This semester, I covered a topic in my horror-science fiction course that I never addressed before—monster culture. Monster culture was that phenomenon that began in the 1950s in which young fans of horror and sci fi embraced all things monster—from b-movies to models to fanzines like Famous Monsters of Filmland. It kept horror alive and well during the late 1950s and early 1960s when the Hollywood industry had left the genre to indie directors, who made films for drive-in and second run markets. Monster culture created an affection and tolerance among fans for schlocky examples of horror and sci fi; introduced viewers to older eras of horror; and made fans accepting of old black & white movies, extending stardom for legends such as Boris Karloff and Bela Legosi.
Television was key to monster culture from the 1950s till the advent of the home-viewing industry in the 1980s. For many of us who grew up during that time frame, watching horror films, creature features, and sci-fi was like a weekend ritual to be shared with friends. The high priests (and priestesses) of those rituals were the horror hosts—television personalities who hosted the weekly horror series on local stations. Only recently have critics and scholars begun to give horror hosts their due for cultivating monster culture and creating a fan base that embraced films from previous eras. (See The Monster Show by David Skal.) Fostering a love for classic movies is not easy—something film studies instructors know all too well.
THE INCOMPARABLE VAMPIRA
The first horror host was likely Vampira – who began hosting horror movies in Los Angeles in 1954. Vampira introduced b-movies in the horror and mystery genres late on Saturday nights for KABC. For her role as Vampira, Maila Nurmi fasted, dieted, and cinched her waist down to a lean 17 inches, emphasizing her cleavage. She donned long fingernails that looked like threatening claws, long black hair, very pointed eyebrows, and a shredded black gown, which gave her a gothic look. In doing so, she eluded to sex and death—those two taboos that the horror genre exposes.
I have always thought that Vampira’s on-air persona, with her angular body proportions, overt sexuality, and morbid jokes, downright subversive in terms of that era’s version of “feminine beauty.” She seems the doppelganger to Monroe’s soft blonde bombshell with her coy, naïve star image. While there were several female hosts on television during the 1950s who headlined their own shows (Loretta Young, Barbara Stanwyck, Shirley Temple), they were most often associated with tasteful melodrama, children’s programming, or variety—in other words, genres suitable for women.
Vampira was not the only female horror host, but she is the one that has become part of horror history. I know little about other female hosts, but it seems important to acknowledge them. At KTLA in L.A., Ottola Nesmith played a demented old lady who sat in front of an old-fashioned Victrola to host her films, while Suzanne Waldron of KPTV’s House of Horror in Portland, Oregon, appeared as Tarantula Ghoul, known for her deadly pets, including a boa, a tarantula, and a rattlesnake.
SUZANNE WALDRON AS THE TARANTULA GHOUL
I grew up in tiny Ashtabula, Ohio, which is halfway between Cleveland and Erie. Monster Culture in Northeast Ohio was first presided over by Ghoulardi, the creation of Ernie Anderson. The former disc jockey had begun his tv career hosting a morning movie show on WJW, Channel 8. In 1962, the station decided to jump on the horror-host bandwagon. Management planned to devote their post-news, Friday-night slot to Shock Theater, a package of 52 Universal horror films that the studio sold to television syndication. The original cycle of Universal monster movies were included in addition to the lesser-known sequels and sequels of sequels. Channel 8 assigned Anderson to be their monster of ceremonies.
GHOULARDI WAS SO POPULAR IN CLEVELAND THAT RESTAURANTS NAMED DRINKS AND DISHES AFTER HIM.
FANS MADE ALL SORTS OF CARTOONS, CARDS, AND GADGETS FOR GHOULARDI, WHO SHOWED THEM ON THE AIR — AND SOMETIMES BLEW THEM UP.
The station held a contest to allow viewers to select a name for the new host, and management expected Anderson to play it straight. However, Anderson began to percolate his own ideas. The public selected the name Ghoulardo, but he did not think it fit the persona he had in mind—a madcap beatnik with a taste for the irreverent. Opting for Ghoulardi, Anderson immersed viewers in his own on-air world, which quickly spread outside the confines of the tv station. Ghoulardi preferred his own drink (Ghoul-aid), encouraged kids to read the classics (The Tragedy of Ghoulious Caesar), and invented a kind of language, which irritated teachers everywhere.
HANDMADE MEMBERSHIP CARD FOR THE GHOULARDI KNIF FAN CLUB
In grade school, kids called each other “knifs,” or taunted each other with “purple knif.” If I remember correctly, the word was pronounced “k-nif,” but its pronunciation didn’t matter as much as its derivation. “Knif” was fink spelled backwards. Other phrases tossed around included, “Turn blue,” “drop dead,” and “Stay sick.” The mispronunciation of actual words tended to drive teachers crazy. I remember my older cousin teaching me to mispronounce the numeral nine as “ny-enn,” drawing out the one-syllable word into two, like Ghoulardi had when he poked fun at telephone operators.
Apparently, parents frowned on Ghoulardi’s penchant for blowing up toys and models with firecrackers on the air. Sometimes, he blew up strange, hand-made items sent to him by fans—models of monsters or various Ghoulardi-like gadgets (i.e., knifmeters). Rumor has it that one fan sent him a live snake.
Talented at satire, Anderson included regular installments of Parma Place, a weekly skit patterned after the wildly popular, night-time soap Peyton Place. On Parma Place, residents of Parma (an actual suburb of Cleveland) wore white socks, ate Cheez Whiz sandwiches, listened to polka music, and decorated their lawns with numerous pink flamingoes. The mayor of Parma, which was heavily populated by Polish immigrants, grew angry at the ridicule. At the time, Polish jokes were all the rage, which unfairly stereotyped Polish immigrants, and Parma Place added to this ugly stereotyping. Anderson wisely eliminated the bit from his repertoire of skits and jokes.
‘PARMA PLACE’ WAS A PARODY OF ‘PEYTON PLACE,’ BUT RESIDENTS OF PARMA WERE NOT AMUSED.
Like other horror hosts around the country, Ghoulardi cut into the movies with gags and funny comments. He cracked jokes about ordering pizza, commented on horror-film clichés, and superimposed himself into the movies, often running away from various monsters in crowd scenes. As a film studies instructor, I now see how these kind of self-reflexive jokes helped fans and viewers learn the conventions of the genre. In a way, they were deconstructing the films—and the genre—by calling attention to the conventions, then spinning and subverting them. It was a kind of self-reflexive, self-aware comedy that pointed out the nature of genre storytelling.
TIM CONWAY, WHO LATER COSTARRED ON ‘THE CAROL BURNETT SHOW,’ WORKED BEHIND THE SCENES FOR SEVERAL OF CLEVELAND’S LEGENDARY HORROR HOSTS.
Oddly, in my memory, Ghoulardi seemed a bigger part of my childhood than he actually was. I was far too young to recall much of Shock Theater. Most of my recollections of him were from the half-hour show he hosted on weekday afternoons, which my parents didn’t always allow me to watch. Then in 1966-1967, Anderson left Cleveland for Hollywood, where he enjoyed a lucrative career as the prime-time announcer for ABC. Other horror hosts were hustled in to take his place, and I have more vivid memories of them. Hoolihan and Big Chuck replaced Ghoulardi on Channel 8 with a more vaudeville approach to their skits and jokes. My best friend and I spent many a Friday night together to watch their antics and to add another horror flick to our lists. After Hoolihan (Bob Wells) moved on to other opportunities, Chuck Schowdowski continued with Big Chuck and Lil John.
In high school, my loyalty switched to the Ghoul on Kaiser Broadcasting. The Ghoul was played by Ron Sweed, who had served as a production assistant for Ghoulardi before leaving for college. On his return, he worked behind the scenes with Big Chuck and Hoolihan. His act owed a lot to Ghoulardi, but, in my opinion, Sweed was much better at cutting into the movies to play snarky comments, sound effects, and snippets from songs. I owe my love of Gamera movies to the Ghoul, who played them frequently during his first tenure in Cleveland.
Monster culture began to recede when the home-viewing industry emerged during the 1980s. Horror hosts still exist, but they lack the following and stature of the old days. There was a ritual component and bonding experience to watching the horror hosts as they spun their versions of ghoulish characters who presented strange stories to acolytes and followers. It was like sharing ghost stories around the campfire in days of old.