SPENDING 20 BRILLIANT MINUTES WITH CASSANDRA

TAKING THE LOOOOONG WAY AROUND ON A PATH TO THIS YEAR’S MOST TRANSCENDENT HALLOWEEN TREAT

I sadly am forced to confess that, this year, I’ve been more than a bit of a Halloween slacker. No parties. No costumes. No ritual sacrifices. (Well, I mean, no more than usual!) One of my housemates hung an awesome black wreath on the door. But that’s pretty much as far as it went.

Did I watch some horrific entertainments? Of course! But then again, I ALWAYS DO! Restricting my nightmare viewing to October would be like only making jokes on April 1st. 

Amongst the winners were old favorites like Peter Weir’s apocalyptic, metaphysical aboriginal murder mystery THE LAST WAVE (1971), Fredric March’s magnificently deranged performance in the pre-Code classic DR. JEKYLL & MR. HYDE ( 1931), and George Romero’s DAY OF THE DEAD (1985) – my personal favorite in his genre-redefining zombie cycle – for probably only the 150th time.

I’ve already written about SUITABLE FLESH (Substack # 12, FOR THE FUCKING LOVE OF LOVECRAFT). At the same film fest, I was able to catch Rebekah McKendry’s shithouse apocalypse tour de force – the aptly-named GLORIOUS – on the big screen, transforming it decisively from a movie I liked to a movie I full-on love. 

And someday soon, I will be devoting an entire column to my long-overdue discovery of the giddy anarchic genius on display in 2007’s MURDER PARTY: a movie I’d never even heard of till two weeks ago, and which brought me sooooo much joy that I’m now going up to old friends, grabbing them by the lapels, and shouting, “Why the fuck didn’t you TELL ME?!?!?”

But as for new stuff? It’s pretty much all been courtesy of AMC+ and their boutique horror flagship, Shudder: an empire built on the back of THE WALKING DEAD, and the shambling gift that keeps on gorily giving.

I’m one of those people who made it all the way through THE WALKING DEAD, and am absolutely glad I did. It had its ups and downs, for certain – replacing (to my way of thinking) the original DARK SHADOWS as the greatest monster soap opera of all time – but in extending Romero’s zombie metaphors across a decade and change of societal collapse and reconstruction, it held up some richly meaningful mirrors to our own societal rises and falls. In particular, with regards to people from different backgrounds and dispositions, finding common ground through genuine caring as well as the basest survival imperatives.

And when it came to bringing the all-meat hammer down, THE WALKING DEAD refused to flinch, delivering some of the gnarliest and most white-knuckled sequences ever to flash and splash across ANY screen. Whatever else you can say, those motherfuckers delivered the goods.

And now I’m feeling like the only guy on Earth who’s actually watched the two most recent spinoffs, DEAD CITY and DARYL DIXON. Which has me more than a little concerned.

Because while DEAD CITY – where Maggie and Negan make their way to a zombified New York City – starts off as just a brisk but somewhat-superficial action playground for mayhem both undead and otherwise, the very last of its six episodes sets up a conflict of astonishing gravitas. When the final shot hit, I was like, “Holy shit. If this gets to play out, I am sooooooo in.”

As for DARYL DIXON, I’m fairly convinced that it’s THE WALKING DEAD’S finest hour. So in love with the characters, the cultural richness, the art and the godliness, the refined and the savage. And the fact that I found myself sobbing through the last ten minutes of the season finale tells me everything I need to know about how deeply I care. (For a little bit more, feel free to peek back at Substack #2, DOTTING THE AYES.) Sincerely, this show is fucking great.

Quite aside from all this – but bankrolled by it – is Shudder’s finest original series, by my estimation: THE LAST DRIVE-IN, wherein Joe Bob Briggs and Darcy the Mail Girl spread mutant love for weirdass films wherever they may roam. Between their goofy repartee and Joe Bob’s encyclopedic production insights, we are treated to a cavalcade of Shudder’s expertly-curated horror movie vault, featuring both the highest and lowest to which the form has yet aspired. 

Seriously, only Joe Bob could have transformed the stupifyingly malformed 1986 craptastrophe SPOOKIES into one of my all-time favorite viewing experiences. Never in a trillion years would I ever have thought that the words “Omigod, you gotta watch SPOOKIES with Joe Bob!!!” would careen from my lips without giggling. And yet, I find myself saying it ALL THE FUCKING TIME.

Which circles me around to the most unexpected direct byproduct of THE WALKING DEAD’s success, that being fx genius-turned-world class director Greg Nicotero’s baby, the anthology series CREEPSHOW. Taking its inspiration from the monumental Stephen King/Romero motion picture mashup of the same name, circa 1982, it specializes in snarky 21st century riffs on the EC Comics tropes of the 1950s. 

Nicotero came into the business working with Romero on Tom Savini’s crew for the afore-mentioned DAY OF THE DEAD. And if there’s one thing that’s abundantly clear, it’s that his love of George and the original CREEPSHOW is 100% pure. 

With CREEPSHOW the series, he’s the kid with the keys to the whole damn candy store. And while I don’t always agree with his choices – like most anthologies, I think it’s a very mixed bag – there have without a doubt been some genuine gems along the way. Generally, the weirdest ones are the ones for me. (Big fan of “Skincrawlers”, “The House of the Head”, “The Finger”, “The Right Snuff”, and “Sibling Rivalry”, just for starters.)

AUTHOR’S NOTE, AND FULL DISCLOSURE: my friend Dori Miller and I contributed a script to Season One. The result, “Times is Tough in Musky Holler”, starred David Arquette, and was directed by Romero stalwart John Harrison, who bestowed upon it the honorary title of “Most Fucked-Up Episode.” An honor indeed!

For what it’s worth, I think it’s pretty darn good. And feel it comes closest to the Rod Serling-esque platonic ideal of marrying horror to stark social critique. (A key concern of Romero, as well.)

That said – as the first three seasons played out – I found myself wondering if and when CREEPSHOW the series would deliver a certified, genuine bona fide classic that would go down in the history books. Stand the test of time. Be to CREEPSHOW what, say, “Time Enough At Last” was to the original TWILIGHT ZONE.

And now, as Season Four sneaks its way onto the screen – I honestly had no idea they were even doing a Season Four – I think I can safely say that their moment has finally come. 

The name of the story is “20 Minutes With Cassandra”. It stars Samantha Sloyan as Lorna, an impressively self-contained young woman who no sooner gets home, slaps a record on the turntable, and pours herself a nice glass of wine when suddenly, somebody’s slamming on her front door.

This somebody is the titular Cassandra (Ruth Codd), a manically panicked oddball punkette who’s evidently in great danger. And when Lorna lets her in, she is informed that a) Cassandra’s being chased by a monster, b) the monster is right outside, and c) that monster’s gonna come inside in 20 minutes. At which point, Lorna is going to die.

What follows is the world’s strangest, most cryptic and blood-splattered game of cat and mouse ever played. And as the weirdness deepens, and the mysteries unravel, we learn more about Lorna, Cassandra, and the monster (because, oh yes, there really is a monster) than one might dream possible in a mere 20 minutes' time.

This is entirely due to the almost impossibly-excellent script by Jamie Flanagan, about which I cannot possibly say enough. First, because I refuse to divulge a single further speck of the plot’s details. And second, because it’s just soooooooo fucking goooood.

Codd’s Cassandra is a real piece of work, less a home invader than the ultimate home intruder. Never has an uninvited guest made themselves more at home, under the worst of circumstances. Which lays the burden of both survival and sense on Lorna, whose responses to the nightmare are both thoroughly believable and utterly impeccable. Much like the episode itself.

It must be said that Samantha Sloyan delivers an absolutely heroic star-making performance here, moving smoothly from skeptic to terrorized victim to the woman you’d most want to have in your corner when the shit goes down. The piercing intelligence that asks all the right questions, the razored wit that suffers no fools gladly, the stunning compassion in the face of all monstrosity is a genuine marvel and miracle to behold.

And Nicotero directs with a master’s assurance, like he has absolutely nothing left to prove. There are no flashy camera flourishes, calling attention to themselves. All of his skills are deliciously, devotionally deployed to do nothing but support the story, and its wonderful characters. All the laughs and the thrills are perfectly timed, almost understated amidst the blood and bone. And all in service to the I-shit-you-not truly beautiful emotional truths that are left, when the rest is peeled back.

It gotta say, this is the kind of profound richness and deep, soulful understanding of both the human AND inhuman heart that one finds at the core of great literature and art. That it should show up in a kooky monster story, on a kooky monster show, is the kind of divine surprise that sneaks up and slaughters you with unexpected love. Like watching HAROLD AND MAUDE for the first time. Or turning on a funny cartoon and finding out it’s BOJACK HORSEMAN.

And it all goes back to Jamie Flanagan’s script, so knowing and kind and absolutely brilliant inside its gags and gore. It’s a level of writing that we all should aspire to; and the fact that most horror writing isn’t nearly this good shouldn’t be used to set it apart as an anomaly, but rather to encourage us to raise the goddam bar.

Seriously, this is the best new treasure of the holiday season. The IT’S A WONDERFUL LIFE of All Hallow’s Eve.

And the nicest thing I could possibly wish for you tonight. Which I now wholeheartedly do.