The Horror

by

Things have been dark here at the Compound lately. Sometimes the months just before Spring hits are the worst up here. Melting snow makes a muddy mess of the environs when the days are warm yet there are still nights when you’d swear it was still early February. A sort of late winter depression sets in and you just don’t feel like going out very much and you find yourself hiding away, hoping things will get better.

But they don’t, really.

I’ve not been very social lately, I confess. I know, I know. You look at Ken Socrates and you see a Man of the World with associates and connections on every corner of the globe, an man as comfortable crashing a black-tie event at a local embassary as he is with a group of doomed and hopeless drunks huddled around a barrell fire behind some shady local Chinese restaurant.

Little do you realize what a solitary existence a man like myself really leads. A combination of a general anti-social nature and the necessities of a writer make for what some would consider a very lonely lifestyle. Those few genuine friends I do have all seem scattered about, miles away from each other, except for those rare occasions we find time to gather and commiserate with one another.

Thus, my current state of existence, holed up in the Bunker, doors locked, shades drawn, a ready stock of blood pollutants, music, literature and films to entertain when the quiet becomes too much for the mind to bear.

So I’ve taken to watching horror movies as a past time. Maybe it’s just the mood I’m in these days. Maybe it’s the only sensible response to a deteriorating world creeping ever onward to potential apocalypse.

One thing I’ve learned is that Americans no longer make the best horror movies. In fact, we’re not even in the running anymore. While we crank out recycled garbage like Friday The 13th or generic formula hackwork like The Uninvited, the European film industry has been producing out some amazing work, some if it profound and outright astonishing.

Take the Swedish vampire fable, Let The Right One In. Not only is it perhaps the finest blood sucker film ever made but it’s an artistic masterpiece, subtle and sublime in tone and content; emotional, shocking, touching. An absolute, utter classic.

Dead Snow

I’ve also just watched Dead Snow, a Norweigian Nazi-Zombie gorefest that owes a bit of it’s flare to stuff like Evil Dead 2 but is just so well done and so much fun it makes you giddy with bloodlust.

If you want a more intense and disturbing experience, the French have that market utterly fucking cornered. Having seen both Inside and Martyrs in the space of one week, I can honestly say that I’m glad I have a strong stomach. These are haunting, brutal films that show humanity at it’s bloody limit, pushing the envelope of the horror genre to it’s very edges, challenging it’s audience to the extreme. For my money, Inside was the better horror fim but Martyrs will stay with you longer as you ponder the meaning behind the profoundly disturbing events portrayed within. Neither should be considered a “date movie”.

Unless it’s Squeaky Fromme you’re dating, that is.

So that’s the update from here. A long time coming, I know, but now you see why. I’ll try to keep things around here more current as time goes on and, hopefully, the mood improves.

In the meantime, you all just hang in there. We’re in this together.

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2 Responses to “The Horror”

  1. Ozzy McGurt Says:

    Jesus Christ Ken. When I get depressed I just go out and fire large caliber projectiles at the wildlife. The shit you’re talking about would probably make me want to put one in my own head. You’re a sick fucker buddy.

  2. Gonz O'Lager Says:

    It’s apparent that Mr. McGurt is a bloody bore and knows fuck-all about the depression that men such as Ken and myself are attuned to.

    Or maybe the bastard is so adept at burying those antagonizing harpies of self-doubt, ennui, loathing, drudgery, loathing, and lack of energy that he is the True Master.

    Either way, I wanna shoot his bloated ass out of a cannon for his troubles.

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