When people see me with a book, or learn that I am a reader, I am sometimes asked if I read fiction or nonfiction. The obvious answer is fiction. I love imagination and storytelling. I do, however, read nonfiction, but it is almost always in relation to the arts. Books by and about filmmakers, musicians, writers.
I also always loved magazines. In my formative years as a horror fan, I was famished for every piece of information about the genre I could find. Interviews, retrospectives, reviews. I don't read a lot of zines these days. I try, but it is wearying to read things by so-called experts who know less about the field than I do.
In the eighties I lived for Fangoria and Rod Serling's Twilight Zone Magazine. I liked Cinemafantastique. Deep Red was a my gateway into more hard-hitting horror than where Fangoria generally trod.
I heard about Sleazoid Express. Just like I heard about Gore Gazette and some other independent zines. I wanted them, but money was tight in those days.
I used to hear whispers about Bill Landis, who was responsible for Sleazeoid Express. He was a shadowy, notorious figure. I was curious, but I never pursued the subject.
Around fifteen years ago I heard that Bill Landis had died. It wasn't a giant ripple in the industry, but the right people mourned.
I didn't know his work at all, but I was aware that it focused on grindhouse cinema, usually in New York City. The area was centered on and around 42nd Street, and it was sometimes referred to as The Deuce.
Many people have fond memories of the era before gentrification took the guts out of the whole thing. I get the nostalgia, but I never really felt that I missed a lot. I've heard stories about pervs, pickpockets, street hustlers, people doing gross things in theaters, hard drugs. It always sounded unhealthy and unappetizing.
I was a suburban kid. In the years when Landis was writing Sleazoid Express I was seeing movies at the multiplex. There were some cool independent theaters around that were unafraid to run unrated movies.
And we had the drive-in. Ah, the memories I have. Buying tickets from nice kids in the outside booth. Hearing the crunch of gravel as we slowly drove to our spot. Breaking out lawn chairs under a brilliant sky unfettered by dirty city lights. Drinking beer, burning some weed, watching movies, and getting glorious junk food from the snack bar. I have a funny feeling you wouldn't want to eat food purchased at a grindhouse.
We saw Fulci, Argento, Corman, all types of great movies. Mainstream stuff too, and we liked almost all of it. Looking back, it almost feels wholesome.
There's a part in Landis that mentions a "mad shitter", who defecated in the aisles. Yeah, no thanks.
Bill Landis was molested at an early age, and it colored his entire life. Rather than seek out the the help that could have saved him, Landis threw himself into the world of big city vice. He became addicted to drugs and he went to work in the porn industry.
Bill Landis was also a pioneer in horror journalism. He did it before it was easy, the way people like me use the internet to write about this stuff. He was obviously intelligent and talented, and it sounds like he could have had a successful career in writing or in any endeavor he chose to work in.
Landis met a woman and fell in love, and it seemed like he was close to having a happy ending. Alas, he could not escape his painful past and he went back to indulging in self-destructive behavior.
I would have loved to sit down with Chas. Balun and talk gore movies. I think I could have great conversations with Joe Bob Briggs or John Waters. I believe I would get along with most people who love horror, but after reading Landis I don't think I would have cared to meet the man. He reportedly burned his bridges with Fangoria, with Rick Sullivan of the Gore Gazette, John Waters, Jerry Gross, Kenneth Anger. Really, with just about everyone he ever associated with.
Landis: The Story of a Real Man on 42nd Street is extremely well written and a queasy chapter in the history of horror journalism. Author Preston Fassel knows his subject well, and he reports the facts he learned about poor Bill Landis in a style that might have comfortably fit into an old underground horror zine.
I reiterate that I am glad I never experienced the Deuce. I'm happy I safely got my horror paperbacks at WaldenBooks and saw Steven Spielberg movies at the mall.
I am almost curious enough to dig up some copies of Sleazoid Express, or order the collection of essays he wrote. On second thought, I don't think I need to do that. I'd be better off reading an old issue of Famous Monster of Filmland. Or, better yet, break out my well-thumbed copy of Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In, and wistfully bask in memories of the days of seeing great and near-great horror movies on the biggest screens in history.
Written by Mark Sieber
I also always loved magazines. In my formative years as a horror fan, I was famished for every piece of information about the genre I could find. Interviews, retrospectives, reviews. I don't read a lot of zines these days. I try, but it is wearying to read things by so-called experts who know less about the field than I do.
In the eighties I lived for Fangoria and Rod Serling's Twilight Zone Magazine. I liked Cinemafantastique. Deep Red was a my gateway into more hard-hitting horror than where Fangoria generally trod.
I heard about Sleazoid Express. Just like I heard about Gore Gazette and some other independent zines. I wanted them, but money was tight in those days.
I used to hear whispers about Bill Landis, who was responsible for Sleazeoid Express. He was a shadowy, notorious figure. I was curious, but I never pursued the subject.
Around fifteen years ago I heard that Bill Landis had died. It wasn't a giant ripple in the industry, but the right people mourned.
I didn't know his work at all, but I was aware that it focused on grindhouse cinema, usually in New York City. The area was centered on and around 42nd Street, and it was sometimes referred to as The Deuce.
Many people have fond memories of the era before gentrification took the guts out of the whole thing. I get the nostalgia, but I never really felt that I missed a lot. I've heard stories about pervs, pickpockets, street hustlers, people doing gross things in theaters, hard drugs. It always sounded unhealthy and unappetizing.
I was a suburban kid. In the years when Landis was writing Sleazoid Express I was seeing movies at the multiplex. There were some cool independent theaters around that were unafraid to run unrated movies.
And we had the drive-in. Ah, the memories I have. Buying tickets from nice kids in the outside booth. Hearing the crunch of gravel as we slowly drove to our spot. Breaking out lawn chairs under a brilliant sky unfettered by dirty city lights. Drinking beer, burning some weed, watching movies, and getting glorious junk food from the snack bar. I have a funny feeling you wouldn't want to eat food purchased at a grindhouse.
We saw Fulci, Argento, Corman, all types of great movies. Mainstream stuff too, and we liked almost all of it. Looking back, it almost feels wholesome.
There's a part in Landis that mentions a "mad shitter", who defecated in the aisles. Yeah, no thanks.
Bill Landis was molested at an early age, and it colored his entire life. Rather than seek out the the help that could have saved him, Landis threw himself into the world of big city vice. He became addicted to drugs and he went to work in the porn industry.
Bill Landis was also a pioneer in horror journalism. He did it before it was easy, the way people like me use the internet to write about this stuff. He was obviously intelligent and talented, and it sounds like he could have had a successful career in writing or in any endeavor he chose to work in.
Landis met a woman and fell in love, and it seemed like he was close to having a happy ending. Alas, he could not escape his painful past and he went back to indulging in self-destructive behavior.
I would have loved to sit down with Chas. Balun and talk gore movies. I think I could have great conversations with Joe Bob Briggs or John Waters. I believe I would get along with most people who love horror, but after reading Landis I don't think I would have cared to meet the man. He reportedly burned his bridges with Fangoria, with Rick Sullivan of the Gore Gazette, John Waters, Jerry Gross, Kenneth Anger. Really, with just about everyone he ever associated with.
Landis: The Story of a Real Man on 42nd Street is extremely well written and a queasy chapter in the history of horror journalism. Author Preston Fassel knows his subject well, and he reports the facts he learned about poor Bill Landis in a style that might have comfortably fit into an old underground horror zine.
I reiterate that I am glad I never experienced the Deuce. I'm happy I safely got my horror paperbacks at WaldenBooks and saw Steven Spielberg movies at the mall.
I am almost curious enough to dig up some copies of Sleazoid Express, or order the collection of essays he wrote. On second thought, I don't think I need to do that. I'd be better off reading an old issue of Famous Monster of Filmland. Or, better yet, break out my well-thumbed copy of Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In, and wistfully bask in memories of the days of seeing great and near-great horror movies on the biggest screens in history.
Written by Mark Sieber
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