What is it about film production company bumpers at the beginning of movies circa 1984-1993 (roughly) that just strikes a chord so deep in some of us who were alive to experience them first hand?
It’s truly Pavlovian, in a way. We hear a certain bumper and we begin to salivate. We know the quality of the film we’re about to receive when we hear those opening notes. We can even guess the genre with overwhelming accuracy, thanks to the logo that materializes on the screen.
When the glimmering, metallic logo for Cannon Films assembles before our very eyes—the letter C and an arrow shape, joining to create what’s come to be known as “the Cannon Hexagon”—and those synth notes fuzz to life, backed by electronic drums, what movies come to mind? Delta Force? Death Wish 3? Or perhaps some other Golan-Globus display of excess? For me, it’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2.
Or how about New World Pictures: red rays against a black background, flickering by sequentially and settling into place, creating a sort of yin and yang silhouette of a globe. What does that make you think of? Hellbound: Hellraiser II? Slugs? How about Elvira: Mistress of the Dark?
My god, what about the granddaddy of them all, the Vidmark logo? Only a bumper this triumphant—piping horns, thudding drums, and blazing synths paired with colored lasers burning through the MARK portion of the logo—could be attached to some of the (and I say this lovingly) worst movies ever made. Yes, I’m talking about you, Hellgate.
All of these brief fragments of music and visual flare elicit memories from years of film-watching, and in turn oceans of feelings and emotions associated with those memories. Where we were when we saw a certain film. How old we were. What time of year it was. How it made us feel. I don’t want to ascribe too much credit to these little repetitive blips, but they’re kind of magic.
For me, they feel like home. They’re hopeful, they’re unknown, they’re full of possibility. They’re me, laying on the floor of my childhood home in my pajamas, face just inches from the television screen, a snack by my side. They’re timeless.
This is all a very long way to say that Closing Logos has every video bumper ever on their site—endless tunes and graphics, organized and cataloged, all just a click away. They even have histories of the logos, including details like what films they’re attached to, all variants the logos took on over the years, and what companies they eventually became. It’s really incredible stuff.
But the actual clips are the most important part of the site—the visual representations of the logos. The logos in action. Those are what strike a chord.
So head over to Closing Logos when you have some free time and do some exploring. Your younger self is waiting.
This piece originally appeared in No Friends Magazine. Parts have been edited for clarity.
VIDEO STORE DUST MEMORIES aka A WALK DOWN THE AISLES aka TERROR IN THE AISLES aka A WALK TO DISMEMBER aka EVERYBODY KILLED THE VIDEO STORE aka POSTCARDS FROM THE VIDEO STORE’S EDGE.
I wish I had a time machine to go back and see what the first video I rented was. I wouldn’t stop any fascist rulers, I wouldn’t make any bets on the World Series. I just wanna see what that first tape was.
Although I remember us watching a lot of videotapes as a family in Chicago, I don’t actually recall going to the video store until we moved to Southern Illinois. It was a college town, and it was the late-’80s/early-’90s, so naturally, there were several video stores to pick from. One of the first ones I remember going to was Stars and Stripes Video (101 S. Wall St.).
It was a cramped mini-dungeon full of tapes, posters, and fluorescent tube lighting. Dark carpeting and red walls. Entering the shop, you’d pull open the front glass door and descend a mini staircase into the belly of the beast. Immediately to the left was the counter where a worker sat in front of a wall of VHS tapes waiting to be checked out. On the counter to his right was a television playing fuzzy violence; this was also being pumped from another television which was braced in an upper corner near the ceiling, adjacent to the counter TV. Continuing to the back, you entered a single constricted room where all the rentals were available, spread out among the walls and two long racks in the center. This was the first time I saw the poster for the movie Pledge Night. (I’ve never seen the movie, sadly, but the image of an arm popping out of a toilet—flashing a peace sign while holding a banana—has been forever-branded upon my brain. The image fascinated me as a kid and still does to this day. I mean, seriously: the fact that this movie could occupy shelf space alongside Disney films and Academy Award winners? That’s more motivating to a young cinephile than any words of encouragement from an educator.)
One final strange aside about Stars and Stripes: years later it would be shut down and converted into several offices for adolescent therapy—offices I would frequent in my tumultuous early teen years. It was surreal going back into a building I remembered from childhood under completely different circumstances. Obviously, all traces of the former residence had been wiped clean; everything was white and sterile.
The other video shop we’d visit during that same era was Video Mania (1301 W Main St.). It was much bigger and more spread out than Stars and Stripes, but they were almost identical in the fact that this, too, was a dimly-lit cave you could only access by descending a mini staircase. I remember inside the store—near the front, where the counter was—was brightest because it was directly in front of the only windows in the whole space. As you walked further toward the back, it actually got darker. This was the first time I saw the cover for Scarecrows. Not as interesting or as memorable as Pledge Night, but the concept of “killer scarecrows” was enough to pique the interest of a six-year-old me and have me continually return to the video box and examine every detail. This was another movie I regrettably never rented.
Video Mania also had a bin full of cassette tapes (like stereo tape deck type of cassette tapes—not VHS tapes) located behind a vertical support beam near the exit. This was the first time I saw Metallica’s self-titled release (aka The Black Album.) I looked it over and thought: who is this? Where is the artwork? Why’s it all black? I couldn’t understand why someone would buy something if they couldn’t tell what it was.
A few years later we would start frequenting what would become our go-to video store, Movie Magic (833 East Grand Ave.). It was run by a young guy named Brian, and only employed a few people, two of whom were lifers: a young, gangly guy with a greasy ponytail and Jeffrey Dahmer glasses, and a heavyset guy with a soft raspy voice that made him sound like he constantly had laryngitis. Movie Magic was average-sized but it did the trick—and the fact that it was on the same road as our house didn’t hurt, either.
They had a giant, wall-sized TV screen right next to the check-out counter; one of my favorite things to do was stand as close as I could to the massive screen and try to make sense of the interlacing greens, grays, pastel oranges, the brick reds…and then slowly step backward until all those blobby colors started to blend together to create a cohesive image.
At some point, Movie Magic seemed to reign supreme over the other video shops—not only for us as a family, but for the town in general. Stars and Stripes closed up, as did Video Mania. There was a rental place on the same street as Movie Magic called Silver Screen Video & Tanning. I can’t speak for their selection or their tanning beds because we never set foot in the place. I remember walking by it often and looking in the window, but for whatever reason, we never gave it a shot. It eventually dried up, too.
As I headed into my teen years and began appreciating film more and more, I became a regular fixture at Movie Magic. I talked at length with Ponytail Glasses about the burgeoning independent film scene which was composed of wild fringe characters like ex-video store jocky Quentin Tarantino and human lab rat Robert Rodriguez. We talked excitedly about the potential Freddy vs. Jason film that, at the time, was still six years away from actually being made. Raspy Whispers would add his two cents, and before you knew it the three of us were laughing and arguing and agreeing passionately about our favorite topic: movies. Every time I set foot in Movie Magic, I came prepared—full of the freshest tidbits I’d just absorbed from the latest issue of Movieline, of which I had a subscription.
But at some point, I started to feel as if I was wearing out my welcome. This was mainly due to two specific reasons: Every Wednesday they would set out all the movie posters they no longer had any use for, rolled up, rubber-banded, and leaning against a handrail, ready to take. After inquiring one day about the pile of tubes sitting in the corner of the store and being told they were free, I eagerly snatched them all up. And when I figured out that they were replenished every Wednesday, I stopped in like clockwork to round up the latest collection. Sometimes I wouldn’t even acknowledge the guys at the counter; I’d walk in, grab the tubes, and split. Eventually, I was told to maybe ease up and let some of the other customers have a chance at them. Needless to say, this crushed me. I thought I had carte blanche there, like I was VIP, like I was royalty. Suddenly, I felt like just some nameless customer who only mattered when he had late fees.
The second blow came when I tried applying for a job there. I was 15, I had never applied for a job anywhere, but I felt like this was my calling. Those cliche fears of having some miserable first job flipping burgers and hating my life were miles out of my brain; this would be a job that I could call home. I had put the time in there, formed friendships with the workers. I was a loyal customer for fuck’s sake! I still remember walking up to the counter one afternoon and asking Brian, the owner, if they were hiring. He looked at me quizzically and gave a kind-of disbelieving chuckle as if I’d asked him to sign over the property to me. There I stood—a fragile fifteen-year-old weirdo who had found a fun, accepting place where he’d bonded with fellow weirdos—putting himself out there, trying to take the next logical step. And instead of a warm, welcoming embrace, I was greeted with a cold aloofness. He hesitantly handed me an application while still smirking and saying they weren’t hiring. I left, destroyed. It felt like exile. I went home, filled it out, and eventually—reluctantly—turned it in. I never heard back from them, and that was pretty much the end of my appearances at Movie Magic.
Around that same time, I’d also hit up a shop called Discount Video (100 N. Glenview). One day when I was walking over there I came across one of those huge industrial sized dumpsters in someone’s driveway, the kind you get when you’re gutting or rehabbing a house. Being the weirdo I am, I hopped inside and started digging. I quickly came across an orange prescription bottle filled with dimes. I continued on my way and used it rent some movies. Discount Video would close a few years after that, and I bought many tapes from their going-out-of-business sale, some of which I still own today.
(While I don’t ever remember renting from Crazy Video, the location would eventually be turned into the aforementioned Discount Video.)
There was also a video store called the Varsity Movie Store (418 S. Illinois), which was located inside a vintage movie theater named, aptly, the Varsity Movie Theater. It was such a beautiful little nook of a room, tucked off to the side. I just remembering the redness of the room, most likely due to the cherry-colored carpeting. The room was intimately lit and the walls were lined with videotapes, and there were a few video game cabinets (maybe even a pinball machine, if memory serves me correctly—though I’d find it surprising if they actually housed such a noisy console there in the lobby area of the theater). The Varsity Movie Store opened in 1987 and closed in March of ’96.
The next two video stores that occupied my time were the curiously similar-named Circus Video (600 E. Walnut) and Carnival Video (Kmart Plaza, E. Hwy 13). Circus Video was housed in the Fox Eastgate Shopping Center (a mini-mall of sorts) and Carnival Video was on the other side of town, next door to a Kroger. Oddly enough, only Circus Video really took their name literally, employing several funhouse style attractions at their location, including red and yellow pinstriping on the awning alongside their smiling clown mascot, a popcorn cart inside so you could snack on some free popcorn while you shopped, and a ‘kids kave’ where the kids could play while the parents perused. I loved Circus Video, but mainly for their video game selection. It was Carnival Video that really won me over with their movies, especially their horror section.
Carnival Video had an absolutely massive, sprawling inventory: every wall was covered with boxes, from floor to ceiling, and the entire floor was lined with row after row of tapes. So much material for my teenage brain to consume. I loved it. Carnival Video was also the first time I remember seeing an adult section in a video store, discreetly hidden behind a curtain (a curtain that I’d often pray would be left open a little too much during one of my visits. A young teenaged boy can dream, can’t he?)
At some point, a Blockbuster Video opened in the same lot as Carnival Video. And as you know, corporate entities don’t want to play nice and make friends with their neighbors; they want to devour, destroy, annihilate, gut, and raze the competition. And that’s exactly what Blockbuster did: after a few years, both Circus and Carnival shuttered their doors.
Blockbuster was fine. I mean, it was the video rental chain store —it had to be fine. Always a shitload of new releases, and an okay selection of older stuff. But not weird stuff, y’know? The obscure stuff they lacked, and intentionally so (Blockbuster really prided themselves on their “family-friendly selection”). For the time being, Blockbuster did the trick. I once again reverted to renting mostly video games, but it was still a good stop for new releases.
Eventually, both Hollywood Video and Family Video opened. Once that happened, I pretty much stopped frequenting Blockbuster. Hollywood Video’s selection was vast and tremendous, and Family Video had the sort of old-school mom and pop video shop vibe, just under a slick coat of newness. They had a fun corner section for kids to play in and they also had an adult room in the back. Their rentals were dirt cheap and they had a decent selection.
However, it was Hollywood Video that made the biggest impact on me. They had opened while I was in high school but I didn’t really start renting from them regularly until I was about twenty-years-old. I was out of school and barely working at that point, and really just watching movies as much as possible. One day, Hollywood Video started offering this special deal where for a one-time fee (I think it was either $20 or $25) you got a special card that allowed you to rent up to three videos at one time—for free—as long as they weren’t new releases. I don’t know how they decided what an ‘old release’ was, but movies usually wound up in this special section after only a few weeks of being first released. In fact, about 90% of their inventory counted as ‘old releases’. You could just go in, grab three old releases, and walk out. Boom, free. And there was no expiration on the card; that one-time fee signed you up for this special account indefinitely. Naturally, I took full advantage of this deal. But here’s where it gets insane: I soon discovered an amazing loophole where if you finished those three movies, you could return them the same day…and rent more. For free. So after renting three movies in the afternoon (for free) and watching them, I’d return that night and rent three more for free, go home, rinse and repeat. I was watching upwards of six films each day. If I had nothing to do that day, I watched even more. Despite the fact that this video store was literally geographically across town, I would drive back and forth multiple times a day just to take advantage of this deal. Just so I could watch more. This period was the most prolific consumption of celluloid I’ve ever been able to pull off in my life, before or since.
A year later I moved back up to Chicago. Trying to find a video shop in the city to call my own was near impossible. I occasionally rented from Facets and I think I rented from Odd Obsession once. But with a full-time job and the daily commute, the easiest thing for me to do was join Netflix. I hated to do it, honestly. Soon rental kiosks, DVD-by-mail, and eventually streaming would dominate and video rental stores would mostly become fodder to ramble on at length about.
In honor of all those fallen shops with bright blue carpeting, sickening fluorescent lighting, and beautiful VHS boxes that contained worlds of undiscovered mysteries; in memoriam of the handful of rental hubs that occupied those vital, formative 15 years of my life—this one is for you. If only life had a rewind button.
Honorable mentions go to shops I have only a vague recollection about and could find very little info online for, like Island Video and an apparent video shop inside The Country Fair grocery store.
(And now please enjoy these other random newspaper clippings featuring the video stores mentioned above.)
In the late-’50s, when the Universal Monsters were wrapping up their run and giant atomic monsters started to take over the horror cinema, Forrest J. Ackerman and James Warren began publishing the “world’s first monster magazine”, the highly imitable Famous Monsters of Filmland. It was, perhaps, the most important magazine concerning horror cinema ever published.
Naturally, a slew of spin-offs and copycats popped up soon afterward, all doing their best to cover what horror movies had to offer, all in a very similar style and tone.
But by the late-’70s, the type of horror that was showing at the local cineplex was vastly different than the fare that had been shown 20 years earlier: the kills were more violent, the sex completely uncensored, and the gore utterly gratuitous. The taste of the common horror fan had changed, and there needed to be a magazine which represented this new wave of cinema.
Enter Fangoria Magazine, “The First in Fright, Since 1979”.
From its debut, Fangoria pretty much dominated the horror movie magazine market. But by the mid-to-late-’80s, horror had become such a massively successful and popular genre, Fangoria decided to publish a few sister magazines to cover everything that was being released. In 1988, they debuted Gorezone Magazine (which I’ve covered before), a darker and more gruesome outlet which ran for 27 issues. And one year later, in 1989, they released the short-lived Toxic Horror. TH was canceled after just five issues.
Looking back, it’s clear that TH was the sort-of loosey-goosey experimental sibling to Fangoria’s trusted, name-brand output. Fango had fun, sure, but at times TH feels downright goofy. (Check out their fictional story, The Booger Man, below.)
Still, those of us raised on ’80s horror, we took what we could get when it came to paper mags which showcased the goopy, gory stuff. This was long before the Internet was a twinkle in Al Gore’s eye; so the more horror magazines, the better.
Without further ado, let us hop in the family car, head to the local grocery store, b-line it to the magazine aisles, and go back to 1989, where the first issue of TOXIC HORROR awaits us. Enjoy these scans from a few select pages of my own personal copy of TH #1 (and forgive any blurred edges!)
The first apartment I ever lived in by myself overlooked a graveyard. I’m not exaggerating: you could go out on the back porch, do your best Camille Keaton impression, and literally spit on someone’s grave. So naturally, it wasn’t long before I – a horrornut living comically close to an abounding necropolis – convinced myself that the studio I had just rented was haunted by my new neighbors.
There were a few incidents early on that put this thought in my head – shelf items rearranged, the occasional unflushed toilet – but considering I was in my early 20s – and therefore often existing in a fog of inebriation – I dismissed these manifestations and chalked them up to my own doing. However, there was one thing I knew I wasn’t causing which was impossible to ignore, proof that my apartment was indeed haunted: the living room closet would occasionally smell like spaghetti.
Weird, I know. Silly, sure. But I’m telling you: that living room closet would reek of spaghetti regularly, far too often to be attributed to the downstairs neighbors’ cooking. And the smell was isolated to the closet! How do you explain that? So I assured myself it was haunted by some pasta-loving ghosts. (I liked to imagine they were stoner-type ghosts, specifically; it would explain the constant spaghetti eating and was a far more fun visual than some spooky old woman or Victorian-era child.)
And that’s the great thing about being an adult: I lived next to a graveyard, was convinced my closet was haunted, and it was all somehow very funny to me. But it’s different when you’re a kid. I can’t speak for kids today, but for me – a kid growing up in the ’80s – monsters were very much real, and their favorite places to hide were under the bed and in the closet. And Hollywood – especially during the ’80s – was acutely aware of this.
Prior to this, horror films had shown us closets were a place one might actually consider hiding from the monsters that were after us, but once the ’80s rolled around there was a proliferation of movies that made the closets themselves the genesis of evil – and made us, the viewer, want to avoid them at all costs.
In 1982, Steven Spielberg released two films that featured closets, one more prominently than the other: E.T., which he directed, and Poltergeist, which he only produced. While E.T.‘s closet dealings were charming, cute, and brief, the closet in Poltergeist was anything but. It was a literal door to Hell. Sure, the infamous staticky T.V. was spooky and all, but let’s not forget: The Freeling’s troubles really began once poor little Carol Anne was sucked into her bedroom closet. And look, once Steven Spielberg does something unique (and quite successfully, I might add), a string of imitators are guaranteed to follow. And follow they did.
Long before J.J. Abrams learned to purloin from the king, Roland Emmerich (Independence Day) was doing his best Spielberg impression with Making Contact, AKA Joey, a film littered with references to Close Encounters of the Third Kind, E.T. and Poltergeist: broken suburban family, toys that spring to life, telekinesis, creepy puppets, good vs evil. Oh, and spooky closets. Here again, the closet acts as a portal to another dimension, one wherein our lead, Joey, is able to communicate with his dead father. Watch the trailer and I’m sure you’ll agree: this is the most Spielberg movie ever made (that Spielberg didn’t actually have any involvement with).
Unlike Making Contact, Monster in the Closet is a low-budget offering (from schlockmeisters Troma) which is more spoof than imitation Spielberg, paying homage to the creature features of the ’40s and ’50s – but make no mistake, this is pure closetsploitation. The film finds a small town being terrorized by a monster who accesses their homes via their closets. The only way to stop it? Destroy every closet in town, naturally.
The beloved Fred Dekker/Shane Black film The Monster Squad sees our titular club of preadolescents saving their small town from a group of invading monsters straight off the Universal Studios backlot circa the 1930s. All the big names are present: Dracula, Frankenstein (‘s Monster), The Wolf Man, The Creature, and of course, The Mummy. Dekker – no stranger to cramming as many horror tropes as he can into his films (see: Night of the Creeps) – doesn’t miss the opportunity to insert the ol’ monster in the closet gag in Squad, with a youngster trying to convince his half-awake dad that The Mummy has taken up residence with his empty hangers.
If Making Contact is the most Spielberg movie that Spielberg never made, then Lady in White is easily a close second. It, too, features many allusions to Close Encounters, Poltergeist, and E.T. – including a scene where a kid on a bike seems to defy gravity and “fly” over a ravine. And yes, it even features an other-worldly closet, this time in a school, in which our young lead Frankie (Lukas Haas) finds himself locked after hours. It is here that he has ghostly visions of a girl being murdered by a strange man in the very same closet he’s trapped. Frankie spends the rest of the film trying to solve the crime, and revisiting the creepy closet for clues.
And finally we have Cameron’s Closet, a movie in the same vein as Making Contact and Lady in White, albeit it a tad more violent (and a lot racier). Unbeknownst to our telepathic protagonist Cameron, his favorite toy is actually a possessed Mayan doll – one that comes to life (due to Cameron’s active imagination) and begins residing in his closet. And wouldn’t you know it? The doll begins killing people who come near the closet, turning them into demon zombies. Typical. As I said, this is a bit more brutal than your average closetsploitation fare, but the Spielbergian hallmarks – telekinetic kid, toys springing to life, flashing lights – are all there. Oh, and Oscar-winning special effects maestro Carlo Rambaldi – who worked on both Close Encounters and E.T. – did the special effects for Cameron’s Closet. There’s no denying the intentions of the filmmakers.
I recently attended Screamfest’s 30th Anniversary screening of A Nightmare on Elm Street 4 at Hollywood’s famed Chinese Theatre, and to say it was amazing would be an understatement. The whole cast was there, director Renny Harlin and legendary producer Bob Shaye were both there, and a fun Q&A with everyone followed the film. Sitting in the moderately-sized – but PACKED – theatre, watching the film with the stars of the film – well, that’s just a dream come true for any horror fan.
It’s always fun watching a horror film you’ve only ever seen on VHS or DVD up on the big screen. You seem to notice things you never really took note of before. For example, in A Nightmare on Elm Street 4, during the classroom scene where Freddy sucks all the air out of Toy Newkirk’s asthmatic little body, I always thought Robert Englund actually peeled the apple (which had been sitting on the desk) using a real bladed-glove. However, seeing it play out 50 feet wide, I was able to see that the apple was actually pre-peeled and simply stuck back together. It was a small thing, but my insides still went “whoa, cool.”Continue reading The Cardigan-sploitation of A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET 4!→
This is it, mutants! We’ve made it to the final entry in my year-long serial, Horror Nerd of the Month. I want to extend a big thank you to those of you who have faithfully followed over the past 12 months, commenting, liking, sharing, and all that other good stuff. And can that really be true? 12 months already? It feels like just yesterday that I posted the first entry in this exercise of monthly moronics; CV’s introductory nerd was poor Jerry, from The Texas Chain Saw Massacre. I can hear his virginal death shriek in my head as I type this.
There wasn’t technically a horror nerd for November, but I wouldn’t dare slight you which is why I’m doubling up this month. That’s right: December’s HNotM is a twofer! And what a twofer!
May I present Tom (Tom Casiello) from Woodchipper Massacre, and Terry (Louis Tripp) from The Gate. It only makes sense that I’d pair these two up: both are bespectacled redheads with a penchant for rock. But despite their love of flaming solos and killer air guitar, these guys are absolute zeros on the Cool Dude scale.
Below I offer visual evidence of their cringe-inducing flopping about whilst in the privacy of their own respective rooms. We’ve all been there, sure. But these guys, well, it’s not helping their cases.