Friday is Bring Your Gigantic Flying Reptile to Work Day

Last week, when I brought a large, imposing dragon to work, one of my comrades-in-arms mistook Draco for an older, more famous flying menace: Rodan, star of his own Japanese monster movie and co-star in numerous others with Godzilla, Mothra and many more. this coworker remembered that when he was a child in Alabama, his uncle, after having seen the original movie, claimed to have seen the prehistoric terror swooping low over the smokestacks of the factories and mills of Bessemer, a suburb of Birmingham.

The imagination of a ten year old is a furnace that doesn't require much to keep it stoked, so what would it do with such a potent shovelful of fossil fuel? It would burn long and red with terror. And so it did.

Now, at the end of a month of giant monsters, I might as well go out big while rousing a few flashbacks in my wake. And you can't go much bigger then the Shogun Warriors Rodan.

Back in the late '70s, Mattel produced a series of enormous robot toys called Shogun Warriors (based on Japanese toy manufacturer Popy's giant Mazinger figures). Part of this line was a version of Godzilla that shot a tongue of flame out of its mouth, as a proper Godzilla should. (The flame was triggered by a lever at the back of his neck; this lever snapped off pretty easily, and most second-hand Shogun Godzillas have only stumps to work with.) He was also able to shoot his left hand at his opponents (something the movie Godzilla could never do.)

Since Mattel had Godzilla in their Shogun Warriors and he was, by this point in his "career" a good guy, they must have thought, "Hey...doesn't he need someone to fight?" And thus, we have Rodan, rendered in plastic with grasping claws (strung with rubber bands), flapping wings (also strung with a rubber band and operated by three bowling ball-style holes in his back) and snapping jaws (operated by a much stronger lever than Godzilla had). His wingspan is fairly amazing--over 40 inches from tip to tip--and he can be seen from damn near any vantage point in the office.

This has, of course, prompted many more questions from coworkers, most along the lines of, "Do you display all these things in your apartment? How big is your place, anyway?"

My apartment is no bigger than average, I'd guess, and no, I don't display all of the toys I own in it; I'd need an apartment closer to the size of the Field Museum for that.

But Rodan? You're damn right I've got him on display at home--proudly on display at that.

Tuesday is Bring Your Flying Turtle to Work Day

As you might imagine, many of my coworkers not only take notice of Bring Your Action Figure to Work Day--they also have many questions.

Who is that? If you don't know, you don't need to. Move along.

How much did that cost you? None of your damn business.

Do you really own all those...things? Yes. Yes, I do. (Insert confused/alarmed/frightened look here.)

Occasionally, the questions relate neither to my income nor my relative state of sanity. Sometimes, coworkers want to know if there's "more where that came from." The answer, generally speaking, is, "Yes. yes, there is."

Example: The first time I brought a Godzilla toy in, I was asked whether or not I had a toy of Gamera the flying turtle at home as well.

"Well, now that you mention it..."

Thursday is Bring Your Giant Moth to Work Day

I'm not at work tomorrow--given how this week has gone, that's even more of a blessing than usual--so today is the day that Godzilla makes his second appearance for Bring Your Action Figure to Work Day on a Thursday rather than a Friday.

(Yes, I'm taking Friday the 13th off again. No, I'm not superstitious. Why do you ask?)

Of course, Godzilla can't show up alone; he needs someone to fight. Today, that someone is Mothra, perhaps the least threatening Kaiju ever. Unless, of course, you've got a giant sweater you're really fond of, in which case, watch out!

Friday is Bring Your Irradiated Dinosaur and His Metallic Doppelganger to Work Day

Recently, I realized that, given all of the toys I've lugged from home for Bring Your Action Figure to Work Day, I had made a startling omission: I had never brought in even a single Godzilla.

Anyone who has ever been to La Casa del Terror knows of my abundant love of Godzilla, from the large figures guarding the top of my refrigerator to the smaller ones lining the ledge of my kitchen cabinets to the two titans atop my TV.

It was those two--the version of "The Big G" from his last film (to date, anyway), Godzilla: Final Wars, and his robotic imitator/nemesis, Mechagodzilla, who adorn my workspace today, much to the awe of my coworkers.

(For those wondering why I didn't bring in any Watchmen action figures, considering that today is the opening day of this long-awaited cinematic adaptation of the Alan Moore/Dave Gibbons graphic novel: I only have two figures from the movie--both the classic and modern versions of the lovely Silk Spectre--and I'm not arbitrarily certain that my coworkers would appreciate toys of women who are standing there in little more than one would see in the average Victoria's Secret catalog.)

Review: Godzilla (1954)

It's hard to remember half a century and literally dozens of sequels later, but the original Godzilla was intended as a serious political statement against nuclear proliferation, most particularly by the United States.

When it was first released in 1954 as Gojira, the atomic bomb attacks on Hiroshima and Nagasaki weren't distant history, but still-fresh wounds on the collective body and psyche of Japan, and insult was added to injury by continued American test detonations in the Pacific. In March of that year, a Japanese fishing boat strayed into a U.S. bomb testing area, irradiating the crew (killing one) and their catch of tuna (some of which made it to market).

Director Ishiro Honda and producer Tomoyuki Tanaka took these real-life incidents (which are mentioned directly in the original Japanese version, but were cut for the American release in 1956--more on that later) and grafted them onto the same basic story as Warner Brothers' The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms, inspired by a short story by Ray Bradbury (does that make Bradbury Godzilla's godfather?). In that film, a dinosaur awaken by an accidental nuclear explosion ravages New York's Coney Island.

In Godzilla, the size of the monster was increased to impossible proportions (164 feet tall) and in metaphorical significance--with its size, radioactive breath and utter disregard for humankind's weapons and, really, our very existence, Honda and Tanaka (along with co-screenwriter Takeo Murata, working from a story by Shigeru Kayama) made Godzilla a walking, breathing nuclear explosion--an atomic holocaust made flesh and blood.

After Japanese ships are attacked and destroyed under mysterious circumstances, an expedition heads to a nearby island to investigate and finds enormous, irradiated footprints--and, the next day, the monster that belongs to them, which subsequently marches on the Japanese capital of Tokyo and tears it and its people to shreds, proving to be immune to humankind's conventional weaponry.

Doctor Serizawa (Akihiko Hirata) has an unconventional weapon, an "oxygen destroyer," that could do the trick, but he was deeply scarred (physically and emotionally) by the war and is fearful of letting such a terrible weapon be used. Can the woman he's engaged to, Emiko (Momoko Kochi), and the man she really loves, Hideto (Akira Takarada) convince him otherwise and save Japan--and maybe the world itself--from this terrible manifestation and melding of modern science and ancient, elemental fury?

There is much emotional power in the scenes of the conflicted Serizawa, who doesn't want to be responsible for loosing another weapon of mass destruction upon the earth, and in the scenes following Godzilla's attacks on Tokyo, with hospitals overflowing with battered, radiation-burned survivors. The Japanese cast delivers passionate performances that lend much weight and depth to the metaphorical subject matter, making their dilemas and heartbreaking solutions far less abstract and much more immediate and relatable. The score by Japanese composer Akira Ifukube is downright haunting and would be recycled over the coming decades. (Ifukube also came up with Godzilla's signature roar, which has become one of the most recognizable sounds in cinema history.)

Unfortunately, much of the movie's merit is undercut by the uneven special effects employed to bring Godzilla to life. The "man in a big rubber costume" approach (called "suitmation" by fans of Japanese daikaiju movies) works fine when the monster is photographed at a distance, smashing his way through detailed miniatures standing in for Tokyo. And there are burst of stop-motion animation (a la the Beats from 20,000 Fathoms), hinting that this might have been at least considered for the whole movie, but abandoned. (Publicity stills of the time featuring a more claylike Godzilla seem to back this theory up.) However, for closeups, an "electronic puppet" was used that looks a lot like Lamb Chop dunked in raw sewage and is just as imposing; the fact that this puppet is the first good look we get at Godzilla seriously damages the movie and makes it difficult to take seriously from that moment on.

Regardless, Godzilla was an mammoth hit in Japan and an immediate sequel, Godzilla Raids Again, was rushed into production and opened just five months later, even though the title monster is clearly destroyed at the end of the original. (In the American version of the sequel, Gigantis, the Fire Monster (not released in America until 1959), the monster's name is changed and it's explained that he just happens to be another member of the same species as Godzilla.) When Godzilla was exported to the United States, though, it was substantially altered. Large chunks of the movie were removed--including many supporting characters, most of the subplots and any comments aimed at American nuclear policy--and replaced with new footage directed by Terry Morse and starring Raymond Burr.

Up to this point in his career, Burr had spent most of his time playing bad guys and murderers (most famously in Alfred Hitchcock's classic, Rear Window), but he made the most of this opportunity to play a good guy, even if his role was being surgically attached to an already completed movie. (The original Japanese version runs 98 minutes; the edited/reshot American version is 17 minutes shorter.) It turned out to be a big career boost for Burr, who subsequently won the lead role in the TV series Perry Mason and went on to have a long, successful career--thanks, in part at least, to a large, irradiated reptile.

Godzilla has gone on to have a long, successful career as well--long may the "King of the Monsters" reign.

Review: War of the Gargantuas (1966)

I'm not ashamed to say it: my love for War of the Gargantuas knows no bounds.

Maybe it's because seeing War of the Gargantuas takes me back to those Friday and Saturday nights spent curled up on the gold-upholstered couch in the family room of the apartment on Ohio Street, watching Creature Features on the tiny black & white TV.

Or maybe it's because this movie is the most action-packed of the '60s giant Japanese monster flicks, with lots of buildings being smashed, stepped on or otherwise abused and little in the way of Stupid Human Story (you know, ehere the human characters have to deal with jewel thieves or greedy entrepreneurs or political assassins or whatever.)

Or maybe it's because this movie features what may be the single worst musical number in the history of cinema.

Whatever the specific reason, War of the Gargantuas makes me happy. It's like comfort food, if comfort food could roar and punch holes through downtown Tokyo.

The movie opens at sea during a violent storm, where a boat is being attacked by a giant octopus. (This must be a problem particular to the coastal waters of Japan, as I can think of at least three other Japanese monster movies where the same thing happens.) The octopus doesn't get much of a meal, though, since it gets attacked by a creature from the deep that looks a lot like the Frankenstein Monster covered in seaweed. This green guy called Gargantua (think Bigfoot with a much, much bigger foot) starts popping up all over the place, hassling fishermen and generally scaring the crap out of the general public.

Concerned military authorities call in scientists, including Dr. Stewart (Russ Tamblyn) and his lovely assistant, Akemi (Kumi Mizuno, who also appeared in Godzilla vs. Monster Zero and Godzilla vs. the Sea Monster), who cared for a baby Gargantua years before. Could that Gargantua, who subsequently escaped, be the same one munching on civilians, like the dudes on the boat (who turn out to be smugglers, so I guess they deserved it) or a poor cleaning woman caught at the airport (Gargantua spits her shredded clothing out--ew!)? Are there two of them?

Gargantua runs back to ocean when the sun comes out--turns out he's sensitive to light, having lived in the depths all his life)--but comes out again at night, especially when the lights go down on the outdoor deck of a downtown Tokyo nightclub for an awful musical number sung by Kipp Hamilton called "The Words Get Stuck in My Throat" (if only they really did, Kipp, if only they really did). Fortunately, Green Gargantua toddles up and tries to eat Kipp, thus ending her song (and sparing our ears from any more hemorraging).

The bright lights of the big city drive off the mean green eating machine again, though, and he runs into the forest, where the military attacks with damn near everything--tanks, rockets, lasers, electrodes, you name it. And you know what? The barrage actually works! Green Gargantua is down and nearly out when an even bigger Brown Gargantua shows up and saves the green one's mossy ass. The scientists analyze the cells of both and find that the brown one was the one Stewart and Akemi had found so kind and gentle years before and that the green one grew from cells torn off the brown one. So they're not really brothers, but more like clones.)

This would probably make slightly more sense if the American distributor hadn't removed footage and dialogue that connected War of the Gargantuas to its predecessor, the even more ridiculous Frankenstein Conquers the World, which had nearly the same plot (two monsters, one of them innocent) and roughly the same conclusion.

Brown Gargantua, who breaks his leg saving his old friend Akemi from falling off a cliff, tries to help hide and heal Green Gargantua until he figures out that his "brother" has been chomping on the tourists, at which point he smacks GG with a tree and the title fight is on. This leads to an all-out kaiju smackdown in Tokyo, with the two monsters body-slamming one another while the military tries to kill both of them. They needn't have wasted the ammo, though, as a conveniently erupting volcano (in Tokyo Bay?!?) destroys both Gargantuas. (Or we assume they were destroyed, since there wasn't a sequel to War of the Gargantuas.)

Unlike a lot of other kaiju classics, War of the Gargantuas never even pretends to take itself seriously. It's blissfully silly, fast-paced and colorful--just what you need to go with your bowl of popcorn on a Saturday night.