Stan Winston died yesterday. It is possible that the lackluster Aliens vs. Predator franchise would not be around had not Winston set down the conceptual flagstones in previous films. Nor would the Terminator and Jurassic Park franchises be what they are without Winston’s T-800 exoskeleton or the dinosaurs. Sometimes, Winston’s work entered derivative territory (see The Monster Squad and Pumpkinhead). But there was often a playful streak in his designs. He worked very well with Tim Burton, devising the mechanics of Edward Scissorhands and the decrepit corpulence of Batman Returns‘s Penguin. And I’ll certainly miss his continuing contributions to cinema.
The only American newspaper to include an obituary of Algis Budrys’s recent death is The Chicago Tribune. The other newspapers remain silent, including those that employed Budrys as a science fiction critic. But there have been many reactions online:
- Elizabeth Bear recalls a Budrys rejection note.
- John Clute offers an obituary for the Independent.
- Thomas M. Disch has afforded himself the opportunity to dance upon AJ’s grave, and is shocked that he managed to outlive him.
- William Shunn offers a report of the memorial service, along with Clarion memories.
Finally, Richard Grayson sends word that Iris Owens has passed on, offering this remembrance. A guestbook is available here.
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
Real question someone once asked me at the video store where I worked for five long years: “This Pumpkinhead 2 — is this the sequel to Pumpkinhead?”