ROALD DAHL’S BOOKS ON FILM

         
The beloved author of children’s classics, who would be ninety-nine this year if he was still alive, got into writing in a roundabout way. A British Royal Air Force fighter pilot in WWII, the Welsh-born Dahl had a chance meeting with author C.S. Forester that changed his life. Forester encouraged him to write a story, perhaps detailing his experience being shot down over the Libyan Desert, assuring Dahl he could get it published in The Saturday Evening Post. Dahl wrote the piece and was paid a thousand dollars.
         
Twenty years later, he wrote his first children’s book, James and the Giant Peach. A long succession of children’s books followed in Dahl’s varied career, most notably Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, which was the first of his stories to be put into film and is the only one to be filmed twice—until next year’s release of The Big Friendly Giant.
         
To date, eight primary features top the list of Dahl’s many film credits. Most of the movies reflect the spirit of books marked by wild imagination and wicked humor. In addition to penning darker material, such as stories for TV’s Alfred Hitchcock Presents, he also wrote the screenplay for his friend Ian Fleming’s James Bond movie, You Only Live Twice, having himself served not only as a pilot, but, like Fleming, also as an actual spy.  

1.      Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory (1971) – The classic stars Gene Wilder as the eccentric confectioner. Studio deviations from the story, including changing the title, left Dahl disappointed.

2.      The BFG (1989) – Decent animated movie about a big friendly giant who takes a kid from an orphanage off to Giant Country.

3.      Danny, the Champion of the World (1989) – Jeremy Irons as a mechanic who won’t give in to a developer trying to buy him out, and Samuel Irons as Danny, the mechanic’s young son.

4.      The Witches (1990) – This excellent adaptation of one of Dahl’s best books features Angelica Huston as the leader of witches at a conference accidentally witnessed by a little boy.

5.      James and the Giant Peach (1996) – A feast of stop-motion animation featuring an orphan, beleaguered by rotten ants, who has an amazing adventure traveling by giant peach and makes friends with the giant critters inside.

6.      Matilda (1996) – A girl with telekinetic powers has ridiculous parents and a principal whose “idea for a perfect school is one in which there are no children at all.” Kind of a Carrie for kids.

7.      Charlie and the Chocolate Factory (2005) – Johnny Depp stars as Willy Wonka in this faithful and terrific adaptation from director Tim Burton.  

8.      Fantastic Mr. Fox (2009) – Superlative stop-motion animation featuring George Clooney as the voice of Mr. Fox, who breaks his promise to his wife (voice of Meryl Streep) by raiding the farms of neighboring humans, then has to help his fellow critters survive the farmers’ wrath.  

  

THE ADVENTURES OF SQUIRREL GIRL

1


Do you remember when you first met Squirrel Girl?

You had been working on various formulas in the field of flying paint, which of course you called Flaint. The idea that a child could be responsible for inventing stuff which made flying carpets and flying broomsticks available for everyone seemed a far-fetched idea at the time. Most people thought you were merely playing when you said you were making a substance that when painted on an object would allow it to fly. Most thought you were only kidding.

Kidding perhaps like the day I woke up shorthanded. Another one of your spells you practiced on me. I don’t see why you always have to make your dad your guinea pig. All I could do was fumble at the door handle with my still temporarily shrunken hands and go, “Wabes! You made me shorthanded! Wabes! The dogs are barking outside!” 

You were downstairs in the Witch’s Room, as you call your laboratory. “Settle down, Dad,” you assured, “you’ll be all back to normal soon, and I’m coming up to get the dogs in a second.”

“One,” I said. “Okay, it’s been a second. Wabes! What are you doing down there?”

“Dad, have you had anything to eat this morning?”

“Well, just some baby corn. It’s all I could hold. QUIET, DOGS! Hurry Wabes, they’re being awful and my little hands can’t turn the handle.”

“Hold on,” you said, “I’ve been working on something extremely special and I’m almost done.”

Outside, Gomez and Morticia showed frantic interest in something up the maple tree. They were standing on the bench below the tree and looking up leaning with their paws against it barking and barking. It seemed like a long time to me, but in reality it was probably only about another forty or fifty seconds of waiting.

You opened the door to call in the dogs. “Gomez, Morticia, let’s go!”

Slobbering like idiots, the dogs bounded inside. “Good job,” you told them, shutting the door. Nails ticking on the floor, they blundered into the kitchen, tails knocking table legs.

Panting from the exertion of her barking, Morticia waited for a turn at the water bowl while hogboy Gomez shoved his way over and loudly slurped. That was when you noticed. Something was stuck on the back of Morticia’s collar.

It was a tiny little person. Barely two inches tall.

Perceiving she was spotted, the little person suddenly jumped up from Morticia’s collar, took a few steps in the springy fur and spectacularly leaped toward the chair in the corner with your coat left on it. There was a tiny “oof” as she landed against the spongy surface and slid down the draped sleeve, lost from our sight behind the chair in a tangle of toys.

You may recall with what anguish I lamented the disorder. “Dang it Wabes, I’m certain I gave you specific instructions that these toys were not to be left in a tangle. Now look, she got away!”

“Good,” you said. “You’re scaring her.”

“What? I just want to shake hands.”

“Then you should ask.”

“Don’t be impertinent,” I said. “Hey down there. All right now, come on out, you.”

“No,” came the tiny reply. “You come down here.”

“Sure,” I said, “that’s easily done.” So I got down on the floor. I had to use my elbows on the hard surface to keep from crushing my hands. “Well, here I am,” I said. “Anybody ever see Trilogy of Te—NO!”

The tiny little person had leaped out in a proficient-appearing martial arts stance!

“You want to shake hands?” she said. “Let’s shake hands.”

“Alrighty,” I said, leaning down. But it was a trick, because as soon as we started shaking hands, she twisted and threw me over her shoulder so that I came down on the kitchen floor like the giant at the bottom of the beanstalk.

I remember looking at the ceiling. I think you said you had a talk with her after that. “This is Squirrel Girl,” you said. “She was raised by squirrels.” You asked if I would read to you and Squirrel Girl from the stack of Dorrie books we had picked up the day before from the library. My hands were all better by then, so turning the pages was easy.

You had given Ichabod a few drops from a vial what seemed like forever ago and so he was there with his fuzzy black kitty body spread out on the pile of books next to us asking questions about the story and wanting to inspect each page with sniffing.

"Is this one by Rudyard Kipling?" Ichabod said.

"No," you said. "This one's by Patricia Coombs."

"Oh," said Ichabod, his kitty mouth making a little circle.

Squirrel Girl peeked out from behind Icky's ear. "You're much fuzzier and squishier than a squirrel," she said. "Plus you don't stink as bad as the dogs."

"Thank you! I eat a lot of kibble. Would you like some kitty kibble?"

"Not just yet, thanks," Squirrel Girl said.

"There's already some in my bowl over there. You can have a piece."

"Ichabod," you said, "you shouldn't offer kibble that has your spit on it."

"Why?"

"It's gross."

"Why?"

"Because it is."

"I don't mind," Squirrel Girl said. "You should see some of the stuff I eat!"

Unfortunately, all of this chatter impeded my oration, and I had to set the book face down and wait for you, Squirrel Girl and Ichabod to finish your conversation. But then you didn't stop very quickly so I said, "Ah, excuse me, Squirrel Girl, if I happen to be interrupting you—”

"Oh, you are."

"Yes well, Squirrel Girl, I understand you're used to hanging out in trees with squirrels, and so you're probably accustomed to a great deal of chatter—”

"And how! I love to talk! Sometimes I wake up already talking about interesting things and all kinds of stuff!"

"Indeed. My point being—”

"Why, I remember one time I woke up with a whole crazy song in my head and everything!"

So I put my hand under my chin and listened while Squirrel Girl launched into the song which she kept messing up and starting over. Again and again.

"It's okay, Dad," you said. "This is a good time to take a break. According to my calculations, my extremely special experiment should be just about ready."

Ichabod looked up. "Out of everyone in The Jungle Book," he said, "who's your favorite?"

"I dunno," I said.

"Mine's Bagheera. I think Bagheera's best."

"I bet you do."

"Ohhhhh, I'm the mightiest warrior of the trees! No, wait. Ohhhhhh, I'm the—”

“All right, everybody,” you called upstairs, for you had returned to the Witch’s Room in order to put the finishing touches on your experiment, “you can come on down now and have a, heh-heh, look at what I’ve done.”

Walking single-file into the basement seemed to take forever because whereas Ichabod was smart and raced ahead, I was polite and got stuck behind Squirrel Girl, who went extra slow “just to be safe” going down the stairs. Passing Gomez and Morticia’s comfy crates, shelves of books and shelves of food, we eventually made it into the room, Squirrel Girl marveling at the profuse array of esoteric items looming over chalk drawings on the stone floor. Masks, hats, microscopes, encyclopedias, beakers and a Bunsen burner, crystals, magnets, weird roots, devices with dials and levers, apparatus with knobs and antennae, candles and divining rods. Using the ladder-like grooves of a wooden chess board leaning against a wall, Squirrel Girl rose to the top edge and perched, looking at the various vials of colored liquid arranged on a wooden bureau by a lumpy green recliner covered in black cat hair.

“Where are you?” I said.

You stood up from where you’d been crouching out of view behind the recliner. Wearing a hat, and shades, and wrapped in bandages, you looked creepy. The department store raven affixed to the edge of the candy bowl skull (from the same store) contributed to the general atmosphere. Selecting a piece of caramel candy and slipping it between the folds of the wrappings below the novelty nose you said, “Behold…Invisikid! Yes, Invisikid: first kid to master the secrets of invisibility. Seeing how no one else my age was seriously pursuing invisibility, I looked into it.”

Removing both hat and shades in a fluid motion startled even Gomez and Morticia peering in the doorway. The bandages didn’t cover the top of your head, we now saw, and where we expected to see your eyes, instead all we could see were empty parts in the wrapping. Then you removed the plastic nose. Gross! Nothing there! We could see the chewing motion of your mouth on the caramel until you unwound the bandages completely.

“The fools!” you said. “Ha ha! I’ve done it! Not wanting to catch a chill, I decided not to bother with taking a serum, and opted instead for a liquid solution of my own device which makes not only me invisible, but also my gi that I soaked it in, too. Plus my shoes.”

Sure enough, you’d done it. I could only shake my head in amazement. “Invisikid, you are a wonder,” I said.

“Thanks!” came the unseen reply.

“What are you going to do now, Invisikid?”

“Well, I’ve got some Flaint left. I’m planning on a mission.”

“I can tell you’re pretty serious about this.”

“I am.”

“What are you going to do on your mission?”

“I will use my powers to help the people.”

“That’s good. The people need that.”

“Yes. Thank you. Do you want to be part of this mission?”

“It would be an honor.”

“Yes,” you agreed, at which point we proceeded back upstairs to draw up our plans and have some snacks. You brought the bottle of Flaint upstairs with you. One tiny drop on a pencil and Squirrel Girl rode it like a broomstick all around the table, knocking over the pepper shaker and laughing hysterically.

2

"I'm really proud of you for what you're doing here," I said as I set down a plate of healthy snacks. "I also think that since I get to be your sidekick I should have a name. How about Dad-Man?"

"I don't know about that," you said.

"Do you want dessert?" I replied.

"Probably. What is it?"

"Ice cream."

"What kind?"

"Mint chocolate chip."

"Then yes, Dad-Man, I do want dessert."

"Hot dog! So what's the plan, Invisikid?"

"Well, you know the donut shop?"

"Oh yes. How could I forget?"

"We should start our patrols there, make sure everything's fine."

"Right. We wouldn't want anything bad to happen to those donuts. I like their maple bars. We need to check up on the safety of those for sure."

"What's a donut?" said Squirrel Girl, sliding down the channel of a stalk of celery.

Ichabod jumped up on the table. "If you get to be Dad-Man, I get to be Cat-Man," he said.

"No," I said starting to get flustered, "it's not the same. Everybody settle down. Donuts are yummy...you can be Icky-Boy. Wabes, why are you going straight to the ice cream?"

"What's a yummy?"

"Invisikid, did you have any celery?"

"What's a yummy?"

"I'll be Cat-Man, you be Dad-Boy."

"What's a yummy?"

"No! Invisikid, celery?"

"I don't want any, thanks."

"Because Squirrel Girl used it as a slide?" You didn't nod yes but I knew that's what it was. I was getting so frustrated. It felt like things were falling apart. Madness everywhere. Something had to happen. I could feel the power growing within me. True parental power.

I got up from the table and stood in the center of the kitchen. "Somebody, quick, ask me who I am. No wait, don't bother, I'll tell you. I'M DAD-MAN! Everybody settle down! You: I'll wash off the celery and you'll eat it. You: don't you ever ruin celery again, and you'll see what donuts are later, if you behave. And you: you can't be Cat-Man because you're a kitty-boy."

"Then I want to be Gusto."

"Why Gusto?"

"Because I am fast. Fast like the wind."

"Okay, well that works. Invisikid, hand me the celery, please. You like how I handled all that? Busted open a can of Dad-Man is what I did. I hope you have some extra Flaint so I can fly. Do you?"

"That depends. Start scoopin'," you said, kindly advising I was going to need a bigger spoon...










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DADULA

Some dads raise their kids,
And some dads do not.
My dad is a vampire,
And that counts for a lot.
He's careful to see that my soup's not too hot.
He changes my diaper right on the dot.
He reads me stories, sometimes with no plot.
He takes me sailing on my own private yacht.
He catches the throws that seem can't be caught.
He helps me to see what's good, not what's not.
He even replenishes pumpkins that rot.
We share things together that just can't be bought.
He helped me construct my pet dragon's cot.
He guides me through danger where danger is fraught.
We talk about movies, ones yet to be shot.
He gets all the letters I slip through the slot.
He taught me about the Gordian Knot.
He does all the things that a vampire ought.
Quite frankly, he's the only dad that I've got.
He's bats for me...because I'm his tot!
Some dads raise their kids,
And some dads do not.
My dad is a vampire,
And that counts for a lot.

CHEMTRAIL DOCUMENTARY ILLUMINATING OVERALL

WHAT IN THE WORLD ARE THEY SPRAYING?
Directed by Paul Wittenberger

 
         
In this fascinating 2010 documentary available free on YouTube, several TV meteorologists acknowledge in sundry clips “small bits of aluminum” being dropped into the atmosphere by military aircraft. One meteorologist explains to viewers that what they’re seeing on the weather map is actually “small glass fibers that are coated in aluminum, and what the Air Force does is they dump these out of the aircraft, they fall into the atmosphere, and some take as much as a day to fall down.”
         
The fact that massive spraying occurs is not in dispute. Online one can easily find Al Gore talking on the subject of chemtrails with Ellen Degeneres. One can also find Dr. Rosalind Peterson addressing the United Nations representing the Agriculture Defense Coalition. “International corporations are modifying our weather all the time,” she states, “and they’re modifying it in ways that cover thousands and thousands of square miles. Most of it is chemically altered.”
         
In terms of filmmaking, What in the World Are They Spraying? has a generally inferior look and dumps information like tons of aluminum chaff. An Inconvenient Truth it ain’t. But filmmaking isn’t the issue.
         
According to solar expert Dane Wittington, “My goal is to alert the public that there is a mountain of toxic material falling on us.”
         
Because of multiple application possibilities, precisely why the aluminum is dumped is not always clearly known. But the danger of rising aluminum levels is transparent. “A snow sample off of Mount Shasta,” Wittington says, “tested sixty-one thousand parts per billion.”
         
USDA Biologist Francis Mangels, a soil specialist, says of the dramatic increase of aluminum and barium in the soil, “There’s something that’s definitely wrong here.”
         
G. Edward Griffin, one of the documentary’s producers, says that contrails are vaporized moisture which effervesce and disappear. “The plane goes along, and the little white line follows right behind it, usually about ten or twenty lengths of the plane, and then it’s gone. These other things we’re talking about are not the same phenomena at all.”
         
Extensively included throughout the film are plenty of shots of chemtrails crisscrossing the sky from horizon to horizon and remaining for long stretches.
         
Among the sundry sources to research along chemtrail lines online, Kristen Meghan, who originally scoffed at the subject before she looked into it, then left the military as a geoengineering whistleblower. Also, Dr. Nick Begich is an authority on the subject whose lecture “Technology to Control the Weather” explains how massive radio waves from the HAARP base in Alaska heat the grids of aluminum particles to affect the weather and much more.
         
“I think we should be focusing on taking more of these toxins out of our environment instead of adding these toxins in,” says Dr. Tammy L. Burn. “It’s very concerning.”

Check out also:

TESLA DOC ENERGIZING
https://stewartkirby.blogspot.com/2016/07/tesla-doc-energizing.html

Stewart Kirby writes for

GOURDY

1

AT FIRST I DIDN'T KNOW IF it was chemtrails, GMOs, an underground Area 51 offshoot facility nearby gone awry or what, but when I saw a fat little pumpkin waddling around on stubby vine legs in the middle of the road, I knew somebody had to help. So I opened the gate and the bright orange beastie followed me in.

"Well hello there," I said, marveling at the peculiar limbs, which looked like four additional stems. "Do you want to come inside?" I said. The fat little pumpkin was cute as hell, and pretty smart, too. Even knew to shut the gate before it marched right on up the sidewalk.

Following the pumpkin around I saw the front yard through new eyes. Or no eyes, actually, rather a perfectly blank pumpkin face, as yet featureless. When the pumpkin found the bike shed, it showed that it wanted me to give it a ride in the red wagon by clambering in, plopping down, and scooching. "All right then," I said, pulling out the clanging wagon by the trusty old handle, "we'll take the full tour. Better hang on tight!"

We clattered around the front yard, checking out all the little areas. At one point the pumpkin wanted the TracFone in the case on my belt. I went ahead and handed it over. Knowing exactly what to do, the pumpkin took a selfie.

After exploring the front, we went on around to the back yard. Wobbling excitedly, the pumpkin pointed at the swing  "Thought you might be interested in that," I said. When I'd pulled close enough, the pumpkin climbed from the wagon into the swing. Then I moved the wagon away and pushed the pumpkin for awhile. I could hear faint humming sounds coming from within it. No particular tune. Just happy humming.

"You know what it is," I thought, "there's that one suspicious woman down the street. I bet she's a witch."

Aloud, I asked, "I have some paper and some crayons. Do you want to draw pictures and color?"

The pumpkin shook no.

"Okay. Are you thirsty?" It didn't have a mouth yet, but I figured it could take in nutrition through a stalk, anyway. Sure enough, the pumpkin affirmatively nodded when I offered something to drink. So I told it to wait for just a moment, went inside the house, poured some water in a dish, and brought the water back outside. But the pumpkin didn't want any water. Instead the pumpkin pointed at the knife in the sheath on my belt. Gently taking my hand in its cute little stalks, the pumpkin pointed at my fingertip, then pointed at the knife, then my fingertip again. When the pumpkin placed what I'll call its palm against my fingertip, and held it there, I understood. "You want to drink my blood?" I said. Vigorously nodding as though overjoyed, the pumpkin hugged my leg.

Surveying perimeters, I took the neighbors into account. There were only a couple of spots where anyone could see. "All right," I said, "I can spare a few drops. We should go inside, though." I gave the pumpkin a wagon ride back to the bike shed. When we put away the wagon, the pumpkin was extra helpful, being sure to help shut the shed door. Then we went inside and I wiped the dish dry so my blood wouldn't be watered down. With the tip of my knife I pricked my index finger. "Why don't you go have a seat on the sofa?" I said, transferring several bright red drops from my finger to the middle of the clean white dish, "I'll bring it to you." Nonchalantly I checked through the windows one more time to see if anyone was watching. If people knew I was feeding a pumpkin my blood, they'd think I was out of my gourd.

I considered turning on the TV, maybe finding a movie, but I didn't want to teach it commercials. Besides, there was basically nothing out there with strong depictions of bright young pumpkins. I did happen to have a copy of Washington Irving nearby, and began reading The Legend of Sleepy Hollow aloud, changing a few parts now and then to suit my audience. A bit of embellishing, for example, going on only twenty minutes or so, which included the rather intriguing back story of the pumpkin chosen by the decapitated Hessian to serve in the stead of his head. During which time I quickly observed the pumpkin to make short work of the meager allotment of nourishment on the plate, squeaking the end of its stalk pathetically against dry porcelain. It wasn't any big deal for me to periodically remove the paper towel I had pressed to the end of my finger and reopen the cut for more while I went on with the story.

After awhile I started to get kind of tired. Pumpkin didn't seem tired at all. I went into the kitchen, got an orange from the refrigerator, and brought it over for the pumpkin to have as a toy on the condition that it stay there on the sofa and be good while I take a short nap. "Here," I said, "you can show your little friend the book."

Pleased with myself, I stretched out on the couch. It was the middle of the afternoon, but I had woken up in the night and didn't have much sleep. I wasn't even sure if I'd actually nap. Mostly I just wanted to close my eyes a few minutes. Next thing I knew though, I opened my eyes to find it was already dark outside. My arm had fallen asleep, or seemed to. Unable to feel it at all, I figured I'd have to flop it around and start vigorously returning circulation. This attempt, however, met unexpected resistance.

No lamps or overhead lights were on, yet the digital displays on a couple of appliances produced enough light for me to see the dark shape of the pumpkin next to me on the couch. The tug at my shoulder told me the pumpkin was pulling my wrist. "What are you doing to my hand?" I said. Reaching with my free hand behind my head, I fumbled for the switch.

When the light came on, the pumpkin jumped. Tearing away from my arm felt like a leech was just ripped free. Immediately I realized that whatever it was the neighbor witch cooked up, the darned thing had gotten greedy. "Hey! I never said you could help yourself to my blood while I slept! What's the matter with you? It isn't enough that I slice my finger to give you snacks?"

The pumpkin turned from side to side.

"You're shaking your head no?"

The pumpkin nodded.

"You listen to me right now: I am very disappointed in you. I know where you live. You're that witch's pumpkin, aren't you? Aren't you?"

The pumpkin paused, as if searching for courage, then slowly nodded.

"What's the matter? Is that witch mean to you?"

The pumpkin seemed to stare at the floor. Then it shrugged its little vine shoulders, plopped down, and began to make soft sounds of little pumpkin sobs.

I always knew that witch was no good.

"I wish there was some way that you could tell me what's going on," I said. "Do you know how to write?"

The pumpkin seemed to brighten up considerably by way of response to this question, and excitedly nodded when, crayons and paper in hand, I asked if it could show me.

Taking an orange crayon in its little vine grip, the pumpkin proceeded to scribble complete gibberish.

"No," I said when the pumpkin held the swirly lines and incoherent jumble of nonsense proudly up for me to examine. "I mean, can you write real words?"

The pumpkin shook no.

"Well," I said, "you can draw pictures. Would you like to draw me pictures? If you show me, it will help. If that witch is being mean to you, I'll protect you. What does she do?"

The pumpkin paused. Then started to draw. When I tried to see what the pumpkin was drawing, the pumpkin stopped and covered up the work. So I puttered around and did a few light chores. I took out the garbage, put a new roll of paper towels on the roller, and trimmed my fingernails.

"Can I see what you've got so far?" I asked.

But the pumpkin only stopped and covered up the work.

"Still not done, eh? Well, I mean geez, come on. I don't have just endless gobs of time for devoting here." I could feel myself getting ticked off. "Hell with it, I'm having a beer. You want some blood?"

The pumpkin nodded yes.

"Don't tell that old witch, but you're in luck. Just so happens I received a little something in the mail today. Ever heard of H.R. Pufnstuf? Didn't think so. Well listen, you're gonna love it. It's got a witch. Hold on now, don't tremble. She always loses."

On hearing this news, the silly little pumpkin got up and jumped around the room.

"All right, settle down now. You have to finish your work. I'll put on the second episode in a minute. Just gonna grab a brew and slice a finger for ya."

Opened the fridge, pulled a Beck's, grabbed the opener, popped the cap. Got a fresh plate. Pulled out my knife, cut the next finger--just enough--and drained a good bit of red juice onto the plate. "Okay, all ready. Better get it before it coagulates."

When I turned around, there was the pumpkin with the drawing. 

"That's it?" I said. "That's all?"

The pumpkin nodded. Vigorously.

"I waited a long time. You were supposed to show me the bad things that the witch does to you. This is just a picture of a jack o' lantern. Damn it, this is exactly the sort of thing I was afraid of. That's why I wanted to see what you were doing! Damn it! I could have been doing something else!"

From behind the first drawing, the pumpkin produced a second.

"Another jack o' lantern. This time with arms and legs. And pointy little shoes. Any more pictures?"

Nope.

"All right. Well, these are pretty good, actually. I like the shoes. Oh what the hell. Here's your blood. I'm gonna go ahead and put on the second episode."

As the pumpkin's vine squeaked on the plate placed on the floor while it sucked up my blood and the show came on, I saw how easy it would be to make a plywood version of a magic boat shaped like a whale for the pumpkin to enjoy. I really didn't want to have to go around the corner and confront my neighbor with accusations of abuse, having never even spoken with her before. What did it look like inside her duplex apartment? A sense of dread set in as I contemplated the forthcoming scene to ensue. But it had to happen. And it would.



2

"Hold still," I told the pumpkin, standing outside the witch's door. I went ahead and pushed the doorbell again. "Wow. That is the most ominous-sounding doorbell I've ever heard. I guess she really is a witch." When a voice from within addressed us, sounding small and muffled but distinctly clear, the pumpkin scooted around behind me, pliable vine limbs clinging to my leg.

"What do you want?" said the voice on the other side of the door.

"I've got a pumpkin here. Says it's yours, I think."

Behind us, on the moonlit dirt road, wary street dogs neared. Looking around for a great big rock, I spotted one and picked it up, pumpkin clinging the while. With the rock in my grip, I cocked back my hand. But just then, the door opened.

I had expected to see the witch. No one was there, though. Only a cat, fluffy and black.

"My mom's not here," said the cat...

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VARIATIONS OF JEKYLL AND HYDE

 John Barrymore as Mr. Hyde in 1920






The story comes from a dream. Robert Louis Stevenson’s wife, Fanny, woke him up from a nightmare one hundred-thirty years ago. He had been screaming. According to her, he said, “Why did you wake me? I was dreaming a fine bogey tale.” She had awakened him during the first transformation of the good Dr. Jekyll into the evil Mr. Hyde, and he was as anxious to see it again himself as audiences have been ever since.
         
Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde was published in 1886. Three years after Stevenson’s dream, actor Richard Mansfield was under suspicion of being Jack the Ripper because of his disturbing change into Mr. Hyde. (The 1988 made-for-TV “Jack the Ripper” has Armand Assante as Mansfield in a terrific transformation scene.)
         
The Jekyll and Hyde switch speaks so strongly to people, it’s part of the lexicon. Stevenson himself was not satisfied with the story, evidently even irked by its success. Yet it has inspired over a hundred film renditions and untold offshoots from Altered States to The Silence of the Lambs.
         
The best film version is from 1931 starring Fredric March. The 1920 silent version has John Barrymore looking suitably creepy in stills as Hyde, otherwise it’s as stagey and dated as one would expect. Not so with the 1931 film.

         
Rouben Mamoulian’s innovative direction puts the viewer in Dr. Jekyll’s shoes at the start, and again during the transformation. Thick fog in Victorian gaslight sustains the Gothic atmosphere of this Academy Award-winner. For many years the puzzle of how the transformation was accomplished in the film remained secret. Turns out, different colored filters were removed in stages through the shot, allowing makeup on March to convincingly appear.
         
On one level, audiences respond—presumably particularly during the Depression—to the monstrous inner self of the outwardly respectable rich. However, the malleability of the change and what it means means everything. Certainly repression is involved. On the one hand the change into the bad self, which comes from drinking a potion, may clearly be likened with alcoholism. But then in the 1941 version, Spencer Tracy as the doctor says in one scene that the bad needs to be segregated—and this from the director of {Gone with the Wind}—segregated to “destroy itself in its own degradation.”
         
Sean Young in Dr. Jekyll and Ms. Hyde (1995) and Julia Roberts in Mary Reilly (1996) further said malleability. The Incredible Hulk and the Batman villain Two-Face also both owe a debt to Jekyll and Hyde.
         
Classic Looney Tunes episodes and The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen (2003) willfully ignore Stevenson in making Hyde huge. In the novella Hyde is “smaller, slighter and younger” than Jekyll. This is due to the lack of Jekyll’s evil being exercised. The callous trampling on the poor does not require an impressive physical presence, only the presence of evil. Jekyll’s dehumanization of himself as a product of the Industrial Age cuts closer to the heart of it. As a story about a doctor seeking to eliminate human imperfection, it even anticipates eugenics and genetic modification.

 Stewart Kirby writes for