Friday, June 5, 2026
Thursday, June 4, 2026
THE THEATRE FANTASTIQUE FESTIVAL (SEASON 3): A QUARTET OF WEIRD WONDERMENT
Writer/director/producer Ansel H. Faraj, in conjunction with Hollinsworth Productions, begins a third season of Theatre Fantastique. The series includes the Rondo Hatton Award-winning "Screening After Midnight" (now accessible via YouTube), "The City of the Dreadful Night" (set for Sunday, June 7), "The Werewolf of Venice" (set for Sunday, July 5) and "Randolph Carter & the Silver Key" (set for Sunday, August 9).
For one's edification, details and assessments of Faraj's offerings are listed below:
"Screening After Midnight" presents an impassioned collector, Douglas Eames' Rick Farnham, who seeks a mysterious man named Mr. Endore, portrayed by David (Dark Shadows) Selby, who claims to possess a copy of Tod Browning/Lon Chaney Sr.'s long-lost London After Midnight. However, as Endore comes to explain, he's merely the movie's caretaker. For Farnham to see the print, he must meet the actual owner, played by the haunting Elyse Ashton, though as Farnham's luck would have it, there's a frightful "cost of admission" attached.
Faraj cowrote the tale with Daniel Titley, the leading historian on the Browning/Chaney production and author of the acclaimed book, London After Midnight: The Lost Film. Faraj and Titley made their tribute "silent" (even though it's capped by a sound portion rendered in the delightful, Edward Van Sloan vein). To accentuate the old-school approach, Faraj enlivened the script with splendid, black-and-white, Hollywood imagery, which is embellished by Geoffrey Burch's spellbinding score, with the film's leads simulating the acting style of the era. Truly, the artistic culmination left me on the edge of my seat, and the ending is unforgettable for its fierce, cinematic twist.
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"The City of the Dreadful Night" is based on Scottish writer James Thomson's famous, Poe-esque poem.
The composition is, as most know, a melancholic one, which dips into existential doom and gloom, but through its doleful annals comes comfort. "The City of the Dreadful Night" performs like a sad song, sharing despair so that one needn't feel so alone.
Faraj's short embellishes this feeling, with dark, soothing images that stream with ghostly abandon before one's eyes, while Douglas Eames whispery voice abides.
Among the nocturnal images, one encounters the anxious twinkle of forlorn, city lights; desperate branches that stretch and sway; water so dull that it shines; empty chambers; forbidding gates; forgotten facades ... and in the fateful end, a disheveled cemetery where sadness forever rests in angelic stone.
The short's Gustav Holst ("Neptune's the Mystic") music is soothing; Faraj's succession of imagery, perfect. Truly, if one has ever endured even an ounce of tremulation, "The City of the Dreadful Night" is a sublime, empathetic gift: an epitaph to revisit whenever life's vexing riddles grow far too hard to overcome, let alone solve.
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"The Werewolf of Venice" is Faraj's supreme, monster-ized achievement, both in writing and directorial pacing.
It takes place in Venice Beach, California, and as such, its black-and-white expanse is at once beautiful yet alarming, with a steady sense of danger rising. One sees Nathan Wilson's Cody stand from the sand and through subtle nuance and narration, he reveals his affliction. It's not narcotics, but rather lycanthropy.
Along the way, he comes upon Bella Mraz's pretty Marie. She offers him some drink, some companionship, but not in the way one might presume. She's a spiritual entity, or so it seems (or so he hopes), and in her presence, his world beams with colors expanding and music swelling. However, with hope also comes guilt, which includes Cody's suicidal option, if, that is, his shaky confidant (Matthew Anderson) can attain the required, silver bullet.
The story, which was coproduced by Wilson, runs about a half hour, and uses famous, werewolf-movie tropes throughout. As such, plentiful traces of The Wolf Man are apparent, but also specks of Werewolf of London and Curse of the Werewolf, with angst and confusion running high for the bedeviled lead. This makes Cody's conundrum identifiable, but while such familiarity is comforting, "Werewolf of Venice" doesn't fall upon a cliched finale. Something quite interesting occurs before the end credits commence, which distinguishes this one from other such fables. (Its choice of music, which includes selections by Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, Satie, Delibes and Elgar, enhances the narrative, further enforcing its uniqueness among the welcomed motifs.)
"Werewolf of Venice" would work well as a feature, but its existing form suits its concept well. This one will please monster-movie fans or just about anyone with a penchant to howl at the moon.
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For followers of The Twilight Zone and Night Gallery, "Randolph Carter & the Silver Key" is geared to enchant, since Faraj's story reflects such Rod Serling classics as "Walking Distance," "A Stop at Willoughby" and "They're Tearing Down Tim Riley's Bar," even as it pulls its prime inspiration from H.P. Lovecraft's "The Dream-Quest of Unknown Kadath" and "The Silver Key."
In the case of "Randolph Carter & the Silver Key," we're lured by Jerry (Dark Shadows) Lacy's robust narration and Nathan Wilson's woeful countenance, offset by a cheerful one portrayed by Wilson's son, Rowan, who represents his younger self. One could say that much of the juxtaposing between old and young works as a kind of pantomime, but the piece's movement (the way it magnetizes through words and imagery) sets it on a special, emotional plane that doesn't require a conventional, cinematic crutch. The to-and-fro clicks.
Carter's plight further ensures the story's success, as he's a middle-aged man whose grown empty with everyday life, in particular the burden of his monotonous job. He yearns for something more, which exists in his dreams: the sort of carefree, Peter Pan-ish ones he had as a child. (Don't we all reflect upon such sentiments at one time or another?)
A hovering, silver key draws Randolph into his fanciful flights, where scenarios break from black-and-white into full-blown, animated color (emboldened with idyllic tracks by Holst, Debussy and Saint-Saens). These unfolding examples of escape keep mounting, but as much as they consume Randolph, one wonders if he'll find the courage (the desperation) to latch on and set himself free. Ah, there lies the melodramatic catch, and as executed by Faraj and his cast, it works like a charm. In fact, the progression and its outcome were so impactful that I was moved to tears.
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This season's Theatre Fantastique is without question diverse, and yet each installment is a comparable, artistic standout, designed to spark the imagination and quicken the heart. Make it a point to experience them on YouTube, and in doing so, come away enriched.
I SAW MASTERS OF THE UNIVERSE (2026)
Director Travis (Bumblebee) Knight's Masters of the Universe (aka He-Man and the Masters of the Universe for the international crowd) is a big, bold, Amazon MGM retelling. It's scripted by David Callaham, Chris Butler and Aaron & Adam Nee, based on Roger Sweet's 1982 Filmation/Mattel, moral-based, animated/toy-tie-in line, though this adaptation mimics the Flash Gordon zest of its 2002, animated remake, while adhering to (and redesigning to a degree) the fish-out-of-water format of Cannon Films' 1987, live-action epic.
For this new version, we meet Nicolas Galitzine's exiled Prince Adam Glenn, swallowing "proper," HR code on Earth, all to ensure that his strength and glory are diminished for no other reason than to uplift his know-it-all detractors. Adam, we also learn, ended up in his sorrowful state after being thrust from Eternia (and its Camelot-derived hub, Castle Greyskull), due to Jared Leto's sarcastic sorcerer, Skeletor, having invaded the planet when Adam was a weak, undersized boy.
As luck would have it, Adam, though sent to Earth with his sacred sword (a vessel of fated transformation), managed to lose it in transport, which leads him on an impassioned quest to retrieve it. When he does find it (in a comic-book shop of all places), he wastes no time to tap its Shazam! capability, but the process of becoming the genuine H-Man isn't easy, as his years of doubt and rejection make the transition more skittish than not. (In other words, it's more a matter of mind over matter than the mastery of a magic sword that shapes a champion.)
Adam's evolution is flanked by a roster of personas, some familiar, others new and a good many essential to Eternia's tapestry. They include Artie Wilkinson-Hunt's young Adam, Camila Mendes' Teela, Eirie Farrell's young Teela, Idris Elba's Duncan (aka Man-At-Arms), James Purefoy's King Randor, Charlotte Riley's Queen Marlena, Morena Baccarin's Sorceress, Tom Wilton & Fletcher Glenn's Cringer (aka Battle Cat), Alison Brie's Evil-Lyn, Johannes Haukur's Malcolm (aka Fisto), Jon Xue Zhang's Ram-Man, Sam C. Wilson's Kronis, (aka Trap Jaw), James Wilkinson's Mekaneck, Gary Martin's Beast Man, Stephen Adentan's Moss Man, Hafpor Julius Bjornsson's Goat Man, Kojo Attah's Tri-klops, Hung Dante Dong's Karg, James App's Spikor, Christian Vunipola's Hussein, Shasheer Zamata's Suzie, Kristin Wiig's Roboto and on the conspicuous, cameo side, Christopher Ragland's Orko, Lauren Saliu's She-Ra and Dolph Lundgren's gym lunk.
It's a heavy lineup, but perhaps no more than what one finds in most space operas or Krull-spun sojourns. The script defines its members well enough so that it's never difficult to know who's who, in the odd event that one has never experienced a portion of this pop-cultural phenomenon.
When Adam becomes all-out He-Man, the movie (like the 2002 series) then shifts full throttle into Flash Gordon territory. Like Gordon, He-Man shows compassion and contemplation where needed (even to Skeletor), but never whines about the burden placed upon his shoulders (as some so-called men of the modern age would). He realizes he must fight (maybe even kill his enemy) to win, with wink-nudge, Thor/Guardians of the Galaxy humor inserted for those moments when he does slip (and any hero worth his salt will). All the while, the progression is decorated by stunning, computerized effects, fueled by music from Daniel Pemberton and Brian May. (A slice of Highlander's Queen track, "Princes of the Universe," even makes an appearance.) The culmination builds a visionary spree that puts viewers in He-Man's committed corner, as they grow and achieve with him.
Masters of the Universe, whether this current incarnation or what came prior, isn't meant for stuffed-shirts who frown upon aggressive (or vengeful) behavior. It's not meant for weak-wanded Potterheads or those who promote sappy, New Age Star Wars. It's meant for moral-abiding individuals who wish to right wrongs. It's also meant for those who believe that, no matter how daunting the task, uncompromised completion is the only option. Masters 2026 (thank God!) doesn't promote any more than that, and because of that, it succeeds in being what it always was and always should be: one helluva rousing adventure.
MANGABROS' SHIVACROWBLACK: REDEFINED & RENEWED
Mangabros (Craig Manga and his skillful bandmates) have assembled a vivacious, Frankenstein-cobbled variant of their 2018 album, Shivacrowblack. (In truth, Shivacrowblack is the sister album of Soulcoalblack, and the combination comprises what's been coined The Black Album.) As it stands, Shivacrowblack's old and new parts have been juxtaposed, thus building a strident, revisionist playground for listeners.
As carryover nods, the tracks, "Malice in Kinderland" and "Tomboymilk," remain warm and jittery friends: bookends (in truth) that aren't situated at either end (though celebrated by the Mangabros core) and important in prompting their companion compositions, which have been torn from the same, tormented cloth.
We're talking tunes about being caught, of being accused, and in "'z' (Pink Frame)," "'z (Here I am, There You Are, Here We Are Together)" and the contemplative "Zapruderloop," things get real gentle and pretty (in both lyrics and vocals), taking the idea of violation to a fresh, (dis)heartening restart.
"Mancandy" reflects their beleaguered refrain, and though the composition works as an incidental sequel, it evades lamenting an outcast state by elevating one. It knows what it is, why it is and refuses to change. Its quality is all the harsher for it, and in that harshness, a sardonic euphoria bleeds.
There are other tracks that cut the same strand and do so in an arguable, Keroauc style, by setting their zeal to asphalt. The classic "Motorcycle Death Song (Hypercube/Psychomania RMX)" is a perfect case in point, as is "Kowalczyk," which begins with jagged, glitch chords, only then to crash and burn into giddy derision.
This destructive undercurrent, sometimes enacted fast and at other times slow, resumes in the annihilating "Sons of Sam"; the eerie, album prelude, "e Zekiel"; and the noir-ish "Semtexing." (Each is effective in bracketing the album's body.)
On the flip side, other examples are either dance-club or midway oriented, as in the manic "Mile-Long Club (Acid Trip)," the sloppy but tasty "The Ketchup Kid (Fogtrucker Zero)," the quick-to-the-draw "Semtexting (Microchip Junkie's Faded World RMX)" and the album's carny-topped masterpiece, "Mr. Pinch," which is sheer, seaside decadence. (If the Mickey Rooney headliner, Quicksand, were ever made modern, "Mr. Pinch" would be its perfect flavoring.)
Such varied yet connected tracks are what fans have come to appreciate from Mangabros. The album's arrangement needn't be taken as thematic, but more so therapeutic. It grazes deep levels of the human spectrum and settles in a place that, while doleful and judgmental, births one mighty damn mean mirth.
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Shivacrowblack 2026 is available for immediate play at
Wednesday, June 3, 2026
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