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Ed Wood: The Early Years
by Jean Marie Stine

Category: History
Description: The Inside Story of How Ed Wood Jr. Became the Way He Was! The truth about this eccentric Hollywood genius at last--Ed Wood as the Tim Burton movie didn't show him--and as he didn't want you to know him. In this sure to be controversial book (the first of a projected two-volume biography), filmland journalist Jean Marie Stine (who knew Ed Wood and his inner circle personally) deflates the many myths Ed Wood, Jr. created about his own life, chronicles the youth, war years, and post-war years of the King of Cult Films, ending with his arrival by bus in Los Angeles, California in 1947.
eBook Publisher: Renaissance E Books/Pageturner Editions,
eBookwise Release Date: May 2008

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Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [172 KB]
Words: 34219
Reading time: 97-136 min.


INTRODUCTION:

GENIUS AND ANTI-GENIUS

"A most unlikely auteur [has] emerged into mainstream American cultural consciousness; Edward D. Wood Jr., known--if he's known at all--as the director of some of the worst films ever made."

The Washington Post

"Ed Wood is the ultimate cult director, the terminal manifestation of 'expressive esoteric.'"

Midnight Movies

* * * *

During the summer of 1994, eccentric filmmaker, self-styled celluloid genius and on-screen and off-screen transvestite/transsexual, Edward D. Wood, Jr. (as he billed himself on the credits of his films) generated one hundred million dollars. First there was the twenty million dollar film version of his life being helmed by Tim Burton (who became a Hollywood Golden Boy after the enormous boxoffice grosses of his Batman I & II and his Nightmare Before Christmas movies). Then there was the floodtide of Wood's cinematic oeuvre released on video--everything from his uncompleted, amateurish 1948 short, The Streets of Laredo, through ludicrous camp masterpieces (or anti-masterpieces, if you believe UCLA philosopher M. J. Kelar) like Glen or Glenda, Bride of the Monster, and the world-famous Plan Nine from Outer Space (somewhat dubiously dubbed "the worst movie of all time"); to Beach Bunnies, Dropout Wife, Venus Fly Trap, and other, later works. Then there was the comic book adaptation of the forty year-old Plan Nine; along with Plan Nine trading cards, pins, buttons, tee-shirts; and a commemorative edition of the film's blunderingly written, ineptly developed script. Meanwhile, a brusquely organized oral biography of Wood from an obscure publishing house was running through multiple editions.

Just to have been associated with Wood was to suddenly have the Midas touch.

Long-time crony, actor and journalist Conrad Brooks promoted a second career from the association. In later life he peddled photos of Wood and his zany crew at fan conventions, along with his own DTVs (direct-to-video cassettes), On the Trail of Ed Wood and Conrad Brooks Meets a Werewolf. All this while basking in a constant fount of offers for walk-ons and bit-parts in horror films--becoming an unofficial mascot of the blood-and-gore set.

Maila Nurmi was once the celebrated fifties late-night "horror movie hostess-with-the-mostest," Vampira (the subsequent phenomenon known as Elvira might be considered a colorized, somewhat more pneumatic update). Nurmi attempted a brief, unpromising attempt at a show biz comeback as a mid-Eighties performance artist under the sobriquet Helen Heaven, but with the Wood revival found herself, and her once neglected show, suddenly in demand as repeated showings of Plan Nine brought a whole new generation under her inimitable spell.

The playful three-hundred-and-sixty-pound wrestler with the glowering, bestial face, Tor Johnson--once billed as "the Swedish Angel" during bouts and later an icon for aficionados of grotesquely low-budget monster movies--enjoyed post-mortem success too. His less than angelic image appeared on tee-shirts, trading cards, model kits, and even long-running underground comic book series featuring his family-licensed image.

A Dublin-based sculptor of porcelain figurines even produced a grouping of Wood (in his trademark white angora sweater), the hulking Johnson, and their boon companion, the then forgotten king of horror, Bela Lugosi, which was offered to serious collectors of Woodania in a limited edition for a mere four hundred dollars. A "signed certificate of authenticity" accompanied each.

Everyone was making millions of dollars off Edward D. Wood Jr.--except the transvestite filmmaker himself. Edward D. Wood Jr. had died of a heart-attack two decades earlier in abject poverty--as he lay in a drunken stupor in a friend's bedroom after having been evicted from the most squalid slum in Hollywood--crying piteously that he "couldn't breathe," while his long-suffering third wife, by her own account, "just ignored" him. As Lloyd Rose put it in The Washington Post, "Ed Wood's day has arrived, as he always knew it would. Unfortunately, he's been dead 20 years."

Considering that his best work had been made some four decades earlier, that puts Edward D. "Ed" Wood, Jr. approximately a half-century ahead of his time.

In the Nineteen-Fifties, "camp" hadn't been discovered, bad films were bad films, and audiences laughed duds like Glen or Glenda and Plan Nine out of theaters; by the Nineties, "camp" had become a cultural bellwether, bad films had been elevated to the status of high art, and audiences flocked to laugh at Wood's pictures. In the boring, placid Fifties, normalcy was the standard, the grotesque and the bizarre were considered shameful, characters like Vampira, Bunny Breckenridge, Tor Johnson and Wood were forced into society's darkest corners; by the Nineties the illusion of normalcy had been shattered, the bizarre and grotesque were being celebrated, Wood's crew of "Hollywood weirdoes" taken to the public's heart. In the Fifties, the model of a successful businessman was someone substantial, a solid citizen who stood like a rock behind their business and was in for the long-haul; by the Nineties the model of a successful businessperson was a sharpster-hustler, a fly-by-night operator whose only interest in a firm was to get in, squeeze it for every possible dollar--and then out while the getting was good.

Even in his transvestism (or transexualism, the opinions of those who knew him differ), he was curiously ahead of his time, too--though by today's standards a little harmless crossdressing seems almost normal. The very fact that Wood was not afraid to appear in women's clothing in front of strangers and business associates--at a time when the transgendered were deep in the closet (way back behind homosexuals) and just the suspicion of enjoying any sexual practice outside the cultural norm was enough to ruin a career--makes him seem like a courageous premature pioneer. It's hardly surprising that gays, lesbians, bisexuals, transsexuals, transvestites--and the cross-gendered in general--have adopted him as a role model and cultural hero (heroine), with his surreal, autobiographical film Glen or Glenda almost required viewing and his oral biography a bestseller in gay bookshops.

If Ed Wood had been alive in the Nineties, he would be having the last laugh--and a drunken laugh at that. With his "out-of-left-field" point-of-view and fund of anecdotes about the famous and the infamous, he'd be a regular on the late night talk show junkets. He'd probably even be hawking his own line of angora sweaters for transvestites, and doing pantyhose commercials at a quarter of million dollars a throw.

Alive or dead, Wood was doing well for a man whom the Washington Post has hailed as "transcendentally inept," Janet Maslin dubbed "a very bad filmmaker," Time termed "stupefyingly inept," and USA Today called "laughably ludicrous"--a man who is best known as the hapless, but celebrated, recipient of dual Golden Turkey Awards for "Worst Director of All Time" and "Worst Movie of All Time" (for his immortal howler Plan Nine from Outer Space). Not so coincidentally, Plan Nine is the third most written about film in history, runner up only to Gone with the Wind and The Wizard of Oz.

The Nineties seemed to be Wood's decade with:

* Clips from Plan Nine from Outer Space shown on The David Letterman Show.

*An episode of Seinfeld built around a group of friends attending a screening of Plan Nine.

* Tim Burton, director of Batman and Edward Scissorhand, making a film bio of Wood.

* Time and Newsweek running feature stories on Wood and the ecstatic adulation his films command.

* Clips from Plan Nine and Glen or Glenda? receiving weekly exposure on the TNT network's "Friday Night Weird" program.

* Film Forum, one of New York's most sophisticated repertory theaters, showcasing eight Wood films, while revival houses and college campus theaters across the country and around the world follow their lead.

*The birth of on-line computer organizations of Wood fanatics.

*Six documentaries about Wood in release.

*A musical bio of Wood, Plan Nine from Yucca Street slated for Broadway.

*A sequel to Plan Nine--Plan Ten from Outer Space announced.

*National television networks giving major coverage to Burton's Ed Wood film.

As far as the general public goes--that is to say those who are neither cognoscenti of bad films nor deeply learned in the minutia of Hollywood's murkier corners--the typical reaction to this sudden protrusion of Ed Wood, Jr. in almost every area of public life was probably summed up best by Janet Maslin in "Ode to a Director Who Dared Be Awful." Writing of Wood's unexpected resurgence and popularity, she remarked: "Two questions immediately present themselves: Who and why?"

The first question is easier to answer. Richard Corliss sums up Wood's rather checkered life succinctly, if somewhat superficially as: "A transvestite, an alcoholic and a dreamer ... as a Marine during World War II, he made beach landings wearing bra and panties under his uniform. Demobbed, he played a half man, half woman in a carnival before arriving in Hollywood to satisfy his twin obsessions: filmmaking and angora sweaters. The confessional Glen or Glenda, in which he played the title roles, was the apex of Wood's career. Later he was reduced to writing trash novels (Night Time Lez, Hell Chicks, Purple Thighs) and shooting porno shorts. In 1978, at 54, he died of a heart attack--spent for his art."

But Janet Maslin strikes closer to the heart of the truth, when she writes poetically that: "Ed Wood was a director working on the outermost fringes of ... Z-movie ... Hollywood in the 1950s. He made the kind of ... films that used hubcaps for flying saucers. He's best remembered for the transcendent tackiness of Plan Nine from Outer Space and for Glen or Glenda? which achieved midnight movie notoriety for its story about a man who loved wearing angora sweaters. Ed Wood played that role himself, and he played it from the heart. Even allowing for the special ineptitude of the Wood oeuvre, or for Wood's habit of turning up in full drag to do his directing, [he] was also a dauntless guerrilla filmmaker, assembling his own band of outsiders as a stock company and using anything or anyone he could commandeer for his filmmaking process. He made films on a shoestring, raised funds by hook or crook. Ed Wood eventually descended into terminal sleaze, drinking himself to death, writing books with titles like Death of a Transvestite Hooker and making hard-core porn like Necromania, which depicts oral sex in a coffin."

"Ed Wood, Jr." writes Rudolph Grey, who compiled an oral biography of the eccentric filmmaker, "was a peculiarly American original with a great passion for popular media, Thirties and Forties B-western and horror movies, pulp magazines, comic books and radio dramas. Wood, the all-American boy, idolized Buck Jones, became a Boy Scout, and enlisted in the Marines at the age of 17, six months after the attack on Pearl Harbor. He became a war hero and survivor after brutal conflicts with the Japanese in the South Pacific. All the while, he was a transvestite, an outsider to the mainstream of life."

Ed Wood, Jr., as limed in Time magazine, was an obsessive filmmaker who had to make his movies in no time (three, maybe six, days) on teeny budgets (Jail Bait cost $22,000). He got Plan Nine financed by some Southern Baptists; he gave leading roles in Bride of the Monster to anyone who would fund the movie. "Eddie paid me off in cash," says actor Lyle Talbot, who was in Plan Nine, "and sometimes it was a lot of singles."

Although these summations go a long way toward explaining "who" Edward D. Wood, Jr. was, they do little to answer the question of "why," as Lloyd Rose writes, this "most unlikely auteur is about to emerge into mainstream American cultural consciousness."

The simplest explanation may be the most daring. Ed Wood Jr. was the king (or queen) of camp--from his films to his life--and camp, like so many underground artistic movements before it, has suddenly spread from a cult phenomenon among a coterie of cinema buffs and college students to a national and even international sensibility. When the public discovered camp, their discovery and deification of the reigning sovereign (to avoid the difficulties of gender which referring to Edward D. Wood, Jr. always presents) wasn't to be far behind.

But several others, notably philosopher M. J. Kelar and esthetician J. Hoberman, have offered a more sinister hypothesis for the current "fascination" with Ed Wood, Jr. and his works. They suggest that due to the permanency of film, Wood may be history's first notable example of an almost unknown type of artist--one whose work snares our attention every bit as much as that of any other artist--but for almost diametrically opposite esthetic reasons. They hail Wood, somewhat dubiously, as an "antigenius" and his works as "antimasterpieces."

An antigenius, as Kelar and Hoberman see it, is not merely someone driven by the artistic impulse (not a sole province of genius) who is untalented--but someone driven to create who is negatively talented. The antigenius is as deeply motivated by a genuine "vision" as genius, "but they are pointed in the wrong direction." The critical distinction between the merely untalented or inept is that by force of odds, they are bound to do something right sometimes. But with an antigenius like Wood, Kelar claims, "his choices are not haphazard or random, for if they had been, they would have come out right sometimes, when in fact, the percentage of correct decisions is close to zero." Lloyd Rose phrased it another way: "All he lacked was talent. He didn't lack it in some subtle, minor way, either--he lacked it big."

In terms of the use we put art and literature to, escape from the boredom of daily life, Kelar argues that a masterpiece and an antimasterpiece serve the same purpose and affect us in much the same way--though for opposite reasons. Neither commits the cardinal sin of being bland or uninteresting--both keep us distracted from the very thoughts we wish to escape. Audiences watching the films of Ed Wood, Jr., Kelar writes, never experience "restlessness or boredom, but rather, a feeling of being gripped--a rapt anticipation of the next wrong move. It is the mirror image of what one feels while watching a work by a master, and awaiting the next splendid piece of invention ... And the creativity-in-reverse which gives rise to the one feeling is the mirror image of the genuine creativity which gives rise to the other. There is something unique, then, about the ability of Wood." Being boring, film critic Jim Morton notes, "is a sin Ed Wood, Jr. is rarely guilty of."

Baroque as this may seem at first, if there is anything Wood's cultists or detractors agree on, it's that one of the great merits of Wood's life and oeuvre is--genius or antigenius--genuine dedication to his art. As the Washington Post had it: "Wood's clumsiness and obtuseness and tastelessness are vital, heartfelt. He was consumed by his movies. He loved them, and they broke his heart." As Time said, "He was as dedicated to filmmaking as Wells or Kurosawa. He just wasn't any good at it. Not by any standards: the old solemn ones of craft and glamour or the new giggly ones of condescension and camp." As Kelar notes, Wood's involvement with films was no passing fancy. "He continued to seek opportunities for self-expression over a long period when surely there must have been easier ways to make a living. We are presented, then, with the figure of an auteur, sacrificing himself in order to make these atrocious works."

But some have a different view of Edward D. Wood, Jr. and his oeuvre. They see him as a great primitive, a cinematic Grandma Moses--a genuine auteur with a serious message--whose films, though crude, flare with a real vitality and passion many higher-budget pictures lack. Ed's work, they claim, is "full of energy and commitment," redolent with "atmosphere and earnestness, mightily ambitious." Wood's movies, claims cult film specialist, Michael Weldon in The Psychotronic Encyclopedia of Film, "is worth watching nine times." While the intriguingly titled The Phantom's Ultimate Video Guide declares that "Repeated viewings are not only recommended but essential."

Another facet of the recent obsession with Wood is that his life presents a unique look at a type of person who has existed in our midst unnoticed, invisible, unexamined, unheralded and unchronicled--the failed artist. Millions of books and articles and films have been made about successful artists--but few have bothered with the rejects of artistic history. As Lloyd Rose notes, "Wood's life was like a berserk parody of the struggles of the unappreciated artist, drive, endurance, obsessiveness, charisma." There are "qualities in Wood's work that are traditionally associated with art rather than trash; longing, idealism, sorrow. And he had the personality traits associated with a great director; a con man's cunning, a hell-with-it recklessness, a uniquely personal vision of reality. Those scenes that cut in and out of day and night, those hubcap saucers, seem no more than the shortcuts of a director driven to get his film out in any way he can. His efforts are heroic and megalomaniac in the great film-director tradition. And in the great film-director tradition, he lost financial control of his movie[s] ... Wood was as crazy as Griffith, as Welles, as Coppola during the shooting of Apocalypse Now. It's not his fault that they had genius and he didn't."

If all this is true, and Ed Wood, Jr. and his cinematic efforts are so fascinating precisely because they are the product of a failed artist, an antigenius with his taste buds reversed (so to speak), then it may be that whatever praise or blame is deserved is owed to that unique institution, Hollywood. "Such a figure," Kelar writes, "is more likely to thrive as a filmmaker than as an artist of some other sort. There is, for one thing, a greater possibility of coaxing funds out of the unwary by trading on the glamour attached to Hollywood, and thereby completing one's works without the intervention of anyone of discerning taste. This is a process which Wood seems to have used to some advantage. Works so misguided in any other medium would probably never have been performed or exhibited ... unlike with a literary work, a movie does not require any steady effort on the part of the audience (unlike, turning the pages). Thus, the fabric of the work can unravel rather seriously without the whole thing coming to a halt, in the way that the reading of novel would when the sentences cease to be grammatical. In the environment where Wood's films were shown, anything which kept the screen lit for sixty minutes or so counted as a finished movie."

Ed Wood, Jr.'s doings may also be intriguing because, in addition to affording us a rare glimpse of the life of the failed artist--they also offer a look at a side of Hollywood so dark and seamy it has been deliberately swept under the journalistic table. For Wood and his coterie of "day of the locust weirdoes" were a part of the gutter industry of the Z-film, and were part and parcel of the pack of hustlers, has-beens, never-weres, wannabees, rejects, failures and social outcasts who inhabit its twilight world. Much has been written about the world of the B-film (often distinguishable from so-called A-films only by the size of its budget and its absolute focus on themes that will attract the widest possible audience)--a frequent spawning ground for talented young hopefuls (Corman, Bogdonavich, Carpenter, Speilberg come to mind). But, almost nothing has been written about those bottom-of-the-barrel exploitation productions the Z-films which, like Wood's work, produced by people so marginal that they fail to attract talented newcomers and employ only the forgettable and forgotten names of the movie industry.

But none of this goes to explain the sudden interest in bad films which has raised Wood to cult status as the leader of a pack of film makers so many rungs below the standard that they are not B-movies--or even C-movies or D-movies--but what one critic dubbed "Z-movie ethos." Millions of words have been written attempting to analyze and otherwise make comprehensible what some people find so good about bad movies. In part, of course, this fascination with stupefyingly awful movies rises from the same voyeuristic roots as our obsession with any form of disaster--personal, global, artistic or cinematic. (It's hardly surprising these kinds of films have been termed "cinematic road-kill.")

However, Richard Corliss suggests "bad movies, cheap horror films, dingy porno, old instructional pictures on dating" all illuminate cinema qua cinema in a way that even the most brilliant filmic achievements can not hope to equal--and claims that trash films like Wood's are the first "modern" movies. "They become documentaries of people trying to make a good movie. With their preposterous narratives, fractured editing, tatty sets and monotonous line readings, they play like doomed dress rehearsals. First you are drawn into the catastrophe of the filmmaking process, like a rubbernecking motorist passing a road-kill. Then you notice that these movies are doubly subversive: they not only subvert themselves, they rebel against the timid rules of traditional filmmaking. In this sense, bad movies are the first modernist movies, as the French long ago realized."

"Learn to go see the worst films," wrote Ado Kyrou in the 1957 Le Surrealisme au Cinema. "They are sometimes sublime."

It is unnecessary, however, to ascend to such rarefied critical heights to understand the interest in Ed Wood's life or to enjoy his films. As Janet Maslin tells us, Wood's "bad movie high jinx" and "nutty improvisatory filmmaking" are "an antidote to the antiseptic slickness of today. His daring ... can-do optimism deserves to be legendary."

Perhaps cult film journalist Bill Warren summed Wood up best. "Ed Wood was, bless his heart, an auteur if ever there was one. You'll never mistake a bad movie made by anybody else for one made by Ed Wood. There are certain films we just can't stop talking about. They touch us in some way. And, for some reason, we just can't stop talking about Plan Nine from Outer Space--or Ed Wood."

* * * *

I first met Ed Wood Jr. in the early 1970s. He and I were both writing erotica for Pendulum publications. Our editor was Bill Hill, though he would soon be replaced by Dennis Rodriguez. They had offices on Sherman Oaks Ventura Blvd. not far from where it crosses Sepulveda Blvd.

On the day when freelancers' checks were cut, the half-dozen of us who were always too broke to wait for them to be mailed would gather in the lobby like hungry vultures. One of the regulars was a small, defeated-looking little man in a shabby suit that, like its wearer, had obviously seen better days. I can't say I particularly noticed him or paid him any attention. I was too focused on my own concerns, socializing with the one or two younger writers my age.

I guess I assumed he was just another of the literary failures who sometimes become hangers-on in the porno industry because they are unable to make a living writing for anything else. I'd met a lot of them, typically living sterile lives in bleak little apartments, knowing by the time they were forty that their lives were over, there was nowhere else they were going--total non-entities and non-starters in their own lives.

Gosh knows, the dried-up little man in the Eros lobby sure looked the part.

At any rate, it was several weeks before Bill Hill said something about what did I think of Ed Wood, and it slowly dawned on me that the little man I had dismissed so lightly was the notorious, and beloved, film director. I probably screeched something like, "That's Ed Wood?" (Hey, when you are twelve years old watching one of his films on TV at a slumber party, you don't notice the cardboard tombstones, the wrinkled "grass" or that no one can act their way out of a paper bag. That mist rising up and the combined sight of Vampira and Tor Johnson is enough to terrorize any group of prepubescents. (One only notices the absurdities, and delights in them at twenty-two, thus owing the man two debts, one for drama one for comedy.)

Needless to say, I made sure to get acquainted with the little man the next time I saw him.

This was not a high-point in his life. He was about at bottom, and he was not a very prepossessing figure to talk to. He was unshaven and half-tanked a lot of the time. And mostly all he could do was brag about his glory days making Glen or Glenda, Bride of the Monster and Plan Nine.

I didn't care. I was in heaven. I was talking to the legendary Ed Wood!

Mostly what he told me was the same lies he told everybody else: that he had been cheated out of first prize on the Major Bowes' Amateur Hour radio program as a young man; that he'd been wounded and decorated fighting in World War II; that after the war he played a half-man half-woman in the circus; that he'd studied under famed dance instructor Martha Graham; that he was a heterosexual crossdresser, repelled by the thought of sex with another man; that he liked to wear women's clothing because when he was a kid his mother made him wear dresses as a punishment; that his films were shot on such hasty schedules because the budgets were so small. And all that other hooey!

And like everyone else, I bought every word of it.

It was only about ten years ago, when all the well-deserved brouhaha over him was bubbling up around the making of the Tim Burton film, that I began to wonder, then doubt, then begin to dig out the truth. I don't remember precisely what set me off. One clue was a remark Ed made to someone about having only three hundred dollars to film Bella Lugosi and having to spend almost all of it on a role of film. I quickly looked up prices for a roll of black and white film stock in the mid 1950s and it came to about fifty dollars. So where did the rest of the money go? And then I read something Maila Nurmi ('50s TV horror host Vampira to you) said about raising the funds for Plan Nine. After Tor Johnson's famous fundraising stunt in the swimming pool, Nurmi said, "Those Baptists gave and gave and gave." These were Hollywood (e.g. "rich") Baptists, and yet Ed reported raising only $35,000 after a genuine (or so they thought) miracle. That seemed an awfully small sum for such prosperous folk.

I began to cross compare statements made by Ed at one time with statements made at others. I began combing accounts by friends. Finally I interviewed several on my own.

The result was a picture of Ed Wood, Jr. very much at a variance with the one he painted of himself--but one just as fascinating.

The greatest differences were in his childhood and youngmanhood, perhaps because once he reached Hollywood, there were witnesses to almost everything he did and said. Not much room for invention there. In the stories he told his Hollywood cronies about his early days, however, Ed was free to invent, inflate and fabulate. And he did!

In untangling the true from the false about those years, I started to write an article. That article grew into this book.

This, then, is the story of the young Edward D. Wood, Jr.--and the legend and notoriety that have grown up about him during the years since his death. The details have been reconstructed from my own memory, aided by interviews with those who knew Wood like Conrad Brooks, Robert F. Slatzer and Valda Hansen, and journalists specializing in Wood, like Mark Carducci, Forrest J. Ackerman and Bill Warren, supplemented by copious notetaking from the dozens of interviews and articles about Wood published over the last several decades. This book is hardly the last word on Ed Wood, Jr.--but it does attempt to illuminate why he was the way he was, to draw as full a portrait of his personality and predilections as possible.

In short, to chronicle the early life and times of the man affectionately known as the "king of the Zs"--the Worst Director of All Time--and his "entourage of Day of the Locust weirdoes."

(Jean Marie Stine is a former board member of the International Foundation for Gender Education, a contributing editor for both the online magazine "InternationalTG" and the print zine "Transformation," and the author of the classic erotic transgender sci-fi novel, "Season of the Witch" (filmed as "Synapse"), recently released as an eBook by Renaissance E Books (www.renebooks.com). Her homepage is www.hometown.aol.com/jmstine/sowfrontpage.html.

(Or visit our Ed Wood, Jr. pages to see rare stills and magazine covers www.members.aol.com/futurgurl/WOOD.html.)


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