Chernobyl Diaries (2012) Needed More Radioactivity

Because of my fascination with abandoned places - thanks to an excursion I once made to an abandoned mental health facility in Detroit during the 80's - I have had a particular interest in the former Soviet working city, Pripyat.  Where did those who lived in Pripyat work?  Why, Chernobyl, of course.  Yeah, that Chernobyl.  I look at pictures of the empty streets, desolate buildings, and overgrown parks, and I feel my creative side bubbling:  what ghosts linger there?  Who or what calls it home now?

The 2012 American horror film Chernobyl Diaries attempts to answer that for us.  Directed by Bradley Parker and written by Carey Van Dyke and Oren Peli (one of the creators of the Paranormal Activity franchise), it tells what could have been a great "what if" story.  For me, though, it fell a little short - it provided some decent quick thrills and really great atmosphere, but in the end, I just didn't feel it.  I love the abandoned city setting but couldn't latch onto anything the movie offered.

The premise is good and simple:  Chris (former pop star Jesse McCartney), his girlfriend Natalie (Olivia Taylor Dudley), and their friend Amanda (Devin Kelley) meet up with Chris' wilder and more affluent brother Paul (Jonathan Sadowski) in the Ukraine before heading to Moscow, where Chris wants to propose to Natalie.  Paul talks the gang into taking a day tour to the ghost city of Pripyat, and they are joined by former Spetnaz tour guide Yuri (Dimitri Diatchenko) and another couple, Zoe (Ingrid Bolso Berdal) and Michael (Nathan Phillips).  The day goes well until they return to the van, which has been rendered inoperable.  Night falls, and since the woods are filled with hungry wolves, dogs, and bears, the group stays in the van until strange noises sound in the night.  Things go from bad to really bad when Yuri and Chris head out to investigate, and only Chris comes back sporting a spanking new bleeding leg.  Oh, and Yuri's gone.  The group is determined to leave, but is met with severe disappointment at every turn.  And by "disappointment," I mean a pack of wild dogs, no radios, nightfall, and something worse on two legs.  The next night brings the group up against something that has been stalking them from the get-go and things go from really bad to "why did we agree to do this damn tour?"

Like I said, I loved the setting.  It was, to me, the best part of the film.  Pripyat is eerie and quiet, historically tragic and intensely interesting.  The idea of something lurking in the dark among all those empty buildings is very appealing to me.  However, I didn't feel a connection to any of the characters, even with the odds they were up against.  Paul, tortured over what he feels is his responsibility, came pretty close as he aches over what his brother is going through.  I really liked Yuri, too.  You get a sense he's pretty bad-ass, and isn't the stereotypical "gonna take advantage of these silly Americans" sort of Eastern European character.  He genuinely just wants to show them a good time.

In Chernobyl Diaries, sadly nothing really popped or crackled for me, and while it had a few chills and spills, it didn't really do much for me although it was a decent shot at the "from bad to worse" theme.  Not a bad film, but it could've been much, much more.

So, dear readers, if you get the chance to explore Pripyat - which apparently one can do with the right connections and the understanding of a short visit to the irradiated ex-city - make sure the van you're in works and that in case it doesn't, you bring some doggies treats for distraction.

Check out the trailer:

Roots Of Personal Horror, Volume 1

There have been a lot of factors that lead to my love of the horror genre. Everything from my fascination by the original "Kolchak: The Night Stalker" series to collecting ghost stories contributed something along the way. It's no secret that I have an affinity for apocalyptic revenant or infection fiction. You know, that unstoppable juggernaut of disease that might only spare a few lucky sociological experiments. However, it doesn't take away from my love of supernatural fiction, especially when it involves ghostly, often abandoned, locales.

I may have always been enamored with abandoned places, especially businesses or even spookier, services like hospitals or - gulp - asylums. I don't know. I have always imagined what history they had - they're ghosts with walls. But I can trace back to an adventure on wintry night in Northville, Michigan, when it took root in my subconscious for good.

One of my very best friends, Keith, lived near Detroit and often told us tales of childhood shenanigans. One such set of shenanigans involved sneaking into an enormous complex of abandoned buildings that were once the Wayne County Training School for Feeble-Minded Children. Yeah, you read that right. Try getting away with that kind of name these days. Or don't, because it's not cool. But back in the 1920's, that's what passed for a serious name. To Detroit residents, it was known by the much shorter, much more politically correct, "The Tunnels." This name was a result of the method by which one gets around in there without being detected: the steam tunnels connecting all the major buildings.


One weekend, Keith and I were joined by Ric, another of my very best friends and roommates, and made the trip to Keith's home for the weekend. There, we met up with Jim, Keith's childhood friend who knew The Tunnels like the back of his hand. It was a dreary, hazy winter night. Snow on the ground, slight rain glossing it with an icy sheen. We weren't even there yet, and it was surreal.

The first thing we did was hide from a train. Talk about a bunch of grown men acting like kids in the 1940's, we were that. Plus, we were going into an area that was forbidden. To get caught at that time was a substantial fine for trespassing. We had no intention of vandalizing anything, but the police don't care. Approaching through the woods, we found the first building and in that strange night, our flashlights and the fuzz-toned moon in the sky the only source of light, it looked like ghostly past and post-atomic future all in one.

My mind reeled. I got scared. And then I fell in love.

Old buildings with rust and brick and decay and graffiti, derelicts beached by history. I imagined: what was their purpose? What kind of person worked or lived inside the walls? What ghosts remained?

Jim took us inside the first one, then down into the tunnels themselves. Cramped, we could only go single file in the absolute and pure darkness. There was real danger. Maybe Jim didn't know every nook and cranny of the place. And there were a lot of those. Gangs had been known to frequent the place. We'd heard tales of an LSD-riddled girl trapped down there for who-knows-how-long. When Ric's flashlight started flickering, it was icing on the adrenaline cake.


The everyday trappings of society were everywhere, too. There was a bowling alley in the activity center. We found a pool. A theater. Rooms, beds, desks, even canisters filled with food in the fallout shelter. It was like we'd found a place frozen forever in time, aided by the cold winter air. So quiet, too. Only our voices and the wind, and that was fairly calm.

We saw some other things, too. A blue light moving past a set of windows. Looked at straight on by all of us. No road nearby, so it wasn't headlights. It may have been something entirely innocent, but we've always liked to think it was something else. There was also ominous, telling, and often hilarious graffiti. One scrawled message blurted out "Hail Satin!" I guess we were to praise fabric.

It was a real adventure, almost like the kind The Goonies have, only much less dangerous and marketable. But the images I came away with have stuck with me for years since then. I still dream of underground tunnels, ghostly feelings, and empty places. They aren't nightmares. They're sleep gold.

Much like the horror genre binds many of us as friends, the thrill of The Tunnels binds anyone who visited them. They're gone now, but those who experienced it even once still talk about it. As a wrestling insider in Detroit for a few years, all I had to say was "remember The Tunnels?" and it became a campfire story-fest backstage. Keith, Ric, and I still talk about it to this day. And we toast the memory of Jim, who passed away several years after. He was a really, really good guy.

The abandoned asylum and good friends. The rush of doing something we shouldn't and seeing things that were pieces of history. There is no doubt it contributed to my horror palate.

For some great pictures (which is where I got the two above) try this link at Forgotten Michigan. For more information, including maps, try this link at Northville Tunnels.

Thanks for reading this long post, fellow survivors. See you next time...