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Posts Tagged ‘TransVisceral Books’

Titans of Transgression: Incendiary Interviews with Eleven Ultra-Icons of Über-Extremity, ed. Dr Miriam B. Stimbers and Dr Samuel P. Salatta (TransVisceral Books, forthcoming)

Here’s an exclusive extract from this soon-to-be-published compendium of core counter-culturalicity. We join a Titan of Transgression and his incendiary interviewer as they engage issues around the unsavoury rumours that once circulated about the aforementioned Titan of Transgression…

READERS’ ADVISORY: Interview extract contains strong language and disturbing adult themes. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK.

[…]

Stefan Jaworzyn: Well, yeah, they hurt. I have to be honest. They did hurt. I tried to put a brave face on it, you know, saying that the people spreading them were a bunch of fucking losers, blah-blah. Which was true. I mean, they were fucking losers. But deep down, yeah, the rumours hurt. There was one I remember… Fuck. [stares down at table]

Norman Nekrophile: Stefan?

Stefan Jaworzyn: [buries face in hands]

Norman Nekrophile: Are you okay?

Stefan Jaworzyn:

Norman Nekrophile: Stefan? Are you okay?

Stefan Jaworzyn: [exhales loudly and looks up] Yeah. Yeah. I think so.

Norman Nekrophile: You were saying about one rumour.

Stefan Jaworzyn: Yeah. There was one that said… Jesus.

Norman Nekrophile:

Stefan Jaworzyn: [exhales loudly]

Norman Nekrophile: If you don’t want to go there, buddy, we’ll leave it.

Stefan Jaworzyn: No, it’s fine. I’ll go there. There was one rumour that said I was… that I was… Jesus.

Norman Nekrophile: Yes? That you were?

Stefan Jaworzyn: [whispering] A Cockney Red.

Norman Nekrophile:

Stefan Jaworzyn:

Norman Nekrophile: Jesus.

Stefan Jaworzyn: Yeah.

Norman Nekrophile: I’m lost for words.

Stefan Jaworzyn: Yeah.

Norman Nekrophile: I mean, I’d heard myself that you were supposed to run, well, forgive me, with the Yids.

Stefan Jaworzyn: And with the Gooners.

Norman Nekrophile: Yeah, that too. With the Gooners and the Yids. Which is bad enough, don’t get me wrong. But you being a… Fuck. I can’t even bring myself to say it. That was low, buddy. That was low.

Stefan Jaworzyn: Yeah. Very low. But it was the mentality of the people we’re dealing with here.

Norman Nekrophile: And I assume you did deal with whoever-it-was? I mean, once you’d tracked down the source of that particular rumour?

Stefan Jaworzyn: [chuckling drily] Let’s not go there, Norm.

Norman Nekrophile: You’re pleading the Fifth?

Stefan Jaworzyn: Like a motherfucker.

[…]

Interview extract © Stefan Jaworzyn / Norman Nekrophile / TransVisceral Books 2017


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Cover of The Maximum Security Yoga Club by Mikita BrottmanThe Maximum Security Yoga Club, Mikita Brottman (TransVisceral Books 2017)

(This is a guest review by Dr Rachel Edelstein)

June 2015. Anglo-American academic Mikita Brottman sets off in her eco-friendly Honda Hopi to the Jessup Correctional Facility on the outskirts of Baltimore. It will be her first day running a yoga club for prisoners at the notorious maximum-security jail — and her hopes are high. For the next eight months those hopes seem to be fully realized. That first session goes very well and those succeeding it go even better. Dozens of new prisoners are soon clamoring to join the club.

Then Mikita introduces her by now tight-knit group of eager students to a new asana – a posture she has invented herself with just them in mind…

The following day her yoga club is abruptly canceled by the Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services (MDPSCS). Mikita reaches out in an increasingly bewildered and desperate attempt to uncover why the authorities have taken this harsh and completely unexpected step, cutting her off from all contact with prisoners with whom she has bonded deeply and whose personalities and psychology she has been observing with an incisive but compassionate eye. As she writes in chapter four:

The MDPSCS at first refused to return my calls or answer any of my letters and emails, but I finally managed to get an “unofficial” response from one of the prison-guards with whom I had worked, and with whom – so I thought – I had forged a mutually respectful and considerate professional relationship. I had to read his email several times before its meaning fully sank in, so disconnected, incoherent and (frankly) illogical did it seem to my disbelieving gaze. I quote here an extract: “Your so-called club has killed two prisoners and left three others paralyzed for life. You can count yourself lucky that the Department is not suing your pasty-white posterior to Alaska and back. And you have the effrontery to ask why the club has been canceled? Please, Dr Brottman: give me a break!”

I was deeply disturbed by the tone and dismissiveness of this communication. Yes, there was a grain of truth in its assertions: the new asana had not gone as well as I might have liked. And yes, five members of the club did break their necks, of whom two died on the spot and three were, in the email’s cold and clinical phraseology, “left paralyzed for life.” But was this any reason to cancel a club that had been fatality-free on no fewer than forty-six previous occasions? To my mind, it was not. I continued to probe for the true reason behind the MDPSCS’s abrupt and shocking decision. (chapter 4, “Orwell’s Shadow”, pg. 124)

Her efforts are unavailing – but worse is to come for the mild-mannered literary scholar and yoga-enthusiast. As the US presidential campaign begins and the appalling rhetoric of Donald Trump incites the most reprehensible elements of so-called white America, Mikita finds herself adopted as an “alt-right icon” by vile racists who believe that the unfortunate events at that final session of her yoga-club were no accident. She quotes a typical email: “Way to go, girl! You should get a Congressional Medal for smuggling yourself into the jail and tricking all them dumb n*****s into trusting you like that! 88!”

Needless to say, these unjust, unfair and totally unfounded insinuations are an additional and almost unbearable burden for Mikita to carry. And be in no doubt: The Maximum Security Yoga Club is certainly a tale of trauma and tragedy. But it is ultimately one also of hope, as Mikita finds a chink of light amid the darkness by adopting a false name and starting a Tantric aromatherapy-and-origami club at a maximum-security psychiatric facility (which she leaves unnamed for obvious reasons).

Combining cutting-edge psychoanalysis with deeply personal memoir, The Maximum Security Yoga Club will take you on a roller-coaster ride of extreme emotion and edgy insight as it interrogates a seething underbelly of obstreperous obstructionism right at the heart of Maryland officialdom.

 


STOP-PRESS A TransVisceral Books press-release brings the unhappy news that the Maryland Department of Public Safety and Correctional Services has followed tiny clues in The Maximum Security Yoga Club and unmasked the false identity Mikita used to gain access to the Hyman T. Rubinstein Ultra-Max Mental Hospital. Her Tantric aromatherapy-and-origami club there has been canceled and she is now threatened with prosecution for impersonation, fraud and misuse of federal facilities. Please see the TransVisceral website for further details of this devastating new development.

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Pisces, Peter Sotos, with an introduction by Dr Miriam B. Stimbers (TransVisceral Books 2017)

March 2016. Anglo-American academic Miriam Stimbers leaves her apartment in St Louis to attend an ’80s nostalgia concert at a local rock-arena. Behind her, she leaves transgressive author Peter Sotos to fish-sit her prized tank of tropical fish. Four hours later, Stimbers returns to her apartment to discover the tank empty and Sotos lying unconscious on the floor.

When he revives, Sotos describes how, minutes after Stimbers’ departure, the apartment was invaded by a masked gang.

He remembers trying to fight them off.

Then it all went black…

Pisces is a detailed examination of that fateful March day and its continuing repercussions. It is a true-crime book like no other, written from the inside by a no-holds-barred author who has been at the heart of events right from the beginning. As Dr Stimbers writes in her introduction:

Peter was a rock throughout the preliminary bewilderment-and-grieving process. It was truly a great comfort when he told me that, despite the brief time he knew my fish, he felt that he and the eighty-six of them had forged a genuine and permanent bond. Furthermore, despite the brutal assault to which he was subjected and the stress-induced hiccups he suffered for two days after the fish-napping, Peter barely left my side for the rest of the month, helping me to process my initial shock and horror and trying to assist the police investigation in any way he could. He also came up with the most plausible theory as to the gang’s identity. No trace of any break-in could be discovered, nor, despite detailed examination of multiple CCTV-feeds, was it possible to identify any strangers entering or leaving the apartment-block during the relevant time-period. But, while the gang was in the apartment, they re-arranged my bookshelves and anonymously purchased me a gift-subscription to the Journal of Forensic Entomology.

Peter’s suggestion?

“They must have been ninja librarians, Miri,” he said.

I concur. It’s the only explanation that fits all the facts. (Introduction, pg. ix)

But why would ninja librarians fish-nap a set of tropical fish? Where have they taken their piscine prizes? When will they issue a ransom demand? These questions continue to haunt all those involved in this unique tragedy. Pisces examines each aspect of the case from every conceivable angle and will only serve to trans-toxify Sotos’s rebarbative renown as an edgily incendiary archaeologist of the most photophobic furlongs of the counter-cultural complexus.


Previously pre-posted on Papyrocentric Performativity:

K-9 Konundrum — review of Dog by Peter Sotos
Toxic Twosome — review of Doll by Peter Sotos and James Havoc


Forthcoming Fetidity from TransVisceral Books…

Stiff for Stiffs: Kandid Konfessions of a Korpse-Kopulator, דוד קרקשׁ
Slime-Sniffer: The Norman Nekrophile Story, Nicolae Feralescu
Pay to Slay: The Toxic True Tale of the Mersey Murder-Machine, Dr Samuel P. Salatta

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Maverick Munch: Selecting a Sinisterly Savory Snack to Reinforce Your Rhizomatically Radical Reading, Will Self (TransVisceral Books 2016)

What is it with savory snacks and the Counter-Cultural Community? Well, if you don’t know, no-one’s going to tell you. In fact, no-one could tell you. As George Orwell put it in another context:

Consider, for example, such a typical sentence from a Times leading article as Oldthinkers unbellyfeel Ingsoc. The shortest rendering that one could make of this in Oldspeak would be: “Those whose ideas were formed before the Revolution cannot have a full emotional understanding of the principles of English Socialism.” But this is not an adequate translation. To begin with, in order to grasp the full meaning of the Newspeak sentence quoted above, one would have to have a clear idea of what is meant by Ingsoc. And in addition, only a person thoroughly grounded in Ingsoc could appreciate the full force of the word bellyfeel, which implied a blind, enthusiastic acceptance difficult to imagine today; or of the word oldthink, which was inextricably mixed up with the idea of wickedness and decadence. (Nineteen Eighty-Four, Appendix)

As Will Self might have put it: Normthinkers unbellyfeel crispcrunch. But “wickedness and decadence” are (of course) precisely what he wants to promote in this ferally phantasmagoric book. If you think that a glass of wine and some cranked-up Throbbing Gristle or Sunn O))) are a suitable accompaniment to your transgressive textualizing, I’m afraid you’re sadly out of touch. Mavericks munch, matey.

Which means you don’t want music getting in the way of your commitment to crunch. But flavour matters passionately too, of course. There are no hard-and-fast rules – this is the Counter Culture – but no-one with a culturally sensitive palate would think of combining Soft Machine with salt’n’vinegar crisps or Last Exit to Brooklyn with cheesy wotsits.

So what should you combine them with? That’s up to you and your counter-cultural conscience, but Self closes the book with his own suggestions for a full year’s worth of “Sinisterly Savory Snacks” to “Reinforce Your Rhizomatically Radical Reading”. His hierarchy of hot’n’spicy heresy includes Les Chants de Maldoror (Chilli Heatwave Doritos), Cities of the Red Plain (Pickled Onion Discos), The Ticket That Exploded (Beef Hula Hoops), American Psycho (Barbecue Pringles), Junkie (Morrison’s Salt-and-Vingear Twists), 120 Days of Sodom (Scampi-and-Lemon Nik Naks) and The Satanic Verses (Paprika Walker’s Max).

I feel like releasing a satisfied (and strongly flavoured) belch just reading that list. But there’s one ringer amid the relentlessly radical recommendations – if you can spot it, you should definitely read this book. If you can’t, you should even-more-definitely read this book. Munch matters. As Self says in his incendiary introduction: “Commit to Counter Culture – Commit to Crunch.”

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Forthcoming Fetidity / Future Ferality from TransVisceral Books…

Slo-Mo Psy-Ko: The Sinister Story of the Stockport Slayer…, Zac Zialli — fetid-but-fascinating investigation of a serial slayer who has flown under the police radar for decades…
Not Just for Necrophiles: A Toxic Tribute to Killing for Culture…, ed. Dr Miriam B. Stimbers and Dr Joshua N. Schlachter — 23 Titans of Trangression come together to pay tribute to the seminal snuff-study Killing for Culture
Opium of the Peephole: Spying, Slime-Sniffing and the Snowdenian Surveillance State, Norman Foreman (B.A.) — edgy interrogation of the unsettling parallels between state-sponsored surveillance and the Daily Meal


TransVisceral Books — for Readers who Relish the Rabid, Rancid and Reprehensibly Repulsive
TransVisceral BooksCore Counter-Culture… for Incendiary Individualists
TransVisceral BooksTotal Toxicity… (since 2005)…

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Diaspora by David Kerekes and Linda KerekesDiaspora: True Tales of Demographic Displacement, Mandatory Migration and Existential Exile, David and Linda Kerekes (TransVisceral Books 2015)

It’s been said that you’ll have more success juggling jelly than you will predicting what TransVisceral Books will come up with next. It’s hard to disagree. From Miriam Stimbers’ unnatural history of the backside to Sam Salatta’s pop-up book of serial slaying, TransVisceral are continually expanding their readers’ horizons, coming out of left field like a great white on steroid-stoked roller-blades, swinging a lead-weighted pool-cue that’s guaranteed to knock you for 6-6-6.

With Diaspora, they’ve just done it again. It was a major coup to secure the polymorphously perverse partnership of David and Linda Kerekes as editors for this book. Not only have they harvested contributions from a host of big names – the aforementioned Stimbers and Salatta, to name but two – they’ve penned memorably mephitic contributions of their own. David traces the roots of his key commitment to counter-culturality to his outsider status as son of a refugee from communist Eastern Europe. But, as ever, he finds plenty of chuckles amid the autobiographical analysis. Here he is recalling some never-forgotten advice from his mother Mirima:

Mom looked at me with uncharacteristic severity, emphasizing her words by waggling her tomato-stained forefinger: “A true gypsy don’t never lie, don’t never steal and don’t never ’it a woman, Davitschko,” she said. “You always remember that, eh? But most of all,” she went on with a sudden twinkle in her eye, “a true gypsy don’t never get caught!” I laughed, nodded and knew that I had been initiated into another of Mom’s home-country secrets. (“Gyppo Kiddo: My Life in the Roma Diaspora”, pg. 356)

Elsewhere, Linda Kerekes describes another kind of migration and another kind of diaspora: travel across the tightly policed, but highly ambiguous, border between so-called “male” and “female”, so-called “man” and so-called “woman”. Her descriptions of her gender-reassignment surgery are not for the faint-of-heart or weak-of-stomach, but they help make this book even more impactful and even more esoteric. TransVisceral have come up trumps again, unleashing another vibrantly visceral beacon that will sink its turbo-charged talons deep into the post-normative underbelly of your subconscious.

And then some…


Thiz Iz Siz-Biz…

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botty by miriam stimbersBotty: An Unnatural History of the Backside, Dr Miriam B. Stimbers (TransVisceral Books 2014)

With a Miriam Stimbers book you can expect only one thing: the unexpected. From knock-knock jokes to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre, from allegorical albinism in the music of Hawkwind to fundamentalist phantasmality in the music of the Wombles: Stimbers has an unparalleled ability to dissect the deviant demons of mutant modernity by unleashing a scholarly spotlight of high-octane hermeneutics on the feral formulae of societal psychosis that lurk unsuspected amid the mephitic maelstrom of contemporary culture. And then some…

But might Botty be her best book yet? Quite possibly. The backside is (or can be) a big subject, but Stimbers doesn’t flinch, seamlessly synthesizing the most disparate elements of pygocentric and proctotropic performativity, from bottom-worshipping sculptors in the ancient world to twerking pop-stars in the 21st century. But for me the stand-out – or should that be stand-up? – section has to be the chapter in which Stimbers rolls up her psychoanalytic sleeves and gets to grips with the toxic taboo of the haemorrhoid. Is it merely a coincidence, she asks, that the journalist Emma Freud, great-granddaughter of the immortal Sigmund, should have supplied a rhyming slang for the condition? (i.e., emmas ← Emma Freuds ← haemorrhoids)

Stimbers suggests not, because haemorrhoids occupy a central, albeit (to the general public) little-known, position in the history and culture of psychoanalysis. Sigmund Freud (1856-1939) first suffered from them at the age of 46, writing to his long-term correspondent and confidant Jakob Froschnichts:

My God, Jakob, I could swear that they are the size of grapefruit! [Pampelmusen] I cannot sit for a moment and have to work standing at my desk, which I have raised by propping the legs on the largest volumes in my library. Furthermore, I must sleep on my stomach, strapped to the bed for fear that I should turn over in the night and be woken by a sudden shaft of proctalgia [Arschlochschmerz]. It is a most wearisome business, but nevertheless an educative one, offering the sufferer insights into the human condition that might pass them by who have never endured this atrocious affliction. (Botty, ch. 8, “Of Heresy and Haemorrhoids”, pg. 215, quoting The Collected Letters of Sigmund Freud, Vol. XVIII, ed. Dr Nathan T. Goldberg, Harvard University Press 1983)

But despite his own direct experience, Freud was never able to place haemorrhoids definitively within the schemata of psychoanalytic aetiology. Were they, as he first suspected, a tell-tale symptom of anal retentivity? Or, in fact, of its exact opposite? Or did it vary from patient to patient, from backside to backside? He never made up his mind.

Still afflicted: Freud in 1938

Still afflicted: Freud in 1938

Nor could he have guessed how haemorrhoids would spark a furious controversy in psychoanalytic circles following his death. In the 1950s, some senior disciples began to insist that it was an “insult to the Master” to acquire them substantially before the age of 46, while others insisted, on the contrary, that it was an insult to acquire them an appreciable time after.

Most were agreed that acquisition actually in the year of one’s 46th birthday was best, but what of those who never acquired them at all? Stimbers describes rumours that some unafflicted psychoanalysts were faking the symptoms in order to ingratiate themselves with whichever tendency happened to hold sway in their own city or nation. There is even talk of prosthetic haemorrhoids being secretly manufactured and deployed in such psychoanalytic centres as New York and London. Stimbers keeps a cool head amid the controversy, declines to reveal her own partisan preferences, and guides the reader through the twists and turns of the great Freudian haemorrhoid debate right to the present day.

But if that’s the best bit of Botty, you’ll by no means be disappointed by the rest. As ever, there’s some serious Stimbulation within these pages and, unlike Freud and his fellow sufferers, you’ll be left in the best possible position: glued to your seat and wanting much more. By casting a botlight into the most uncompromising crevices of proctocentric possibility, Stimbers has thrown down an incendiary gauntlet not merely to other cultural commentators but also to her own future self. Will she ever top Botty? We’ll just have to wait and see…


Elsewhere other-posted:

Pestilent, Pustulent and Pox-Pockedmore meticulous Miriamic monitoring of the mephitic maelstrom

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Tip-Top Transgressive Texts for Toxicotropic Tenebrowsers…

Naked Lunch, William S. Burroughs (Olympia Press 1964)

Not so much a book as the detonation of a black-and-bloated thermo-nuclear device directly beneath the foundations of sanity, society and any notion at all of literary convention and aesthetic restraint.


Re-Light My Führer: Nausea, Noxiousness and Neo-Nazism in the Music of Take That, 1986-2012, Dr Miriam B. Stimbers (University of Nebraska Press 2013)

Psychoanalytic scholarship sets sail for the septic centre of societal psychosis.


Thighway to Mel: Six Years, Eleven Months and Eighteen Days as a Terrified, Traumatized and Tearful Toy-Boy Tonguing the Tepid and Toxic Tvotzke of Top Social Conservative Melanie Phillips, Stewart Home (Serpent’s Tail 2008)

What can I say? Home’s masterpiece. You’ll think as you retch as you cry with laughter.


Basted in the Broth of Billions, David Britton (Savoy Books 2004)

Savoy are England’s loudest publishers. Basted is their loudest book. Right from the opening scene, in which Lord Horror dispatches Martin Amis and Will Self on a one-way trip up each other’s rectums, Britton keeps the volume turned remorselessly to 11.


Killing for Culture: Death on Film and the Sizzle of Snuff…, David Kerekes and David Slater (Visceral Visions 1992)

So feral it’s fetid… so fetid it’s frightening… Kerekes and Slater are ordinary blokes with an extraordinary ability to sniff out the sizzle of snuff…


Encyclopedia Psychopathica: Top Tips, Tactics and Targeting Techniques for Successful Serial Slayers, Sam Salatta (Visceral Visions 2013)

Gulp. This guy is… disturbing… And then some…


Buncha-Puncha: Colombian Telenovela Madness and the Unravelling of an Inter-Continental Crime Conspiracy, Henry Zacharias (Visceral Visions 2014)

Coke-stoked, speed-gee’d, crank-spanked, hash-smashed, er, junk-clunked… Henry Zacharias writes like Hunter S. Thompson woulda if he coulda


Bent for the Rent: Blowjobs, Buggery and Batty-Boy Bonding in the Backstreet Bum-Bandit Brothels of Brighton, Bangkok and Barcelona, James Havoc and David Slater (with an incendiary introduction by David Kerekes) (TransVisceral Books 2014)

Two trangressive titans textualize the toxic traumas and teratotropic terrors of their teen years working as rent-boys in three of the world’s sleaziest, scuzziest and sordidest cities…


Dong, Peter Sotos and Sam Salatta (TransVisceral Books, forthcoming)

Due to be published soon. Or will God step in first…?


Killers for Culture: The Book of the Band of the Book, David Kerekes and David Slater (Visceral Visions 2014)

When Kerekes and Slater formed a band to promote their seminal snuff-study Killing for Culture, they couldn’t foresee what lay ahead. If they hadda, they’d’ve run screaming for their lives…

Sample MP3s

1. “Kaught with a Korpse” (Kerekes/Slater)
2. “Down in the Mortuary (at Midnight)” (Kerekes/Slater)
3. “I Wanna Hold Your Foot” (Kerekes/Slater/Foreman)
4. “Maggot Butty” (Kerekes/Slater/Home)
5. “Can the Cannibal?” (Quatro/Stimbers/Foreman)
6. “The Ghoul on the Hill” (McCartney/Kerekes/Slater)
7. “Fetid Flesh (for Kerekes)” (Stimbers/Foreman/Slater/Home)
8. “Kaught with a Korpse (reprise)” (Kerekes/Slater/Foreman)


Elsewhere other-posted:

#BooksThatShouldNotBe #2

#BooksThatShouldNotBe #3

Thiz Iz Siz-Biz…

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Sinister Sinema

Scalarama: A Celebration of Subterranean Cinema at Its Sleazy, Slimy and Sinister Best, ed. Norman Foreman, B.A. (TransVisceral Books 2015)

The Scala Cinema. Long gone, much lamented. By Garry Guggan, TransVisceral C.E.O., among many others. He was a regular attendee at this London locus of the teratic and tenebrose. So he’s asked another regular attendee – Norman Foreman, B.A. – to compile a book of interviews and reminiscences for the benefit both of those who share fond memories of the Scala and of those who never had the chance to become acquainted with its unique mixture of the sleazy, the slimy and the sinister. As a taster for the book – due out next year – here are some extracts from an interview Norman has conducted with Phil Barbarelli, an actor from New York who was a dedicated member of the Scala Tribe…


Norman Foreman: The Scala has legendary status among keyly committed core components of the counter-cultural community. Can you explain what contributed to its feral appeal?

Phil Barbarelli: A trip to the Scala felt like a trip back to a 1950s 42nd Street “grind house” or ’60s Soho sleaze sinema or a below-the-Mason-Dixon-line drive-in or a back-room stag-film fest. It had a sticky floor, stale popcorn retro vibe that was catnip to outré film aficionados. It was a place where you could see an all-day festival of British nudie cuties and naturist films. Or a rare bargain-basement biker or slasher film. Where else would I have had the chance to meet the legendary Pamela Green or question the director of Tom Jones Meets Lady Godiva? Going to the Scala was a guilty pleasure. The only time I felt uncomfortable there was when they showed without warning a mercifully short bestiality film among some soft-core films. They should have warned us. I sensed that most of the audience felt that we had been compromised and our trust abused.

Norman Foreman: What was the Scala audience like?

Phil Barbarelli: The audience was mainly what were then (early ’90s) known as “slackers”. Hey, who else could afford to spend an entire workday in an itch house watching Grade-Z slasher films? Or spend an all-too-rare sunny Saturday in a smelly, dark room watching British naturist films? There were also out-of-work actors (is there another kind?), musicians and the occasional dirty-mac wearer. The latter were bound to be disappointed by the relatively tame material. And, I saw a few City Gents complete with bowler hats and rolled umbrellas.

The audience was almost entirely male with a few bored/bewildered chicks dragged along on dates. The behaviour was the same as you’d see in any cinema. But on special occasions, e.g. Q&A sessions or book-signings, people would be a bit chatty. But most folk were anxious to maintain a “hipper than thou” aloof demeanour. Did I dream it or did some of them watch the films with their sunglasses on? Most dressed in black or T-shirts decorated with the names of bands you never heard of.

Norman Foreman: You are of Italian heritage and had a Catholic upbringing. How far do you think this has fed into your purulent passion for the teratic and tenebrose?

Phil Barbarelli: Speak English! But, yes, Roman Catholicism does tend to warp a young man’s mind. It’s full of guts and gore and it taught us that sex was dirty while at the same time making us obsess about it. It was a nun who asked us at the age of seven if we ever had impure thoughts or had committed impure acts with members of our family or animals. Well, I certainly hadn’t thought about it until she gave me the idea. And, I’m happy to report that incest and bestiality remain outside my ken.

But, I was also influenced/damaged by seeing old-fashioned Coney Island freak shows. And, by growing up in the very lurid atmosphere of 1950s Brooklyn. Read Henry Miller and look at the photos of Weegee to get an idea. It was technicolor, violent, vibrant, funny, sexy, beautiful, ugly – all at once.

But, I find that kitsch and trash are often more entertaining and instructive than middle-brow crap. Case in point: Henry – Portrait of A Serial Killer is a more frightening, powerful and truthful film than The Silence of The Lambs. Guess which I saw at The Scala? So, I enjoy and continue to nurture my interest in all things off-beat. And, the Catholic rule to not look/read/listen to something spurs me to look/read/listen to anything I like. So there.

Norman Foreman: You mentioned seeing a genuine autopsy film on a big screen in NYC. Please say more.

Phil Barbarelli: A hipster cinema in Tribeca showed a film called Autopsy. It was a B&W film of an actual autopsy shot by one of the first “under-ground” filmmakers, whose name escapes me. He had a friend who worked in a NYC morgue and that friend arranged the filming with the stipulation that the corpse remain anonymous. In fact, the dead person may have been a “John Doe”. It was interesting to see how few of the hipsters lasted through the film. Several ran for the toilets, retching as they ran. Imagine if it had been in colour. The same thing happened at The Scala when it showed a double bill of Texas Chain Saw Massacre and Henry. This was the un-edited version of Henry and not cleaned for general viewing.

Massacre was a giggle. Henry was truly terrifying. The “not so tough” trendies headed for the exit.

Norman Foreman: You’ve talked about the “Catholic gaze”. What about the “male gaze”? Didn’t you see something interesting at a strip-show?

Phil Barbarelli: I saw many interesting things at strip-shows. (Ba-da-boom.) I think you mean the demonstration of the male desire to see what he should not. I was at a strip-show on 42nd street in the era of the film Taxi Driver. NYC was at its sleaziest. The strippers would end their act by putting a dirty rug/mat on the front of the stage floor and lie down on it and spread their legs showing everything they had. You could see their tonsils. They would often masturbate or pretend to. Some would allow men to come up and taste their charms for an additional fee. This was a popular pastime for Japanese tourists.

But, directly upstage of them was a door leading to the dancers’ dressing room. Sometimes as a girl was downstage displaying her charms this door upstage would open. When it did, every man in the audience would take his eyes off the woman’s vagina to sneak a look at what he was not supposed to see in the back room.

Norman Foreman: How often in New York did you see films with gimmicks, like The Tingler?

Phil Barbarelli: My childhood (’50s and early ’60s) was the heyday of the gimmick films made by William Castle and others. I was too young to see House of Wax starring Vincent Price, which was the first major 3-D movie. But, my brother gave me his 3-D glasses and told me how things seemed to jump off the screen. There were also 3-D comic books that came with a set of glasses. Trying to read these comics without the glasses was an early psychedelic experience.

All the kids in my Brooklyn neighborhood would go to the “pitchers” on Saturdays to see triple bills with the main movie almost always a horror film.

We got the Hammer films and many low-budget British horror films – X – The Unknown, Horror of The Black Museum – “filmed in hypnovision”. This movie seriously terrorised a generation of children. It’s the only horror film I saw that I think should not have been shown to anyone under 18.

When the skeletons flew over our heads in The House on Haunted Hill we threw things at them. We wore special glasses to see the ghost in 13 Ghosts and we loved The Tingler.

In the late ’80s, an art house in Tribeca showed The Tingler with the original buzzers attached to the seats. They gave a very mild shock, akin to the joke hand-shake buzzers.

By coincidence, in 2013 I was in a terrible play in the West End that was supposed to be a comic homage to Castle and the gimmick horror films. We squirted the audience with “blood” in the dark and threw “insects” on them. My character was loosely based on Castle. I made an oblique reference to The Tingler. This line got a very few knowing laughs. It was obvious that this genre of gimmick film was not well known enough for a comic homage to work.

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I Am A Kamera

Front cover of Mezzogiallo by David KerekesMezzogiallo: Ferality. Fetidity. Eastern Europe., David Kerekes (TransVisceral Books 2014)

August 1956. Teenage anti-communist Mirima Kerekes flees to the West as Soviet tanks rumble into Bucharest to crush a desperate popular uprising. A month later, Mirima is in the sea-side town of Bootle, north-west England, finding her feet in a new country and a new culture. Soon she will have a son, David, future editor of Headpress Journal and author of acclaimed counter-cultural texts Killing for Culture (1992), Sex Murder Art (1998) and Backstage Bootle (2011).

But Mirima left a brother behind in Bucharest, also called David. He remains a distant enigma, a mysterious, rarely mentioned figure throughout his nephew’s childhood and teens. It is not until thirty years later, following the fall of feral dictator Antonin Ceauşescu, that the British David Kerekes is able to travel to Eastern Europe and meet his uncle for the first time.

Mezzogiallo is the story of that momentous meeting and its continuing consequences, an extended meditation on fate and free will as the British David struggles to come to terms with the horrific family secret he uncovers behind the former Iron Curtain. As he writes in his introduction:

Once I gained my uncle’s confidence he began to open up to me, but it was not till near the end of my initial stay in the country that he finally revealed the truth about his life under communism. I was aghast to discover the reason for my mom’s silence about her brother all those years: my namesake, my uncle David, had worked for the secret police throughout the years of Ceauşescu, photographing and recording people without their knowledge for the files of the brutal regime that had crushed private life without remorse or conscience. He told me that he had once driven 150 kilometres to look inside someone’s bathroom and take some hairs from their comb. But there was worse to come – a confession that shook me to my core.

Despite himself, my uncle revealed, he had enjoyed the spying and the prying and the sense of power they gave him. In stumbling words, racked by a deep sense of shame and futility, he confessed to me that photographing people, recording their private conversations, keeping files on their quotidian activities, had given him serious thrills. He described how he had once quivered with excitement as he hid under the floorboards of a private home, listening to someone exercise on a rowing machine. In short: he had been a dedicated voyeur, filling the emptiness of his own life by spying on the lives of others.

Securitate archive

Securitate archive


My horror was unbounded. Anyone who knows Headpress, the Journal of Strangeness and Necrophilia, knows that I have devoted my life to offering a fiercely intelligint, passionately non-normative alternative to the ever-increasing voyeurism of the British mainstream – the spying-and-prying peddled by The Daily Mail, by the über-ennui’d teens who take secret photographs and videos of others, then exchange them online with their like-minded peers. And yet here was my mom’s brother doing the exact same thing as had horrified me for so long in Britain. But could I condemn him for it? What if I myself had been born under communism? Might I too not have worked for the secret police? Might I too not have become a dedicated voyeur, gloating over secretly obtained photographs and recordings, relishing the sense of power they gave me?

I could not deny the truth: perhaps I might. Shaken and disturbed, I constantly pondered the words of the great Romanian philosopher Eric Hoffer: “A man is likely to mind his own business when it is worth minding. When it is not, he takes his mind off his own meaningless affairs by minding other people’s business.”

Did this not help explain my uncle’s behaviour? Had not communism, by destroying his individuality and sense of purpose, rendered life meaningless to him and forced him, in compensation, to become the voyeur he confessed he was? Deep questions. Dark ones, also. I knew that it would be years, even decades, before I could process them to my own satisfaction and write the book that they deserved. (Introduction, pg. viii)

Mezzogiallo is the book in question. David goes on to describe how, on future trips to Eastern Europe, he was able to examine the thousands of files created by his uncle for the secret police using cameras and microphones hidden not only in private homes, but also in libraries, banks, courts, schools, hospitals and more. He will be shocked by both the detail and the futility of his uncle’s activities – the prolonged, obsessive recording of the most minor details of everyday life. Yet David points out that capitalist society has gone in the exact same direction, both at the level of the state and at the level of the ordinary voyeuristic citizen. All David Kerekes’s books are characterized by feral intelligence and fetid honesty. But Mezzogiallo: Ferality. Fetidity. Eastern Europe. is arguably his ferallest, fetidest interrogation of the human condition to date…


Coming soon on Papyrocentric Performativity…

• A review of Nekro-Feral: The David Kerekes Story, David Slater (TransVisceral Books)

Press Release: Divided into three throbbingly thrilling thanato-themed sections – “Nekro-Kid”, “Nekro-Teen” and “Nekro-Dult” – Nekro-Feral is an intimate and revealing portrait of a transgressive icon by the man who was his simul-scribe on Killing for Culture, inarguably the most sizzlingly seminal survey of snuff-stuff ever set to cellulose…


Thiz Iz Siz-Biz…

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