Consequences of an Overactive Imagination

I don’t think I’ll ever cease to be amazed at how strongly the mind can react to things — and which things it chooses to react to.

I’ve always had an extremely active imagination, a quality which has both good and bad points. Growing up, I often retreated into my own little fantasy worlds instead of dealing with the real world around me, and that’s something that has never entirely ceased. While I’ve long since ceased hiding within myself as an escape from things I didn’t want to deal with or as a defense mechanism, I can’t say — and really, I wouldn’t want to — that I’ve ever ceased letting my imagination run away with me from time to time.

Walking down a hallway, someone might notice a small twitch of my hands from time to time, though it’s most likely they wouldn’t. Just a small gesture, perhaps just stretching my wrists a bit, nothing really worth paying attention to. Of course, that’s only because they can’t see the blast of power I just released careening down the hall, rushing past them, sweeping papers and debris in its wake as it crashes into the locked gate at the end, bursting it open with a horrendous shriek of tearing metal as the hinges shatter and fall to pieces.

People passing me on the streets at night never know of the creatures stalking them. Wingless batlike creatures the size of large dogs, walking on their forelegs, hind legs slung up and over their shoulders and terminating in wicked-looking claws. Needle-sharp teeth beneath an eyeless face, the cries of their sonar echoing from building to building as the pack converges on another unlucky derelict passed out in an alleyway. Curious how few rats this section of the city has.

Okay, perhaps it’s a little juvenile. Silly daydreams built on many years of fantasy and science-fiction novels. That doesn’t make these worlds any less fun to play in from time to time, however.

When I was younger, my fertile imagination would often get the better of me. Certain television shows would keep me up for nights. The Incredible Hulk — or the “crumbly hawk”, as I deemed him — was an especially potent terror for a time. I didn’t see Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller‘ video until long after it was released when I was only nine years old, and even into my early teen years, horror movies were a rarity.

I once tried to watch the sci-fi horror movie Lifeforce during one of HBO’s promotional free weekends after our family got cable, because of the naked lady at the beginning — but all puberty-driven fantasies were driven violently out of my head when she sucked the very life out of some poor hapless man, turning him into a horrible desiccated corpse before my very eyes, and I don’t think I slept well for a month afterwards.

Even the trailer for Gremlins was enough to give me nightmares when I saw it, and I never saw the movie in the theaters. I read the novelization to try to get an idea of how the movie was, and oh what a mistake that was. At one point in the story, the gremlin Stripe escapes from being studied by a teacher in the school’s science lab. While in the movie Stripe simply jabs the teacher with a single hypodermic needle, the book described seven or eight needles, maybe more, being stuck into the teacher’s face. It was literally years before I got the nerve to watch the movie (and then was somewhat chagrined to see how tame it was compared to the images I’d had seared into my brain when I read the book).

As I grew and began to be better able to separate the fantastical worlds inside my head from the real world around me, I started to develop a fondness for some of the more disturbing images that I hadn’t been able to cope with as a child. I started watching all the horror movies I’d heard about for years, but never been able to watch. Dean Koontz, Stephen King, Clive Barker, and other similar authors started appearing on my bookshelves. The Alien movies introduced me to the artwork of H.R. Giger. Discovering David Cronenberg‘s films led me to Naked Lunch, and then to the literary work of William S. Burroughs. My musical tastes, while never having been particularly mainstream, started skewing more towards the gothic and industrial genres. Black soon became the dominant color in my wardrobe.

Finally being able to explore and embrace this darker imagery helped me a lot through my teen years, and still does today. While I wasn’t always the happiest teenager around — I had more than my fair share of whiny, angsty moments — I never ended up succumbing to the depression that so many other people seem to. I’ve never been suicidal (in fact, quite the opposite, as I’m somewhat frightened of death, and have never found myself in a situation where suicide seemed like an even remotely good idea), and while there were certainly some stumbling blocks over the years, I think I’ve ended up becoming a fairly well-rounded and well-grounded adult (oh, lord, did I just admit that I’m an adult?).

I have my ups and downs, same as anyone else, of course, but on the whole, I’m a fairly chipper and easygoing guy (chipper…who talks like this?). That “dark side” is still there, of course, manifesting itself primarily through my tastes in music, movies, and an often bitterly bleak sense of humor, but rather than dominating my personality, it’s just another aspect — and, importantly, one not incompatible with a love of childlike (and sometimes childish) silliness (a double feature of Hellraiser and The Muppet Movie isn’t something I’d find particularly unusual, for instance).

For all that, though, there are times when my imagination can still play games with me. What it latches onto now, though, aren’t the fantastical elements of horror movies. I can watch Freddy suck Johnny Depp down into his bed in a geyser of blood, watch Pinhead flay the flesh off of Frank’s recently resurrected body, or watch Jason skewer horny teenager after horny teenager without batting an eye — heck, I enjoy ever last little blood-soaked minute of it, and sleep soundly as soon as the movie is finished.

What gets me now are the real possibilities — and, more specifically, the really realistic situations, as redundant as that might sound. Kill Bill, for all the hype it got over its extreme amounts of blood and gore, didn’t bug me simply because it was so ridiculously over the top (in a good way) that I didn’t feel real. It may have been live action with real flesh and blood actors, but it felt like a comic book, and so my brain quite happily filed it away with all the rest of the blood and gore from all those silly horror movies.

It’s when it’s something that could conceivably really happen that I get the willies.

Pulp Fiction is a great film, and The Rock, while certainly not great, is a lot of fun. Those two films have one very important element in common, though: an adrenaline shot straight to the heart. I can’t watch either movie without cringing and turning away as the needle plunges into the character’s chest and into their heart — heck, I can’t even write this paragraph out without rubbing my own chest due to the sympathy pain I feel.

Last week Prairie and I watched Deliverance, which I’d never seen before. Just after the disastrous run through the rapids as the boats break apart and the men go tumbling over rocks and down the river, Burt Reynolds pulls himself up and out of the water onto a rock, revealing the compound fracture sending his legbone tearing through skin and muscle and jutting out the side. “Oh, God,” I said — if it was even formed into actual words — and immediately curled into a ball on my side, rubbing my calf as my oh-so-eager-to-oblige imagination sent spasms from my own suddenly shattered body up my leg.

Tonight — because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment — Misery was the movie of choice. Okay, I knew the hobbling was coming. Even without having read the book or seen the movie before (that I can remember, at least), that scene is so much a part of pop culture that it would be nearly impossible to really be taken by surprise when it comes up. That certainly didn’t make it any easier to watch, however. The sickening crunch of splintering bone as the sledgehammer pulverizes his ankle, and at thirty-one years of age, I’m curled in a ball on my bed.

Honestly, in some ways it’s as funny as it is exasperating. I can laugh at the absurdity of having such a strong reaction to these things even as I’m still trying to drive the residual twinges out of my ankles. I wouldn’t trade my imagination away for anything…but I’ll freely admit that there are times when I wish I could just turn it down a few notches.

Kill Bill – Part Three

I actually heard a rumor about this a couple of weeks ago, but I just now got around to a quick Google to see if there was any truth to what I’d heard. Apparently there is — Tarantino is planning on a third part to the Kill Bill saga.

In fifteen years.

“I have plans, actually not right away, but like in 15 years from now, I’ll do a third version of this saga,” the director said at a news conference to promote “Kill Bill — Vol. 2,” which opens in Spain next month.

Tarantino said part three would focus on the daughter of a hired killer that Uma Thurman’s character bumps off early in her revenge spree.

So. Incredibly. Cool.

iTunes: “Comfortably Numb” by Band, The/Morrison, Van/Waters, Roger from the album The Wall Live in Berlin (1990, 8:02).

Kill Bill

Prairie and I watched Kill Bill this weekend — the whole thing, renting Volume One Saturday night and going out to see Volume Two on Sunday. I’d seen the first half already when it was in the theaters, but Prairie hadn’t, and it was quite fun to watch them both back-to-back. I’ve got to say that I think that Kill Bill is easily the best work I’ve seen from Quentin Tarantino.

Violent? Well, of course — it’s Tarrantino. After watching Kill Bill, I don’t think Tarantino could film someone getting a paper cut without attaching a spurting jet of blood to it (which, to me at least, is a fairly amusing mental image). It was all extremely over-the-top, though, to the point where it’s extremely difficult to take seriously (I joked at one point that the Kill Bill movies could be subtitled “Quentin Tarantino goes balls-out nuts”).

Watching Vol. 1 the second time, I was struck by how perfect of a decision it was to flesh out O-Ren Ishi-i’s backstory with anime, as it allowed Tarantino to present what is really one of the most disturbing storylines in a manner that’s in some ways actually more intense than he would have been able to do it had he tried to make it a live-action sequence.

Elle Driver is easily one of my favorite characters in the film, I think. Of the five members of the DiVAS, much of the time she struck me as the most snake-like: cold, unfeeling, and vicious — which made the few moments when she broke that mold (her moment of pouting after Bill tells her to leave the bride alive in the hospital towards the beginning of Vol. 1) that much more amusing.

The fight with Elle in Budd’s camper was wonderfully done, too, with Elle constantly unable to draw her sword out of its sheath due to the cramped quarters. I’m quite curious if that’s an intentional movie reference by Tarantino that’s been missed on the Kill Bill References Guide, specifically to the trailer fight in the Coen Brothers’ Raising Arizona. Not to mention that the bride’s final blow to Elle really caught me off guard — a perfect way to end the fight, but entirely unexpected (and cringe-inducing).

What really surprised me about Vol. 2 was the end, which was far more touching and tender than I ever would have expected from Tarantino. After around three and a half hours of violent, bloody revenge, to wrap it all up with sequences that manage to tug at the heartstrings without being schmaltzy was a surprising and perfect way to end the film.

iTunes: “Steamroller” by Pigface from the album Preaching to the Perverted (1994, 2:10).

Kill Bill, Vol. 1

I’m going to keep my comments here fairly brief, as this is only the first part of a two-part story. So, briefly, first impressions of the first half of Kill Bill:

  • Much butt-kicking fun.

  • There is far less dialogue than you might expect from a Tarrantino film, but in this case, I can’t see it any other way.

  • There’s also a very bitter, sorrowful tone to the film that is easy to overlook during the fights and general carnage, but is very present, and very important to the tone.

  • Yes, it’s violent. Very violent. But two points on that:

    1. It’s Quentin Tarrantino. Did you really expect anything else?
    2. How can you take it seriously when every severed limb or head (and there are many) is apparently attached to a high-pressure firehose?
  • Best line (delivered by The Bride while spanking the last living henchman — a sixteen (?) year old boy — with the flat of her katana): “This is what you get for fucking with Yakuza! Now go home to your mommy!”

  • I hope that Vol. 2 gives us more of The Bride’s background. But if it doesn’t, that might not matter — in an almost zen-like way, she simply is. More background might actually detract from this.

  • Using anime for O-Ren Ishii’s background: very nice touch.

  • The fight scenes were deliciously over the top. Unrealistic, but enjoyably so.

  • One shot in the mass battle royale towards the end — a grainy, black and white travelling shot of a spinning hatchet — was almost a mirror of a shot in the diner scene of Natural Born Killers.

  • Favorite sequence (at least right now, immediately after my first viewing): the blue background silhouetted section of the battle in the restaurant.

  • I know I’m not catching the majority of the references Tarrantino is making throughout the film. That’s okay, though. I’m guessing there’s enough to fill an entire book — which will probably be at your friendly neighborhood bookseller not long after Vol. 2 is released.

  • This review (which I found thanks to Kalyx) may sum it up the best:

    Gratuitous in the most passionate, brutal and aesthetically exacting way, this first half of Quentin Tarantino’s blood-drenched mash note to the eclectic, disreputable genres he grooved on as a kid is a remarkably pure orchestration of imagery and attitude. The content of those magnificently moving pictures is whatever the opposite of pure might be: an endless orgy of degradation, dismemberment, cruelty and bile. The \”Pulp Fiction’ auteur has ratcheted it all up into a fantasy realm, and he has a point when he claims that anybody who thinks this disturbing stuff is happening to anything like a real person is crazy — or, at least, crazier than he is.

    Still, there’s nothing wrong with avoiding \”Kill Bill’ if you’re easily offended by violence to women, violence by women, violence observed by traumatized children or lots — LOTS — of violently detached body parts scattered all around the screen.

    But if you’re not like that: Man, is this movie cool.