As a final special tribute on this, the 123rd anniversary of the birth of H.P. Lovecraft, I’ve gathered a little gallery of artwork inspired by his writings.
Obviously I did not draw/paint any of these, so mad props (and all rights) to the talented artists who did the heavy lifting here.
Today would have been the 123rd birthday of one of my very favorite writers, H.P. Lovecraft. The Gentleman From Providence is probably the most influential writer of the 20th century that most people have never heard of.
Lovecraft was the foremost practitioner of “weird fiction” in the early part of the last century. His stories specialized in atmosphere — atmosphere that would suck the oxygen right out of your lungs. Atmosphere that was truly terrifying and really could send chills through your bloodstream. (Read “Cool Air” for a truly chilling tale of… air-conditioning?)
Without Lovecraft, horror movies, books, games and comics would look very different. Perhaps someone eventually would develop the idea of beings from other planets worshipped as gods by primordial humans, and lurid tales of Piscean species interbreeding with centuries of townsfolk and ancient ruined civilizations in Antarctica and leaping, chittering things trapped in crypts — but in our universe, H.P. did that. His was the imagination that gave us an artist who painted ghouls from live models.
I’ve decided that what I like about LOW WINTER SUN is the fact that it is not focusing on a pair of super cops. Frank and Joe are actually pretty damn stupid — which could make for an entertaining show. After all, who isn’t tired of wonder cops who hone in on the perp and always manage to finagle a confession?
In the case of this show, the perps are as likely to be police officers as they are to be drug dealers. To wit, Frank (Mark Strong) learns that the headless corpse in murdered cop Brendan McCann’s car belonged to an informant who was going to testify against Brendan and Joe (Lennie James). Oh, and the medical examiner made some interesting finds on Brendan’s corpse: namely that the wrist was broken after death, and he drowned in tap water, not river water — making his death a murder.
How could Joe and Frank not figure the M.E. would test the water in Brendan’s lungs and find chlorinated tap water, not filthy Detroit River sludge? And Frank doesn’t know anything about postmortem injuries? How long has he been a cop, 10 minutes? Postmortem wounds don’t bleed, bozo!