An Alternate Reality: I saw Carnival Row 2...

It took forever and a day for Amazon Prime/Travis Beacham/Rene Echevarria's Carnival Row: Season 2 to surface, and for one such as myself (an unapologetic, workin' bloke), longer than usual to view it. There's been a lot discussed on the sequel's content and its Tolkien-esque, steampunked/Industrial Age Burgue, so I see no need to rehash the whole of it, except to say that Carnival Row 2 (like its predecessor) is at times a parallel-history, Sherlock Holmes, turn-of-a-different-century adventure, with murders having occurred among its faeries and the like (i.e., its various, mythology-sprung population). Orlando Bloom's Rycroft Philostate, a human-fae cop, investigates such, with shades of bigotry rising, as he partakes in an amorous relationship with Cara Delevigne's Vignette Stonemoss, a comely, winged lass who ultimately joins a resistance (overthrow-the-status-quo) Black Raven group. 

But to me, Carnival Row's crusty core is more a variant of Alien Nation, Planet of the Apes, Bright, District 9, Lord of the Rings, and well, I'm sure you get the drift. In this respect, it insinuates matters that we see around us today, though set in a Twilight Zone-ish mode to make us twist our brains and say, "Hey, oh, I get it."  

The series' most fascinating aspect (and a huge, Season 2 component) is its be-wary-of-socialism/communism motif. David Gyasi's Agreus, a responsible sort of Pan, and his impassioned, human lady, Tamzin Merchant's Imogen Spurnrose, go on the lam because of their "brash" relationship and to find a haven that turns out to be anything but that. It is, in truth, a Fidel Castro (cloaked-for-propaganda) ruse, run by the reputed "freedom fighter", Joanne Whalley's glib, broken-horned Leonora. Miss Spurnrose's brother, Andrew Gower's Erza also finds himself in the conflicting mess of promise and threat, and the results are nothing short of heartbreaking, though for the more astute, likely to incite righteous rage, as any set of lies would and should. 

Other characters and their assigned performers give considerable quality to the marginal problems, even if the entrenched subplots get too bloody garrulous for their own good. Nevertheless, credit must go to the following for lending flavor to the intrigue: Ariyon Bakare's Daris Sykes; Chole Pirrie's Dahlia; Karla Crome's Tourmaline Larou; Arty Froushan's Jonah Breakspear; Caroline Ford's Sophia Longerbane; Indira Varma's Piety Spearheart; Simon McBurney's Runyon Millworthy; Jay Ali's Kaine; Scott Reid's Puck; and others of bourgeois/peasantry, fight-for-the-cause (or better still, against-it) pledges and perspectives. 

Carnival Row (both seasons linked) is pretty damn violent, as well (in particular in the beheading and messy-autopsy departments, and the shifty, EC-brewed Sparas comprise a whole other repugnant deal). As led by Bloom's "Philo", the series spews a profane, tough-guy/yank-the-innards-out slant, which will rub some of today's militant pacifists (ha ha) the wrong way, but those who don't dig pistol-packin' grit, factory-sweatin' grime and courageous, sacrificial death (with shameless carnage of the Tom Savini/Steve Johnson/Herschell Gordon Lewis ilk) should seek their entertainment elsewhere. Carnival Row, even if faerie-drenched, ain't no sissified affair, and thanks to Beacham, Echevarria and co-producer Bloom, its ambiance seems proud of that fact. 

Amazon doesn't intend to extend this series, though I could see fans urging movie follow-ups. Even if it languishes a few years (even decades, by chance), my hunch is that its thought-provoking foundation will spawn a comeback some day. Though Carnival Row may be too superfluous in characterization and ideology to please the current, polarized masses, it offers the seeds for revisited rumination and even greater, fantasy fermentation. (In other words, it holds a loyal enough audience, and that ensures reinspection farther down the sentimental, alternate-reality row.) 

TERRIFIC TEAM-UP IMAGE: SHAZAM!/SCOOBY-DOO

 

MAIN'S PULP FAN #7: SNEAK PEAK COVER

The above is Tim Faurote's cover artwork for Main Enterprises' upcoming Pulp Fan #7: a Shadow salute.

The issue will contain a slew of similar, brooding images in honor of Walter B. Gibson's avenging mystic, as well as articles by Jim Main, Will Murray, Dennis Klinger and yours truly.

Visit Bizarrechats for the big, release date!

 

R.I.P. CHAIM TOPOL...

You're most noted (and for obvious cause) as Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof, but your career held many varied examples, including a presence in action/adventure and high romance.

For one, you proved a wonderful Dr. Hans Zarkov in Flash Gordon '80, as well as a dynamic figure in For Your Eyes Only; Cast a Giant Shadow; Follow Me!; Before Winter Comes; El Dorado; Ervinka; Har-Tarnegol; Galileo; Sallah; Queenie; The Boys Will Never Believe It; The Going Up of David Lev; I Like Mike; A Talent for Loving; House on Garibaldi Street; Left Luggage; Time Elevator; The Winds of War; and War and Remembrance. You also supplied swell, guest-starring roles for Roald Dahl's Tales of the Unexpected and Seaquest DSV.

As a singer, you excelled even beyond your Broadway stints, with albums that spotlighted your rich, robust voice.

To say that you're a legend would be a cliche, but you were and are just that, excelling beyond even that coveted perch. Your name will live on, Mr. Topol, as strong as when you lived, attracting an ongoing legion of admirers for decades to come.

LIQUOR STORE: DARK STUFF (FUN STUFF)

Nicholas Price's Liquor Store creates high-adrenalin tracks. Dark Stuff is no exception. In fact, it takes the artist's fantastic fuel to an even wilder dance-floor level. 

To elaborate, Dark Stuff is at once futuristic, retro, toon-ish and Slavic in its rapid, melodious slips, but no matter how one dares to label its tracks, they all flip with a gremlin-yankin' liveliness that defies their suggested, dystopic entrapments.  

The epitomizing example is, in fact, the first. "Kovankastika" squeezes a drumroll akin to a hot-plated bean, as reinterpreted by a contorting, Russian gymnast. To rephrase, this one is an unmitigated surge that bursts from the heart as it slingshots into the foreign soil of one's soul. 

"Berinahkaka" presents a sequel to the Slavic flavor, but its audio taste is more computerized in its punch-key spree. It doesn't reflect so much a physical contortion, but rather the furious folding of a mind. It's a panic-mode epic, but for all its frenetic fumes, its contagious computations induce an inebriation that mundane panic could never secure. 

To extend the prior's vim, "Sookantania" skews a headbanging explosion, all within a robotic relegation. It, too, is computerized, for all the catchy bells and whistles it employees, but it's also powerful in tone, not harmful or cruel by any means, just from-the-gut uninhibited. That means it quickens an air of prison-breaking liberation, and who doesn't desire that?

"Cavertinkikos" snaps back to the shackles, but it's still pretty breezy as it treks a distinct, sci-fi trail. It's John Zakour material on top, but on its underbelly, sheer Knight Rider, exposing all the intricate parts of KITT's brain, though taking the components to celestial perches previously unexplored. Yeah, this one really sparks the imagination and with a kick that gets one's gas flowin' full throttle. 

"Wool Over the Eyes" is the album's cynical track, rolling like chained tires pulled through screaming snow: effective but illegal. It takes its time to mount, but once it passes its questioning contemplation, this one becomes soaring, top-ten pop.

"Utoshipinia" works more like a seafaring romp: a trip upon a wavering sea of doom. But then, who's to say that any such splashy sojourn can't be uplifting if it embraces its pessimism in a way that proves so cool?

"Dukantika" returns to the album's implied, disco roots, but it's madder than disco could ever be. This one is mosh-pit propelled, hateful and euphoric, behaving as wise-ass punk, landing as a rebellious afterthought, but no matter the classification, it sure makes one wanna groove.

Heck, the same can be said of "Demon Dancer", though here we're dealing with something that's far more business high-tech in its provocation. This one exists to summon a sleek, A.I. hellspawn at a lofty price, and there ain't nothin' wrong with that, if the product dispels the tension-pinned doldrums.

With this said, "Deep Dark Bitter Sweet Sugar" is a perfect antitoxin for any of life's many mean letdowns. It's a cure-all, audio pill that drives like unapologetic sex or any number of segments from that virile anthem, Fight Club, its prohibited vibe pornographic and freakin' soothing as it settles one into the right primal place.

The album is capped by "The Last of Us", which creates a finger-popping shuffling out the door. It's considerate but no less insane for its hollering adios, representing Mr. Price and Liquor Store to a wink-and-nudge, sardonic tee.

Listen to Dark Stuff and have a devilish good time at 

https://liquorstore1.bandcamp.com/album/dark-stuff?fbclid=IwAR0qNB6nhe8oLpe8jsmK8ZI8Dp-PSuem-uWdvcvQF761_8UFXXBVQnNLJtY

And in case one was wonderin', the untamed and varied artwork contained in this assessment is also from Mr. Price. Admire more of it at

https://www.facebook.com/nicholasjames.price.3

I saw The Consultant...

Amazon Prime/MGM's The Consultant, based on Bentley Little's nifty novel, is an eight-part, horror fable, with one foot pressed in cruel reality, the other in macabre fantasy (a neo American Psycho, for all intents). Christoph Waltz helms it, and as usual, he's shines in his charismatic villainy.

Waltz plays Regus Patoff, a Svengali "consultant" who enters faltering businesses and takes them under his wing (for keeps), convincing their CEOs to sign Faustian pacts that leave them dead, as their companies (their legacies) live on. Patoff acts like The Devil, and for all anyone knows, he may be just that, harboring compromising secrets and promoting wacky practices to pull and keep employees within his sick web. Because of his outrageous actions, his impact becomes detrimental to all he enshrouds. 

The series begins with a clandestine Patoff blackmailing (for a lack of a better term) a young, gaming entrepreneur named Sang-woo (Brian Yoon), whose death is caused per an armed, brainwashed child, who visits the video maestro's office. Patoff makes his presence widespread soon thereafter at Sang's Compware hub (much in the vein of David Thewliss' V.M. Vargas in Fargo: Season 3), announcing that, per a contract signed a short period prior to Sang's death, he's there to prevent the gaming source from falling into financial ruin.

Patoff is ruthless in his demands, deriding remote workers and any employee who may wish to take a sick or vacation day. He even humiliates a sensitive worker named Ian (Michael Charles Vaccaro) simply because of the man's alleged scent and even goes so far as to set workers into a fighting frenzy to seize a coveted office.

Patoff proves so goddamn uncompromising that two of his more intuitive employees, Craig (Nat Wolff) and Elaine (Brittany O'Grady), begin to investigate his background. Archived, office recordings shed light on Patoff's dominance over the once cocky Sang, but without heard words, without precise documentation and motivation behind the men's odd interaction, it's hard to pinpoint how their relationship formed. 

Craig ultimately comes upon a former Patoff associate, an amicable jeweler named Frank Flores (Juan Carlos Cantu). It appears that Patoff indirectly requested the gent to make him a gold skeleton, piece by piece over time (through specialized doctors' requests, delivered during lunch visits to Flores' shop). But for what purpose? Why is it that the trim Patoff has trouble ascending stairs? Why is there continual reference to the man weighing more than he looks? Why do some of his acquaintances have missing limbs? The insinuations are creepy and of course, only add to Patoff's frightful mystique.   

The show's cat-and-mouse structure works to The Consultant's benefit, with its later half becoming more Frankenstein than Faust, though the satanic depths behind Patoff's persona never fades (and let's face it, Mary Shelley's novel holds many Faustian allusions). The overriding horror, however, springs from how the corporate monster maintains his pitiless thumb over Craig and Elaine, or anyone who dares to question his bizarre authority, and it's fun (in the best, suspenseful way) to cheer on those who wish to end their tormentor's reign. 

To its detriment, the series is a tad ambiguous at times, teasing in pivotal parts, only to spark more insinuations, with many questions remaining unresolved in the end. A Consultant sequel seems possible (if not likely), if some of these loose ends can be tied within it, thus allowing Patoff's dark influence to seep through in other haunting yet precise ways. A prequel, however, might be the wiser option, which could snuff most of the ambiguity and clarify Patoff's position in not only the existing season but beyond. 

Whether it be casual or ardent fans, few could argue that The Consultant has no more to tell. Let Waltz's conniving chill continue to ensure that this madman becomes an ongoing and noted member of twisted, popular culture. Though the character may not deserve the right to harm people, he does deserve the exalted notoriety that such inhumanity brings.