of the effects work of Mark Williams and Daniel White. Roaring aerodynamic attacks tear across the screen thanks to “brain operators” Chris Thiesenhausen and Phillip M. Good (who doubled as assistant producer), the monster’s cartoon fury providing a perfect contrast to the tragic vulnerability defining many of the characters who fall under its telekinetic death spell.  

The Brain’s predictably noisy, ultraviolent demise is contrasted by an unexpectedly subtle final scene. All we see is a quiet, overcast day in an inconspicuous suburban development as victims and protagonists decompress. It works equally well as the set up for a sequel or as an extra layer of political symbolism. There’s no fanfare, no triumphant hard rock anthem blasting over the end credits. Grey skies and contemplation are all that can accompany the calm and unease—and vigilance—born of the Brain’s strange aftermath.

Mike Apichella has been working in the arts since 1991. He is a writer, multimedia artist, musician, and a founder of Human Host and the archival project Towson-Glen Arm Freakouts. Under his real name and various pseudonyms, his work has been published by Splice Today, Profligate, Human Conduct Press, and several DIY zines. Mike currently lives in the northeast US where he aspires to someday become the “crazy cat man” of his neighborhood.

Artwork found at SMK Open.

 

This illustration is reproduced in the tribute collection The Fantastic Art of Clark Ashton Smith by Dennis Rickard (Mirage Press, 1973).

 

 If you are interested in owning this original Clark Ashton Smith drawing, it is currently available through the Heritage Auctions website. It is attached to an auction in early October. The full page with all related information at the Heritage Auction website can be viewed here. 

  I previously shared the art of Clark Ashton Smith in 2006 with a thumbnail of this artwork here.

The Battle Between Good and Evil 

Lemurian Homesickness 

Witches' Sabbath 

The Adoration of Pan, 1979 

Midnight Mystery 

Ellen in Wonderland 3 - The visit to the forest with the human worms 

Ellen in Wonderland 2 - Ellen in dispute with a little harlequin 

Procession at Sunset 

Landscape with Skulls 

The Liberation of Andromeda 

Joris and the Dragon 

The Dream of the Prisoners 

The Bummer - Odysseus at Kirke 

The Dragon in Love 

Thumb Sucking 

Susanna and the Elders 

Terra Incognita 

The Ghost of Melancholy 

The Silent Walk 

Carnival of Vanity 

The Long Way 

The Floating Dream 

The Plant Angel 

Diogenes' Chess Game 

 Displaced Persons 

The Conflict 

Retrospective 

Conflict in the Mist 

Wilhelm Tell 

Worship of the God Sexis 

Oh how high are we exalted 

Finally Alone 

The Personality 

I made the impossible come true 

Inside Out 

Disgust

 Clapper Knuckle 

What do you think about marriage? 

But he doesn't mean it 

Witches' Sabbath, Drawing 

The Angel of Montparnasse 

Island of the Blind 

An Introverted Person 

Study for - The Liberation of Andromeda 

A Painful Encounter Artworks found at 

 

Artworks found at the Pathos Gallery website. A large retrospective of artworks by Johfra Bosschart will be on display starting September 21st at the Pathos Gallery in Amsterdam. 

"Pathos Gallery presents: Johfra Bosschart

A selection of works by the Dutch godfather and pioneer of surrealism and fantastic realism.

Born as Franciscus Johannes Gijsbertus van den Berg, he later in 1945 adopted the pseudonym JohFra by using the first three letters from each of his two first names in reverse order. Much of his early life was spend in The Hague. From an early age he showed great abilities in drawing and later attended lessons at the Academy of Fine Arts in The Hague.

By 1943 he had assembled a considerable body of work that he was able to mount an exhibition. Most of his early pieces were destroyed in a bombing raid during the closing years of the Second World War. One that survived is his Fantastic figure of 1942.

In German occupied Holland he had little access to the wider art world but he did obtain a Nazi propaganda magazine with an article about degenerate art. This introduced him to the imagery of Dalí, Ernst, Tanguy, and Magritte. He became especially drawn to the work of Dalí. After the war Johra was free to paint and he produced a profusion of work. His Terra Incognita of 1955 clearly demonstrated the influence of Dalí. Throughout the 1950s he created many paintings in a flowing organic style.

In 1959 Johfra travelled to Port Lligat with the intention of meeting Salvador Dalí. Their meetings were somewhat strained and strange, but Dalí took them to his studio where he showed Johfra The Discovery of America by Christopher Columbus which he was then working on. Johfra, however, was rather disappointed with Dalí as he wrote in his diary "This visit left a storm of conflicting thoughts and feelings behind us. I found him repulsive yet sympathetic and tragic. An imprisoned person who is forced to be the figure that he himself has created. A victim of a world in which he is the fool, and of himself through his boundless vanity, making him impossible to break out of this situation. What I missed completely was every trace of joy and humour."

In the immediate post war years Johfra became involved with a fellow Dutch artist Diana Vanbenberg and they married in 1952. They were able to travel to Rome. Johfra held several solo exhibitions and gained some degree of financial stability. The 1950s saw the development of his mature surrealist style.

In A Spring Morning of 1957 he began to develop the tangled organic landscapes which appear in many of his later paintings. In 1967 he produced a series of four drawings on the theme of schizophrenia. Perhaps these show some influence from the symbolic language of Hieronymous Bosch and Breughel. These drawings marked a departure from his earlier surrealistic style towards a more emblematic, instructive and didactic one. This was perhaps already a component of his work, as is seen in the emblematic Son of the Snakes of 1951, but now this pictorial form became more central and his surrealist style somewhat diminishes in importance for him.

This perhaps reflects the influence of a new artistic partner in his life Ellen Lórien, whom he married in 1973. The 1970s marked an amazingly fruitful period for Johfra with the creation of many of his major pieces. It was during this period that art historian Hein Steehouwer devised the term 'Meta-Realists' for Johfra and the other artists in his circle suggesting they were depicting a realm beyond, or standing above, the real.

This was followed a year later by his Zodiac series which immediately touched the popular imagination as it appeared as illustrations in various books, and was made into large wall posters popular among the new age enthusiasts. Johfra later found this series to be a considerable burden as this became so bound to his name that his other work was unfortunately ignored. He described his works as "Surrealism based on studies of psychology, religion, the bible, astrology, antiquity, magic, witchcraft, mythology and occultism."

Johfra's legacy has been rather affected by the popularity of his 1970s Zodiac series, so much so that many of his surreal works became marginalised, however, we should view him as a significant surrealist, who shifted into a more emblematic, narrative and didactic style, in what was labelled as meta-realist, a term which he later disowned." - quote source

 

Johfra was previously shared on Monster Brains in 2009 and 2006.

Sam Moore / September 1, 2021

The most striking moments in 1971’s Cuadecuc, Vampir, Pere Portabella’s experimental recreation of Bram Stoker’s Dracula entirely through behind-the-scenes footage of Jesus Franco’s 1970 adaptation of the novel, are the ones that have less to do with the vampire himself, and more to do with the illusions that are constructed and broken apart through cinema. Scenes where a train passing by ruins a take, or the curtain being pulled on how the special effects are made and used. These scenes show not only the ways in which the vampire myth continues to be reinvented throughout cinema, but also the ways in which it can be deconstructed. The cinematic vampire is a fragile thing, not only for its many vulnerabilities—sunlight, crosses, garlic—but for the ways in which it can be rendered hollow, a construction. The vampire as seen on film becomes a perfect example of how horror—as a genre, as a feeling—is created and recreated. 

Vampirism is at the heart of cinema history. F.W. Murnau’s 1922 Nosferatu is one of the early examples of the medium’s great potential, and the iconic image of Count Orlock’s shadow looming large over a wall as he ascends a staircase to find his prey has lost none of its power. But if footage were revealed that showed how the filmmakers achieved it, then some of that magic, that fear, might be lost. Cuadecuc gambles on this, on the idea that watching Christopher Lee step in and out of a coffin between takes will weaken the fear that his Dracula inspires; but instead it captures how that fear is constructed, and is able to turn it into something else. The counterpoint of legitimate horror—the imagery in Cuadecuc, with its looming shadows and stark, black-and-white photography reminiscent of Nosferatu, with behind-the-scenes interludes—becomes a meditation on horror itself, a way of trying to understand why the things that scare us get under our skin. It’s about the relationship that the vampire myth has with the history of cinema, and how this archetypal, mythical figure can change with the times.

E. Elias Merhige’s Shadow of the Vampire (2000) also explores the place of the vampire film in cinematic history, and, like Cuadecuc, it’s a kind of commentary on how film reifies these myths. Merhige’s film imagines an alternative version of 1922 in which Max Schreck (Willem Dafoe), the actor who played Count Orloff in Nosferatu, is actually a vampire. Shadow is framed like a kind of rockumentary; there are moments in between scenes that offer a behind-the-scenes glance at the “production” of Nosferatu, with inter-titles that reference Murnau’s (John Malkovich) attempts “to accommodate his difficult star.” As Murnau says in the film, “If it’s not in the frame, it doesn’t exist,” something that both Cuadecuc and Shadow wrestle with in different ways. In the former, the idea of horror itself isn’t in the frame; it exists through the smokescreen of movie magic. Shadow makes vampirism real precisely by putting it in the frame. There are moments when the reality of Schreck’s vampirism literally bleed into the version of Nosferatu that’s being made, in stark counterpoint to the film’s climax, when his reflection is invisible in a full-length mirror, revealing to those around him that Schreck truly is the phantom of the night. In contrast to this, Cuadecuc obsesses over the artifice inherent in filmmaking, the fact that this horror is anything but real, instead interrogating how and why the real feeling of horror is constructed in the way that it is.

This desire to myth-bust the relationship between vampires and cinema is something that runs through the DNA of George Romero’s vampire film, the strange and somber Martin (1977). While the title character might think of himself as a vampire, he goes to great pains to tell people—from the paranoid family he stays with to the radio show he calls into using the alias “The Count”—that his vampirism isn’t a curse, or supernatural in nature, but that it’s a kind of illness instead. His late night calls with the radio show are testaments not only to his loneliness, but to the problems that he thinks movies create about vampires. Often, Martin sees these things as being intertwined: “And that’s another thing about those movies,” he says. “Vampires always have ladies. Sometimes lots of ‘em.” Martin has no ladies, and ties his vampirism into a kind of sexual repression, hoping to one day do it “awake, without the blood part. Just do it. And be with someone. And talk.” The DJ that he calls even sympathizes with him—as much as a shock jock can—telling him, “I’ve seen that in the movies. People try to stop your kind.”

The relationship that Martin the film and Martin the character have with other vampire movies is something that comes through in the character’s dream sequences. They’re in black and white and highly stylized, featuring Latin chants and shadow play straight out of Nosferatu or Jacques Tourneur’s Cat People (1942). In this way, it’s similar to Cuadecuc in its desire to show the artifice behind horror and the idea of a vampire myth that’s at once fluid and transparent, transforming into mist like the creatures themselves.

In treating vampires as real, Martin and Shadow of the Vampire both present different relationships with artifice than Cuadecuc. Murnau himself (the fictional one) even calls for “an end to this artifice,” which he gets in the form of his vampiric leading man, and Martin attempts to break down the artifice of cinematic vampires in order to reveal the loneliness of life as a real one. The reality of Schreck’s vampirism is sold to Murnau’s crew through a simultaneous embrace of and push against artifice. The director insists that Schreck is simply a method actor: he’ll be referred to as Orlock, wear no makeup, and only be filmed at night. It’s through the conceit and construction of cinema that the Murnau of Shadow is able to create the idea of a vampire that will end up going down in cinematic history.

What these three films have in common is a desire to unravel the ways in which the vampire is perceived by placing them in relationship to different ideas within cinema, whether these stories are being told through found footage, film history, or a sly self-awareness of where they exist in the canon. None of the filmmakers here treat horror as something that exists in a vacuum; instead, they understand the ways in which horror is constructed and mythologized, and find new ways to explore and manipulate the genre’s myths. The end of Cuadecuc ends as seemingly every vampire film does: with the killing of Dracula (just as Shadow’s Orlock and Martin’s Martin are killed). But instead of showing sunlight bursting through a window or a bloody stake, Portabella simply uses a scene of Christopher Lee in his dressing room describing the end of Stoker’s novel. These final moments in Cuadecuc go to the heart of all vampire films by highlighting the ways in which they vampirically drain from Stoker’s source material. Every iteration is a kind of supernatural rebirth, like the vampire itself, a mutation of the myth that runs through the genre’s bloodstream.

Sam Moore‘s writing on queerness, politics, and genre fiction in art has been published by the Los Angeles Review of Books, Little White Lies, Hyperallergic, and other places. Their poetry and experimental essays have been published in print and online, most recently in the Brixton Review of Books. If their writing didn’t already give it away, they’re into weird stuff.

The exhibition opens August 17 and continues through November 1, 2021. The exhibition is curated by historian, documentarian, and longtime Shonberg advocate Brian Chidester. It is accompanied by a catalog, the first ever exclusively devoted to Shonberg's art, with essay also by Chidester, an introduction by Minneapolis Institute of Art curator Robert Cozzolino, a director’s foreword by Steven Intermill of the Buckland, and contributions by Shonberg friend Marshall Berle, screenwriter/former Shonberg roommate Hampton Fancher, and esteemed filmmaker Roger Corman. 

 Further details can be found at the Buckland Museum of Witchcraft and Magick website. 

Additional information and imagery can be found at Burt Schonberg.net

"Burt’s work had a mystical, mysterious quality. It was perfect for capturing the evil inherent in the faces of the Usher family ancestors. I provided Burt with character histories and let his imagination roam free. In his depiction of Vivien Usher, a murderess who died in a madhouse, Burt painted a terrifying image of a woman with blacked out eyes in a haunting color scheme reminiscent of Picasso’s blue period. For Bernard Usher, a jewel thief and drug addict, Burt painted a portrait that seemed to mimic an element of double exposure photography but in a fiery psychedelic red that seemed to burn through the canvas like a Turner on acid. Burt Shonberg captured the tormented spirits of the Usher family, as well as the spirit of the entire film, perfectly. Together, we came up with one of the most unique and memorable uses of painting as a storytelling device in film: a manifestation of the subconscious malevolence lurking within Roderick Usher. A few years later, I was lucky to work with Burt again on a subsequent Poe picture, The Premature Burial. Like many other artists in Southern California in the 1960s, crossing paths with Burt Shonberg altered my artistic consciousness. He was a one of a kind visionary, and my collaboration with him remains one of my most treasured experiences." Roger Corman, July 2021 

 Burt Shonberg, Vincent Price, Roger Corman circa 1960 

 Vincent Price and Mark Damon with Burt Shonberg paintings in "The House of Usher" 1960 

Frankenstein's Monster playing the Saxophone. 1957 

Mars the God of War 1961 

The Sphinx, probably a portrait of Majorie Cameron. circa 1958 - 1961 

 Bride of Frankenstein circa 1957-58 

Title Unknown,Sphinx, possibly another portrait of Marjorie Cameron 

Title Unknown The Hermetic Sphinx 1960 

exterior of Cafe Frankenstein, Laguna Beach circa 1960 

Detail of interior of Cafe Frankenstein, Laguna Beach, California, circa 1958 

"Sin Consummations Devoutly to be wished" 1962 Commissioned by Roger Corman for the film "The Premature Burial", whereabouts unknown. 

 

Drawings Made For Gamma Magazine Vol 1 No 2 1963

  "Magical Landscape (Lucifer in the Garden) 1961 

 

"What does it look like or mean when an artist strives to show their audience the feel and look of expanded consciousness, another world they have seen and been absorbed into? is it even possible with the material tools of paint? Shonberg attempted just that, and the results transport the viewer, rhyme with the work of mediums and those who practiced astral projection, are at home in parallel dimensions to be visited in trips. He came close to presenting what that feels like with the modest tools at hand. And isn’t that what we want of artists? To collaborate with us to shift consciousness and to transport us out of the mundane reality that we face here and now? There is the suggestion in these new worlds that we have the power to change what we know is toxic on ours. " 

 Robert Cozzolino 

 Patrick and Aimee Butler Curator of Paintings 

Minneapolis Institute of Art 

 

“Burt Shonberg was more than just an artist, he was a “prospector of consciousness” who travelled to areas outside of our collective awareness and painted what he saw during those excursions” 

- Marshall Berle,former manager of Spirit and Van Halen Director and producer of “Out Here: A film About Burt Shonberg” 

"Shonberg was too strange for even the '60s California sci-fi world, and too far removed from the fine art establishment, to be embraced by either. Even today, when radical viewpoints are commonplace in the art world, Shonberg has yet to receive recognition. Meanwhile, a unique body of work remains hidden in plain sight." 

- Brian Chidester, exhibition curator 

 

This article, event details and all images were provided by Stephen Romano of  the Stephen Romano Gallery.

My friend Sean Äaberg is running a kickstarter to fund a fourth printing of his amazing "Dungeon Degenerates" role playing game. It has two days left, check it out here!

You can do what you want (Oral moral I), 1989  You do what you can (Oral moral II), 1995 
 Artworks found thanks to jean louis mazieres. 
 The official site of the artist can be viewed here.