that's so gothic: Bottled October

Almost Gothic, but not quite is Scarlet Sails (USSR, 1961).

Every summer I harbor a fleeting desire for fall. Especially fall on the dangerous coast of a deserted moor, which is even harder to come by. It's probably the Minnesota humidity, which my brain likes, but my rheumatism doesn't. Just kidding, I probably don't have rheumatic joints and I'm still in my twenties . . . (albeit definitely on the far side and please don't let it be rheumatism). It also might the karmic result of trying to control Nature.

See, I just don't let myself indulge in autumn melancholia the way I used to.

Brooding in the dark is never as cool as Winona makes it look.

Oh for the days of sitting in the dark and writing depressing stories to the blue light of an ancient PC and the crackling of mice in the fallen leaves outside my window. And the burned track of Lacrymosa from Mozart's Requiem that I killed with an excess of love. Once upon a time, the only way I knew how to cope with the blues that came on with the changing of the seasons was to write my name in blood upon the fall months and make them swear an oath to serve me forever.

Which is a [crazy] way of saying that I liked to embrace my dark side back then. Now I know that THAT way lies blindness, isolation, and lots of scribblings too personal to be ultimately meaningful. 19th century novel fan fiction was cathartic, but not something I could point to as a product of time well-spent. And while a bit of Gothic could spark creative bursts, too much put out the flame entirely. But I haven't given up the occasional Gothic pursuit. I just have to compartmentalize them these days so that they don't take over my whole life.

What follows here are some recommended Gothic indulgences (chosen for their relatively low profiles and unusual levels of female agency), to be consumed in moderation of course.


Forever Knight (Canada, 1992-1996)

 Sure, my favorite/most watched television show of all time is Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But I'd venture to say that BTVS (and certainly its spin-off, Angel) wouldn't exist without this short lived Canadian series. If anyone in your house was a SyFy Channel junkie in the 90's, you probably are at least aware of its existence. But, considering that the airing times were often in the late evening, and that stylistically it reeks of 1992, you could have easily flipped past it.

That's a mistake. Unlike most of the vampire films and TV series popular at the moment (I'm looking at you Vampire Diaries and True Blood), this series was built around NOT giving the audience what they want. Not even for one episode. Appropriately enough, the homicide detective/vampire protagonist, Nicholas (Geraint Wyn Davies), never gets what he wants, either. Instead, he desperately wobbles between craved humanity (i.e. being human again) and his darker side . . . usually embodied in the persons of his sire LaCroix (the brilliant Nigel Bennett), or his centuries-old flame, Janette (played by Deborah Duchene, and still the sexiest vampire club owner I have seen to date.) Subtly, the series balances out these vampire influences with the human male/female duo of Nick's down-to earth partner Schanke (John Kapelos), and physician/coroner Natalie (Catherine Disher), both of whom strive to help Nick embrace a "normal" life.

While there are a few episodes with more graphic content than one would expect for 90's TV (hello
Canadian non-censors!), the overall tone of the three-year series is philosophical, rather than sensationalist. There are plenty of thrills, both Gothic and horror-related to be had. But the important thing is that the protagonist himself is not satisfied by those thrills, and neither are we. Most nights Nick is stuck with the cow blood in his fridge and an empty (if strikingly decorated) apartment until he gets radioed into another murder scene. He makes a lot of mistakes. His city is messy and doesn't make sense. Women in white are usually marked with an X for Doomed. Lies to loved ones cause scary ripple effects. Other vampires rarely appear except as a painful legacy of the past, or as manipulative agents of temptation in the present. Lady love is too smart and self-possessed to completely invest in a relationship with someone whose problems she knows as intimately as she knows Nick's. And Nick never gets the timing right. For anything. Ever. It's like a Whedon wet dream.


Tregaron's Daughter. By Madeleine Brent (AKA Peter O'Donnell, the brain that brought you Modesty Blaise):

My dear mother is an English lit professor, and one of my favorite things to do as a child was to dig through her old books from college for hidden gems. Emphasis on hidden. I was duly warned away from her Thomas Hardy's and Aristophanes. And the other classics in her collection were not exactly light reading. When it came to adult fiction, she had never really collected anything trashy or even commercial.

But buried among the heavy-lidded lot was this pleasant and fairly pop-fiction-y novel, It traces the adventures of tomboyish and Cornish [Tomcornish?] heroine Cadi, the newly adopted ward of a rich English family. A long the way she will [of course] have to fend off some clinically insane family members (though the real crazies will only be revealed at the end), decide if the mysterious Lucian is worth trusting/loving, solve the mystery of her creepy recurring childhood dream, and expend some energy trying to save her adopted family from themselves. Also, Venice.

It's not a great book, but it is atmospheric without the strain that often comes with deliberate moodiness. Cadi is likeable without committing the sin of perfection. And it is actually fairly feminist for a Gothically inspired piece.

The Queen of the Damned (Dir. Michael Rymer, 2002)

I'm going to go out on a dangerous limb and say that this film is far better than Anne Rice's Vampire Chronicles (of which it is a loose interpretation). And that it's far more fun and female-driven than  Interview With a Vampire (which I've never been able to stomach--the child-vampire thing makes me want to run away screaming).

It's a bit experimental, supremely dark, and yet retains an overarching sense of humor about itself. Not sure if that's due to the devil-may-care snark of Stuart Townsend's Lestat, or clever editing, but this vampire tale never gets buried under the weight of its own mythology. For me, this has the added bonus of being one of those little rebellions I engaged in when surrounded by people who strongly disapproved of it . . . and that it was the film that introduced me to Vincent Perez, an underrated Swiss actor whom I love.

Despite Lestat's sporadic narration . . . none of the background of the vampires as a species, of the nerdy
origins of the Talamasca, or the personal history of the human heroine, Jesse (Marguerite Moreau) is properly fleshed out. My guess is that this choice to forgo detail pissed off its primary target audience and contributed to its lackluster public reception. True, for the devotee more can be gleaned from deleted scenes, which in my brief exploration seem to be mainly exposition and philosophizing. But when it comes to world-building, I'm one of those people who feels that less is more. Vague stylistic impressions of a subculture are far more interesting to me than a sociological treatise on that subculture. I like that the weird visual cogs of this universe fit together, but are rarely remarked upon.

Plus, I couldn't have asked for a better ending. Don't bother telling me that it's a soulless deflowering of the source material. (We could have a conversation about the feminist implications of Jesse's final choice. But don't talk to me about how her story was completely ruined.) I found the source material to be a gilded, narcissistic mess, so I can't agree that there was much to destroy. The film actually gives the main trio of characters a satisfying moral arc. And for me, a moral undercurrent is essential to a good vampire yarn. Without a sense of the mystical sacred or universal good (whatever that may be in context) there can be no shiver in the presence of mystical evil. And without a final transformative choice, there is no point in showcasing the longing of one person for another's way of existing.


The Battle for the Castle. By Elizabeth Winthrop.

If I tell you that this is technically a book for 12-year-olds about a restless but intuitive boy who shrinks himself and journeys through his miniature castle to a medieval world where he will be forced to save a pre-modern kingdom from the horrors of man-eating rats . . . the correct question should be, "Where has this been all my life?"

A sequel to the Winthrop's better known The Castle in the Attic, this book is darker (if possible) and even more satisfying than the first. If CitA was the story of a single boy defeating evil adults against all odds, BftC is the story of a trio of friends protecting a country from a Gothic threat in the absence of all able-bodied adults or magical assistance. Ghost ships, medieval moors, cryptic visions, and near death in a besieged castle dungeon round out the list of October-friendly elements. But I lied. There is no such thing as over-indulging in this one.

Preferred method: Listen to the dramatized audiobook.


The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (Dir. Joseph L. Mankiewicz, 1947)

This is an easy film to show to those with Victorian sensibilities in your social circle. You know who they are. Because although this may be a love story set in a coastal and creaky English cottage, and although there's sexual tension in spades (as you'd guess from a plot dependent on a briny sailor showing up in a women's bedroom at all hours and relating his adventures), the randomly appearing sexy ship captain (Rex Harrison) is a ghost. So, no funny business allowed. Mrs. Muir (Gene Tierney) is as demure as her name might subconsciously suggest, and deports herself with impeccable grace and stature throughout the years. Other romantic relationships appear on the horizon, and yet all are doomed to failure. Mrs. Muir belongs to someone who doesn't exist corporeally and all other men in the vicinity are cads, apparently.

1st Prize: for worst self-referential headline in a trailer.

So yes, it's kind of hauntingly beautiful. Lovely locations, too. I'll take this kind of Gothic doomed love any day over your Heathcliff or your Tess of the D'ubervilles nonsense. But it's also kind of depressing, technically prudish, and is uncomfortably ambiguous in its gender politics. Even so, I can't help but admit that all of those factors add up to something charming and not easily pigeon-holed. So, watch away.

Note: for anyone IN LOVE with George Sanders (or just in awe of him, probably a safer mindset) this is golden material.


Byzantium (Dir. Neil Jordan, 2013)

Two Irish drifters (Saoirse Ronan and Gemma Arterton) are more than they seem. You might call them vampires, they prefer the term "soucriant." And, be prepared, these are not the usual breed of vampires popular in fiction or film. Unfortunately, most critics openly admitted to being Twilighted-out when this film released, and seemed to be unable to look past that phenomenon in their reviews. That combination of factors did the film an injustice. It really deserved an honest and untainted critical approach AND a November, rather than summer, release.

Yes. Gemma's chest is practically another protagonist in this film.

This is a mood movie. It shows more than it says, but when it speaks, it speaks eloquently. It's heart-wrenching, it's feminist without being exploitative, and the universe it paints is surprisingly in-step with with that of the Bronte's creations; specifically, Anne Bronte's gutsy Tenant of Wildfell Hall.

Anne's brand of Gothic: the story of a woman running away from socially-acceptable-misogynistic control to raise her child on her own terms is reworked and revamped [See what I did there?] and is just as relevant as it was in Anne's day.

If you are looking for gore, nudity, girl/girl action, or hot and heavy romance, this one is sure to disappoint.
Not to say that there isn't a sharp edge to Byzantium, but that the "adult content" is always subservient to the demands of the story. Every drop of blood is necessary, as is each kill [to the killer]. And there is no dearth of killing here, if you were wondering.

But, if you are in the mood for pale and consumption-y invalids, gloomy coastlines, or just Gemma Arterton's *ahem* figure. . . or if you're waxing philosophical and want musings on the price of female liberation (from men or other women) or on what constitutes a morally justifiable bid for life or death, this should do the trick.

Strong performances are almost matched by the overall artistic vision, and the casually non-linear storytelling devices should keep those with ADD in their seats. And for the softer of heart, this film might inspire as well as entertain. If you enjoy it, let it be known. It's a crime for this film to continue to suffer for the sins of its lesser relations. Although, that would certainly be an ironically Gothic fate.