Random Picture #1: 'Zilla waders.

Contest: Because other blog fandoms are Tokyo and you, dear ANTSS readers, are Godzilla.

It's been too long since I've thrown a contest here, and it's about time I thank all y'all for following along with my ramblings. So here goes . . .

Hot off the presses, from the kind folks at Collins Design, comes Killer Kaiju Monsters: Strange Beasts of Japanese Film. Part light-hearted reference book, part art book, all city-stomping hotness, this handsome hardcover, curated by Ivan Vartanian, contains production stills, photos of kaiju collectables, poster repros, papercraft build-your-own kaiju, and original kaiju themed-art from artist (including the wonderful kaiju cross-section art Shoji Ohtomo). It's a pop kaiju smorgasbord!

And ANTSS is giving away one copy a deserving reader. Retail value: about 28 Washingtons. Number of dead presidents it's going to cost the winner: zero. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. Free-city, daddy-o.

Could you be the lucky winner? Sure. Why the hell not? You're as awesome as anybody! It's your time, dammit! Hell yeah!

What do you have to do to win? Easy. Just leave a comment connected to this post saying what city you would stomp if you were a giant monster and why. Tired of Montreal's smug politeness? Think you might be doing Detroit a favor by utterly destroying it? Think an attack on Bakersfield is called for just because nobody would see it coming? You're the giant monster; you make the call. Just tell me what city and why, and you're in the running. One winner will be selected randomly on June 4th. Only one stomp per player.

Because I'm a cheap bastard, I've got to limit this to players in the United States. Not that I don't want to hear what towns my foreign readers would lay waste to, but shipping costs prohibit me from rewarding you for your destructive impulses. Imaginary chaos and devastation will simply have to be their own reward in this case.

Let the stomping begin!

Stuff: In the cards.

The Pointless Museum web site has wonderful gallery of horror themed Top Trump playing cards.

Top Trumps was a slightly more complicated version of war. Simplified, you and another player compared “traits” and the card with the biggest number won.

Though many of the cards feature recognizable horror icons, my favorites are those that either botch known properties – like the dandy fop Godzilla in a cape and a gambler's tie – or use a known figure to illustrate some weird, ill-fitting generic horror type – such as the use of the robot from The Phantom Creeps as "the cannibal."

Plus, even I, Lucas, enjoy the card of the Fish Man!

Books: Gorgantis is ready for his close up, Mr. Whale.

Shambling Towards Hiroshima, Jim Morrow's new novella, opens on Sym Thorley, once great horror film star turned has-been horror con signature factory, contemplating suicide. After slogging through his umpteenth presentation about his golden age in the post-Univeral monster era and his last significant as the giant monster Gorgantis, Thorley is seriously considering tossing himself out his hotel window. Before he goes, however, he begins to write down a memoir of his role in Operation Knickerbocker, a super secret World War II Era project to defeat Japan with a small heard of mountain-sized fire breathing mutant iguanas and his complicity in the dawn of the Atomic Age.

As the war in the Pacific drew to a close, American military leadership began to ponder the blood and treasure cost of invading the home islands of the Japanese empire. The Army had one solution: the A-bomb. The Navy had another: unleash giant, pissed-off, fire-breathing iguanas to stomp Japan into submission. However, the deployment of either of these devices would mean ushering humanity into a new and terrible era. Either we kick off a race to obtain ever larger stockpiles of ever more powerful nuclear weapons or we relinquish our status the dominant species on the planet. Far better, the American high command decides, to simply frighten Japan with a harmless demonstration of the destructive capacity of these weapons, secure their surrender, and never actually let either of the genies out of their bottles.

Problem is that we only had two bombs and the lizards, while ready to go, had only two settings: sedated into a near coma state or uncontrollably savage and destructive. Military researchers hit one the idea of breeding a few man-sized versions of the great beasties and letting them cut loose on a giant scale model of a Japanese city. Unfortunately, shrinking these monsters down had the unintentional consequence of making them gentle as kittens.

So now the Navy had a tiny model city, an approaching curtain time, and no scary monster. What to do?

Call Hollywood, of course.

Pulling in director James Whale (yep, that James Whale), also ran monster actor Thorley, and a handful of real life monster movie magic makers that fans of early horror flicks will recognize, the Navy decides that it will simulate the simulated attack, having a man in a convincing rubber suit trash their model city. The prep for this unique performance, all clashing Dream Factory egos and occasionally Kafka-esque military security details, makes up the bulk of the this slim novel. As an added treat, fans get to follow Marrow's name checking. (Sure, James Whale is a bit obvious, but Morrow also manages to work in nearly forgotten era figures, like William "One Shot" Beaudine.)

Part Hollywood satire, part love letter to 1950s horror flicks, part meditation on the suicidal stupidity of Cold War nuclear brinksmanship, what's most surprising about Shambling Towards Hiroshima is how light and nimble the slim book is. Dexterously gliding over some of the greatest horrors of the 20th Century and the nightmares they inspired, the ultimate theme of Shambling might be how the horror genre's job – if one allows mass cult art a social function – is to trivialize the nightmarish aspects of the real world, turning them into easily consumed treats. Fully aware of this weird trick, Shambling take the madness of the nuclear era and turns it into humorously goofy shaggy dog story.

Movies: Godzilla fades again?

Godzilla Raids Again, the 1955 follow up to the seminal kaiju flick Godzilla, almost managed to do what legions of outsized monsters, alien invaders, and several generations of Japanese Self Defense Force personnel have never managed: Kill off Godzilla. Made the year after Godzilla, Raids was a commercial success; but critical and popular disappointment with the flick sent the big lizard back to Toho storage rooms for a powder. The internationally recognized super-dinosaur would not surface again until 1962, the longest break between films in the same series for the entire 1955 to 2004 run of the franchise. In some ways, this is understandable. With less stunning special effects and a plot that sways unevenly between "strange beast" horror and domestic/workplace drama, Raids is an unwieldy flick that clumsily handles the tone and mood changes demanded by its clunky script. That said, it is a little odd that the film was so poorly received insomuch as Raids more resembles the flicks that would come, the nearly half century of films that would make Godzilla one of the most recognizable cinematic characters in the world, than it does the first film in the series. First and foremost, it starts the crucial shift of focus from the embattled citizens of Japan to the series's titular monster. Second, it establishes the "monster-fight" trope that would become so important to the series that most future film titles would simply be match-up announcements. Finally, it starts moving – though only slightly – towards the idea that Godzilla, in his own insanely destructive and fiercely amoral way, is Japan's protector.

Raids opens when a fishing company spotter-plane pilot, Kobayashi, is forced into an emergency landing on a remote volcanic island. Another pilot, coworker and BFF Tsukioka, comes to his rescue. However, before they can leave the island, they are nearly crushed by Godzilla and a new monster, the dino-armadillo Anguirus. The pilots manage to escape and return to Osaka, where they warn the police about the existence of the two giant monsters. Military and police officials call on Dr. Yamane (played by screen legend and Kurosawa regular Takashi Shimura), survivor of the first film, as a Godzilla expert. Yamane explains that the first Godzilla died, so this is a second monster. He then shows footage of Godzilla's attack on Tokyo (an extended bit of the first flick) and explains that Godzilla can't be defeated, only directed to where he'll do the least harm. As Godzilla seems attracted to light, the doctor recommends that any city Godzilla approaches order a full blackout. Then jet fighters can use flares to draw the mega-lizard back out to sea. Or, perhaps, to some less important town or village. Whatever, so long as it isn't Tokyo again.

Deciding that they can't do anything about Godzilla except stall the inevitable, pilot Tsukioka and girlfriend – Yasuko, the daughter of the fishing company's owner – head out for a night on the town. Unfortunately, their delightful evening at a downtown Osaka dance club is cut short when Godzilla is spotted just off-shore. Operation Not In the Face goes into effect. For a moment, the plan appears to work. Dazzled by the flares, Godzilla turns from Osaka and starts to swim away. But, at that very moment, a prison break occurs which, through a series errors and blunders, ends up creating a massive fire at a gas refinery. This is, of course, all kinds of luminous and Godzilla heads straight for the city. He's joined shortly thereafter by Angurius. Together they pretty much wreck the whole town duking it out.

Godzilla, being Godzilla, ultimately bests Angurius, biting his throat and then melting him with his nuclear breath. Thus Japan is saved from the threat of Angurius, and all it cost was the loss of a major city and life lived under the constant threat of Godzilla attack. If the first flick was an often overt jeremiad of life under the A-bomb, Raids suggests that, one year later, Japan was no more comfortable with their status in the Nuclear Era, but considerably more willing to sacrifice Godzilla as metaphor to Godzilla as entertainer – a decision that would, over time, morph the villain in the child-loving, monster-smashing hero he became in many of the later films.

This shift had a visual component and the presence of footage from the first flick in Raids provides ample illustration of the new approach. The first Godzilla's attack on Tokyo is a shadow-shrouded nightmare, lit only by the flickering flames of the doomed, burning city and the occasional white flash of artiliary. Godzilla is rarely shown in full view and, when he is seen, he's a dark and sometimes almost featureless thing. One of the few near-complete shots of him is an elaborate long shot in which he shares the screen with a foreground of fleeing people, a midfield of fiery wreckage, and him, in the far background, slowly stomping, almost drifting, through the shot. Even today, in the era of CGI, Godzilla's attack on Tokyo from the original film is effective and evocative. In contrast, Godzilla's Osaka rampage is shot like he's the film's star. It starts with a series of close ups, Godzilla remains well lit, the better to show him off to the viewer. His battle with Angurius is filmed with an emphasis on clarity of action (none of the disorienting and frightening confusion of the first flick). Godzilla is no longer some irresistible natural force; instead, he's just the biggest and baddest guy on screen.

As Osaka digs out of the rubble and Tsukioka makes a go of it with his girl, Kobayashi is temporarily moved up north to the fishing concern's Hokkaido branch. Tsukioka and Yasuko come to visit. This leads to a scene in which the girlish and romantic Yasuko witnesses the suits and pilots unwinding at a party hall/geisha house. Yasuko's confusion and discomfort over the rough all-male culture she discovers is finely rendered and genuinely touching. It is a delicately human moment that wouldn't have been out of place in a minor Naruse work. But this scene and the party are quickly shut down when word reaches the group that Godzilla has destroyed on of the company's fishing boats.

This leads to a final confrontation between Self Defense Forces and the King of Monsters on a snow-covered island. Who will live? Who will die? I know because I saw the movie. If you'd been there, you'd know too. Where were you?

Godzilla Raids Again suffers somewhat unfairly because it isn't the sci-fi masterwork its predecessor was, but it hadn't yet become the kaiju-craziness delivery vehicle that its descendants would be. An evolutionary half step, it hangs together kinda precariously and occasionally feels underdeveloped. Still, what does make it on the screen is often entertaining and involving, even for viewers who aren't committed fans of the franchise. In fact, the flick's commitment to character development and its determination to give as big a role to the film's human characters as possible (two traits it shares with the original), it may play better with folks that don't count themselves Godzilla fans than with those who do.

Stuff: Godzilla hates our freedom.

The NY Times review of Christopher (son of James "Deliverance" Dickey) Dickey's new book about the NYPD's counterterrorism division begins with an odd observation about American films, especially really goofy ones, and the hearts and minds of terrorists.

From the review:

Roland Emmerich’s 1998 remake of “Godzilla,” starring Matthew Broderick and Jean Reno, was a hapless piece of moviemaking, panned by critics and largely rejected by American audiences.

In the third world, though, the movie touched a chord. Among those who loved it were Qaeda sympathizers and hangers-on in Pakistan and Afghanistan. The scenes of Godzilla stomping across New York City, crushing everything in its path, were mesmerizing and inspiring. One captured terrorist later warned of an attack against “the bridge in the Godzilla movie.” Interrogators had to go rent Mr. Emmerich’s film to find out what he meant: the Brooklyn Bridge.

It is both comical and scary to witness the degree to which terrorists (and would-be terrorists) have been in thrall to American action movies. Richard Reid, the failed shoe bomber, used the pseudonym Van Damme, after the B-grade martial arts star Jean-Claude Van Damme. Another terrorist was obsessed with “Air Force One,” the Harrison Ford president-in-peril film.

Weirdest of all, Khalid Sheikh Mohammed — the pudgy 9/11 plotter who will be forever remembered for his disheveled mug shot — was supposedly an amusing guy when he attended an agricultural state university in North Carolina. His nickname? “B’lushi.”

Stuff: I wonder what makes Godzilla tick. I wonder if he'd be interested in knowing what makes me tick.

Flickr poster "Modern Fred" has a spiffy gallery of kaiju related art up, including a set of cut-away anatomical pics showing just how these massive monsters keep on the go.

The set also includes several made of 100% pure awesome vintage giant-monster movie posters from Japan.

Now all we need is one of those butcher's charts that shows you where each cut can be found. Just where are the flank steaks on Godzilla? Gorgo's brisket? The demanding gourmand needs to know!

Opinion: A modest proposal or "Godzilla versus Jason."

So the horror blog-o-sphere waits with bated breath (but not baited breath – it's short for abated and it means you're holding your breath – the source of the phrase, "Don't hold your breath" – but I'm suddenly on a tangent and we haven't even gotten a whole sentence out – the shame) to see if Robert Englund is going to reprise the Freddy role in the new remake, re-launch, re-imagining, re-re-re of Nightmare on Elm Street. The general consensus seems to be that the whole of horror fandom pities whoever the hell picks up the Freddie mantle as Englund pretty much made it all his for so long.

The subtext of this conversation is that the venerable franchises of the '80s are between a rock and a hard place.

Basically, nobody wants just keep grinding out sequels. The sequel game has been one of diminishing returns: generally less money goes into each flick in the effort to ensure a profit, these increasingly crappy flicks rightly draw fewer viewers, the studios see profit and invest even less in a sequel, which draws fewer people, and so on and so on. It becomes a race to the bottom. The ultimate end of it would be that the studio makes a flick that costs less than the cost of a single ticket to try to make a profit off of the last poor schmuck that cares.

In an effort to break this cycle, franchise owners have decided that the way to save their valuable properties is to hit the reset button. The idea wasn't totally without merit. One of the unfortunate products of the long death-spiral these franchises had entered was the introduction of meta-nonsense, wackiness, and other non-scary elements meant to rejuvenate the flicks. Sadly, it did the opposite. If you could just start over, as if you hadn't turned your characters in parodies of themselves, you could strip that crap out and get back to basics. This was one of the stated aims of the recent Halloween re-launch. Again and again in interviews director Rob Zombie claimed that he wanted to make the franchise "scary again." Get some hip talent, market it as the second coming of a classic. Good times, good times.

It's a great idea. There's only one problem. It doesn't seem to work. Zombie's Halloween was one of the most trashed horror flicks of last year. Not to be outdone, studios are rushing to throw Friday the 13th and Nightmare down the same hole. There's no reason to believe these will be any better. The problem with Zombie's Halloween will be faced by these flicks too. Revisiting a film automatically puts overwhelming restrictions on what you can or cannot do with a flick. At best, you can add some details to the backstory, modernize the filmmaking techniques, and push the gore up to modern standards. That's pretty much it. And that's everything Zombie did and the result was poor. I'm predicting now that the Friday and Nightmare flicks will suck in the same way.

So we're stuck. We can't make sequels and we can just magically restart the series and recapture the magic. What do we do?

The solution comes from an unlikely horror franchise: Godzilla.

Compared to Godzilla, the horror franchises of the '80s are small beer. The Godzilla franchise has reached an astounding 28 flicks. Like the '80s horror franchises, it had been diluted with heavy-handed humor, tweaked with premise undermining elements (like Minizilla), and generally abused in the name of getting asses in theater seats. However, unlike the '80s franchises, the last series of Godzilla flicks was widely praised as being among the best of the series, second only to the original in terms of entertainment value. This is no small feat. Godzilla is not exactly a multifaceted character and one can be forgiven for assuming that, after nearly 50 years, there's not much more to say about him. And yet, the filmmakers behind Godzilla managed to revitalize a property that had sunk so low as to feature its leading lizard doing a little jig after defeating an adversary. The tricks the Godzilla directors used could be used, I think, to get the '80s franchises out of the trap they find themselves in.

In 1999, Toho studios brought back their big reptilian star after a four-year lull. There were two huge factors working against a successful comeback. First, the last batch of Japanese-made Godzilla flicks had been roundly criticized as lacking. Ticket sales were mediocre, their target audiences – Japanese youth – had decided they were unhip relics, and talented filmmakers avoided the projects to avoid getting tarred as a hack. Second, the lackluster American version had been a one-two punch to Japanese Godzilla fans: it was at once upsetting that Godzilla failed to penetrate the American movie biz and upsetting that the American version was such a universally reviled mess. Toho revitalized the Godzilla series by 1) getting rid of continuity, 2) making it a showcase for new and promising talent, and 3) creating artificial scarcity.

Let's talk about getting rid of continuity. The new flicks exist in a sort of "Godzilla universe," but the details of the universe are reinvented with each flick. For example, in the last series some of the films assumed that Godzilla had attacked Japan only once before, others assumed that Godzilla had attacked several times, and one of them assumed that monster attacks were so common that a special UN military force existed solely for the purpose of fighting giant monsters. Some of the films take place in the here-and-now while others take place in the near or distant future. Basically, each film is a stand-alone product. The ground rules for the particular flick are explained in the film through exposition.

The second element: new talent. I'm going to be honest. The use of new talent has been a bit of a mixed bag in the context of Godzilla. On one hand, because we've got hungry directors, actors, and key crew, you get these sort of balls-out spectaculars that are meant to blow the audience away. This is everybody's big chance and they mean to take it. The downside is a tendency towards allusiveness, pandering to the audience, and an over reliance on currently "hip" techniques. For example, the makers of The Matrix should be able to sue the makers of Godzilla: Final Wars for stealing scenes and techniques. Still, it should be said that, unlike many a previous Godzilla flick, Final Wars never lags. It is an insane rush of set pieces and action sequences. And this is typical of all five of the last set of films: they are all made as if the future of the filmmakers' careers depended on it. Nobody phones it in.

Finally, another important lesson we can learn from the Godzilla franchise has to do with "clustering" the releases. Toho has learned that it is really easy to just keep cranking out flicks. But then you end up in the death-spiral that '80s slasher franchises are stuck in. Better to release a string of flicks and then dry up for a few years. Toho regularly produces as string of flicks, then retires Godzilla for four or five years, then releases a batch of new flicks. This requires some self-discipline. For example, Toho intended for the last series to extend for three films. It lasted five. Still, they could have gone on and on, dropping costs and accepting small and small returns. Instead, they left while the party was good. Don't drown your viewer in inferior product and they'll come back when you're ready to release more product.

I propose that the owners of the horror franchises of the '80s learn from the Godzilla franchise. First, adopt a looser approach to creating sequels. Let's take Friday the 13th as an example. Instead of adding more an more flicks to the current story, just set some ground rules involving Jason, Crystal Lake, and so on. After you've done that, let each film take a different approach. Does nobody know that people who go to Crystal Lake are asking for it or is it something everybody knows? Is Jason just some guy or is he some magical and unkillable zombie? Set this up with each flick and don't require each and every film to toe the same line. This opens up the stories that can be told and would encourage creativity. I would even drop the numbering system. Just give the films unnumbered titles like the Godzilla franchise or even the James Bond franchise.

Second, use real talent. "But wait," you might well say. "Rob Zombie came fresh off The Devil's Rejects and he went on to make the subpar Halloween." Of course he did. Zombie's best film was his most creative. House of 1,000 Clichés and Halloween are just too beholden to other flicks. Imagine if he'd been told, "Hey, Zombie, here's the keys to the Halloween franchise. Do whatever you want." There's no point in getting good directors and good screenwriters, and then putting them in the straightjacket of a remake. Find talent and let them do what they do best.

Finally, do the math on the value of your franchise. You can kill the goose that laid the golden egg by driving your franchise into the ground or you can keep it evergreen by avoiding overproduction. Pick one?

There's actually an interesting test of these theories already going on. Over at DC/Wildstorm comics, they've got the rights to the New Line horror franchises: Texas Chainsaw, Nightmare, and Friday. The comics follow the basic rules described above. They don't just retell the film stories and, where it helps the story, they break with the continuity established in the flicks. They've put real talent on the titles. Finally, they haven't made the title monthly. Instead, each title exists as a collection of loosely connected mini-series, each with its own narrative arc. The results are mixed. Nightmare has been so-so, but Friday and TCM has been to notch. Still, I'm willing to bet that 2 out of 3 is a better ratio than we'll see out of these remakes.

No strategy can ensure that every flick in a franchise will be a success. But I think going this route would make each flick an event. Each film in the franchise would worth checking out because you'd now you were going to get something new.

Anyway, that's this horror blogger's opinion.

Comics: Billy don't you lose that number.

Screamin' regulars know by know that I'm a fan of monster mash, genre mixing goofiness. Godzilla versus Nick Fury: Agent of SHIELD? You've got my interest. You've got masked Mexican wrestlers pile-driving Dracula? Sign me up! Your latest project pits Frankenstein and the Wolf Man against a gang of 1950s G-men determined to deliver a magic pair of women's undergarments to J. Edgar Hoover. I'm there! One of my favorite sub-categories of sub-genre (you don't get any more sub than that) is the cowboy versus monster mash up. I'm not sure why blending these two genres works so well. Perhaps it is because they are both such stylized and mythic genres. The trappings of both the traditional horror flick and the traditional Western have been so perfected and polished through reuse that they can be meshed and reworked without losing much resolution. Like Dracula, the outlaw gunslinger is such an iconic figure that he retains his meaning no matter the context. Perhaps it is simply a product of the various elements of each genre being so damn cool. Six-shooters are nifty. The labs of mad scientists are always nice to see. Combine these things and you're doubling the cool factor. Whatever the reason, when a cowboys and monsters mash up works, I'll tell you what: you've got yourself a grade-A slice of prime entertainment.

And Billy the Kid's Old Timey Oddities, by Eric Powell and Kyle Hotz, works.

The plot is straight-up pulp and played strictly for thrills. Billy the Kid, presumed dead and now in hiding, is recognized by the ring-leader of an eccentric band of sideshow performers. The various freaks – including, among others, a woman with tattoos that predict the future, a Creature from the Black Lagoon inspired alligator man, and a tequila swilling dog-faced boy – agree to keep Billy's survival a secret if he'll help them recover a mystical artifact known as the Golem's Heart. Before you can sing a line of "Don't Take Your Guns to Town, Bill," the Kid and his freak posse are off to Europe to recover the artifact from Dr. Frankenstein, who has gone from standard mad scientist to full on Lovecraftian black magician. It is flying lead 'gainst eldritch dread from then on out.

The story is fun and well-told, if not particularly deep. The characters are somewhat stock, by they are lovingly written and perform all their functions perfectly. Frankenstein is really the only clunker here. The character so little resembles the Shelly/Universal archetype that one almost wonders why he needs to be Frankenstein. That said, it doesn't distract from the fun and can be overlooked. The art fits the story beautifully. It is a sort of cartoony, but wonderfully expressive sort of caricature that is equally suited to comedic effects and grisly horror.

Things have been a bit dry on the horror comic front lately, and Billy the Kid's Old Timey Oddities was a cool drink of water.

SCREAMIN' TEAM-UPS: If you're curious to check out one of the stranger ideas to ever come out of Marvel, you can hunt down the Godzilla versus Nick Fury issues of Marvel's short lived Godzilla: King of Monsters series. They are re-printed – along with Godzilla going toe-to-toe with the Fantastic Four and the Avengers – in the Marvel Essentials anthology of Godzilla. Eagle-eyed readers may have also noticed Godzilla's appearance in a recent issue of The Mighty Avengers

Book: All hail the king, baby.

My friends and I (yes, screamers and screamettes, check the plural, I had like three of them at the time) were once discussing what film held the dubious distinction of the best horror movie to suffer really horrible sequels. Conventional wisdom is that sequels are always worse than the originals, but sometimes we're getting down to really fine distinctions. Is Urban Legend 2 really all that worse than Urban Legend? Perhaps, but who's keeping track?

What we were talking about were those rarer cases where a truly classic film drags behind it, like somebody leaving the head and unknowingly trailing a bit of toilet paper on their shoe, an embarrassing string of truly crap flicks. Jaws exemplifies this. The first Jaws flick is a truly great film. The second is a semi-competent, but wholly unnecessary project. Jaws 3 is a god-awful mess that works only as camp. The fourth and hopefully final Jaws, "This time it's personal," is essentially an unintentional parody.

Though we didn't think of it at the time, William Tsutsui, historian and Godzilla fan, makes an excellent case for the original Godzilla being the greatest horror film to be betrayed by vastly inferior sequels. In his book, Godzilla on My Mind, Tsutsui takes a quirky tour through the global phenomenon that is the Godzilla franchise. He covers the creation of the iconic big lizard, discusses the string of films that followed (perhaps the longest running franchise in screen history), Godzilla's status as a globally recognized figure, and even the American linguistic quirk of adding "-zilla" to things in order to suggest great size or rampaging destructiveness.

Though much of the info in Tsutsui's book makes for interesting trivia, the material on the creation and reception of the first Godzilla movie is wonderful. Tsutsui frames the Japanese original in its historical and cultural context, revealing not just the general nuclear anxieties that helped fuel the film, but pin-pointing specific historical incidents that were reworked for them film. For example, the original Godzilla contains a scene in which a small fishing boat encounters the giant monster. Apparently, this was an allusion to a contemporary nuclear tragedy. A Japanese fishing boat sailed too close to a U.S. nuclear testing area. The fishermen received lethal doses of radiation and their irradiated catch enter the Japanese food market before people knew what was going on. The fear of poisoned food and out of control nuclear testing was still in the papers when Godzilla hit the screen.

Tsutsui also reveals the profound impact the first Godzilla film had on its makers and viewers. He quotes one filmmaker as saying that he believed the release of Godzilla would actually scare the world into stopping all nuclear testing. Now that’s ambitious filmmaking! Viewer reactions, from those who saw it as parable for the dropping of the A-bomb to those who read in it a longing for the return of Japanese militarism, are also surveyed.

Though the entire book is full of amusing and interesting details, it is this insight into the first flick that makes the book well worth reading. Part scholarship, part love letter, Godzilla on My Mind is a fitting tribute to the King of Monsters.