Bwa ha ha ha ha

Halloween. Damn, I love it.

Earlier this morning, Dr. Vornoff was consumed by a giant (yet strangely lethargic) octopus. And only minutes ago, Michael Myers was skewering and parboiling nurses in Haddonfield Memorial. Even as I type this, the Blob is devouring every teenager in the local movie theater.

And before the night is over, the bedroom doors of Hill House will bulge malevolently, the ghost of Peter Quint will turn the screw on Deborah Kerr, and an aviator beagle will surely arise from Linus's sincere pumpkin patch.

And as for the costume in which I plan to greet trick-or-treaters at the door, my chief weapon is surprise. Surprise and fear...

In honor of the day, I give you my abridged Horror Film Hall Of Fame:

Scariest: For jumps, jolts, and sheer dread, there are two movies that cannot be topped: Alien and The Shining. No other film brings all the elements of horror together nearly as effectively as these masterpieces. I've seen them both a thousand times, and they still scare the hell out of me. (A subset of “Scariest” would be “Most Frightening” — movies that get you not so much with jumps, but with escalating tension. These are films that get you yelling at the screen, like Hitchcock's masterpieces Psycho and Rear Window.)

Most Terrifying: I distinguish “terrifying” from “scary” in the sense that many things can give you a scare, but only something real (or at least believable) can really terrify you. A good scare fades in time, but terror stays with you. In this category, Jaws is king. Sharks are the real deal. They actually do swim around out there and chomp stuff, including people. They can come right up from below you, and literally eat you alive. And you can't see them coming. Terrifying. Frak the ocean.

Most Horrifying: This category generally includes the films that really hit you down deep. This is the movie you either can't bring yourself to watch, or after you do, wish you hadn't. The Exorcist is mine. Although I have seen it several times, I don't think I've ever enjoyed it (and I usually fast-forward through the middle third). The performances are great, as is the filmmaking, which is why I still watch it every few years. But man, it will just ruin your day.

Most Disturbing: These babies aren't so much scary as just plain wrong. Shudder-inducers, usually with a nausea chaser: Last House on the Left, The Hills Have Eyes, etc. Of course, the movie that gets crowned Emperor-For-Life in this category is the grotesque, sweaty, oily ordeal of The Texas Chain Saw Massacre.

The next three categories are, in fact, distinct from one other, but I can't really put my finger precisely on the distinction. I can't articulate it, anyway. But here they are, and hopefully you get the idea:

Creepiest: Rosemary's Baby

Eeriest: Carnival of Souls

Most Unsettling: The Blair Witch Project

And last (and also least), one can hardly talk horror without giving a nod to viscera, ooze, and splurt:

Most Nauseatingly Gory: Dead Alive

Most Beautifully Gory: Suspiria

Most Inventively Gory: The Thing

Happy Samhain. Don't read aloud any incantations from the Book of the Dead, don't say “Candyman” into the mirror, and for the love of Pete, don't go into Room 237. Stay out, you hear me? Stay out.

Nice

The Red Sox did it again. I have to confess I was pulling for the Tribe on this one, but still, you can't begrudge the Sox another grand comeback in the ALCS. The important thing is that both clubs (the two best teams in the AL this year) gave us a damn good 7-game show.

How can you not like this team? Tek, Youk, Coco, Wake, Dice? And hats off to Dustin Pedroia, the rookie hero of Game 7. I'm not much of a Manny fan, though. Even though his offensive numbers more than make up for his shortcomings in character, I still have a hard time watching bozos who don't — or just won't — play the whole game. In the field and on the bases, Manny might as well be wearing a chicken suit.

[It's ironic that, to me anyway, the player who best exemplifies the right way to play the game, the man who more than any other has his head in the game and on the field — the Anti-Manny, so to speak—would be the poster-boy of the accursed Yankees, Derek Jeter.]

But then, but then, but then.... there's Papi.

Is there a greater man in the game of baseball right now? He's the closest thing we have (or are ever likely to have) to another Babe Ruth. His DH status (unfairly) means he's a long-shot for an MVP, but one look at his cumulative effect on the Red Sox since 2003 tells you all you need to know. If we're truly witnessing the birth of a new baseball dynasty, then Ortiz must be crowned Emperor.

So it's Sox v. Rox now. Wow. I only hope the Law of Conservation of Momentum still applies to the Rockies after a weeklong hiatus (the downside of a sweep). Because it's going to take a lot more than brilliant defense to shut down these Sox.

Night takes Bishop

The Rat Pack is finally no more. Bogart passed away 1957, Lawford in '84, Sammy in '90, Dino in '95, and the Chairman in '98 (not to mention the Sands Hotel in '96). Now Joey Bishop has gone to the Summit in the Sky, where presumably he is many, many rounds behind. Interesting that Rat Pack “mascots” Shirley MacLaine and Angie Dickinson are still with us, as is the “Den Mother” who first described this gang as a pack of rats.

That leaves only one of the (original) Ocean's Eleven still alive — and of course it would be the meanest-looking bastard of the bunch.

This week's big loss, though is the great and gorgeous Deborah Kerr, who famously rolled in the surf with Lancaster and somehow even made a leading man out of Yul Brynner. This close to Halloween, it's only fitting that we remember her first and foremost for her scare-selling performance in one of the all-time great ghost stories, The Innocents:

Mid-October cutdown

The fall TV season is nearing the end of its third full week, which means it's time to make the first round of Tivo cuts. This year we invited six new shows to camp — as of last night, three have made the roster, one is on probation, and two have been red-tagged.

The winners:

Cane. Didn't expect much from this show — in fact, what landed it on the tryout list was the cast: Jimmy Smits, Nestor Carbonell (formerly the smooth-talking Other on Lost), Polly Walker (formerly the “Lady MacAntony” Atia on Rome), and the best mom-and-dad sparring combo since Stockard Channing and Martin Sheen — Rita Moreno and Hector Elizondo.

This show launched itself right into the neutral zone between The Godfather, The Sopranos, and Dallas, with all the Shakespearian undertones one would expect to find there. It's so brimming with potential, the biggest pitfall the writers will face is the temptation to do too much in the first season. I can just hear the network execs screaming for a new Sopranos, but honestly, I think if they're going to cheat in any one direction, they should cheat towards Dallas. With just a little bit of restraint, a little deft sidestepping of some obvious plot-traps, this could be the best new show of the season.

Dirty Sexy Money. Where Peter Krause goes, we follow. Maus and I loved Six Feet Under, and over the summer we devoured both seasons of Sports Night on DVD. If there's one guy who can convey “dear-God-what-have-I-gotten-myself-into?” with one expression, it's this guy. Unlike Cane, this show need not show restraint — the fixings are in place for another Arrested Development here. And if there's any pair that will give Hector Elizondo and Rita Moreno a run for their money this year, it's Donald Sutherland and Jill Clayburgh.

Expect at least three of those four names to come up around Golden Globe and Emmy time.

Back to You. The sitcom should be dead by now, shouldn't it? In the post-Friends-Frasier-Raymond world dominated by Lost, Heroes, and Housewives, isn't the 30-minute chain of punchlines a dinosaur? Last year, I would have said How I Met Your Mother was the last of the species (kept alive single-handedly by Neil Patrick Harris). But maybe not.

I don't know if Back to You (which carries on its back the ghosts of Cheers, Frasier, and Raymond) will ever be greater than the sum of its parts, but it does make me laugh. And surprisingly, it seems to ignore the sitcom formulas of the 90s and goes back to the pre-Seinfeld sitcom formula of the late 1980s: don't be clever, just be funny. If you've been watching this show, I can tell you precisely the moment that I was sold: it was the day the goldfish kept dying. All of a sudden it felt like 1986, Thursday night, NBC.

Still in the running:

Journeyman. It's Quantum Leap. I keep wishing they'd do something to make this show Not Quantum Leap, but after three episodes I'm still waiting for Dean Stockwell to appear in a garish shirt-and-tie combo. I haven't given up: Kevin McKidd is good, and some of the time-twists have been interesting (especially the ones where his leaps — I'm sorry, I mean “travels”— intersect with his own earlier life). But I'm still waiting for something to give this show a real hook. How about Ray Stevenson as Kevin McKidd's sidekick? Now that would be a show.

Hit the showers, rookies:

Bionic Woman. Too bad. I was such a fan of the Lindsay Wagner show, and this seemed to have everything going for it, not the least of which was its unmistakable Battlestar Galactica pedigree. Good cast, good writers, good concept. But, alas, yaaaaaaawn. There is nothing, nothing new here. Blow away the thin vapor of a plot, and you're left with a decent Katee Sackhoff performance worthy of a much better show.

The original Jamie Sommers was thoughtful, brave, vulnerable, always reluctant to use her powers, and most importantly, cared about by the people who had “built” her. What she was not was an ass-kicking, rogue super-assassin forced against her will to work for a clandestine government operation. Bourne Identity, Universal Soldier, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Dark Angel, and Alias all did the same thing, and did it much better. Actually, there is one way in which Bionic Woman does outdo Buffy — they've somehow managed to give us a younger sister even more annoying than Dawn. If you can believe it.

Private Practice. Maus's show, not mine. But she's such a Grey's Anatomy addict that this seemed like a no-brainer. So much hype, so much buildup — I don't remember the last time a show was spun off with this much sheer momentum. But pffffft... plunk. Even Chevy Chase didn't fall this flat this fast.

That's OK — 3 out of 6, with a 4th still in the running, isn't bad. Besides, it's only 6 weeks until Galactica: Razor premieres, and then everybody can just step the frak aside.

There they go...

Once again the Yankees fall short, and there is much rejoicing...

It looks like Torre is going to be the fall guy this year. Which is completely absurd, given how managed to right a doomed ship this season. The Bombers' run after the All-Star break (43-43 before; 51-25 after) was near miraculous, and if they'd made it all the way to the Series, he'd be hands-down the AL Manager of the Year. (He still could be.)

Unfortunately, the guy the Yankees really need to unload is the one guy they can't get rid of.

And here it comes...

Drool...

Hm.

Cubs? Swept. Phillies? Swept. Angels? Swept. This postseason sure looked a whole lot more exciting on paper.

Apparently, the key to winning this October is simply momentum. Objects in motion tend to remain in motion; objects at rest tend to go home early.

But we still have the Indians-Yankees, a great matchup. Looks like Byrd v. Wang tonight (Torre moving up his ace; Wedge sticking to his rotation). I like it. The Tribe can go to Sabathia anytime they like (maybe in the 9th with the bases loaded and Heywood at the plate?), while the Yanks' hopes will ultimately be pinned on Pettitte and/or Mussina.

The two Championship Series promise to be more exciting than the World Series this year — of the six possible WS matchups, is there even one where the AL team isn't the heavy favorite? As much as I'd enjoy watching the Rockies steamroll the Yankees, I just can't work out how that happens. D-backs vs. Red Sox? Hm. Looks like a rout to me.

But then, I didn't see the D-backs pulling it out in 2001, either.

The Rockies win it! The Rockies win it! OH MY GOD the Rockies win it!

Sorry. Channeling a little Bob Uecker there.

But damn what a game. I was pulling for the Padres a little, because I like their team. But then, I've also always liked a lot of the guys on Colorado's roster — Matt Holliday in particular. And what a great run they had at the end, right out of Major League (though I doubt they were tearing little swatches of clothing off the Monfort brothers every time they won). So to see Holliday sliding into home (sort of) on a sacrifice in the bottom of the 13th... well, it was the best postseason moment since Dave Roberts stole 2nd in the 9th inning.

I feel bad for the Padres, or at least I did until the camera cut to their dugout and I saw the dejection on their faces. And then it all came back to me: 1984. Cubs-Padres. And once more the long-dormant hate swelled up in me, and my corneas turned Sith-yellow, and I bellowed in a dark-side growl, “Yessssss. Suck it up, Padres! Only now, at the end, do you understand!”

Then I felt bad again. After all, these Padres were not those Padres. This was Cammie! And Peavy. And Maddux, for crying out loud. Even their color scheme is completely different.

In the end though, I think I'll feel better (safer, anyway) with the Cubbies in a postseason that doesn't include any Padres.

Now (speaking of Major League), if the Indians can just knock out the Yankees, we'll really have something here.

Octoberfester

You couldn't have planned it better: Seattle's first day of real rain — cold, heavy, oppressive rain — came on the very last day of September, which happened to fall on a Sunday, and also happened to be the last day of the regular baseball season. Watching the last Mariners game in a dark house against the background noise of heavy rain on the roof was, somehow, perfect. (As Tom Waits observed, the rain sounds like a round of applause.)

Transitions don't get much tighter than that. This year, September's dissolve into October was more of a jump-cut. And it hammered home just how much, over the last four or five years, I've come to love October.

By all rights, October should be my least favorite month, given my love of summer and all the things that come with it. The cold, wet darkness of autumn in Seattle should be anathema to me (and on that point, autumn in Seattle only lasts one month: September is really late-summer, and November is dead-of-winter). But somehow, every year I'm surprised at how warmly I embrace this segue into darkness.

For one thing, the heat comes back on and the warm clothes come back out. There are few things as comforting as the roar of our jet-engine furnace and the squeeze of thick socks. And then there's post-season baseball, which I admit hasn't been of much interest to me since the disasters of '03 and the miracles of '04. But this year, the Cubbies, D-Backs, and Indians are all in it, which is more than enough to make me sit up and pay attention.

But I think the real reason I love October — at least, the thing that seals the deal — is the prospect of a whole month of nonstop horror movies. The rest of the year, I'm not much inclined to focus on the gory and the macabre. But on October 1, when the temperatures drop, the clouds roll in low, and the darkness settles in, I want three things: Couch. Blanket. Zombies.

I don't own many horror movies on DVD, nor do I go out and rent them. No, each October, I put the Tivo to work. I search the late-night schedules, looking for creepy Italian giallo horror like Tenebrae and Suspiria, unnerving 1960s black-and-whites like The Haunting and Carnival of Souls, and “Terror in the Aisles” stalwarts like Carrie, Alone in the Dark, and Scanners. And once a year, please, give me Devil's Rain.

Two postscripts:

1. The 2007 Mariners. The Season of Almost. When you look at their stats, their record, the strength of their bullpen, and the even distribution of offensive production throughout their lineup (notably, from the bench), it's hard not to lament that this year they were really just one starting pitcher away from the postseason. And I'm not talking about an ace here — a 12-game winner would have done the trick. Just swap Horacio Ramirez for a Joe Blanton or a Scott Kazmir. Or swap Jeff Weaver for, say, Jered Weaver. 88 wins becomes 94 wins, and a Wild Card spot if not a division title.

2. Miss Moneypenny. Lois Maxwell died over the weekend. I never knew she was Canadian — which means that of all the original Bond regulars, Bernard Lee was the only Englishman (Sean Connery is Scottish, Desmond Llewelyn was Welsh). She was also in The Haunting. So there. Pulled it full circle, didn't I?