It is 1982. 12 year old Oskar lives with his mother in a run down estate in Stockholm. He’s a lonely figure, bullied at school and harbouring violent dreams of revenge. When a 12 year old girl called Eli moves in next door, living with an ageing man but seemingly just as lonely, Oskar strikes up a tentative friendship with her. At the same time, a series of grisly murders begin befalling the residents of the estate. As Oskar’s feelings for Eli deepen, he learns the truth about who she really is and is faced with the question of how much you can forgive for love.
Vampire movies are two-a-penny at the moment. I know, I’ve written one myself, so I sat down to watch this Swedish addition to the genre with no great expectations. This is pretty much how I approach all horror movies these days since the ratio of good to bad when it comes to horror is about 1/100. Admittedly, the odds increase when the horror movie is subtitled and Let The Right One In, adapted by John Ajvide Lindqvist from his own novel and directed by Tomas Alfredson, is without a doubt that 1 in 100.
Eschewing the trend for making vampires glamorous, cool and alluring (a trend most recently seen in the inferior Twilight) Lindqvist and Alfredson place their story in a setting that is cold, bleak and grey. Snowbound Stockholm is not glamorous and Eli is far from cool. Instead she is a lonely, sometimes heartbreaking figure. She’s not evil or good. She just is what she is; as trapped in herself as we all are. So, too, is Oskar. But together they form the dark, beating heart of this movie.
Alfredson lets the story move along at a languid pace and makes excellent use of sound effects to unsettle. There are startling moments of violence, all the more effective for punctuating such a subtle mood, and the movie has a final scene which will stick in your mind for days. And building throughout is as touching a romance as you’re likely to see. Again, all the more effective for blossoming in such dark surroundings. I had a tear in my eye at the end.
Film of the year so far and much recommended. See it now.
Hmm. I kind of like this movie reviewing malarky. I might inflict some more on you. :-)
“Mr Lamb, please.”
Fuck. Fuck shit fuck. Fuck shit wank fuck.
I stand up and hand the freshly completed forms over to one of the two overweight blonde receptionists (coincidence or dentist’s fetish?). I was really hoping the forms would take longer to fill out than this, thereby delaying that opening line a little longer. I mean, don’t you want to know more about me? I’ll tell you everything, just give me more forms to fill out. Please.
The receptionist takes the forms from me with a chubby hand and a bored expression and flicks her eyes toward the stairs which, refreshingly, lead up into hell. I climb the stairs as slowly as I can but there aren’t that many and the sense of the inevitable has overcome me. May as well just get it over with. I’m aided in my resignation by the fact that I have been in a deep depression since yesterday and therefore much more able to detach myself from any emotional encumbrance that has followed me here. You know, like nerves, fear, panic, blind terror. All are greatly diminished by the fact that I’m in the hole and feeling pretty much nothing.
There are times when depression is an asset. Yay for depression. Sort of.
At the top of the stairs I’m greeted by a gentleman, standing in the doorway of a room and dressed entirely in green. He looks like some sports team mascot missing only the giant frog’s head. He offers me a predatory smile and then steps aside to let me into the room. I get my first glimpse of the chair. The chair! Satan’s own recliner! My legs feel weaker suddenly and my tummy feels all squirty. Damn depression isn’t doing the job here.
I do my best to return the smile but Lord only knows what feeble approximation the man in green actually sees. Something akin to the expression of a zebra trying to charm a pack of hungry hyenas. He gestures to The Chair and bids me be seated. I slump down into it like a man who has all but expended his resistance. For such a man am I. There’s nowhere left to go. This is it. Resign yourself, my son.
And so it begins. Just as I predicted it would be. Rubber covered fingers and cold metal poking around my mouth while some smothered droning voice calls out strange numbers and says ‘hmm’ a lot. I close my eyes and think of movie scenes. I think of the book I’m writing with Margaret and I try to crush her hand psychically (glad that worked). I think of Jen chanting ‘OM’. I think of Joe being a wise-ass. I repeat my mantra ‘get me the fuck outta here, get me the fuck outta here’. But nothing can distract me from the fact that all this shit in my mouth is making me want to puke.
Finally, thankfully, it’s done. I lay there staring at the light hovering over me, wishing it were some beautiful archangel come to take me away, but it’s not. There are no archangels for me today, just the thought of two possible root canals and a shitload of treatment for my gums. Oh yes, this is just the beginning. Satan’s own recliner is not done with me yet. The Chair will be taking me into its embrace again real soon.
Strangely, the depression doesn’t abate.
I have an appointment with the dentist in a few days. Now, you may not think this a worthy subject for a blog. Indeed, you may be sitting there thinking to yourself, ‘yeah, so and what’. If this is the case then by all means fuck off.
Whoops, did I say that out loud? I’m sorry. You’ll have to forgive me but I’m a little bit tense. You see, this appointment is something which I have been putting off for a long time. For years, in fact. I’ve been putting it off for the simple reason that I am utterly, completely and most whole heartedly terrified of dentists. The thought of sitting in that chair fills me with the kind of dread usually reserved for gallows, guillotines, firing squads and episodes of Friends.
I don’t know why I fear them so much. It’s not like I’ve ever had an unusually bad experience with dentists. I’ve never lost a girlfriend to a dentist. I was not abused by a dentist as a child. My mother was not kidnapped by dentists. I never had a favourite pet murdered by a dentist. I wasn’t forced to watch my family being gunned down by a group of rogue dentists.
To my knowledge, dentists have not figured largely in my nightmares or my waking life at all. And yet, before this white-coated demon I become a wide-eyed, gibbering child prepared to let everyone else in the waiting room go first. I’ll even sit there all night and let the next day’s patients go first too. For crying out loud, I’ve had spinal surgery, the thought of which didn’t provoke a fraction of the terror in me that this appointment does.
I know I’m not alone in this, and psychologically speaking a phobia of dentists is hardly intriguing. My phobia of clowns and ice cream vans is a lot more interesting, but fortunately I don’t have an appointment with either of them in a few days. I’d just love to know where this fear originated. Maybe it was the movie Marathon Man? I remember watching that as a child and being horrified by Laurence Olivier’s sinister Nazi dentist. Is this what did the damage? Will I sit in that chair waiting for my dentist to ask me if it’s safe in a comedy German accent?
Or worse, will he turn out to be dressed as a clown? Will he honk his red nose, invite me to sit in his big, rainbow chair before offering me an ice cream? Will he slap around the room in his giant shoes waving a pneumatic drill in the air and shouting, “Nurse, give this man the gas, forthwith!”
I have got to get a grip.
That sterile room, the minty odour, the sound of rattling implements and that awful screeching drill. Rubber covered fingers and cold metal poking around my mouth while some smothered droning voice calls out strange numbers and says ‘hmm’ a lot.
I want my mum. And failing that, I want a semi-automatic weapon. And failing that, I want God to explain to me why he made our bodies so fucking high maintenance.
This blog is a collaboration between Richard Lamb and Margaret Reyes Dempsey discussing their collaboration.
Or
How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Other Writers.
Margaret: It seems membership is increasing at Inked-In. I'm sure many people join just to see what it's all about, as I did back in July. I never dreamed it would turn into a collaboration with a fellow writer on the other side of the Atlantic. I'm always up for a challenge, so when Richard said, "Hey, we should write something together," I immediately agreed. We had hit it off socially and admired each other's writing. He was a "long-winded" screenwriter who thought he might be better at novels. I was a "woman of few words" novelist who thought screenwriting might be a better match. (When it comes to talking, it's actually the reverse.) In the end, we decided on a novel, hoping our styles would meet somewhere in the middle.
Richard: Truth be told, I’ve never been much of a collaborator. When I was at Art College and I found myself having to do a group project, I would invariably come to blows with everyone else and then lose interest because they weren’t doing things the way I thought they should be done. I wanted total autonomy over all my projects or I simply lost enthusiasm for them. I’ve always been something of a loner, most especially when it comes to creative endeavours. So no one was more surprised than I when I suggested to Margaret that we collaborate on a novel together. We’d met on Inked-In a few months earlier and quickly discovered that we had a lot in common, both personally and creatively. So as far as whims go, it seemed like a fairly logical one. Which is more than can be said for most of my whims.
Margaret: Of course, I had reservations. As similar as we were in some ways, we couldn't be more different in how we approached the writing process. There were also difficulties (putting it very mildly) with misunderstandings due to American versus British English, not to mention the trouble you can get in with inflectionless forms of communication like online chat. What we did have in common, though, was the ability to duke it out and get on with the work. Well, eventually get on with the work, that is.
Richard: We came up with our idea in short order and quickly realised that we had something that was pretty original in its approach and execution. That gave us the initial buzz to get started and five months on we are still hammering away at it. Well, sort of. Maybe hammering isn’t the right word. Light tapping might be better.
Margaret: There were a few months when I was immersed in edits for my soon-to-be-released novel. But the real reason it took so long to get in the flow was the difference in our approach to writing. Richard is a spontaneous, "without a plan" kind of writer and I like to have a loose outline of where I'm heading (otherwise my finished project ends up looking like little Jimmy going from Point A to Point B in the Family Circus cartoons).
Richard: Okay, so there have been lapses in motivation along the way. On both sides. There have been times when Margaret has accelerated past me and times when I have accelerated past her. There have been many times when other projects have dragged us away (Margaret’s soon to be published novel is the prime example) and certainly times when we have become frustrated with ourselves and, from time to time, each other. However, I have not once lost interest in it and I have never really found myself wanting to reach across the Atlantic and strangle Margaret. Not in relation to this book anyway.
Margaret: In time, Richard began to see that his approach wouldn't work in a collaboration. After all, we couldn't read each other's minds and the type of novel we're writing demands consistency. We compromised by discussing individual chapters as we went along. Then we finished chapter four and got stuck again. Finally, Richard suggested that we plot the whole thing out so we knew where we were going. Wow, what a great idea. Wish I had thought of that. ;-)
Richard: I’ve been surprised how easily we have worked together. We complement each other creatively and I’ve even enjoyed Margaret’s little brainstorming sessions, a concept which I have usually found extremely tedious in the past. In fact, we spent God knows how many hours brainstorming almost the whole thing over the last few days. It was exhausting but surprisingly satisfying.
Margaret: So, the last two days have been a whirlwind of activity. We spent hours on the phone plotting out the novel (me on my lounge chair sitting out in the sun on a mild New York spring day; Richard on his sofa under an English night sky). It was exhilarating and grueling at the same time. But in the end, we had something amazing that we both really liked. We'll see where it goes.
Richard: I guess the secret of this collaboration’s success is the way in which we complement each other. Sometimes I need to be told to write less and sometimes Margaret needs to be told to write more. Together we find a common ground where I think something very special will be produced.
As writers, we can have a unique relationship with words. We work closely with them and therefore can develop a singular appreciation for their texture and flavour. Now, I don't know about you, but there are some words that I just hate. For no discernable, rational reason. They just irritate me. It's not their meaning, it's the word itself. For example, the word 'excursion' can send me into spasms of rage simply at the sight of it. I fucking hate that word and I have no idea why. It's just so utterly irritating. Similar words, such as 'explosion' or 'expiation' don't bother me at all, but 'excursion' will have me clenching my teeth and turning my nose up with unbridled contempt.
There are other words too. 'Chutney'. What a horrible, ugly, irritating word that is. I have no problem at all with the condiment. We get along just fine. But the word. It makes my flesh crawl. Chutney. I can scarcely bring myself to write it.
Madness.
On the other hand, of course, there are those words which I simply adore, with just as little justification. I adore the word 'curmudgeon'. What a great word! It always makes me smile. It's so warm and cuddly. In direct contrast to its meaning. Curmudgeon. Say it with me now.
And how about the word 'unction'. I love that word! Place it in tandem with the word 'emollient' and I get a pleasant little tickly feeling in my stomach. Unctions and emollients. How cool does that sound?
Lunacy.
So how about you? What words irritate or delight you for no apparent reason.
Over the years, I have noticed a tendency amoung the more…colourful members of society to single me out for attention in a crowd. You know the ones I mean; the people that sit there gibbering away to themselves, holding discourse with pigeons and plastic bags and wondering why no-one else joins in. It seems to be a recurring theme that when these court jesters decide it’s time to engage in genuine social intercourse with other sentient beings, they will zero in on me. On a bus, on the streets, on a train, doesn’t matter. Apparently, I’m their man.
I don’t know why the loonies always pick on me. Perhaps they sense some latent kinship. Perhaps they recognise in me the signs of someone who could be one bad day away from where they currently reside. It’s a fair point and I can’t say I blame them. I’ve been to parties where talking to a plastic bag seemed like the most attractive option. I’ve caught myself in heated debate with myself in public. Sometimes it can seem like you’re the only person on your wavelength.
Here’s an example from last Saturday night. I’m walking through the centre of the town I live in. I’m heading home after a really good day spent with my son, Jack. I haven’t slept in 30 hours, so I’m a fair bit knackered (look it up, Americans) and all I want is to achieve a warm, comforting interface with my sofa. I’m not the most gregarious of people at the best of times and when I’m tired and set on a determined course, most people can see to get out of my way. Not so, the bizarre woman who singled me out for her whacky attentions. Where others saw a black-clad, grumpy looking cruise missile, she saw the perfect foil for her amusing mental quirks.
She was standing outside a pub as I lumbered past. She was short, plump and had wide staring eyes. They were, by turns, slightly mad and slightly terrified. She looked like a cross between Hannibal Lecter discussing fava beans and Bambi watching his mum take both barrels. There were a dozen other people available, but clearly none so enticing as me. Maybe it’s the words ‘I’m bored with humanity, please entertain me’ tattooed across my forehead.
She approached me, strangely cautious. “Excuse me, do you think it’s okay to whip your woman?”
I stopped walking. As you would. Okay, I thought to myself, this is different. I tried to remember if I’d ever been asked that before. I may have been asked, back in Art College in ’88, if I thought it was okay to paint your woman. But that was purely rhetorical and we’d had too much mescal.
I looked at her, doing my best to appear to be giving the question its due consideration. “No, I don’t think so”. I was assuming she meant leather whips and not whipped cream, which would elicit a wholly different answer from me; something in the affirmative involving strawberries and belly buttons, probably.
She nodded, mulling over my answer. It was impossible to tell if it was the answer she was looking for and I could already see the next question marching from her brain to her mouth. “Do you think it’s okay for your woman to whip you?”
Ah. We are in the land of equal opportunity. That’s nice. Again, though, I was forced to answer in the negative. Don’t get me wrong, I have no moral objections to two consenting adults playfully beating the shit out of each other. There isn’t much I do have moral objections to. It’s just not my bag. Punishment without sin is bad enough. Punishment as sin is just plain dumb.
So once again, she absorbs my response in all seriousness. I can see that this bizarre survey isn’t over yet and I’m now starting to remember how tired I am. I realise that I’ve been given a choice between going home and crashing on my sofa, or standing in the middle of the street on a cold, October night discussing the merits of S&M with a fucking nutter. It occurs to me that I’ve made the wrong choice.
The next question comes dancing. “Do you think any kind of whipping is good?”
At the time, I didn’t even consider the question. In retrospect, however, I’m forced to wonder what other kind there is. I mean, we covered both sides of the male/female whipper/whippee question. One could easily extrapolate my view on homosexual whipping from the available facts. Were we about to bring animals or inanimate objects into the arena? What the fuck was this woman getting at?
Instead, I snapped. “Why are you asking me this?”
She looked up at me with those weird Hannibal Bambi eyes. There was a definite increase in the Bambi levels. “Sorry. My head’s not quite right.”
No fucking shit, lady.
I did my best to smile, but in my exhausted state I probably resembled Hannibal Bambi; minus the Bambi. “It’s okay,” I said magnanimously, “I can relate to that.” She smiled, offered her hand; I shook it and went on my way.
So there you are; one example from many. It’s happened so many times that it’s a running joke between me and my son. I attract them and he finds it hilarious and irritating in equal measure.
I do often wonder what separates us from the pigeon whisperers. Maybe they’re the sane ones. Who knows? What pushes a person that little bit further? I had a nervous breakdown last year, but even then I never reached the stage where I wanted to keep the company of shopping trolleys. I just got a little more eccentric. I’m English, it’s required.
Is it genetic? Are some people simply predisposed to buckle under the weight of it all? Or do we all have our limit? Are these people merely a vision of our future?
In the end, does it really all come down to one bad day?
The sound of choral singing drifted up from the streets below, reaching him where he sat staring at the roaring fire before him. It was one of those classic carols, the very notes of which evoke warm memories of Christmases long since passed. Whether you want those memories or not. He smiled to himself and the smile went unnoticed; as did most of his smiles these days.
“...God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay...”
The singing stopped, replaced by laughter and congratulatory murmurs, as the carol singers finished. He stood and drifted over to the window, gazing down at them, bundled up in their coloured hats and scarves. They were moving from one house to the next, selecting a carol from their repertoire of about five. Having just finished singing to his neighbours, the group moved swiftly on, passing his house and hurrying into the drive of the house on the other side. They did not look up at him.
He didn’t mind too much. There really was no reason why they should. This house attracted nobody anymore.
The carol singers soon began the next old favourite on the other side of him. Again, he felt those nostalgic stirrings, unwanted and unbidden. It was like this every Christmas. There was no reason to suppose it would ever be any different on those Christmases to come. The pattern had long been set.
“…Glories stream from heaven afar. Heavenly hosts sing Alleluia! Christ, the Saviour is born…”
He returned slowly to his chair, gazing down at the rug on the floor before letting his eyes return to the fire. The deep snow outside acted as an excellent buffer for the sound, bouncing it up clearly to his room. He was hoping that they’d skip Silent Night this year. She’d always loved this one; loved for him to sing it to her softly, in her ear on Christmas Eve as they lay on the rug drinking Port. The old Christmas ritual. The old life. Before she left.
He was confused again, uncertain of what had happened; of how he had come from there to here. He couldn’t remember why she had gone, just that for some reason she no longer seemed to enjoy him singing softly in her ear anymore. He had vague fragments of memory and tried desperately to put them together into something coherent and revealing.
He remembered her lying on the bed, still and curled into a foetal position. He had tried singing to her then but she had only wept. He remembered a gathering of people, and she was there. They were standing around, dressed in sombre shades and chatting in respectful quiet. Hadn’t he known them all? He couldn’t remember. He had stood behind her that day and sung into her ear. She had just stood still, gazing out of the window, her face blank and her eyes circled. Once she had turned her head slightly, taking a sharp breath and whispering his name, and he thought perhaps she was about to come back to him. But then her face had darkened again and she had gone back to staring.
Then she went away, and he was here, alone. If only he could remember! If only he could remember what he’d done wrong! But it was no good. There were no answers, just the waiting. Just the cold comfort of repetition and the waiting. Just this bewildering new Christmas routine and the loneliness and the waiting.
From the distance, a few houses down, the singing continued.
"...Bless all the dear children, In Thy tender care. And take us to heaven, To live with Thee there..."
He smiled to himself and the smile went unnoticed; as did most of his smiles these days.
