Emperor of Dreams

On January 13 of this year, I commemorated, as I always do, the birthday of Clark Ashton Smith, whose most famous poem, "The Hashish-Eater" famously begins with the line, "Bow down: I am the emperor of dreams." I've long felt that it was an eminently fitting declaration to appear in a poem by CAS, as his literary work, whether poetry or prose, is indeed oneiric, filled with fantastic beings and vistas and eliciting feelings that are at once strange and familiar. Smith understood the language of dreams well and he used that language to remarkable effect. That's a skill I decidedly lack in my own writing and of which I've always been envious, which probably explains why I hold him in such high esteem.

One week later, January 20, would have been the 79th birthday of another master of the language of dreams, filmmaker David Lynch, who died on the 15th. I know the date of his birth only because of a very peculiar incident that happened to me in 2018. One morning, I woke up after a dream I'd had about meeting David Lynch, who was apparently waiting for me on a street corner. "Where are my suits?" he asked me. "Did you bring them to me?" When I told a friend I'd had this dream, he replied, "You know, today is Lynch's birthday."

Prior to my friend's informing me of this, I'm almost certain I didn't know this information, so it seemed oddly coincidental that I just happened to dream of Lynch on the morning of his birthday. I suspect I had this dream because I'd come across a story about him from the year before, when he'd set himself up in a director's chair at the side of the road on Hollywood Boulevard to campaign for Laura Dern to receive an Oscar. And he had a cow with him, because of course he did. In my dream, he didn't have a cow or a director's chair, but he was at a street corner. I feel like the connection is pretty obvious – at least that's what I told myself, since the alternative is to believe that there was some mystical significance to my dreaming of the man on the day of his birth.

I think the first David Lynch movie I ever saw was his 1984 adaptation of Dune, which I've always adored for its esthetics, if not necessarily anything else. Lynch hated every released version of the movie and even replaced his name with that of Alan Smithee on a couple of them. In college, I met some guys who were big film geeks who loved Lynch's work and, through them, saw Blue Velvet, The Elephant Man, and Eraserhead. I found Eraserhead particularly arresting and have never watched it again, but I found the other two well made and compelling. Though I didn't realize it at the time, all of them, to varying degrees, possess dream-like (or nightmarish) qualities that set them apart from the more straightforward movies to which I was accustomed up till that point.

I don't think it was until Twin Peaks appeared on TV in 1990 that I encountered many other people familiar with Lynch's work. The show was, for a brief moment, a "water cooler show," as they used to say – everyone was watching it and talking about, both because it was so lovingly made and because it contained all sorts of elements that made people question exactly what they were actually watching. Because of network interference, Lynch couldn't make good on his vision for the show (and wouldn't until Twin Peaks: The Return in 2017), but he did release a movie prequel in 1992 that is both very good and very scary – and another movie I've never dared watch a second time. Unsurprisingly, Twin Peaks in all its forms gives pride of place to dreams and their importance.

I haven't seen all of Lynch's films, so I'm not sure I'd call myself a true devotee of the man and his works. That said, I found him fascinating. Every interview with him I've ever read or seen is remarkable. Odd though he was, there was a sincerity, an earnestness to him that I couldn't help but find admirable. There was nothing pretentious about him; what you saw was genuine. Everything he said and did was an authentic reflection of who he was and what he believed. It's hard not to like a guy like that, even if, as I said, a lot of what he actually said and did and believed was downright peculiar at times. 

Ultimately, though, the thing I loved about Lynch was that he clearly understood the language of dreams. I use the word "language" purposefully. Lynch's creative efforts, like dreams, are more deliberate than they seem. There's an underlying logic to them that, while not apparent at first, can eventually be deciphered, at least somewhat. To do that, though, you have to be willing to listen. You have to be patient and learn the vocabulary and the grammar and the syntax of the language of dreams. Do that and you might come to understand what he's talking about. 

Or, just like dreams, you might not. Sometimes, you have to be comfortable with not knowing, with mystery. Lynch never elaborated on his own work, no matter how often interviewers tried to get him to do so. He trusted his viewers to do their own work and figure it out for themselves, probably because, in many cases, he might not have fully figured it out himself. Great art, like dreams, sometimes comes without an easy explanation: it just is and that's OK. Not everything has to be easily explicable or reducible to a series of rational propositions. In fact, it's better that way.

For someone like me, who's always lived too much inside his own head, who's much too analytical and deductive, I need to be regularly reminded of this. That's likely why artists like Clark Ashton Smith and David Lynch so appeal to me: I recognize in them remedies to my own deficiencies. Their ready understanding of the language of dreams makes me at once envious and grateful – while the news of Lynch's death just makes me sad. 

Wherever you are, Mr Lynch, Godspeed.

"We are like the dreamer who dreams and then lives the dream."

"Don't Be Another Statistic!"

Since my Retrospective on the video game Pitfall! was so well received, I found myself delving a bit deeper into the history of the game. In doing so, I was reminded of several things related to it that I had long forgotten, starting with this advertisement that appeared in various magazines around the time of the game's release.

As advertisements go, this one is pretty well done. I especially like the depictions of Pitfall Harry submerged in a tar pit and being eaten by a crocodile. 

Speaking of advertisements, the television ads for the game famously feature a young Jack Black in his first acting role:

Pitfall! was successful enough that Pitfall Harry (along with his niece, Rhonda, and pet mountain lion) made an appearance as part of the CBS cartoon, Saturday Supercade, in 1983, alongside other video game celebrities like Mario, Donkey Kong, and Q*bert.

Yes, the 1980s were a weird time.

25 Years Ago Today ...

... we lost the Moon in a tragic accident involving nuclear waste and a previous unknown form of magnetic radiation. Along with the Moon, all 311 personnel stationed aboard Moonbase Alpha were also lost.

Thanks to my friend and referee, Aaron, for reminding me of this important date.

The Path to Adventure

I've commented in several previous posts that the period between 1982 and 1984 is a fascinating one for both TSR and its most famous product, Dungeons & Dragons. This period, I believe, represents the peak of game's faddish popularity, when the company was so flush with cash – and keen to ensure its continued flow – that it slapped the D&D logo on almost everything, from woodburning and needlepoint sets to toys and beach towels, to name just a few. Of course, this same period also saw the publication of the Frank Mentzer edited D&D Basic Set, the best-selling version of that venerable product that TSR ever released, whose sales no doubt contributed greatly to the company's bottom line.

Right smack in the middle of this same period is the premier of the CBS animated television series for which Gary Gygax is credited as a co-producer. The series, which ran for three seasons between 1983 and 1985 and a total of 27 episodes, was part of an effort to increase the pop cultural footprint of D&D beyond the realm of RPGs. So far as I know, the cartoon was the only fruit of that effort, despite Gygax's frequent reports that a Dungeons & Dragons movie of some sort was in the works. Readers more knowledgeable than I can correct me if I am mistaken in this judgment.

Because I was too old for its intended target audience, I never paid close attention to the D&D cartoon during its initial run. Consequently, I took even less note of the various cartoon-branded products released in conjunction with it. I could probably write several posts about this topic and perhaps I eventually will, but, for the moment, what most interests me are the six "Pick a Path to Adventure" books published in 1985 by TSR. As you might expect, these books are all very similar to the Endless Quest series (themselves modeled on the earlier and more well known "Choose Your Own Adventure" books), but drawing on characters and elements of the cartoon. 

As I said, I was completely unaware of the existence of these books until comparatively recently. I certainly never saw them at the time of their original publication. Even if I had, there's zero chance I'd have read them, given my superior attitude toward the series and its perceived kiddification of my beloved D&D. Now, I find myself somewhat curious about them, if only because some of them apparently introduce new characters (like Eric the Cavalier's younger brother) and concepts unseen in the series. In addition, each of the six books uses a different member of the ensemble cast as its viewpoint character, which is actually not a bad idea. (Take note as well that first book in the series was written by Margaret Weis of Dragonlance fame).

Looking into these books online revealed that, contemporaneous with the Endless Quest books (and a few years before the cartoon-branded books), TSR produced another series of "Pick a Path to Adventure" books under the Fantasy Forest brand. From what I can tell, they appear to have been geared towards a younger audience than the Endless Quest books. Likewise, these books don't carry the D&D logo anywhere, though some of them, like The Ring, the Sword, and the Unicorn, proclaim "From TSR, Inc., the producers of the DUNGEONS & DRAGONS cartoon show." 

Once again, these are books of which I was completely unaware at the time and that I've not seen, let alone read, in the years since. If anyone among my readers has read them, I'd like to know a bit more about them, specifically whether they contain anything that connects them to Dungeons & Dragons. I would assume that they do, because what other purpose would TSR have had in publishing them beyond creating a potential new audience for its games? However, judging solely on the basis of the books' covers, they all look fairly generic. Their connection to D&D, if any, would seem to be limited.

TSR produced another series of "Pick a Path to Adventure" books – or should I say "Pick a Path to Romance and Adventure?" – the (in)famous HeartQuest series of fantasy romance novels. Unlike the other two series, I did know about these. I have a vague recollection of first seeing mention of them in the pages of Dragon, but, despite all my best efforts, I can find no evidence of this. In any case, I saw these in either Waldenbooks or B. Dalton sometimes in 1983 or '84 and had a strongly negative reaction to their existence. Their covers, reminiscent of the Harlequin romance books from the same time, certainly did nothing to endear them to me.

Like the Fantasy Forest series, HeartQuest does not seem to have been explicitly connected to Dungeons & Dragons, at least as far as branding goes. From what I've gathered, they're not actually bad books for what they are, though nothing special. I would imagine that they were another prong in TSR's attempts to expand the audience of their products (and thus their sales). Given that, unlike the Endless Quest books, which had several dozen titles, HeartQuest only had six, suggesting that, whatever its quality, they failed to achieve the goals TSR had set for them.  

I've sometimes jokingly called 1982–1984 the period when TSR was throwing a lot of spaghetti against the wall in the vain hope that some of it might stick. The company certainly tried many different approaches to expanding its customer base to what appears to have been limited success. On the other hand, these book series may well have played a role in helping to build up the company's publishing division. That division would eventually prove very successful – so successful, in fact, that, by the 1990s, it would become the cart pulling the horse of TSR's fortunes. That's a story for a different day (and probably a different writer, since I don't know enough about its fine details). Still, it's always fascinating to look into the forgotten corners of the hobby's history like the "Pick a Path to Adventure" books.

"Gimme a break!"

By the time the Dungeons & Dragons cartoon series premiered in September 1983, I'd been playing D&D almost four years. I was also just shy of fourteen years old. Perhaps inevitably, I greeted the arrival of the cartoon with some trepidation, despite the involvement of Gary Gygax as its co-producer. That's because, at the time, I was increasingly concerned about the "kiddification" of my beloved D&D.  Consequently, I turned up my nose at the cartoon and only caught a handful of its 27 episodes when they were originally broadcast. 

Then, at the tail end of the 3e era, a DVD collection of the entire series was released in 2007. My daughter, who was quite young at the time, took an interest in it and so I bought a copy for her as a Christmas gift. It was only at this point that I ever had a chance to watch the show for any length of time and discovered, with the benefit of age, that it wasn't that bad. It's written for children, to be sure, but, judged with that in mind, it's certainly no worse than any other cartoon of its era and, in some respects, it's better. 

I bring all this up because my now-adult daughter asked me if the DVD collection had been placed in the garage, along with so many other childhood things. I went and checked and, sure enough, that's where it was. I brought it back inside and, over the last couple of weeks, we've been rewatching it slowly, looking to see if there were anything about that we might not have noticed when she was a child. So far, I can't say that there I've gleaned any particularly deep insights from this rewatch. However, I have noticed a few things worthy of comment. When I'm done with the whole series – perhaps in several weeks – I'll do at least one more post on this topic. If nothing else, I have some thoughts about this early attempt to broaden the appeal of Dungeons & Dragons beyond its original audience.

Rakshasa Riddles

In response to my post earlier today about the appearance of mimics, a reader correctly commented that the rakshasa faces a similar problem. Though originally introduced in The Strategic Review (and then appearing in Gods, Demigods & Heroes), the first time we see an illustration of the monster, it's in the AD&D Monster Manual (1977) by Dave Trampier:

This is a great illustration, one of my favorites in the MM. I also like the inclusion of a bolotomus in the bottom righthand corner of the piece – a great example of the kind of whimsy that categorized a lot of old school fantasy. But how accurately does it depict what Gary Gygax describes in the text? The Monster Manual states, "Known first in India, these evil spirits encased in flesh are spreading." The text also notes that they are "masters of illusion" who use their powers of ESP to "create the illusion of what those who have encountered them deem most friendly." This last detail seems to me to be confirmation of the monster's having been inspired by the Kolchak: The Night Stalker episode, "Horror in the Heights," a fact Gygax himself readily admitted.

Of course, the question immediately arises: why, then, did Tramp choose to illustrate the rakshasa in this way? The Monster Manual says nothing about the native appearance of the creature, so why is it depicted as a tiger-headed humanoid in a smoking jacket and ascot? Is it because Gygax noted that rakshasas were "known first in India" and there's a strong pop cultural connection between India and tigers in the English-speaking world? On the other hand, the native form of Kolchak's rakshasa was a big furry thing reminiscent of Bigfoot, so what gives?

To confuse the question further, consider these miniature figures, released by Grenadier in 1980, that supposedly feature two rakshasas:

I used to own these miniatures and I remember being quite perplexed by their appearance, since one looks like a lizard man and the other an elephant man. After some thinking about the matter, my youthful self used these minis as license to stat up several different types of rakshasas, on the model of the various types of demons and devils. I wish I still had those stats, because I imagine they'd make for fun reading today.

Issue #84 of Dragon (April 1984) features an article by Scott Bennie entitled "Never the Same Thing Twice," which takes a similar tack, introducing several different kinds of rakshasas. According to Bennie, "rakshasas have no uniform physical appearance," stating only that "legend usually describes them as deformed and monstrous-looking." The types of rakshasa he introduces differ only in power, not in appearance. Nevertheless, the article is accompanied by the following illustration by Jim Holloway:

Beneath the illustration, there's some explanatory text that says it's based on a description from the Funk and Wagnalls Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mythology, and Legend. The dictionary in question describes the rakshasa as having "a big belly, fingers that curve away from the palms of its hands, and claws that are said to be poisonous." The text further states that the rakshasa is not using its illusion powers, "preferring to let the poor victim see what he's really up against," which suggests this is the monster's true form. To me, he looks a little bit like the Kolchak version, in that it's big, furry, and apelike, but ir's otherwise unique in the history of depicting the rakshasa.

The volume 1 of the 2e AD&D Monstrous Compendium describes rakshasas as having "no uniform appearance but appear as humanoid creatures with the bodily features of various beasts (most commonly tigers and apes)." It also notes that "hands whose palms curve backward, away from the body, seem to be common" and that "rakshasas of the highest standing sometimes have several heads." However, the accompanying illustration (by Jim Holloway), looks like this:

It's a rather laughably generic tiger-man in "Indian" clothing. I presume it takes its inspiration from the Trampier original, but it lacks all the style. More significantly, the Holloway rakshasa is a humanoid tiger, while Tramp's is (seemingly) a man with a tiger's head – look at his hands, for example.

The 1993 Monstrous Compendium includes a new rakshasa illustration, this time by Tony DiTerlizzi.

This one seems to occupy a mid-point between Trampier and Holloway, in that it's not quite a humanoid tiger (though it does have a tail), but it's also not simply a man with a tiger's head. Notice the backward hand, holding its skull-topped walking stick. DiTerlizzi's rakshasa undoubtedly has style, but the question remains: why is he depicted as a tiger? Is it simply, as my reader suggests, that the earliest art showing a rakshasa portrayed him in this way and all subsequent artists have been following Tramp's lead? If so, it's very disappointing, especially when dealing with a monster whose primary power is the ability to shapechange.

Illustrations, especially of fantastical things, can be very useful aids to one's imagination. However, they can also inadvertently limit one's imagination. The more I look at the history of D&D's artwork, the more evidence I see of the latter.

The Big Heist

I wrote a post at the beginning of last month in which I mused about the limited pop cultural footprint of Dungeons & Dragons as a game during the heyday of its original faddishness. My point was not that pop culture during the late '70s through the mid-1980s was entirely devoid of nods to the existence of D&D (or roleplaying games more generally), but rather that exceedingly few of those nods showed how D&D was actually played – or indeed made even a weak attempt to show it as a game at all. After the appearance of that post and the one on Labyrinth, I received quite a few emails from readers who directed me toward other movies or TV shows in which Dungeons & Dragons – or D&D products – appeared. I'm grateful for those pointers, since there are undoubtedly many examples of this phenomenon of which I was unaware.

A good case in point is the fifth episode of the fourth season of Diff'rent Strokes, which aired on November 26, 1981. The episode, entitled "The Big Heist," doesn't really involve D&D in any way, but it does feature a number of D&D and AD&D products in plain sight.

On the display rack to the right, you can clearly see the covers of the three AD&D ruleboks, the Players Handbook, the Dungeon Masters Guide, and the Monster Manual. Located between the PHB and the DMG is what appears to be a D&D Expert Set. What's on the bottom shelf is unclear, at least to my aged eyes. Here's another still that much more clearly shows the middle shelves of the rack.

I doubt I ever saw this episode when it was aired. If I did, I certainly had forgotten about it until readers alerted me to its existence. Looking at it now, I find it striking just how clearly these products are all displayed. Of course, I can't help but wonder how identifiable they'd have been to anyone who was casually watching the show. Perhaps some children might have recognized them, but would anyone else have known what they are? I'm skeptical.

It's a very strange thing. TSR was doing terrific sales on Dungeons & Dragons throughout this period. The game was a huge fad – and yet it had only the tiniest toehold in the wider popular culture. I've theorized that this is due to the fact that pop culture is generally made not by people close to the age of those who consume its products but by people a generation or more older than them. That's why, for example, the Marvel comics of the 1960s, while ostensibly written for the children and teenagers of that time, were in fact much more reflective of the world in which its creators grew up, which is to say, the 1930s and '40s. Consequently, it would take until the '90s at the earliest before the people who actually played RPGs during their heyday would become pop cultural tastemakers, which is precisely when we start to see more examples of roleplaying games in movies and TV shows.

At least, that's my theory. Perhaps you have alternative explanations.

The Limited Pop Cultural Footprint of D&D as a Game

In looking at the early history of Dungeons & Dragons, there's a lot of talk about its faddishness in the late '70s and early '80s. Certainly, news stories about the so-called "steam tunnels incident" of August 1979 catapulted D&D – and roleplaying more generally – to greater public consciousness in the English-speaking world (and perhaps beyond). My own introduction to the hobby was, in part, facilitated by the media hoopla surrounding the disappearance of James Dallas Egbert III. Likewise, I can attest to the fact that, throughout the first half of the 1980s, there were many, many articles written in newspapers and magazines about this "weird new game." I was always on the lookout for them, clipping out the most interesting ones and then transferring them to a big, black binder I acquired for just this purpose.

What's most interesting to me, in retrospect, is how limited the presence of Dungeons & Dragons was in the larger popular culture of the 1980s. Despite the widespread discussion of the game in mass media – including the infamous 1985 60 Minutes hit piece – and its very good sales for TSR, there were almost no pop cultural depictions of kids playing RPGs of any kind during my youth. The only one that comes immediately to mind is that scene during the 1982 Steven Spielberg movie, E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial. There's also the CBS TV movie adaptation of Mazes and Monsters from the same year, but that's far from the kind of thing I'm thinking of. Even the 1983–1985 Saturday morning Dungeons & Dragons cartoon – ironically also broadcast on CBS – doesn't depict any of the characters playing D&D.

Are there any others that I missed? There's the 1985 episode of the BBC Two series, Tucker's Luck, about which I posted earlier this year, I suppose, though I was completely unaware of its existence at the time. I wouldn't be surprised to discover that there are a few other examples of similar things here and there, but, if so, they're not likely to be high profile. Generally, when I think about pop cultural depictions of people playing D&D, they're of much more recent vintage – the mid-90s at the earliest. By this point, D&D and roleplaying games don't appear to have been quite as faddish as they had been a decade previously, if the coverage of the hobby in the news media is any indication.

Why would this be? I'm sure there are many factors involved. The most obvious one to me is that, it wasn't until the mid-1990s that people who grew up actually playing RPGs, were old enough to be in positions within movie and TV studios to depict their youthful hobby. During the fad period of the '80s, I'd wager that most of the people involved in making creative decisions had little awareness and even less understanding of roleplaying games and thus would have no interest in depicting them in the films and programs they were creating. As the first generation of roleplayers aged into adulthood, that started to change.

Of course, even then, the accuracy of these depictions remains spotty at best – and that's being kind. Roleplaying games are notoriously difficult to depict in ways that would be either intelligible or interesting to those unfamiliar with their intricacies. Consequently, we get muddled and misleading depictions of the hobby, often played for laughs, that do little to show off just what it's like to actually play these games. The ironic thing is that, as an entertainment and, dare I say, an art form, roleplaying games, especially Dungeons & Dragons, are among the most pop culturally influential of the last half-century. The video game industry, for example, owes an incalculable debt to RPGs, and it's far from the only cultural industry where RPGs have left their mark. That's why I consider it a shame that, even now, it remains rare to see the play of D&D, as a game, represented in popular culture in a way that properly conveys not just its content but also its enduring appeal.

Arrgh!

From the perspective of the 2020s, it might seem as if the 1970s were another Golden Age of comic books. Certainly, there were a lot of great comic books produced during the decade of my childhood, but it's also the case that the '70s were a period of immense economic decline for comics publishers. Part of the reason that this period might appear, in retrospect, more robust than it actually was is that both DC and Marvel were desperately throwing ideas against the wall in hope that some of them might stick. While some of these attempts were financially successful – Marvel's Conan and Star Wars lines come immediately to mind – most were not.

That's why I'm rarely surprised when I discover the existence of a comic from the 1970s of which I've never heard. Consider, for example, Arrgh!, which ran for five issues between December 1974 and September 1975. Each issue of Arrgh! presented humorous horror stories, often parodies of well-known movies or TV shows. In the case of the penultimate issue of the series, the subject of the parody was none other than my beloved Kolchak: The Night Stalker, here dubbed Karl Coalshaft, "the Night Gawker."

As I said, I had no idea this comic existed until recently, so I never read it. Fortunately, there's an excellent blog devoted to "a historical look at various incarnations of classic TV and movie science fiction/fantasy," Secret Sanctum of Captain Video, that has reproduced the entirety of the Kolchak parody here. The comic's not great literature by any definition, but it made me chuckle a couple of times. Take a look yourself!

"Look, It's supposed to be a fantasy game, innit?"

Zhu Bajiee recently pointed me toward a television program called Tucker's Luck, which was broadcast on BBC Two between 1983 and 1985. At the beginning of the episode below (from December 3, 1985), there is a brief scene in which several of the character play what is obviously Dungeons & Dragons, complete with the AD&D Dungeon Masters Screen (Tramp's art is unmistakable). (Also of note is that the referee is played by Charley Boorman, son of John Boorman)

In general, the popular media has – and continues to be – terrible at portraying roleplaying games. There are a lot of reasons why this is the case, though the biggest reason is probably that, to outsiders, the whole endeavor appears boring, hence the perceived need to spice up the proceedings with lots of props that very few gamers actually use in real life. What's fascinating in the case of the episode above is that D&D plays only a very small role (no pun intended) in its overall plot and it's presented fairly accurately (albeit simply). I can't help but wonder why it is was included in the episode at all.

Rod Serling and HPL

Last month, I mentioned that Clark Ashton Smith's "The Return of the Sorcerer" had been adapted for Rod Serling's Night Gallery television series in 1972. As some of you likely already know, that wasn't the only time that a story by one the greats of Weird Tales appeared on the program. At the end of the previous year – December 1, 1971, to be exact – there was an adaptation of H.P. Lovecraft's "Pickman's Model."

Like the adaptation of "The Return of the Sorcerer," this one isn't a particularly faithful to its literary forebear. For one, the episode introduces the framing device of a man in the 1970s who's bought an old home in Boston that was once owned by the 19th century artist, Richard Upton Pickman. Pickman, we're told, disappeared mysteriously seventy-five years prior and most of his macabre artwork was lost along with him. The new owner of the place discovers some canvases hidden in the building that he assumes must have belonged to Pickman, including the one featured above. His friend is the owner of an art gallery and assures him that, were these paintings to truly be those of Pickman, they'd be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. 

We then flashback to the end of the previous century, where Pickman is giving art lessons to young women of well to do families, one of whom takes a romantic interest in him. Though he begs her to leave him be and not try to get too close to him, she persists, eventually following him to his home in the North End of the city.

Once there, Pickman again tries to convince her to leave, but she will not, eventually encountering the model he'd been using for some of his most horrific paintings. 

The episode isn't awful and, much like the adaptation of "The Return of the Sorcerer," it doesn't lack charm in certain respects. The tale as presented on screen is a lot more melodramatic than Lovecraft's own take on it and the framing device is a bit silly, especially at the end, when it's shown that the monster – it's never called a ghoul or indeed anything – still exists in the tunnels beneath Pickman's old home and lies waiting for the chance to be loosed upon the world once more.

If you're interested in watching the episode, it can be found on the Internet Archive site, at least for the moment. It's short and, despite its flaws, worth the twenty-two minutes or so it'd take to see it in its entirety.

Pulp Fantasy Library: Kolchak: The Night Stalker

Once again, I stretch the terms "pulp," "fantasy," and perhaps even "library" beyond the breaking point in an effort to write about an entertainment that nevertheless exercised an influence over Dungeons & Dragons. In this particular case, I offer no apologies, since I've been intending to write (again) about the 1974–1975 television series, Kolchak: The Night Stalker and this space seemed as good a place to do so as any. The show was, along with Star Trek, a favorite of mine as a child – influenced, in both cases, by my paternal aunt, who had a love for things scary and science fictional, hence her also taking me to see Star Wars in June 1977. 

In the early part of this century, a friend gave me a DVD collection of the entire series, whose twenty episodes I've regularly watched and re-watched in the years since. Sadly, the collection was a poor one. The video transfers were grainy and the DVDs themselves were double-sided. It's a cheap, money-saving measure on the part of the manufacturer that all but ensures the discs will eventually become smudged and scratched, as mine eventually did. But I loved the series enough that I suffered through the slow degradation of my discs.

Fortunately, in 2018, a company called Kino Lorber released a high definition restoration of the original 1972 TV movie, also called The Night Stalker, followed soon thereafter of a similar restoration of its 1973 sequel, The Night Strangler. These were amazing pieces of work in every possible way and I hoped the company might eventually turn its attention to the television series as well. My wish was granted in the fall of 2021, when Kolchak: The Night Stalker received a similarly lavish HD restoration. It took me a while to get my hands on a copy, but I eventually did, which is why I wanted to write this post.

The original TV movie was based on an unfinished novel by Jeff Rice and adapted by Richard Matheson (best known for I Am Legend and his work on Roger Corman's various Edgar Allan Poe movies from the early 1960s). The movie was, in turn, directed by John Llewellyn Moxie (who'd directed several films starring Christopher Lee) and produced by Dan Curtis of Dark Shadows fame. Both it and its sequel were presented as straight-up horror movies, albeit with a "crusading reporter" edge that was very relevant to post-Watergate America. 

By contrast, the television series was an odd bird, equal parts horror, comedy, and social commentary. The precise mix of these three elements varied from episode to episode – and sometimes scene to scene – and that's probably why, as a child, I had such a fondness for the show. Though, like most children, I enjoyed being frightened, I nevertheless appreciated the breaks from terror afforded by Darren McGavin's comedic hijinks (and those of the show's terrific guest stars, like Jim Backus, Phil Silver, Larry Storch, and Keenan Wynn, among many, many others). As I've said previously, the show was scary but not too scary. 

The series only had twenty episodes before it was canceled. Its cancellation was largely the result of Darren McGavin's dissatisfaction with its direction. While many of the people involved with the show wanted it to be more serious and genuinely frightening, McGavin preferred a lighter, more comedic tone. There were thus many behind-the-scenes tussles between the show's star and its production staff regarding the content and feel. This background tension sometimes gives episodes a schizophrenic quality. At other times, though, I think it actually contributes to the success of certain episodes. I also think it's fair to say that Kolchak: The Night Stalker is an "uneven" series, whose high points nevertheless more than make up for its lows.

Among its high points are:

• "The Zombie," which presents a frightening, Voodoo-inflected version of the zombie (that Holmes references in his D&D Basic Rules)
• "The Devil's Platform," in which Tom Skerrit plays a politician who's sold his soul to the Devil.
• "The Spanish Moss Murders," Forbidden Planet's creatures from the id meet Cajun folklore (and the inspiration for a foe in my Dwimmermount campaign)
• "Horror in the Heights," the episode that introduced Gary Gygax to the rakshasa
• "Chopper," a story of a headless motorcycle writer, written by Robert Zemeckis

That said, I enjoy even the less well regarded episodes, because many of them contain interesting characters, situations, and characters. And, of course, Darren McGavin is fun to watch. One of the pleasures of the Kino Lorber remastered collection is that each episode includes commentary, often by film and television historians, who shed light on aspects of the show's production and influence. It's fascinating stuff if, like me, you enjoy learning about all the work that goes into making popular entertainment. Likewise, it's remarkable to discover just how many individuals who worked on Kolchak: The Night Stalker would later go on to success later in their careers. 

I may still write further posts on the series in the weeks to come, but, now that I've had the chance to gush a bit about it today, I can resume making more "traditional" posts in this series next week. Thanks for your indulgence.

Rod Serling and CAS

I've often remarked on this blog how rare it is for the works of H.P. Lovecraft or Robert E. Howard to receive good adaptations in visual media and I think I'm more than justified in saying so, but at least HPL and REH got adaptations, no matter how poor. The same cannot be said for Clark Ashton Smith, whose pulp fantasies have left almost no footprint in contemporary popular culture, despite his being one of the most popular and influential writers to have written for Weird Tales during the Golden Age of the Pulps. 

Of course, "almost no footprint" is not the same as "no footprint." As it turns out, one of Clark Ashton Smith's stories has been adapted – and by Rod Serling no less. During the third season of his 1970–1973 television anthology series, Night Gallery, there was an episode that adapted, albeit loosely, Smith's 1931 tale, "The Return of the Sorcerer." Compared to the groundbreaking The Twilight Zone, Night Gallery is somewhat more uneven in quality. However, it does feature a number of genuinely excellent episodes, most which focus on horror or occult subjects, thus giving the series a different overall tone to its illustrious predecessor.

Though "The Return of the Sorcerer" is not one of the show's best episodes, let alone a completely faithful adaptation, it's not without its charms. The primary one is the performance of Vincent Price as John Carnby, the story's titular sorcerer. Price is always a pleasure to watch, even (especially?) when he's hamming it up, as he does here. Bill Bixby plays the translator of Arabic whom Carnby hires (called Ogden in Smith's original and Noel Evans here) to help him decipher a passage from the Necronomicon. The broad outline of the story is the same as its source material, though there are a number of additions that serve no real purpose. Chief among them is the creation of a new character, Fern (Tisha Sterling), who is Carnby's assistant and whose sole purpose in the TV narrative is to add some titillation. I find that odd, because if any Weird Tales author knew when to make good use of sensuality, it was Clark Ashton Smith and he saw no need of it here.

As adaptations go, it's not the worst. It's certainly closer to its source than, say, Conan the Barbarian, but it's nevertheless not something I'd urge anyone to seek out. The episode is more of an oddity than anything else, a unique example of Hollywood taking notice of Smith. Given the treatment Lovecraft and Howard have received over the years, perhaps it's just as well that the Bard of Auburn has largely been ignored.