THE COMIC BOOK WORLD OF RICHARD STARKINGS

THE WORLD OF RICHARD STARKINGS
by
R. O'DONNELL

RICHARD STARKINGS, THE CREATOR OF HIP FLASK, THE ELEPHANTMEN AND FOUNDER OF COMICRAFT, CHECKS IN WITH STATIC.

Richard Starkings has been a mainstay in the world of comics for decades. His lettering work and his company, Comicraft, founded with partner John 'JG' Roshell in 1992, have won numerous awards throughout the industry. Through his publishing house, Active Images, he began with his own Hip Flask: Unnatural Selection (the collection has sold over 26,000 copies) and in only a few short years became a publisher of great note, putting out a compelling and eclectic line of graphic novels featuring some of the most talented and up-and-coming creators in the industry, including: Solstice (Steven T. Seagle and Justin Norman), The Spiral Cage (Al Davison), Ballast (Joe Kelly and Ilya), Strange Embrace (David Hine), Temptation, Skidmarks, Gunpowder Girl and the Outlaw Squaw, The Fly Chronicles, and Brickman Begins. Industry legends Dave Sim, Alan Moore and Will Eisner are just a few who have sung the praises of Active Images's lineup. Active Images's most recent graphic novel, The Nightmarist, by Duncan Rouleau (Static Interview), was launched to great critical acclaim and is currently in development at Paramount Pictures.

This July, Active Images and Image Comics release Elephantmen, a 32-page full-color ongoing monthly series (Image Comics, $2.99, Diamond Order Code: MAY06 1710) Feature stories will be by Starkings and regular series artist Moritat, with covers by Ladronn and flip covers by a who's who of comic talent, including Brian Bolland, Tim Sale, David Lloyd, Ian Churchill, Joe Madureira, Steve Skroce and Pascual Ferry.



R. O'Donnell: Born and raised in England, you worked at the famed Marvel UK's London offices as an editor, designer and writer on GI Joe, Zoids, Ghostbusters, Transformers and the Doctor Who comic strip, what was that like?

Richard Starkings: I consider myself to have been very lucky to have worked at Marvel UK during the 'Boom' years. Books such as Transformers, Care Bears and Doctor Who Monthly (I worked on them all, as did Civil War writer, Dave Strange Embrace Hine, but don't tell him I told you so!) were selling extremely well and the Captain Britain magazine, though short-lived, was something of a jewel in Marvel UK's crown at the time. At least, those of us that worked on it thought so.

In the early eighties, Marvel UK had learned to distinguish between the UK market and the US market, and as a young upstart editor I had my eyes set on the US market; I wanted to do color monthly books! Our titles, Dragon Claw's, Death's Head and The Sleeze Brothers, launched in '88 and '89, were considered misfires at the time, but with them, and alongside our GI Joe and Ghostbusters weeklies, I was able to nurture a strong group of British creators which included Dougie Justice Braithwaite (he was just 15 years old when he brought me his first samples), Simon Furman (who had already written a million Transformers stories by the end of the '80s but was able to work freelance full time on the back of Death's Head), Dan Sinister Dexter Abnett, Bryan Ultimates Hitch (just 16 years old when he brought in his portfolio, he was as precocious then as he is now), the delightful Lee Sullivan (best Doctor Who strip artist EVER) and obsessive compulsive multi-tasker Andy Majestic Lanning.

Best of all working at Marvel UK, living in London and freelancing for rivals 2000AD as a lettering robot, brought me into contact with British comic luminaries and stalwarts such as Dave Gibbons, Alan Davis, Jamie Delano, John Wagner, Alan Grant, Robin Smith, Mick McMahon, Kevin O'Neill, Lew Stringer, Steve Dillon, Steve McManus, Steve and Annie Parkhouse, Tom Frame, Steve Craddock, Brian Bolland, Alan Moore, John Higgins and Paul Gravett. It was a very small and intimate industry back then, and everyone had stories to tell and cautionary words to share. When Marvel UK's editor in chief, Jenny O'Connor, and I visited Judge Dredd writers John Wagner and Alan Grant, in an effort to woo them over to Marvel, I remember very well that owning a part of their creations was very much a sticking point in our negotiations. It was frustrating for us, and ultimately we weren't able to give them the deal or the money they wanted, but those conversations allowed us to forge a creator-owned contract for John Carnell and Andy Lanning's Sleeze Brothers, and ultimately drove me years later into self publishing so that I could own and control Hip Flask and, now, Elephantmen. Jenny eventually moved in with John Wagner-so she got something very different out of the experience-a piece of Judge Dredd!

You've been self-publishing since your teens, so I've got to ask if you where you one of those copy machine fanzine wizards?

Duplicating machines-my high school didn't have a photocopier back then. We created strange, inky carbon stencils and then the duplicator was hand cranked. I produced two copies of my Doctor Who fanzine, Galaxy Four, that way. When I produced collections of my Doctor Who cartoon strips some years later, I did those at Prontaprint, a chain of copier shops similar to Kinko's. I'm not sure if they're still in business. There was a very good one near the old Forbidden Planet store on Denmark street. Brian Bolland used to take me there to make copies of The Killing Joke pages he'd finished. I still have my set.

Is it true British lettering kings Bill Nuttall and Tom Frame originally inspired your unique design style?

I think Bill and Tom had very unique and interesting styles, and they were very kind and encouraging toward me way back when. Bill died a few years ago, and never saw Comic Book Lettering The Comicraft Way, which I dedicated to him. I did get a very nice phone call from his son, though. He was very touched. I'd never have gotten off square one without Bill's help. Although I never met him, the letter and samples he sent me are amongst my most treasured possessions.

What prompted you to move to the states?

Ahh-well, I always thought I'd like to live over here, but what brought me here was the pursuit of a lovely young lady who we'll call Sue Smith. She worked at Marvel UK for six months then moved back to LA. We broke up shortly after I moved to California, but I'll always be grateful to her for running away from me! Sweet girl.

Comicraft has been published in millions of comic books and magazines and has received loads of comic book industry awards for both lettering and design. How did your partnership with John 'JG' Roshell come about?

His girlfriend, the lovely Starshine, was the ex-girlfriend of the brother of a mutual friend. I was looking for the very first Comicraftsman to work with me on lettering assignments, and JG had been a big fan of SPIDER-MAN all his life and proved to be the perfect choice to help build the business. There wouldn't be a Comicraft without JG-he was the one who asked me how he should answer the phone... "Um, COMICRAFT!" I answered. My old roommate, Griff, was a carpenter in Venice Beach and called his business PROUDCRAFT, I just swapped out the first few letters!

You're regarded as one of the early pioneers of computer-based comic book lettering. How did the industry respond to your initial innovations?

With Fear and Loathing. Bob Harras famously told me he'd NEVER allow me to letter X-Men books digitally. He later ate those words, and his hat. It was a long hard slog. JG was constantly tweaking the font he created based on my hand lettering style-and creating new fonts all the time! We have over a hundred fonts available commercially now (comicbookfonts.com) but back then we had ONE. You tell that to the kids today and they won't believe you!

Tell us about the origins of Hip Flask?

Well, originally I wanted to sell our fonts as the official X-Men or Wildcats fonts, but neither Marvel or Jim Lee's Wildstorm studio really saw the potential, thank goodness! I finally decided to use my character Hedge Backwards (www.hedgebackwards.com) as a shill to sell the fonts, but his stories (which are semi-autobiographical and basically tell the story of my relationship with Sue) didn't fit, so I decided to create an action/adventure hero instead. Through one reason and another, that character became Hip Flask.

Comic strips, comic books, and Graphic novels seem to mirror the movies and visa versa, what are some of your biggest cinematic influences?

I think they're Very Obvious if you've seen the Hip Flask and Elephantmen books! No one will be surprised to learn that I love Blade Runner, Alien, Twelve Monkeys and The Fly, but I'd also add Jaws, Raiders Of The Lost Ark, Delicattessen, Amelie, A Very Long Engagement, Jean De Florette/Manon De Source, Pirates Of The Carribean and, well, so many more. I try not to watch genre movies so much now, and I'm more likely to be watching nature documentaries and British dramas. When you work in fantasy, you tend to seek out something a little more realistic in your down time! I've been watching The Lakes, Blackpool, Cutting It, State Of Play and Shameless on DVD. I think I'm single handedly responsible for Amazon UK's quarterly profits.

As a Buddhist, do you feel your beliefs greatly influence your art, especially in regards to Hip Flask?

Absolutely-here's the whole story.... When I was given the task of editing a comic based on The Real Ghostbusters cartoon series back in London, I found myself having to cast around for new writers in order to generate the large amount of material that was needed in the book. I bought a number of scripts that were okay but they seemed to lack something which I couldn't quite put my finger on. They didn't seem truthful. I may just have been a young turk trying to prove something, but I really wanted to read and publish stories that were both fun and meaningful!

I had hired Andy Lanning to draw Ghostbusters, and he recommended the work of his old schoolfriend, John Carnell, and brought him to meet me. Generally I avoided hiring friends of friends but there was something mercurial about John that inspired me to give him a chance. John was quick with a joke and earnest in his desire to write entertaining stories. The scripts he turned in proved to be witty and vibrant and eagerly sought after by the artists working for me. I struggled in vain to understand what exactly it was that they contained so that I could communicate "the formula" to other writers.

I soon learned from Andy that John was a Buddhist and after he and I had come to know each other, I asked him about his practice. From time to time he would suggest that I probably couldn't handle Buddhist practice and instead read to me from Rilke's Letter To A Young Poet when he was drunk. Most of all I remember the question posed by Rilke: "Must I write"?

One night I sat with John and his wife as they chanted and leafed through a book called Guidelines Of Faith. Pretending not to be very interested, I asked John if I could borrow the book. Halfway through my reading I came across the phrase "turning poison into medicine." Suddenly, a penny dropped. All John's Ghostbusters stories turned negatives into positives. The Ghostbusters would be called to bust a ghost in a hotel, but would persuade the ghost and the hotel manager to work together so that people would visit the hotel BECAUSE it was haunted; or the Ghostbusters would trap two mischievous electrical sprites in a battery, thereby creating a source of everlasting power.

I called John the next day and confronted him with my realization. "Gotcha!" I told him. "You're propagating Buddhism in your stories, aren't you? Admit it! "

"Um, No, not deliberately," John told me, "but I have been practicing for over four years and I guess that Buddhist philosophy is starting to bubble up out of my life into my work."

I never quite believed John's denial, but regardless of his intent, I decided I wanted to get me some Buddhist wisdom. I started chanting and encouraged the other writers working for me to consider the concept of "turning poison into medicine" as an alternative to the "this ghost is toast" philosophy our licensor encouraged. Subsequently The Real Ghostbusters comic became one of Marvel UK's most successful publications.

To cut a longer story short, even when I was at the top of my game, winning awards, I was never truly happy just being the guy that lettered comics. Years after I started practicing Buddhism, I realized that I didn't have to wait for other writers to produce meaningful stories for me; I could write them myself! I finally had the answer to the question posed by Rilke: "Must I write?" Hip Flask and Elephantmen are the answers to that question.

Rilke said: "A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it…go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take the destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside."

Who would you say is the Hip Flask demographic?

At our booths at shows in San Diego and Chicago, we see a LOT of young adult males aged 15-25.

What's on the horizon for Hip Flask?

Adventure, Excitement and Really Wild Things. I'm very excited about Elephantment... I can't keep up with the stories that are spilling out of the characters, and our sales have been VERY encouraging. I can promise readers that we are NOT going to disappoint. And, of course, next year we should have the next issue of Hip Flask by Ladrönn as well!

Do you have any last words on the future of comic books and graphic novels?

There are more comics and graphic novels than ever. It's a GREAT time to be in the field-especially for independent creators like myself. REJOICE

Johnny Cash & The Simple Things In Life

by
R. O'DONNELL

"Hello, I'm Johnny Cash," says the man dressed in black, his guitar swung around his shoulder, draped behind his back. A genuine Country Western star that was as much about rock and roll as Elvis Presley and Jerry Lee Lewis, and he even dug Bob Dylan too. That was John R. Cash, the man that flips his guitar around, starts strumming, and breaks through the hoots and hollers singing Folsom Prison Blues.

Wish I could have been there, heard that landmark concert in the big house. Yeah, that would be a moment to remember. Would've been nice to watch Johnny's father Ray "eye" him from the wings or survey Cash introduce Glen Sherley, asking him to take a bow. He was the inmate who penned Greystone Chapel, the song Cash finished the concert with, and which was sadly omitted from the film.

Cash struggled with inner demons, sure, just like every other artist in the world. No big deal really. He's just one of the many in that regard, but his music, his lyrics, his baritone intonations, and as important, his revelation to make his family the band that backed his image up onstage, that's the story there to tell. The Carter Family, Country Western royalty that included daughter June were present when Cash swaggered onto that Folsom Prison stage in front of thousands of incarcerated cons. So were Marshall Grant (bass), W.S. Holland (drums), Carl and Luther Perkins (electric guitar), and The Statler Brothers doing vocals. Wow. But most of that was wiped away, the excuse of the 90-minute window, Hollywood's favorite lie.

Joaquin Phoenix plays Cash all subtle and complex; I've got no problems there. And Reese Witherspoon as June was enough to make me drool, but the truth, the truth just wasn't in the spotlight. Give us less of those fictitious conversations and more of his in-studio incantations or ripping it up onstage or hanging with the band eating tenderloin on a biscuit June cooked-up. Take us there, to the simplicity of a rebel's life, and his need to make the band his family up onstage. There's the story of Johnny Cash my father used to tell.

My dad was your average blue collar Joe. He had a handsome twelve-string guitar hanging on the wall. A tall lanky, square-jawed rebel that loved to sing that Country Western. Not to mention the stacks and stacks of Nashville in our livingroom. LPs like Willie Nelson's Stardust, Roger Miller's King of the Road, Tammy Wynette's Stand By Your Man, and Dolly Parton's Just Because I'm A Woman were just a few of the stereophonic viny's in our house. But it was Johnny Cash at Folsom Prison that dad listened to all the time. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years Eve my old man listened to that scratchy-old, fizz a-poppin' record croon The Green Green Grass of Home. He'd look at me and wink, drink his Miller Highlife, and nod his head in appreciation for the man dressed black on black. For like Johnny Cash, my father believed in the uncomplicated life. He left the intricate alone.

I got a sense my daddy wasn't by his lonesome. I think Cash touched a lot of men across America. Regular guys that understood his primal insolence to the bone. For after a bullet ripped a president's skull and Vietnam claimed the lives of many sons, everything was questionable. With that much anarchy about, a more tangible way of life was prayed for. That's what my dad and his buddies desired most. Make it yesterday, dear Lord.

So the movie Walk The Line missed the horseshoe (no "almost" in that game), and spiffed a story up that was way better black and white. But damn, that's what Hollywood does. A system run by bankers and get-rich-quick kids that toss minimal all to hell.

But I believe that Johnny Cash knew deep inside his soul, that life was getting way too complicated, way too thorny for the average Joe. So when he stepped onto that stage one cold day in January, 1968, to sing his ever-lovin' heart-out, he was recording for the everyman, a simpler way to go.

Johnny Depp is a brave man

by
R. O'DONNELL


Johnny Depp is a brave man. In an age where bravery is hard to find, let alone name, Johnny Depp is a brave man that has touched my heart specific. He has reached out and taken a single finger and gently brushed it against the beating of my spirit. He has done this as a writer. He has done this as an actor. He has done this as a director. But more importantly, he has done this as a man.

The Brave, written by Paul McCudden, Johnny Depp, and D.P. Depp (based on the novel by Gregory McDonald,) and nominated at the Cannes Film Festival for a Golden Palm for Depp's performance, reveals a world of poverty that we would rather forget about. Poverty that far exceeds material possessions but evolves into a deficiency of the human spirit; exhausted through years of oppression and then neglect. Whether that poverty touches a Native American named Raphael (Depp's Character) or a Mexican named Luis (Luis Guzm's character), it seeps into the soul and inevitably alters the mind like a bitter and dangerous drug.

Poverty is something most of us will never endure, and so to see it on the screen in front of us is as distant and incomprehensible as the violence also dripping crimson from the screen these days. Unless you've sat in a ramshackled trailer wondering how to feed your family while thinking prostitution might be a viable alternative to minimum wage, a film like The Brave is a far-flung pill to swallow. We just don't get it. We view it simply as a movie to be critiqued alongside King Kong and the 40 Year Old Virgin. A better life has made us jaded and somewhat numb around the edges.

The story is straightforward and sadly sinister, whereby a forlorn Native American Indian living on a garbage-heap/trailer park with his wife and kids agrees to be tortured to death for fifty thousand dollars. Marlon Brando is McCarthy, the philosophical producer of "snuff" films, delivering a performance reminiscent of Colonel Walter E. Kurtz in Coppola's Apocalypse Now. Director Depp has allowed the camera to seize what few really understood about Brando's acting technique: simply let the camera roll and it will capture a performance that is both original and profound. McCarthy is a fiend; an angel of death with real tears in his eyes as he delicately explains how suffering excruciating pain until death is a testament to one's worth. He is no different than a pornographer defending their occupation to exploit the sufferers of sexual misconduct. That is the McCarthy character, a man who takes advantage of the wounded and victimized. Deep down, he despises all human beings, and ultimately himself.

There are wonderful scenes, touching scenes, humorous, and deeply tragic as Depp allows us to watch unencumbered by traditional tricks-of-the-trade. What's left to see and experience is an eclectic community on the brink of obliteration living in the moment and dancing recklessly on and on. There is no glamour, no Hollywood sugarcoating, just the raw visual examples of everyday people trying so desperately to endure.

Some of my favorite moments where between Raphael and Father Stratton. Passionately portrayed by Clarence Williams III, an actor of extraordinary depth (and highly underrated), his being embodied the enormous struggle any organized religion has in helping the poor carry on, to endure through faith and assured salvation. Confined by the doctrines of the church promising an afterlife of true riches, Father Stratton can only give words that serve as Band-Aids on his parishioner's ripped and bleeding souls. For he too is neglected, on hands and knees scrubbing his pews that in the city not far away would be taken care of by scores of altar boys. Sadly-money rules in all places, even sacred.

Johnny Depp is a brave man, and his film a small and mighty testament to his valor. It is, as it may be with many a great artist's work, an uncomfortable reminder that we all walk the thin blue line, and that poverty and despair can tap us on the shoulder at any moment, and swiftly push us to the other side. That if we should find ourselves there, living in the squalor, that we might be warriors for our families, and at all costs, willing to be The Brave.

I Remember John...

By
R. O'DONNELL


A buddy just sent me an iCard with a picture of John and Yoko inscribed, "we miss you John."

It made me really sad. I couldn't help the tears. I remember all the hoopla that was the Beatles. The yeah-yeah days when they first arrived - all the girls on my block in Philadelphia picking their favorite in the band. I remember lunch boxes, buttons, and Saturday morning cartoons. I remember John saying we're as big as Jesus Christ and their records being burned in piles of protest throughout suburbia. I remember their switching gears, pop songs dissolving into folk rock about run away girls, "Rocky Raccoon," and "Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band." I remember weekend sleepovers with friends, listening to the long version of "Hey Jude," while making-out with someone's flower child. I remember their revolution/evolution into the world of lava lamps and psychedelics. I remember the secret messages if you played LPs backwards, about burying Paul, and I am the walrus. I remember my oldest brother waiting for their next LP as if he was going to shoot it into his arm. I remember the break-ups, the harsh words, and the bitterness between old friends Paul and John. I remember the goody Linda love thing while the black-sheeps got all bare-assed for the press. I remember John's struggle kicking cigarettes, and wanting to be a stay at home dad. I remember the solo sound of the rebels that lived in the castle Dakota on my block. I remember being 20-something and dropping acid just to Imagine. And I remember meeting John and Yoko on Seventh Avenue in New York. One week later he was gone.

The Beatles were the music that carved into our consciousness everything from wacky fashion trips to earnest war protests. And so now I get this silly reminder that I'm old enough to have been there, old enough to have thought when the announcement came over the television in Gleason's Bar on seventh avenue, that John was dead, that it had to be a lie. A really awful lie. I just talked with him, stood right next to him, talking doggies in the window at this pet store on our block.

I'm heading toward my apartment on 72nd street, the West side, my starving artists days, and I see this woman with gorgeous long black hair flowing down around her bum. I was young and stupid, so I made my way to meet her. I'm not even thinking about the tall lanky guy standing next to her. There's enough space for me to slip in there between them. So I did. They're chatting away about the puppies in the window when I join in, pointing and cooing like a jerk. I glanced to my right and noticed the woman was more mature than I had expected - I thought she was a teenager from behind. Then, I get all electrified because I instantly knew that standing to my left was John Lennon. Omigawd. I desperately acted cool. And to my delight they simply kept on chatting it up about pet care or whatever. John with his accent up and down and all sing-songy just like he was famous for, and I was mesmerized for good.

The whole thing lasted only minutes, but I walked away assured; felt I handled that pretty good, leaving them alone. They lived in my neighborhood, so I saw them walking hand in hand many times before. They often took rides in the horse-drawn carriages along Central Park and one time Yoko even sent a dish of food to our block party, but this was real up close and personal - he was a Beatle after-all.

Weeks later, I'm eating burgers and drinking wine with this pretty gal I just met and the television above our heads spouts its poison. Everyone stood up. The place was completely still. Some muffled screams, a few quiet sobs, but this could not be happening. It made no sense at all.

Later, I walked by the Dakota, before it was too heavily guarded and roped off. It was already happening though. The world was in mourning. The city felt so cold, a little sinister than before. It was dreadful. Really very sad. And I couldn't help but remember standing between the lost legend and his woman, wondering why'd they let me get so close? Just people I guess. A couple of lovers on a stroll. Easy going, no big deal, just watching the wheels go round and round.

MONSTERS IN THE CLOSET

Making his directorial debut with "2001 Maniacs," a comedy-horror remake of the 1964 drive-in classic, Tim Sullivan sits down to talk about life, the biz, and 'The Great Sullivini'



BY: R. O'DONNELL
WWW.STATICMULTIMEDIA.COM FEATURE

What are monsters? The creepy crawlers under the bed or hiding in the closet? Is it a Frankenstein's monster, Dracula, or a sunburned Freddy Kruger? The Saturday night all-alone dread? Your job that throws the keys away, locks you in a dead-end spiral? The ex-spouse, the I.R.S., or the arachnids nesting in your cellar? Sure. They're all that stuff. Monsters are relative, for today we see them wearing political garb, monsters of subjugation, monsters waging war. We have media monsters, corporate monsters, and monsters of the church. There are monsters that are Zombie-fied, liquefied, and some that are your friends. With all these monsters roaming about it's surprising we want more. Can't get enough of the good old scare-your-goddamn-brains-out. And horror connoisseur Tim Sullivan understands this all too well.

"There were monsters in my home," Tim whispers.

"You mean as a kid? When you were growing-up?" I ask him, all concerned.

"Yeah."

He goes all quite for a while. I wonder where he's gone, wonder what he's thinking. He's walking inside his head, going toward his mental closet, and loosening rusty bolts. He wants to pull another monster out, so I could look at it up close.

Tim often sees the world as a sinister vaudeville show, an eerie tent revival inside a gloomy circle with multicolored freaks standing in the spotlight. He sees that with a puff of smoke and a "watch-me-pull-a-rabbit-out-of-my-hat". He also sees a happy ending, a wink at the audience amidst good old rock n' roll. Yeah... Tim Sullivan is the showman's showman. Hell, Tim Sullivan thinks he's a freak himself. But as he tells me over the phone in dramatic intonation, "Not all freaks are monsters too."

"I'm a guy," says Sullivan, "for better or for worse, that never apologizes for who I am. I'm the unruly "rebel" that's even tattooed those letters in Chinese across my arm. I'm protesting all the time-against conformity, the mundane."

Tim's still in post-production with his feature debut, 2001 Maniacs, starring Robert "Freddy Kruger" Englund. He's exhausted. The kind of tired that wears down the defenses so he's more honest than he should be.

"How's the edit going?"

"Right now it's a producer's cut. It's okay. Competent."

He goes all quite again, chewing on his brain. "I directed a sardonic horror show, heavy on the humor," Tim quips. "We created a vaudeville with broad acting, a sort of scary cartoon with blood and guts. Sometimes I think they simply didn't get it."

Let's go into the closet, a little deeper, rustle some more boxes, and find the stuff that builds an artist, peppers temperament and creative vision. The first box lands on the floor, bursts open.

"My dad didn't get me, never understood my passion for monster models, magic shows, horror magazines like Famous Monsters, Tales from the Crypt. He was an English teacher that was embarrassed that I liked splatter more than Shakespeare. He never understood that I had surrounded myself with monsters because, well, he was a monster too."

"In what way?" I asked.

"Dad was cruel... physically, mentally."

I sighed big-time. I understood.

"To deal with my father's unhappiness (he was the unpublished author)," Tim explains, "I embraced the darkness head on. Whenever he was on the attack, I retreated to my world of horror books. I felt safe with the make-believe monsters, the special effects. The more he punished me for that, the more he pushed me into their arms."

Tim's father died last year. He wasn't told, he had to read it in the papers.

"How was that?" I asked him.

"That was hard, very painful. I lost my dad and then my grandmother. My grandmother was everything my father wasn't... she embraced me, understood me all the way. Hell, she took me to my first concert."

I first met Tim four years ago, when he was just getting Maniacs off the ground. It was his dream, his passion from the get-go.

"It's happening, man, I'm directing my first feature film!" He yells, en route to the shoot, screaming in his cell phone. But that production was cut short, tires screeching to a halt.

"June 10th and we're on the set of Camp Crystal Lake of Friday The 13th fame, where we're filming the movie. I'm off doing make-up tests and I get this call, Hey, man, your set's on fire. Great. I was like a prizefighter that was told the fight had been postponed. We were all set to go, actors in costume, production meetings and then "poof"-a fire hits, the financier pulls out and you're back right where you started."

Not for long however. Not Tim. Raw Nerve and Velvet Steamroller start the ball splattering again, and a year later, somewhere in Virginia, 2001 Maniacs is celluloid. It's in the can.

In the end, a sort of surrogate father expresses disappointment, takes over final edit. Tim retreats to Paris with his buddy Ray Manzarek of The Doors. They go there to place a wreath on Jim Morrison's grave,a tradition, and then The Doors of the 21st century (a revival with originals Manzarek and Krieger) will perform for a group of fans and friends at the Paris Opera house. But looking back, "big kid" Tim always touted that 2001 Maniacs wasn't the Citizen Kane of horror films. He knew exactly what he wanted, "a gory slapstick, man, a splatter theater," he recalls. "My pal, producer David Freidman, (She Freak, Blood Feast and the original Two Thousand Maniacs) always said that if you've got a gory pizza pie, just hit them with it, you don't show them making the pie, just hit 'em good. That's 'splatter' films." I agree of course.

Tim's agenda was simple, really: he wanted to pay homage to the granddaddy of horror films, Hershel Gordon Lewis, the demented mind behind the original 1964 splatter classics Blood Feast and Two Thousand Maniacs. The kind of films his father would've hated.

"This guy was thinking outside the box," Tim explains. "He listened to no one. You had your Gothic British teeny-bopper horror films by way of Hammer, but Hershel was self-financed, no studio heads, he controlled the bottom line and he went on to cut deals with drive-in theaters all across America. H.G. created the drive-in "B-horror" circuit... the splatter genre."

Tim's energy is thrilling. It's edgy and contagious, too. He pulls another box from the closet, shakes it, winks, and then dumps it on the floor.

"I was 'The Great Sullivini' as a kid," Tim tells me, laughing as he does. "I took magic classes, performed all over the neighborhood. It's inspired my filmmaking. Magic is misdirection, doing something with the right hand while doing another with your left, out of view. Horror films are the ultimate illusion. I went from Doug Henning to Tom Savini, card tricks to blood and guts."

"Cycles?"

"Yeah. It's all about cycles, everything coming around, everything returning to its origin, its roots. I was the 16-year-old kid sitting in the theater howling at John Landis' American Werewolf in London or screaming at Wes Craven's Nightmare On Elm Street, so as I got older the cycle came around and I found myself writing for Fangoria, working as a PA for John Landis on Coming to America, and reading scripts for New Line Cinema. I was working on Detroit Rock City when I met producer Chris Kobin, who later approached me about doing an H. G. Lewis remake-more cycles, man. I instantly thought of Two Thousand Maniacs, a sort of supernatural Brigadoon (that old 1950's musical about an Scottish town that comes back to life for a day every hundred years). Maniacs is one of my all-time favorite flicks. In casting, I thought of Robert Englund who I interviewed for Go Figure magazine and then later I met him while I was working as a script reader at New Line. We've been friends ever since. I sent him 2001 Maniacs and he said yes. And that was that, the cycle becomes whole." I want to rummage through the closet some more, but decide against it. He's been so honest and courageous.

"What's next?"

Now he's fan boy as he answers all excited, "I'm writing/directing another H.G. Lewis remake entitled She Freaks through my production company Blood Works (with producer pal Chris Tuffin). It's about a traveling sideshow of freaks headed by this beautifully scarred dominatrix. Sexy monster "She." We want to play it in drive-in theaters in concert with a rock n' roll band. Can you imagine that?"

"I'll be there," I told him.

"Yeah... should be cool."

He's in his head, he's gone. I count the minutes as he shuts the closet door, snaps the padlocks good. Then he breaks the silence, saying, "Yeah, my father is the monster of rejection. I hear his voice all the time, in studio heads, producers, monsters of a different breed: 'No, you're wrong. You can't do that. For get about it.' But I succeed in spite of them. I carry on."

"How's that?"

"I don't listen. They're monsters and only make-believe."

MY SUMMER WITH DEL

STOP SMILING
#17
THE COMEDY ISSUE:
http://www.stopsmilingonline.com

Improvisational comedians have called Del Close the guru, the creative spark that helped launch the careers of Bill Murray, John Candy, and John Belushi, to name only a few. When he wasn’t institutionalized by his Second City colleagues, Del spent his quiet time musing in the potsmoke of his legendary Chicago apartment. Find out the real story from someone who was right alongside him.

MY SUMMER WITH DEL

By
R. O'DONNELL


Once, Chicago was good for comedy. Once, they were sloppy drunk in love. A funky flaming affair where comedy was ravished and left wanting, recklessly thrust into the faces of any audience willing to sit in a makeshift theater stuck inside a seedy bar. Crosscurrents was the rendezvous. A gloomy cabaret on the corner of Belmont and Wilton that at one time or another housed steamy liaisons between The Annoyance Theater, New Age Vaudeville, The Improv Olympic, and Del Close.

Owned and operated by Thomas L. Goodman, Crosscurrents was where comedy screwed its brains out. Remember "The Friday Night Show," Aaron Freeman's "Council Wars," "The Legend of Lily Overstreet," Paul Krassner, "On the Edge," and the all-girl sketch group Somebody's Daughters? This was an orgy of political satire, improvisation, variety, vaudeville, and theater screwing endlessly under stage lights. It was stripping in the theater, walking naked through the bar, lap-dances in the cabaret, and hand jobs in the hall. Every nook and cranny, anywhere they could, in this old Swedish meeting hall—Chicago and comedy couldn’t get enough. This was where the perverts and junkies, the wannabes and the pros hung out. A comedy bordello, a red-light district where humor was pimping itself, was charging cheap admission to all peeping Toms.

Here the talent was adolescent, seriously pissed-off, and brilliant, etching quotable graffiti on the walls. Here they drank, smoked, took mind-altering anything-they-could-get-their-hands-on, and danced wildly from room to room. Out of this lustful tarantella, more Comedy was born. There were the screaming infants “Splatter Theater,” “Honor Finnegan vs. the Brain of the Galaxy,” and the “TV Dinner Hour.” This was 1987.

But nothing lasts forever. Sticky, faded love letters penned by journalists Rick Kogan, Jack Helbig, and Lawrence Bommer were placed in shoeboxes, forgotten. Chicago and comedy didn't give a shit about each other anymore, abandoning their bastard children. They survived, of course. The kiddies all did good; they looked and acted like their parents. They gave us “The Brady Bunch Live,” “Twisted,” “Coed Prison Sluts,” “Upright Citizen's Brigade,” and the “R. Rated” TV show.

But who threw the party when the surly couple met? Who decided to ignite their robust passion, put acid in their drinks, and invite everyone to toast? Del Close did. Scruffy bastard. (I can see him laugh, and half say outta the corner of his mouth, “Y’goddam right I did.”) Yeah, this dark and aging cherub, the stand-up comic that conspired with the likes of Severn Darden and later Charna Halpern, he’s the asshole that decided Chicago and comedy would be good for one another. And then? He even took care of all their deserted offspring… Scruffy, funny bastard.

Del Close: greasy hair, twisted metal-rimmed glasses, and a pilot’s coat, brown, fading piece o’ shit. (He'd kicked the chemicals, since John Belushi died.) Yeah, Del Close had chiseled off 20, 30 years by living hard and liking it. His fingers were rusty from tobacco, his teeth severely stained, and his posture crooked like a villain.

You would swear he was a movie star.

“That’s alright,” Del would say, “Charna’s on it.” Anything about his partner, and he was instantly defensive. “We’re friends,” he would say. They watched each other’s back. They understood each other. Don’t you get between them. I’m serious now. I’m serious.

When Crosscurrents crashed and burned, the heated passion over, and with Goodman holding all the bills, the aftermath just gasped and fizzled. Little sparks here and there made small media appearances, but these were lean and mean, and shitty all around.

Finally the Fall, the changing of the guard, and there was a cooling down, chilly weather, Chicago-easy-does-it… which was fine. Del was abusing comics with his latest "Wasteland" for DC, landing movie roles as the Reverend Meeker in the remake of "The Blob" with Kevin Dillon, and as the Alderman in Brian De Palma’s "The Fugitive" with Kevin Costner… so he was doing fine.

“All I wanted was to work in film,” said Del. “I’ve done alright. I’ve done a couple of features this year.”

Yeah, he was all humble, sitting in his kitchen that looked almost boarded up. After showing off his “Blob” in a jar above the fridge, Del and I read comic books. They were his second private stash. He had them everywhere, several drugstore display racks stuffed in all the blind spots and dark shadows. It was nice not to deal with furniture. One overgrown kid’s filthy bedroom. No parents, and lots and lots of toys.

“I got a haircut,” Del said.

“Looks good,” I say, not noticing a difference.

“It’s easier to manage.”

“You had it long?”

“I went through that… mad professor, hippie type.”

“Didn’t stick?”

“Better short.”

“Yeah, better.”

This wasn’t brilliant banter. This wasn’t wisdom from the master or worldly insights. This was boring, no-nothing conversation from a couple of shmoes just hanging out. That’s all. But locked inside this gibberish was the man in all his unsophisticated splendor, this was simply Del.

I visited the instigator, not once, but throughout an entire summer I took the gamble, and walked up to the guru’s lair—uninvited—knocking on his door. The funny bastard answered. Go figure. And we’d get high and talk.

His cannabis was nurtured, sweet-talked, maybe even massaged when no one watched, because it loved to turn you on. Del would ever-so-coolly pull this trapdoor down from up inside his closet. His bedroom looked all prisoner-of-war, gray the central color, and in this hideout, he produced the biggest stash of pot. Oh-my-stinking-lord!

I was so trashed, baked, wasted, stoned… going, going, gone. I’m a lightweight, and I hate to lose control. (Now I stick to coffee, thank you.) Suddenly this gothic grimy playground was effervescent, flies dancing on the walls, furniture melting into floorboards, and Del looked just like the devil, swear t’god. Paranoia sat beside me, whispered in my ear, “He can read your mind.”

But Del wasn’t hosting fear, wasn’t trying to freak me out at all. He hadn’t even noticed I was fighting for my sanity, playing mental tug-of-war.

I tried to speak, but my lips just stuck together as I said something all marshmallow-y and stupid, “My hair is breathing.”

“Cool,” I think he said.

He didn’t really care. He was content, happy to be sitting in his kitchen; happy to be alive.

“I can’t feel my legs,” I told him.

“You’ll get over it,” he said.

Del wasn’t spewing insights, wasn’t a bit pretentious, not at all. He just wanted easy conversation. Didn’t want to think much. Hush the mind a bit.

It’s something we don’t consider until we’re old, the way a person just wants a trouble-free existence. Fame and fortune’s always hungry, and lots of work to feed. It doesn’t soothe the spirit. Doesn’t fill the holes. Friends do that and, according to Del, all his pals were dying. This was what he was muttering in his kitchen... all his goddam friends were gone.

“I’ve had good friends,” he kept saying, “Very good friends.” Then he'd get all quite, look at the floor, and just sit there, maybe have a coughing fit. (Cigarettes punched him in the chest, bruised his lungs—he never quite recovered. Nasty little cancer sticks… god how much we love 'em.)

There was a cat, I think, but I don’t remember seeing it. Maybe sleeping on the futon pushed into the corner of his bedroom. Maybe it was there, this black cat, stretched out among the crumbled mountain of covers, but I really don’t recall. I couldn’t imagine him taking care of anything. He had enough just taking care of Del.

He would show me clippings, obituaries. Some recently torn from local papers; others faded, nasty brown. This was what occupied his brilliance. Aging, spinning with the Earth, Del was reminiscing. He was sharing feelings with a stranger. Which probably made it easier, talking with a no-one-in-particular. Spilling your guts to someone that can walk away, close the door behind them, never to return … that’s a poor man’s therapy.

Or maybe he really liked me, felt a kinship, but I doubt it. He just needed an ear to burn. To confess that he was scared just like the rest of us: Of being all alone.

“Sheila died over the weekend,” Del would tell me, obituary in hand. (I think her name was Sheila.) “She really wasn’t old. Sheila… a very talented actor from San Francisco. We use to work together.” Then he’d tape her obit to the dirty kitchen window. There were quite a few, taped there, and then forgotten.

The pot and I ask him all kinds of stupid shit. “How do you approach auditions? You go in a crazed, all worked up?” He’d just stared at me, answer with a growl of sorts, “You show up, do whatever the director wants, be professional. That’s all.”
“Do you go in with an agenda?”

“Yeah… get the fucking job.”

The first time I met Del he was playing Polonius in "Hamlet" at Wisdom Bridge Theatre. It was 1985. I knew the legend that was Del Close, but not this man in front of me, sweating under the stage lights. He’s giving this killer performance and I’m racking my brain, I know this guy! He’s? He’s? Someone, somebody goddam it. Damn, I know this guy…

That night, Del hitched a ride with us. He sat next to me and we talked a bit. He was gracious, very warm. Nothing suggested he was a comedy legend, Joseph Jefferson Award winner, one of the founders of Second City, the Improv Olympic, regular on "My Mother the Car" and "Get Smart," co-author of Truth in Comedy, yadda, yadda, yadda… he just seemed content, happy to get a ride, save the cab fare. That was it. No big shakes. Simple was the man.

My next encounter with the guru was at Crosscurrents. Thom Goodman was upstairs in his grubby office on the phone, trying to manipulate the media, sell more tickets, pay the bills, while all around him the orgy continued. It was shameful really: Chicago and comedy making-out. Tonguing one another anywhere they could. High school is what it felt like. In addition, there were all these improv students hanging out, watching, taking notes.

Behind the bar was the versatile Bridget Murphy. She’d go on to create "Milly’s Orchard Show." She tended bar but at night, hit the main stage doing a sort of burlesque whereby she dressed up as a greasy fat man telling raunchy jokes, and then stripped to reveal a sexy Playboy Bunny. Somebody’s Daughters were running around half crazed, rehearsing "Bards, Broads and Sacrifice.” Mick Napier was sitting at a table with his allies, talking Metraform, while Andy Dick was jumping up and down, begging to be noticed. There was this slaphappy kid named Christopher Farley playing pinball in the hall. He was the most endearing clown that no one wanted to play with.

Del… he was sitting at the end of the bar, smoking, coughing, lurking in the shadows. He shook my hand, offered me a cigarette. I took it, lit it, and drank a beer that tasted good.

“I saw your show, 'Elmore and Gwen',” he said, never looking up.

I was waiting to get my assed kicked. I was a writer from New York, came here looking for the comedy scene, and landed in the hornet’s nest. I wasn’t one of them. I scripted everything. I was going to get stung. So, I faked I didn’t give a rat’s ass. What else to do?

He cleared his throat to mumble, “It was consistent.”

“Uh huh,” was all I said.

“It stayed the course. All your jokes were consistent with the genre. It was vaudeville… very animated. I liked it.”
Panic was dripping down the crack of my ass. I think they call that 'flop-sweat'. I told him, “Thanks, appreciated.”
“Can you write me something next time?”

“Yeah.”

Del was in my second review, "The TV Dinner Hour." To be honest, he got angry, had a fit about the gig. He wanted to be in a play, have a straight acting job. Del didn’t realize I used improv for the bones of everything I worked on. The words came after I knew whom I was writing for, the glove that fits the hand.

“Where’s the script?” he asked me, standing all crooked, smoking under the Crosscurrents’ logo.

“No script. You’re the improv guru. I’m going to use video. Just create a TV character, improvise your ass off. You’ll run on a monitor above the stage. It’ll be cool, you’ll dig it.”

“Jesus Christ… I wanted words.”

“Just video and improv.”

“Video? You’ll destroy the medium.”

He stormed off mumbling “bastard” and “Nazi” something-or-other. The sign above my head was swaying. Winter was coming. It was getting cold. A wino from across the street was pissing on the sidewalk. He looked up, gave me the finger. Thanks, I smiled back.

A week later Del cornered me in the bar, asking, “Can I do it stoned?”

“Anyway you want, man.”

We shook hands. That was it. Done.

Peter Neville, videographer, took care of all the rest. Stoned and coughing up a fit, Del committed to video one of his best-recorded improvs: The Very Reverend Thing of the First Generic Church of What’s-his-name. It played on monitors overhead that channel-surfed until it landed on his bulbous face. Scruffy talented bastard, he almost stole the show.

The "TV Dinner Hour," directed by Amy McKenzie and featuring Megan Cavanagh, (now the voice of Jimmy Neutron’s mom,) did alright, and pushed us into the arms of the sultry mistress, screwing like all the rest.

Sitting in his kitchen, I reminded him, “You called me a Nazi once.”

He laughed, saying, “I meant it as a compliment.”

Sure he did.

I showed up again, uninvited, but this time he didn’t answer. I stood there waiting. I felt his eyes peeking from between the crusty curtains. He didn’t want to talk. A squirrel was chewing on the railing that was rotting around his porch. Standing there was useless; the wizard wasn’t coming out.

I walked across the street to Charna’s place. I knocked and waited. She answered, let me in. Up the stairs to the second floor, I sat in her living room while she offered me a Coke. Her shaggy little dog just laid there on the floor. Goofy puppy had the life. It ate and slept better than most of Charna's students.

“Thanks for introducing me to Stephen,” she said. An eccentric friend, Kastner was a magnificent painter, and they were getting it on. Funky, dirty love. Everybody’s doing it.

“Sure…” I said back at her, sipping from my soda can.

“We’ve got a development deal in California, the Improv Olympic on network television. It might happen.”
“Cool.”

She looked really tan and radiant. Striking. Younger than before. She was a happy Jewish girl.

A few weeks later, I was sitting in the guru’s kitchen once again. When he greeted me at the door, he smiled, seemed pleased that I stopped in. Before I entered, I noticed that squirrel’s drying carcass near the front porch. I think it should’ve munched on someone else’s railing. The spirit of the house reached out and got him, or that cat I never saw.

In the kitchen, Del filled a jelly jar up with soda. He still lived like college. Actually, he lived as most of his students did: like characters out of “Animal House.” This was what I was thinking as I sipped my Orange Crush, talked a little more.

“I’m losing weight,” he told me. “Stopped eating a big breakfast. I’m feeling pretty good.”

“Cutting out a breakfast?”

“Stop the bacon and eggs.”

“No shit?”

“My face is looking thinner. Better for the movie roles.”

He looked better, healthier, but the hard life wouldn’t stop punching him in the face. That’s were you saw the swelling. In the eyes, you saw the scars, the battles, the spirit drifting to the surface, flipping him the bird… shouldn’t have partied all the time. Yeah whatever. Nazi bastards.

Del loved sporting Wasteland, a somewhat autobiographical hodgepodge of stories for DC comics that he penned with John Ostrander. It was really twisted, folks. All messed up and psychedelic. Fun to look at while turning pages that almost got you high. I half expected my mother to walk in, scream at me for reading "trash." As a kid, it was something I would’ve discovered, hidden under the bed for late night reading. You know, it would’ve scared the boogeyman.

“We have something in common,” he said, broke the silence.

“Oh yeah?”

“We both ran away with traveling shows.”

“Sells and Grey,” I told him.

“Dr. Dracula's Magic Horror Show,” he countered.

“They had an elephant that still put up the big top.”

“I was a fire-eater.”

“Ventriloquist.”

“That’s awful. I hate puppets.”

“You and everybody else.”

“I was only fifteen or so.”

“Seventeen.”

Then all you could hear was the constant ruffling of paper until he blurted out, chuckled, “Could’ve been worse.”

“How’s that?”

“Could’ve been a mime.”

“Jesus, that’ll get you killed.”

“You bet.”

He sighed, I sighed and we both went back to reading for a while.

The last time I saw Del was when his theater opened up on Clark Street. It was packed with all his students, friends, and other showbiz types. I pointed to the monitors high above the stage and said, “That’ll destroy the medium.”

Del didn’t recall the conversation, and there wasn’t time to remind him. But he was glad to see me, surprised me with this goofy smile. It’s a look I’ll carry with me, the final fading image, because I never talked to him again.

I was living in New York when Del got sick and died. March 4, 1999. He was only 64. I tore his obituary from the paper, taped it to my kitchen window. I wanted to say something, but there were other people much closer to the man.

When I returned to Chicago, I went by Del’s house, saw another squirrel chewing on the railing. I picked a stone up and hurled it at the shabby thing. It wasn’t fazed at all. It just stood up, looked at me sideways, as if saying, Piss-off, the guru doesn’t live here anymore.

2001 MANIAC'S DIR SPILLS HIS GUTS

"It's going to be a party!" explains Tim Sullivan, associate producer for the cult classic Detroit Rock City (still killing on DVD)."

In the early eighties I had a chance to hang with the legendary king of horror, the very hip and always-gracious Mr. Vincent Price. He was touring his one-man show about Edgar Allan Poe, and I was appointed by the theater to be his chaperone. C'mon, Me? You want me to look after The Abominable Dr. Phibes? Francois Delambre of The Fly, and Roderick Usher of the Fall Of The House Of Usher? You bet! Although, I have to admit, I was secretly petrified. It was a fantastic brush with a film industry icon that embodied everything I loved about the movies growing up: the drama, the horror, and the fun-filled buckets of blood. All these things were rolled into a Saturday matinee. A dollar bought you five candy bars, popcorn, soda and admission to see a double feature of William Castle's The Tingler and House On Haunted Hill. It was schlock-shock-fantastic folks. I was this skinny little kid sitting in the dark and absolutely terrified to death. Yeah--Vincent was my childhood.

He told me stories with lots of antidotes, but the one thing Vincent kept repeating was that all the fun was gone from making horror films. He said that it was all about the money now. He'd just have to hit his mark, say his lines, and then retreated to his trailer for a snooze. He'd sigh big time after telling me, shrug his shoulders, and then get all quiet for a while. He looked older for an instant, just before springing back to life to elaborate on Peter Lorre's (they were pals) antics on the set of Roger Corman's The Raven back when movie making was still fun.

Yeah--gone are the days of P. T. Barnum rhetoric, over-the-top promotional campaigns, and down-and-dirty gimmicks like rigging the theater seats for shocks, rubber bats on fishing lines, and costumed ushers running amuck. What's missing is the thrill - the popcorn tossing, pinching, poking, and screaming-your-bloody-guts-out-fun. But hey, wait a minute! Not true with writer/director Tim Sullivan, Vincent Price fanatic, rock n' roller, and horror connoisseur. He's putting all the "fun" back into film making with his latest flick 2001 Maniacs brought to you by the godfather of gore, Herschell Gordon Lewis (executive producer) and X Men 2 producer Tom Desanto. 'Cause Tim's got the horror bug you see. It was passed along from his pal Freddy Krueger. He's going to pass it on to you. He's going to reap you, creep you, and keep you coming back for more. And for his pal Vincent Price, he's bringing back the good ol' days of gore.

"It's going to be a party!" explains Tim Sullivan, associate producer for the cult classic Detroit Rock City (still killing on DVD), "As our other executive producer, David Freidman, (She Freak, Blood Feast and the original Two Thousand Maniacs) has taught me, sell the sizzle as well as the steak. It's not just the film you're selling to the public. Anyone can make a horror film, but everything surrounding it: the cast, the music, the make-up, and special effects coupled with an outstanding promotional campaign akin to Hitchcock's Psycho Days - that's filmmaking the old horror way."

Although Tim's only 30 something (his energy is pure teenager, his mind a 100 plus), he's been in the biz working with the best and brightest for sometime. "It's all about cycles, everything coming around, everything returning to its origin, roots. I grew up reading Famous Monsters, I was the 16 year old kid sitting in the theater howling at John Landis' American Werewolf In London or screaming at Wes Craven's Nightmare On Elm Street, so as I got older the cycle came around and I found myself writing for Fangoria, working as a PA for John Landis on Coming To America, and reading scripts for New Line Cinema. I was working on Detroit Rock City when I met producer Chris Kobin (with whom I eventually co-wrote 2001 Maniacs and formed our production company, New Rebellion Entertainment) who later approached me about doing an H. G. Lewis remake: more cycles, man! I instantly thought of Two Thousand Maniacs, a sort of supernatural Brigadoon (that old 1950's Broadway musical about an Irish town that comes back to life every year). Maniacs is one of my all-time favorite flicks. H. G. Lewis delivers lots and lots of spills and thrills and gore, he's the master. In casting I thought of Robert Englund (of Freddy Krueger fame) who I interviewed for Go Figure Magazine and then later met while I was working as a script reader at New Line. We've been friends ever since, and so I sent him 2001 Maniacs and he said yes. And that was that, the cycle comes around yet again. Robert's role doesn't require as much make-up as his famous Freddy character, he looks like himself only a bit off, this sinister Southern gentlemen with a nasty confederate flag eye-patch--it's awesome. You gotta see him, man!"

When Tim speaks, you sit back and let him go. He never talks about himself unless he's dragging someone else into the spotlight. He's constantly spelling names as he explains, "You've got to shine the light on other people. They make your dreams come true. You got to be with the best and these people really are: make-up for 2001 Maniacs is another cycle, of course, Vincent J. Guastini, Emmy award winning make-up artist (Saturday Night Live). He did Jay and Silent Bob, Requiem for a Dream, Dogma...he's amazing and very talented. I met Vinnie in NYC a while back, roommate of another incredible make-up guy named John Dods who gave me my start - I pumped blood for the cult classic The Deadly Spawn at the age of 16, and Dods did the make-up. I'm actually doing the commentary for the upcoming DVD…anyway, I helped Vinnie get some work on the film I worked on in 1986, If Looks Could Kill. The usual body parts, severed heads, and he was great, the best. When 2001 Maniacs was announced in the trades I got this letter from him, expressing a desire to work on the project. I called him up, I'm shouting, "Hey, Vinnie, it's me, Tim Sullivan!" He's screaming, I'm screaming. We hadn't talked in years. Wait 'til you see these effects; they're all practical, made for the set, no CGI bullshit. When it splatters, it's real! It's like fourth of July fireworks that are very, very wet."

Tim believes that the Hollywood slasher has gone all corporate on us, all cock-tease with no punch, "soft". "Yeah-the 90's gave us all these self referential, cynical, Melrose Place-type satires with pouty girls on the posters, but they never delivered on the T n' A and gore," he tells me. "Three ingredients make for a great horror film: sex, gore, and a rockin' sound track. We're covered on all fronts: When Gordon's Two Thousand Maniacs came out starring then Playboy's 1964 Pet of the Year Connie Mason, it made quite a stir. Well, she's back in our version, still as beautiful as ever, plus we're doing a thing that she arranged through Hugh Hefner: the "barb-e-cuties". Five gorgeous Southern bunnies running around killing helpless Northerners! C'mon already! Big photo shoot planned for that. Our leading young stars are also amazingly talented and amazing to look at. We basically raided the WB and MTV. So even our hacked up body parts will be beautiful. Everything's so lovely when it's dipped in blood."

On the side, we talk about violence and our world at present. Tim gets all serious, lowers his voice a bit, says, " Listen, I am very well aware that in this post Columbine, post 9/11 time with so much real life violence out there in the world, many might think we don't need further violence on the movie screen. But I know for me personally, in order to deal with the real horrors, there is no greater cathartic release than being able to sit in a darkened theater for two hours, facing fears and letting out steam in cushioned, air conditioned safety and comfort. Scream, laugh, have fun. A total roller coaster ride. Nothing more than magic tricks. Illusions. That's what horror films are for. Now there's a thin line between sadism and gore, torture isn't fun, and so we don't torment our characters, the minute they know they're gonna die, it's quick, it's over, like David Warner in The Omen. He looks up at that sliding glass window and swoosh, he's decapitated, he's gone".

He's quiet for a while. Then he's spouting once again with more names and more spellings "Oh, oh! And John Landis who's in Maniacs, plays Professor Ackerman. Again, that circle comes around. I reconnected with him at the friar's club last November, we were celebrating Forry Ackerman's (editor of Famous Monsters of Filmland) 85th birthday, and John gets up and says how I started as a PA, and now I'm directing this feature, and he wants to be a Maniac! Everything I once did prepared me for this ride, like Detroit Rock City, Gene Simmons and KISS, that's how I met Matt Sorum of Guns N Roses who is composing the score with the amazing Lanny Cordola; they created this sound they call industrial rockabilly that's going to blow the roof right off the theater. Ray Manzarek of The Doors is gonna do a cameo as the undertaker (I've co-written a film with Ray that he's directing and I'm co-producing with Brett Nemeroff called Riders On The Storm), Charlie Daniels and Rob Zombie are working on a remake of The Devil Went Down To Georgia - how cool is that? We've even got a choreographed musical number! What horror film has a musical number? Lin Shaye (Detroit Rock City, Last Man Standing, Kingpin) plays Granny Boone, a sort of Irene Ryan from the Beverly Hillbillies, and she leads this hootenanny that ends with a lot of people getting killed. Rock n' Roll's redneck Ted Nugent plays Sheriff Howell, the Southern voice of reason, while Paul Stanley of KISS and his son Evan play creepy gas station attendants - Evan does a banjo number, parody of that scene in Deliverance and he's only seven years old."

But it wasn't always easy, things weren't always on the cool, as Tim reflects about a fire that burned his set down, "Yeah- the good, the bad, and the ugly of this business we call show. June 10th and we're on the set of Camp Crystal Lake of Friday The 13th where we're filming the movie. I'm off doing make-up tests and I get this call, hey, man, your set's on fire. Great. I was like a prizefighter that was told the fight had been postponed. We were all set to go, actors in costume, production meetings and then "poof", a fire hits, the financier pulls out and you're back right where you started. But now we're in negotiations with Lion's Gate Films for domestic distribution, and Emmet Furla Films are talking about picking up international. This is way cool, as Lion's Gate is really proving themselves as the new leaders of balls-to-the-wall flicks. They just picked up Rob Zombie's House Of 1000 Corpses and Eli Roth's Cabin Fever, so once Robert Englund finishes shooting Freddy Versus Jason in December, we'll be ready to roll. So yeah, sometimes cycles can reverse. And I guess I'm like the Romper Room punching clown, hit me all you want, I don't fall down (laughs).

There's so much going on in Maniacs that we have to take a breather, I can't type as fast as he's telling me his secrets, tossing me his soul. It's a packed fun house and I don't want to give away too much of it. You're going to have to hit the theater with about a dozen of your friends, sit in the dark, get scared, laugh your asses off.

And now it's after midnight and he's got me pacing, I'm screaming into the phone, "I can't wait to see this picture, man!" Because suddenly I realize, Vincent never really left us, his spirit for mischief, humor, down and dirty fun, it's all there in Tim Sullivan, the prince of horror films. So, really spent, I just ask him, blurt right out, what's in store, what's next, director? I swear I heard him wink, heard music while he spoke, "A remake of David Freidman's She Freak with our generation's Marilyn Monroe." He whispers, "I can't tell you who she is, but she's really rock n' roll!"