Last week I took a ride out to another beach park, Carkeek.

Before there was Carkeek Park, there was Carkeek Park. “Carkeek” was the first name of Magnuson Park before it aquired the name “Magnuson.” After the change, “Carkeek” moved to where Carkeek is today – in the Broadview neighborhood of northern Seattle.

Most of the park is in a sort of canyon (or what people on the west coast call a canyon). Really, it’s just a steep ravine.

The park went through many changes over the years, from army camp to zoo to sewage treatment grounds to what it is today: your basic park.

There are fields and playgrounds and trees (though not the 2,000-year-old “old growth forest” that was clearcut in the early 1900’s).

Like Richmond Beach Park, Carkeek is bisected by BNSF rail lines and has a footbridge spanning the tracks.

For me, what’s on the other side, the beach, is the reason I’m here. The whole park is crowded. Seattle is growing weary of winter. Any temperature above a chilly 50 degrees with slightly sunny skies and we’re hitting the beach, dancing for summer.

It was families, mostly, allowing their kids to almost play in the water. There were couples as well, maybe dreaming of families, maybe trying to figure it all out before sunset.

I was by myself, having ridden the white Stella scooter the couple of miles to the park. It’s still strange seeing couples obviously younger than me acting obviously older than me. Not that they’ve lost their youth – their toddlers and preschoolers keep that spring bubbling in their eyes. But still, I am older and younger than almost everyone here.

A blond girl in her late twenties pulls off her shoes and socks, walks barefoot through the cold sand and over strips of cobble, down the beach, passing a tidal pool, and plants herself silently staring out across The Sound.

No one follows her (not even me) and she seems to be waiting for nobody. This is her time and her spot on this crowded weekend beach. Envious and not knowing why, I leave it to her and turn to watch a young couple see-sawing on a log someone laid over another log.

Children with sticks storm the beach and run to the water reminding me of Lord of the Flies. There is something wonderfully naturally savage about this and I can help but smile and hope I’m not their Piggy.

Carkeek Park also has a lot of trails and hopefully over the spring, summer and fall, I’ll be doing some light hiking there. But for now, I like the water.

Here are my pictures…

When I last wrote about I Can See By My Outfit by Peter Beagle, I wrote of the guilt that comes from stopping too soon or going too fast. There is another side to that guilt, perhaps the physical manifestation inside your body. It’s similar to how your stomach can turn due to unpleasant thoughts, but still, there’s another essence to it.

We always stop driving before sunset, partly in order to set up camp while it is still light, but partly, I think, because the hour before dark is a strangely lonely time to be driving something as small and open as a scooter as far away as we are. The thin orange light is going away so swiftly, and yet our own lights seem so feeble against the thickening air. Coldness begins to bloom inside both of us like a night flower, and each feels as alone as though the other were not there, and more deeply homeless than being a long way away from home should make him.

Even when I had just started, I was aware of that hour. The first night truly on my own, somewhere in Ohio, I raced against that hour and against the first of many rain storms. My original plan was to camp, but since the dark was quickened by the clouds and covered in the rain, I chose a motel. Though I would pick a motel over a campground more often than I’d like, I would never flirt with that hour before sunset again.

Just as the hour before sunrise is beautiful and sacred, the hour before sunset, if you pay attention, is solemn, though somehow almost profane. The splendor of the deep reds and pinks hover and slip under sparkling amethyst mountains as the last fingers of daytime lose their grip to the darkening east. You will never feel more widowed than riding west, always failing to preserve enough light to usher you to day’s end.

That lonesome vacancy that guides you though till dark is unhurried and I’ve found it is best find your home for the night before dusk.

As I would ride, I would become hyper-aware of everything – sometimes to the point of becoming unconscious to the road itself. Each town and each farm held lives that I couldn’t touch, but somehow touched me.

Everything I see interests me, and if I don’t stop and dismount to look at every pattern of branches against the sky and down every dirt road, still, some part of me stays behind each time. I see a house by the highway, and I put myself into it in the seconds it takes me to go by – difficult, because very few houses, seen as you pass, seem big enough for people to live in – and not all of me catches up with me before I am out of sight. A car passes Jenny and takes a fragment of me wherever it is bound. I wonder if many people above the age of five are this caught up in what they see around them, this aware every day and every night for all their lives. I don’t think there’s enough of me to keep it up for very long, unless you can grow yourself again from a single morsel, like a starfish, but today I would scatter myself along the road like a handful of seeds, if I could, as far as I could.

This is something only the strange solitude of seeing everything so plainly, yet so quickly, can give to you. It is, however, the kind of loneliness that you welcome, that you long to experience. The loneliness of the road, especially of being on a scooter, hundreds or thousands of miles away from the place you most remember as home is a loneliness you crave long after it’s gone, replaced only by the loneliness you’ve seen in other folks living and unmoving in the towns you’re slid through as you wander.

Everyone talks to us this afternoon. One of the things that has struck both of us deeply on this trip, in spite of – or perhaps because of – the fleeting contacts we have made, is how badly people want to talk to someone. They cannot make anyone hear them unless they scream, but they seldom really scream. Instead, they put letters in bottles and throw them into the sea of strangers, and the letters always seem to say, “Save me, save me.”

Like Peter and Phil, the travelers in I See by My Outfit, I’ve seen this across the country. Those who say that people are the same everywhere you go, have not actually been anywhere – or may as well have just stayed at home. But those who perfectly deny it, as I used to, are failing to see the thread that runs through us all. While we are not all the same, we all yearn to be heard, to not have to scream and to break those bottles holding our dreams on the rocky shores of each coast and upon the mountains, prairies and towns across all the land we’ve ever wanted to see.

The Gita Comparisons posts will return next week at their regularly scheduled time. For now, enjoy this little nugget of wackiness!

I don’t read Sampradaya Sun very much. Maybe once a week, maybe less. I’ll glance at it here and there. So it was surprising when I noticed that my blog was getting a lot of hits from the Sampradaya Sun site. I didn’t post there, never have. The folks who rant at the SS seem to rant about the same things over and over and over and never get anywhere and it gets amazingly dull.

Anyway, yesterday some fellow named Janmastami dasa posted a mini-rant about me, proving once and for all that the Sampradaya Sun’s editorial policy is a very loose “anything goes” kind of policy.

Apparently, he took issue with my post questioning Srila Prabhupada’s use of “lower birth.” You can read what I wrote here.

Though possibly controversial, I thought my post was, at least, a fair question to ask. I explained my idea of “lower birth” and did take issue with Srila Prabhupada’s use of it in translating this verse. I wasn’t a jerk about it. I wasn’t offensive. I was merely questioning why he chose to do so.

And Janmastami answered (which is fine) on the Sampradaya Sun (which is sort of weird). I’m not really sure why he didn’t just comment here, since that seems the sensible thing to do. But as we’ll soon find out, “sensible” probably isn’t something he’s regularly accused of being.

He starts off with some wild ideas:

One of ISKCON’s current and more prolific bloggers is Bhakta Eric, who recently posted this alleged “spiritual knowledge”. Clearly, if the ISKCON he purports to speak for felt that he was misrepresenting the facts, they would admonish him rather than making him a contributing editor at the Planet ISKCON. If, however, the points that the powers that be want made are as volatile and politically incorrect as some now being brought up, it would behoove them to have a surrogate speak “the philosophy” vicariously for them.

First, while I am a current and prolific blogger, I’m not ISKCON’s blogger. Hell, most of my posts are about scooters and Godzilla. As far as I know, they have nothing to do with ISKCON. And why does he put “spiritual knowledge” in quotes like he’s quoting me? That’s weird. I never said that.

I’ve also never purported to speak for ISKCON. They’ve never asked me and I’m certainly not holding my breath waiting for that phone call. And while I don’t want to throw pipe bombs at ISKCON temples, you could hardly call me a company man. I’ve openly taken issue with MANY things ISKCON has done and is doing. I mean, ever read The Hing?

I’m also not an editor at Planet ISKCON. I’m actually surprised I’m still allowed to post there [thanks, btw]. I also don’t think ISKCON has the power to make people contributing editors to Planet ISKCON, though I’m not sure.

I do agree, however, that if ISKCON, unbeknownst to me, is using me as their spokesperson, they should probably find a surrogate.

His second paragraph was an incomplete sentence and a couple of quotes from my post, so I’ll not trouble you with it.

Then in his third:

We find accusations about the various errors he finds in Srila Prabhupada’s writings. One must be struck with wonder as to whom this bhakta aspires to seek initiation from. One who feels the need to issue his bhakta’s eye view of Srila Prabhupada’s mistakes, complete with his analysis and corrections, must surely find some of ISKCON’s “in good standing” gurus highly attractive.

I don’t think I was accusatory. And I never used the word “error,” but it’s cute how he tried to link me with those who say that Prabhupada’s books are filled with errors and must be changed.

And yes! One must be struck with wonder! This bhakta aspires to seek initiation from nobody. I’ve been a devotee for fifteen or so years and when Krishna sees fit to send me a guru, I will most assuredly accept. Maybe Janmastami has some suggestions? To be honest, I’ve not found anyone “highly attractive.” Sorry?

The magnitude of the deviation is obvious when some overly pampered bhakta has the audacity to criticise Srila Prabhupada’s Bhaktivedanta purports because the idiots that he has been reciting Gita with for his entire time in association with ISKCON have no real understanding or appreciation of the mass of information they almost have at their disposal. These are the times we find ourselves immersed in. Can the massive correction be far off?

I’m a little cloudy on “magnitude of the deviation.” And I’m not really sure what an “overly pampered bhakta” is. But while I don’t feel that I’m overly (or underly) pampered, I am a bhakta, and pretty happy about that. Bhakta means student, right? Actually it means “devotee,” but the connotation is on studying bhakti. And I am. But nobody feeds me peeled grapes or does my laundry for me.

I’ve also not been reciting Gita with anyone, really. I mean, sure, I do the weekly Gita comparison post and there’s some chit chat about it that I have really grown to love, but I’ve not really recited Gita with anyone since my days at New Vrndavana. Now that I think about it, that’s sort of a bummer. Hopefully when I find people to recite Gita with they’re not idiots, goodness!

I guess I am the times you find yourself immersed in. Ho-hum.

And what is this “massive correction?” He’s so cryptic!

So, that’s about it. Half the things he said meant something else and the other half didn’t mean anything at all. Sad, really.

Yesterday, Smartz and I took to the road to find the old Yellowstone Trail in western Washington.

The Yellowstone Trail was the “first” coast-to-coast highway in America. The idea for it was thought up in 1912 and pretty well completed in 1913. Now, the Yellowstone Trail, like many large roads of that time, didn’t create roads. It used pre-existing roads.

Route 66, at first, did the same thing.

Many places have recently marked this old trail though it only existed till 1930. However, the trail wasn’t marked much at all in Washington. We didn’t see a sign all day (though, ten feet of snow may have blocked a sign or two).

The Yellowstone Trail put its name mostly on Washington’s Sunset Highway and Inland Empire Highway (at least the parts we were on today).

Interstates I-90 and I-82 cover most of that area now. But those aren’t as fun.

I took a lot of pictures and have captioned them, detailing where we were and pretty well how to get there. If you’re not at all interested in that, the scenery is beautiful, so you might enjoy it.

If you have any questions or have any corrections to make about my theories on the Yellowstone Trail in Washington, please feel free to add what you can, I would really appreciate it.

Click here to see the pics.

If you want to see a basic map of the travels, click here (takes you to GoogleMaps).

A little while ago, I wrote an entry entitled “Questioning Srila Prabhupada.” This is the first toe-dipping into that arena.

The quote in question is from Bhagavad-gita 9.32:

O son of Prtha, those who take shelter in Me, though they be of lower birth–women, vaisyas [merchants], as well as sudras [workers]–can approach the supreme destination.

What is actually being said is those that take shelter in Krishna can approach the supreme destination. That’s the whole intent of the verse.

Both Krishna (in the original Sanskrit) and Srila Prabhupada (in the translation) mention “women, vaisyas and sudras.”

In the original Sanskrit, it is a list: those of lower birth, women, vaisyas, also sudras. But in Srila Prabhupada’s translation the list is describing “lower birth.” He describes “lower birth” as women, vaisyas and sudras.

This, of course, is where the controversy is.

In no other Gaudiya-Vaisnava translation and commentary that I’ve seen is it translated as such. The verse is a great one. It is saying that love of God is available to anyone without discrimination. However, it also appears that Srila Prabhupada is discriminating against women, vaisyas and sudras, calling them “lower birth.”

To me, this term is not so much insulting as it is truthful. I have always taken it to mean “worse situation from birth.” Technically, the word “papa-yonayah” means “troubled womb.”

If someone is, for instance, born a black woman or in a working class family, it’s probably going to be a tougher life than someone born as a while male in a rich family. That’s just a fact. And technically, one would be a “higher birth” and the other a “lower birth.”

I don’t see this particular verse as Srila Prabhupada saying that “women are worse than men.” The real purport is that everyone is eligible, no matter your social status.

Like I said before, the original Sanskrit and every other translation avoids this confusion and does not claim that “women, vaisyas and sudras” are of a lower birth. But it does mention “papa-yonaya” – basically troubled families.

Why Srila Prabhupada chose to translate it this way is beyond me. While I don’t believe he was exposing a prejudice here, he certainly could have phrased it in a clearer way. After all, this is a very anti-prejudicial statement by Krishna.

Again, my take on it is that women, sudras, people from troubled families and pretty much anyone that’s going to get a crappy end of the stick due to how they were born and where they were born (black, gay, poor in a place that is prejudiced against them) is, by definition a “lower birth.” It’s not going to be an easy life because of the situation at birth. Lower birth = crappy birth.

“Lower birth” is a material designation, it has nothing to do with the spiritual (as this verse says). However, Srila Prabhupada’s choice to translate it like this could easily turn off women (right away) and workers/farmers when they figure out what “sudras” and “vaisyas” are. Someone could easily take this to mean that Srila Prabhupada is being prejudiced against them – and in his translation that appears to be so.

If he had translated it as it was in Sanskrit and as other acaryas and gurus in our line have translated it, it would be much clearer and wouldn’t require a long explanation.

There is a book by Peter Beagle called I See By My Outfit. It’s a memoir of two guys riding scooters across the country in 1963. I read it a couple of years before I did the same, in 2008, and am reading it again.

The first time I read it, about two years ago, it nearly made ride off into the sunset. This time, it’s like rereading my own thoughts (put down better by Beagle than I could ever do). There are some passages that I’m not sure you could get if you hadn’t actually done such a thing on a scooter.

Peter and Phil, the scooterists in this memoir, are taking this journey for different reasons. Peter is seeing Enid and will ride from New York to California to do so. Phil is along for the ride, to draw and paint what he sees along the way.

As I did with Ruby, they name their Heinkel motor scooters. Peter’s is Jenny and Phil’s is Couchette. Before either of these lovely ladies was Margot, a Lambretta.

Whatever we know about scooters we learned from Margot: how to clean mufflers, decarbonize pistons, install rings, adjust brakes and clutches, and, most important of all, how to start her when she wouldn’t go, and start her again when she stalled immediately after. You take out the spark plug, wave it around, look grave, scrape carefully at it with your special spark-plug file, blow on it, and put it back in. This satisfies her that something is being done, and she usually starts. It works with most scooters.

Though they were on early 60’s scooters and I was on a modern Vespa, the experiences were often the same, even as far as planning the trip went. They opted for the old AAA Triptik, but poured over it like I did with my own routing.

Our journey as been plotted on a AAA Triptik, requested with the idea of keeping us away from turnpikes and tollroads; and we have spent a a lot of time this past winter following red arrows and blue lines from one strip map to the next, telling ourselves the trip over and over until it almost seems that we traveled that blue road long ago, to the happy ending and whatever after.

I remember doing that. I remember thinking, “why bother riding it? I already know every street name, every highway along my route?” But there is an answer less obvious than you’d think. The street names and route numbers, counties and states are what we imposed on the land for us to find our way around and to not get too lost. Their true purpose exists only to guide us. If we look straight ahead, all we will see is the lines we’ve plotted. But to our left and to our right exists everything off the map.

I had forgotten through the long winter how good it is to be driving a scooter on a warm day. You become painfully aware of how much there is in the world to be smelled, tasted, listened to, looked at, touched, and comprehended before you die – a lifetime in every blink of the eye – and you find yourself twisting the throttle until she surges under you like a river, wanting to get to it all, all at once. You begin to fear death on the prettiest days.

But no matter how much you know this and how much you avoid this, sometimes beauty, nature and society ride bitch to speed and time. When this happens, all that can exist is the line on your map.

At Erie we pick up Interstate 90, one of those sleek divided highways that say by their very appearance: Pedestrians, Bicycles, and Motor-Driven Cycles, Off. Ordinarily we avoid these as much as possible, but both of us want to make time now. An odd mutual guilt forms between us when we either gain too much time or lose it. Phil knows that I have seen Enid once in the last eighteen months and that I couldn’t have waited the two weeks more to leave, and i know that the trip is worthless to Phil if he cannot draw; at the rate he’s been able to work so far, he might better have stayed in New York with the pile-driver and the subways. But this particular afternoon the vague guilt is his, and we roar along the faceless highway all the way to North Madison, Ohio, where we make camp.

I remember that guilt, though I couldn’t share it with a compatriot. If I spent too long in a town, or too long talking to an old guy, I would feel guilt – I could have made better time. But if I’d pull into my stop for the night before 5:00pm, that same nagging guilt reared up – I could have taken my time, rode down that farm lane, explored that town, checked my oil level.

Like me, when heading west, Peter and Phil had to deal with the wind. When the wind is at your back it will push you along. A strong wind can up your speed by 10mph if you’re heading with it. But that same strong wind will kill your speed, wreck your time and, if you’re not careful, can blow you off the road or into oncoming traffic. Actually, I’m not sure if that has ever happened, but it’s a thought constantly on your mind if you ride with a cross-wind.

On the highway, for the first time since we left New York, there is no headwind against us. I discover this by stepping out to pass a slow-moving truck and glancing down at the speedometer in time to see the needle slide past sixty and hold at sixty-five. Margot never went much over fifty for very long, and we haven’t been able to coax the Heinkels to do over fifty-five. As I stare at the speedometer Phil comes along side and passes, yelling “Seventy! Seventy!” like a Sabine woman trying to keep score. We race at speeds between sixty and seventy for about ten miles before we slow down to drive abreast and stare at each other. “We’ve been babying them,” I say weakly, and Phil nods. Seventy miles per hour isn’t much for a motorcycle, but it fills our minds with wonderful estimates of time gained and long pauses for drawings – perhaps even watercolors. The wind will resume the day we leave Ann Arbor, and the scooters will never go that fast again until California, but our speed makes for a triumphal drive to the Rodriguezes’, even though we do get lost for an hour in Ypsilanti.

I remember the first time Ruby pushed 80mph. I was stunned. Not by the wind rushing past me or the thought of what would happen if I dumped it, but by time. I imagined how much time I’ll gain! Maybe I’ll get to Chicago faster. Maybe I’ll be able to explore an old alignment of 66. Maybe I can relax for a bit at a sketchy Chinese Restaurant. But, like Jenny and Couchette, Ruby did that only a handful of times, especially heading west. Whatever ground and time was gained by her at 80mph, was certainly lost in Arizona where headwinds slowed us to 45mph on an interstate, in the rain and then snow, surrounded by 18 wheelers and pure, blinding terror. That is, until I learned about drafting and “surfing” the vacuums created by trucks shielding a crosswind.

Then the unsullied terror could be mixed with adrenaline-induced buffoonery. Maybe you begin to fear death on the prettiest days, but on the ugliest, you fully realize that this could be it.

I’ll post more entries from I See By My Outfit as I read on. Maybe it’ll inspire someone to read it, or better yet, maybe it will inspire someone to ride.

Not even a year after Toho blessed Japan with Frankenstein vs. Baragon, its sequel, Frankenstein no Kaijū: Sanda tai Gaira (called War of the Gargantuas in The States) was released.

Though the monster in Frankenstein vs. Baragon was killed at the end of the movie, he had grown from the heart of the original Frankenstein’s monster. If he could grow from that, then new monsters could grow from him. Thus the sequel was born!

When I sat down to watch this, I was in the mood for a good monster movie. Actually, I was in the mood for a Godzilla movie, but watched this because I’m watching them in chronological order and War of the Gargantuas is next in line. However, it didn’t disappoint. That very well could be because pretty much everyone who worked on it had worked on the Godzilla movies in the past.

Regular Godzilla Director, Ishiro Honda was at the helm for War of the Gargantuas, even co-writing the script with Takeshi Kimura (who wrote Rodan, Frankenstein vs. Baragon and others).

Akira Ifukube again provides the score, even using a saw in the opening theme. And of course, Eiji Tsubaraya heads up the special effects department.

What is important is the story…

Tossing about on the sea is a small boat that is suddenly attacked by a giant octopus! It nearly kills the pilot when suddenly a huge green hairy humanoid beast appears, rips the octopus apart killing it… then turns on the boat!

Luckily, the pilot could swim back to shore. But of the five crew members, he was the only one to survive. The others were eaten by this garganua!

The local authorities called up Dr. Stewart who’s an expert on Frankenstein. He tells them that it can’t be Frank – Frank lives in the mountains, not in the sea. Also, he doesn’t eat humans.

Nevertheless, more and more shipwrecks are occurring. The media is quickly placing the blame onto Frankenstein. But how could this be possible? Frank was just spotted in the mountains!

The green gargantua shows up at Tokyo’s Haneda Airport, terrorizing the travelers, wrecking some buildings and even eating a woman and spitting out her clothes. He then heads back out to sea.

Since everyone is freaking, Dr. Stewart and his assistant, Akemi, head to Tokyo to try to sort things out. Stewart wonders aloud if there could be two Frankensteins.

It’s been surmised that the gargantua attacking Tokyo doesn’t like light so much. He only attacks in cloud cover or at night. During a night club show, when an American woman is singing “Feel in My Heart,” the green gargantua attacks! Everyone runs, but he’s able to capture the singer. Before he could eat her, however, they turn the lights on, he drops her and heads to the mountains in confusion.¹

The people living in the mountain villages light bonfires to keep him away as the army chases him down with tanks and light fixtures, keeping him from the populous.

In a rare plan that actually works, the army decides to fight him with electricity. They throw bolts of lightening at him and even send electrical current through a nearby river in an attempt to kill him. What’s odd is that it’s nearly successful. Because of the constant artillery pounding and electrocution, the green monster is down for the count.

Watching all of this is another gargantua, brown in color and living in the mountains. He rushes in and saves the green monster out of compassion.

The military come up with the names Gaila (for the green one) and Sanda (for the brown). Sanda, who was raised in captivity by Dr. Stewart and Akemi, nurses the bloodied Gaila. They lay low for awhile.

Unable to find them, Dr. Stewart and Akemi take their search to a nearby lake. Some crazy teens are also there on a little fishing trip and sing-a-long. The sun is out, so what bad things could possibly happen? Well, soon the fog rolls in and before anyone could get anywhere, Gaila, the green gargantua, rises up and scares off the teens!

Akemi tries to run away, but falls down a cliff, saving herself by holding onto a root… but how long can she hold out? Dr. Stewart tries to save her, but can’t get there in time. Akemi falls, but is saved by Sanda, the brown gargantua! He lovingly places her at the feet of Dr. Stewart.

Fed up, the army comes up with an awesome plan: electrocute the entire lake and burn the forest down with napalm! High fives all around! Dr. Stewart and pals are not amused and really need to figure out a way to save Sanda and apparently nature.

Meanwhile, Sanda catches up with Gaila and sees the evidence that those wild teens didn’t get too far. The clothes of the dead are scattered around him. Sanda is pretty pissed and it’s time for Gaila to stop being such a load.

The monsters fight, but Gaila throws Sanda to the ground and runs away.

Dr. Stewart again insists that Sanda is innocent and that the army should only attack Gaila. They seem to listen to him and as the monsters are fighting each other, bomb the crap out of Gaila. He heads back to the ocean.

But another thought occurs to Dr. Stewart. If the gargantuas grew from cells of the first Frankenstein, wouldn’t more gargantuas grow from Sanda and Gaila’s cells? They’ll be scattered all over Japan! The conclusion is that Sanda must be saved and Gaila should be killed, but don’t blow him up or anything because that would be really bad.

What can be done? Gaila has entered Tokyo and Sanda is coming off the mountains to fight him! The city is evacuated while tanks bombard Gaila. He quickly smashes them with the debris of fallen buildings. Finally Sanda finds him and seems to urge him to be calm.

Gaila is having none of it! The gargantuas fight, pummeling Tokyo and themselves in the process. To lessen the destruction, Sanda leads Gaila out into Tokyo Bay when all of a sudden a giant underwater volcano erupts! Who will survive this incredibly convenient movie-ending plot twist? Find out on War of the Gargantuas!

Thoughts after watching?

It’s not a Godzilla flick, but, with the really obvious exception of the ending, it should have been. This is how monster movies should be made. Pretty well everything about it is high quality. From the monsters to the models – even the actors are good.

Speaking of models, since the monsters were smaller than your typical Japanese monsters, the model buildings had to be made larger. This required more detail and, not surprisingly, Tsubaraya and his team pull it off. The miniature forests made with real trees look exactly like forests. When Sanda rips a tree from the ground and beats Gaila with it, it’s real.

My only complaint is the score. While I’m usually a huge fan of Akira Ifukube’s music, this is really repetitive. Especially the march that is played over and over. It sounds like a generic Civil War march and will be stuck in my head for days, thanks. Oh, and the bow saw only being played over the opening was such a tease!

It was, however, fun to see Russ Tamblyn in a Japanese monster flick. Russ was Riff on West Side Story and the creepy Dr. Jacoby from Twin Peaks. His daughter, Amber Tamblyn was Joan from the underrated TV series, Joan of Arcadia. He, like Nick Adams before him, knew no Japanese. He spoke his lines in English while the other actors spoke theirs in their native tongue. He was overdubbed in the Japanese release, they were overdubbed in the American release (which kept Russ’s original vocal track).

The US version was released to theaters in 1970, sharing a bill with Monster Zero (Invasion of Astro-Monster). This American release is four minutes longer than the original Japanese. They must not have cared for the original score either as much of it has been replaced with Ifukube’s music from other Toho films. Also, they threw in some music from Blood Waters of Dr. Z for good measure.

There’s also an added scene from the airport sequence. Just after Gaila ate the woman, he is seen spitting out her clothes. The American release shows her clothes hitting the ground.

War of the Gargantuas is a mixed bag. You’ve got a great story that is actually centered completely around the monsters, but you also have a way too convenient ending and so-so music. Since I’ve already demanded that you see the movie Rodan and since War of the Gargantuas is packaged with it, why not give it a spin?

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Videos
Here is the original trailer. This is great because it shows Russ speaking in English while everyone else is speaking in Japanese.

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Monsters: Sanda, Gaila, and giant octopus
Locations: Kyoto, Tokyo, rural areas around Tokyo

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Producer: Tomoyuki Tanaka | Director: Ishiro Honda | Screenplay: Takeshi Kimura
Special Effects: Eiji Tsuburaya | Score: Akira Ifukube
Released: July 31, 1966 | 90 mins | Color | 2.35:1 Aspect Ratio

1. “Feel in My Heart” has the chorus “The words get stuck in my throat.” I recognized it from a weird Devo cover/parody of it – with Mark on vocals as Boojie Boy – on a live bootleg I had long ago. [↩]