The Projector Has Been Drinking

I Never Did Alexander Hamilton For My Father

2012-01-26T04:33:00.000-08:00

There was a young bohemian who whimsically decided to skip out on his last quarter of college to see Europe, joined the Navy, met and married a woman overseas, and made a valiant attempt to become a writer, settling down in New York City for a spell. Around that same time another young bohemian who was already living in NYC made a small reputation from cartoons and novelty toys, then against all odds wrote a smash Broadway play, and spent an unsual amount of time trying to craft it into a feature film. Meanwhile back in Europe, yet another young bohemian, a rabid movie lover, was quickly turning out a string of hit movies, which, as one sage observed, were slashing film loose from decades of convention like a modern Alexander. In 1965, one of these people influenced a second of these three who created something that had a deep impact on the remaining party.

Herb Gardner's 1962 play A THOUSAND CLOWNS is now a familiar part of our cultural canon, so I don't think I need to explain much of the plot; its trope of a cheerfully unemployed wit forced to choose between his untethered life versus assuming more responsibility in order to hold the people he loves has popped up constantly in other works that have followed in its wake. While Wikipedia claims the character of Murray Burns was based in part on radio satirist (and A CHRISTMAS STORY source author) Jean Shepherd, it is just as likely a large amount was based on Gardner himself, since before he invented the glum and egotistical kids show host Chuckles the Chipmunk for the play, he himself served as foil and cartoonist for TV legend Shari Lewis on NYC's "KARTOON KLUB" in the '50's. It clearly continues to resonate with anyone who has ever fought valiantly to rebuke the status quo, or eaten multiple silver bowls of shit to keep a home for your kid...or been the kid who had to watch your parent eat all of that shit every day.

For as much as people write about the flawed morality of Burns' rebellion, that he is often selfish and impractical in his worldview, today it seems hard to believe that his lifestyle could ever be an issue. Plenty of people today have been spending months living off of unemployment, albeit not by choice as Burns does, and nobody outside of bloviating political media pundits would call them out as bums as Nick fears Murray will be by Childrens' Services. Murray to his credit has much more of a parental impulse than his unseen sister who dumps "Chubby" on him, and while he may not have full-time employment, he's definitely not a layabout sitting at home watching TV and eating Chuckle Chips while Nick goes to school; he's constantly soliciting Nick and anyone else within the range of his voice to visit the city, various landmarks, movie houses. He's taking advantage of free time and frugal living to enjoy the cultural opportunities of New York. It stands to reason one of his objections with 9-to-5 employment is that it leaves people too tired to do anything but come home, shlumpf in front of Chuckles the Chipmunk, and never go on any adventures. If anything, Murray is the prototype for Free-Range Parenting.

Also, I've always been struck by the lesser-acknowledged element of sexual rebellion present in the feature film of CLOWNS. While much action is still phrased in neutral words to appease what's left of the Production Code, we are presented with a story where a child is openly acknowledged to have been conceived by a promiscuous mother ("[Nick's father] is not a where question, that's a who question.") and is well aware his guardian is prone to having booty calls ("Your 'work' left her gloves."). When Murray and failed social worker Sandra Markowitz fall in love, there may be a partition around the bed when she spends the night, but sure as there's mustard on pastrami there ain't no wall of Jericho separating the two of them in that bed. For a movie that was being pitched to large family audiences, this was a pretty daring acknowledgement of the fact that "family" was beginning to be redefinied in society.

As a play, A THOUSAND CLOWNS ran for two years and like plenty of other successful shows, was optioned for a feature film by United Artists. Its director Fred Coe had produced film and television but never made a feature before, and as originally shot, was a mostly straightforward adaptation, with a little bit of outdoor action to open it up from its one-room setting. But after an initial edit, audiences and Gardner agreed that something just didn't work - all the laugh lines were there, but it just felt rote instead of dynamic. With the blessings of director Coe and the indulgence of editor Ralph Rosenblum, an unprecedented ten months was spent literally rebuilding the movie into the form that it is now known and loved. And for that, inspiration came from an unusual source...

By 1965, enfant terrible Jean-Luc Godard was electrifying critics and audiences with films that would tip their influences from Hollywood while presenting unconventional methods of telling their stories. BREATHLESS was startling with its use of jump cuts and fat-free dialogue scenes where, like the movie crooks Jean-Paul Belmondo's character idolizes, they get in and get out. A WOMAN IS A WOMAN confounded viewers just like its character confounded her men, by talking of being inspired by musicals but always stopping short of actually delivering a big production number, the only full music scene a static shot of listening to a Charles Azanvour record. BAND OF OUTSIDERS stopped its rival robbers-in-love narrative for a Madison dance that would be given homage in both PULP FICTION and THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW. At that time more than anyone, Godard was the playful smartass who understood that films were not THEATER!, thus should they not be bound by arbitrary rules of storytelling.

As such, Godard's sense of nonconformity was the solution to Gardner's problem. Rosenblum, already a fan of Godard's editing technique from having used the style for a crucial sequence when he cut Sidney Lumet's THE PAWNBROKER, began to apply some Godardian touches again with Gardner's input. The author on his own shot footage of morning commuters and synchronized them to incongruous jazz and march music to satirize workaday drudgery. A long introductory sequence with Murray and Nick was not only shaved down, but cut up jaggedly to suggest that instead of a single morning's conversation, we were watching an ongoing argument they'd had for weeks. An exchange of florid endearments between Murray and Sandra was replaced by a tandem bike ride underscored with a sweet and crackly ukulele song. The bulk of the movie still stayed focused on dialogue exchanges in stationary settings, but now there was a sense that this movie was going to stay grounded when it needed to be grounded, and expand like the circus car metaphor that its title suggested when it needed to expand. To be sure, there would have been too much sentimentality in this story for the aloof Godard to really enjoy it as tribute, and in turn your average New York Nebbish would likely look at one of Godard's films and say, "This is cute. This is nice. WHAT THE HELL IS IT?" But these two disparate parties in the common ground allowed for a fine, timeless movie to emerge.

Which brings us to that third wannabeatnik from my opening. Yep, it's January 26th, and that's my father's birthday. And for about as long as I've been Grave as Peter about loving the movies, I've known that Roger Heuck has been a big fan of A THOUSAND CLOWNS. When MGM finally released it to burn-on-demand DVD in 2011, I asked for it as a Christmas gift, and I think he was not only quite pleased to buy it for me, he was probably a little jealous that he couldn't hold onto it for a wee bit longer after I left home with my copy. I don't know for certain if he saw it when the film emerged from that near-year's worth of editing by Gardner and Rosenblum to an triumphant reception in December 1965, or maybe a little bit later on, but between conversations about the film in particular and his youth in general, I can well fathom that this one has stuck with him because it had a resonance with that young man who hadn't yet fathomed my existence.

Long after taking that unexpected break from college, my father had finished school and his Navy service, married a French-Italian NATO secretary in Naples in April of 1964, and stayed there for a spell with her parents. He had been writing since high school, and once in Italy made his first serious attempt at living the romantic notion of the American expat writer. It didn't pan out to a lot of success, but it did lead to a short friendship with silent film star Ramon Novarro, who had briefly decamped to Naples as well. By late 1965, he and his wife moved to New York, where he continued writing and selling short stories. He paid bills by selling encyclopedias in shady neighborhoods, dressed so nattily he was often mistaken for the local numbers runner. I don't know precisely when this sojourn ended, but ultimately, his father summoned him back to Cincinnati to run the family business, and his artistic aspirations essentially went into mothballs until the late '80's, when he took up the painting for which he has been so richly lauded for in the present.

It's not hard to play drugstore psychiatrist as to what my father must have gravitated to in this movie. I'm sure he always felt a little frustrated at not being able to make his artistic ambitions pay the rent, and envied Murray's flights of fancy and his gift for countering drab authoritarianism with impish wit. Later on, the identification with Murray's sober acceptance of his fate must have been easily mirrored when he too had to knuckle down and take on a more utilitarian job. And once I was in the picture and started expressing my own esoteric self, we never officially celebrated Irving R. Feldman's birthday, but he knew where to find a good delicatessen, when and how to holler and put up an argument, and made sure I knew the subtle, sneaky, important reason why I was born a human being and not a chair.

If I may throw in a sidebar, another enormous fan of A THOUSAND CLOWNS was the beloved proprietor of L.A.'s New Beverly Cinema, Sherman Torgan. It was one of the first movies he screened when he began his repertory programming in May 1978. Sherman too probably saw a little of Murray and of Arnold Burns in himself as he took on what became the daunting task of keeping the lights on and the projectors fed over the decades. He also did a terrific if culturally unconventional job raising his son Michael, who now runs the show with the same endearing mixture of patience and exhaustion as his dad. When Sherman died the day after my birthday in 2007, it naturally devastated film lovers all over the city, but it wounded me especially, because Sherman was a bit of a surrogate father, getting me into shows and telling stories of the '70's, and because I looked up to him as an example of handling the world on your own terms, as opposed to what I was experiencing in my employment situation, where, to quote big brother Arnold, I was exercising my talent for surrender far too often. Truth be told, in the wake of that loss and other drama, I flat out quit that job for 24 hours, I was so emotional...but then I backtracked on that too and returned. When I had the floor at his memorial service, all I could do was quote those final lines of Murray's:

"I'm sure I speak for all of us here when I say that I...Now, I'd like to say right now that...that...Campers, I can't think of anything to say."

To this day, I'm sad that my dad and Sherman never got to meet.

In the years after that 1965 convergence, Jean-Luc Godard's playfulness sadly metamorphosed into cranky pseudo-polemical misanthropy, and Herb Gardner's plays and film adaptations met with varying degrees of success but never quite matched what he unleashed in that first youthful barbaric yawp. Roger Heuck, meanwhile, did a damned fine job adapting to his adulthood: while the marriage to my mother didn't work out, and after years of nobly keeping a sizable workforce employed and well-paid he saw the writing on the Wal-Mart and sold the company, but he also found the woman he wanted to spend all his days with, and found another venue to express his love of all that was beautiful and true in the world. Like Martin Balsam expressed in the monologue that won him an Best Supporting Actor Oscar, he got up, he went, he lied a little, he peddled a little, he watched the rules, he talked the talk...he was the best possible Roger Heuck.

So today may not be Irving R. Feldman's birthday, but it is my father's. At last check his plans are to go out to a nice Italian restaurant. With any luck, he won't have to order a flashlight with his carpaccio. Happy Birthday, Dad.

Coming Undun in the One One

2011-12-25T10:41:00.000-08:00

I would like to apologize to what few readers I still have left for the drought of updates at this blog, and the tedious predictability of what few posts I've made in the last half of the year. Yes, it would appear that the only things that have gotten me off my keister and to the word processor have been a) obscure death memorials; b) puff pieces on pulchitudinous princesses; and c) blatant suggestive selling for merchandise I wasn't paid to create nor collect any treasure for purchase. What has kept me from writing, let alone writing anything of real substance...feh, that's an MP, not a YP, so I won't bore you with the details. I'll just bore you with something else.

Maybe everybody learned their lesson from the forboding start of last year and decided to make some improvements, because 2011 was a wonderful year of moviegoing for me, not quite the watershed that 2007 was, but similar in the excellent pace and parcel of good movies throughout and not just in the fall. As the countdown of 13 primes began there were many early releases that held on for an awful long time, until the limits of my categories reluctantly forced me to send them lower. I've heard more than one critic say that they could make a second list of choices just as strong as the first, and I'll join that quorum.

My one disappointment is that this year did not yield any strange, misbegotten, left-field, O.G. Watasnozzle-type movies that I could savor and pass on to other daring souls like a clubhouse password. Granted, SUCKER PUNCH had a decent amount of what-the-fuckery, but it did not qualify, because it is not a fun movie; when I watch it again, I will simultaneously be crying in my ice cream for that hideous, perverted corner of my soul that would not join the rest of my rational mind in abandoning the Saturn train, for it is that Black Spot which will certainly doom me to a solitary death in a welfare hotel.

I will however, award a special Jury Prize this year to Sion Sono's audacious, operatic, and deeply moving epic about guilt, sex, and redemption, LOVE EXPOSURE, because in its lightning-fast four hour running time, I was catapulted into a whirlpool of unexpected emotions unlike any other I'd seen in a cinema in years. A plot that encompasses upskirt photography, religious cults, and cross-dressing makes it sound like something you would be buying in a burlap sack in a seedy backroom, but it posesses every bit the sincere grasp of art and humanity that the works of Sergio Leone or Douglas Sirk tapped into previously. The long gap between the initial 2008 release in Japan and the slow rollout to reasonable U.S. availability made it ineligible for actual placement on this year's list, but it's a special film that you will not forget if you open yourself up to take the plunge.

And now that we've got our feet wet, on with the wade...

10 worthwhile films nobody saw but me:

City of Life and Death
Cold Weather
Higher Ground
I Saw the Devil
Margaret
The Myth of the American Sleepover
Shut Up, Little Man!
Terri
The Trip
Tyrannosaur

And here comes the deep end of this dive, The Top 13 of 2011:

13. 13 ASSASSINS

12. MIDNIGHT IN PARIS

11. MONEYBALL

10. BRIDESMAIDS

9. THE GUARD

8. THE DESCENDANTS

7. THE TREE OF LIFE

6. DRIVE

5. ATTACK THE BLOCK

4. HUGO

3. MELANCHOLIA

2. WARRIOR

1. YOUNG ADULT

And 2011 gets put in the box while you're all unwrapping yours. I pray that your year of diversions brought you some happiness, and for that matter, my writing about my favorite diversions was able to do the same. Thanks for sticking with me this far.

"I've got all the room in the world"

2011-11-17T06:41:00.000-08:00

The day before Sunday, July 18th, 1999, I had a birthday. Quite a triple threat, really: my first birthday in Los Angeles, my last birthday of the millenium, and my 30th as well. Displacement, end-of-the-century psychosis, and mid-life crisis all at the same time! So as a gift to myself the following day, since the actual date was consumed working in an undisclosed madhouse, I spent most of the day at a Playboy Expo & Playmate Reunion at the Pacific Design Center in West Hollywood. And the highlight of the visit, among many great conversations and autograph gatherings and a photo with The Man himself, was a surprisingly extended encounter with '69 Playmate and BEYOND THE VALLEY OF THE DOORS star Cynthia Myers. We talked about the movie, other current film, pop music, my career ambitions, her family...a generous amount of personal sharing for a first-time meet. She was rather upset no one informed her of the revival screening I had attended at the American Cinematheque in Hollywood earlier that month of BVD, or of an upcoming full retrospective Russ Meyer festival planned for that September, so I told her I would buy her ticket if she would be my date for the event.

We exchanged email contacts, and while no actual date emerged (since the venue did give her an official guest invite later on), a correspondence and genuine friendship began, that heartbreakingly ended with her untimely passing earlier this month, November 5th. Many generations of men, including my own father, would have been left short for words to have an ongoing line of communication with one of the most lauded Playboy Playmates of all time, so this was a privilege that meant a great deal to me. As such, I figured that perhaps rather than concoct another essay about her significance to the cultural landscape, since there are plenty of very good ones already available, I'd rather just present in our own words, albeit slightly redacted for privacy, some moments to reflect the simple joy of having common ground with the lady behind those iconic images. It's nothing worthy of a Charing Cross Road address, mind you, but it's something you don't see everyday, Chauncey.

July 19, 1999: a proper thank you note post-convention

I can't thank you enough again for the great conversation I had with you today at the Playboy expo and for your autographing my BVD laserdisc. You really helped make a special birthday (my 30th) become even more special.
I don't have exact dates yet for the September Russ Meyer fest, but as soon as I do, I will send them to you. I hope you will still do me the honors of accompanying me.
Meeting you exceeded the highest of my hopes. You're sweet, kind, and deserving of all the good things you've got. Best of love and luck to you.

Hi Marc,
I'm glad I could be part of your birthday celebration...thank you for the info on BVD also I will watch for you to give me the dates and other info!

August 10, 1999: a quick shout-out to me while prepping for a Comic-Con appearance

Hey, Marc,
Get this......the two stars of the "Blair Witch Project" got hired by answering a casting notice in the back of Dramalogue!! That's why I love this crazy business.

November 17, 2007: a condolence note on the passing of her BVD co-star and former husband, Michael Blodgett

I just saw this blog posting from a few days ago about Michael's passing, and I wanted to send my support and love to you. I know that you had a
lot of difficulties in the last stages of your time together, but I'm sure he was a very important part of your life and that this is sad news for you.

Thank you so much for the notice. It is very thoughtful of you. Yes, we had more than our shares of ups and downs but everyone does. It was five years of non-boredom that's for sure!
I can't help my curiosity, do you know how he died??? He drank heavily for many years.

Unfortunately, I don't know any more details. So far, this blog entry is the only source I can locate for his passing - I guess the family hasn't submitted an obituary to the press yet. According to the post, though, the writer is a friend of [name redacted], so maybe you should drop him a note and see if he can tell you more. I don't think he'd mind.
The only thing I remotely know is that [another member of his family] was a member of the video store [I like to shop at], and I heard a few apocryphal stories from the store staff that he would pop in and chat but be very evasive on his whereabouts - there was suspicion he was evading taxes or some other situation.

On a completely different matter, the hot young director Edgar Wright (he made SHAUN OF THE DEAD, HOT FUZZ, and one of the fake trailers for Quentin Tarantino's GRINDHOUSE) had wanted to screen BVD in December as part of a two-week program of his favorite movies at the New Beverly, but was told by Fox that they are withdrawing the film from circulation. Have you heard anything about this? Are those nasty people that control Russ' estate causing trouble and perhaps Fox is retaliating against them? They claim they no longer have the rights to it, but that sounds fishy considering it was their project in the first place, not one that originated with him.

It's all in Russ' secretary's hands..."Janis"....but she is so foolish, granted her and her boyfriend want to make all the money they can off of Russ, but they sure are NOT doing the right things. They don't even know how to interact with film people to preserve Russ' legacy. EVERYBODY could benefit..it could be a win win situation!
STILL trying to find out how Blodgett died. You are very perceptive...Michael wrote hundreds, maybe a thousand? bad checks, bullshitted a lot of people and never paid a dime in taxes. I know he was living in Santa Monica hotels. He always stayed there because I think he remembered doing "The Groovy Show" there and it made him feel good.
When I inquired about his death to Erich and he put me in touch (email) with [name redacted], of course I was very polite. She has not answered me yet. Maybe she won't? I just asked if he had had a long illness or maybe a heart attack.
Marc, if you hear anything please let me know....I'm curious if it was his liver....I have never seen anyone drink so hard in my life.

November 20, 2007: verdict arrives

Blodgett died of some form of Hepatitis. Well, he always joked about his liver being donated to the Smithsonian.
Be good, be safe.
Happy Thanksgiving!!

December 4, 2007: complications subside

Edgar Wright was able to pull some strings with Fox and he will be able to screen BVD on the 13th and 14th of this month at the New Beverly for his film festival. (Fox claimed there's some sort of music problem involving Strawberry Alarm Clock that caused them to pull fhe film from circulation, but that sounds fishy). He's pairing BVD up with Bob Rafelson's HEAD starring the Monkees, and Micky Dolenz will be coming to introduce it on the 14th. So it would be an added bonus if you were able to attend that night as well.
Tonight, Edgar is showing BUGSY MALONE with PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE, and Paul Williams will be there, so I'm excited for that.

Thanks so much for the update. Paul Williams....Sounds so exciting!
Life is so damn interesting! When you emailed me with the tragic news of Michael Blodgett's death, I went to the IMDB and posted my condolences...it was read by [a family member] who, in turn, passed it to [another family member]. To make a long story short we have become e mail friends.. if you can imagine that.
I mentioned that I have a friend (you) and you let me know when there will be showings of Dolls and events connected to it. She said she would like to view it with me...do you think the showing your telling me about would be a good one for her and I to attend?
I trust your judgment.
Keep up the excellent work!
Let me know how Paul Williams was...I hope he's a nice person.

The Sunday night show was incredible! The New Beverly was practically sold out. Besides Edgar Wright who was hosting, the other luminaries who showed up included horror director Eli Roth and screenwriter Diablo Cody, whose movie JUNO opens tomorrow and will likely be a big awards contender. Plus, as an added bonus, Wright added a surprise midnight show of ISHTAR to the program, and it was introduced by Quentin Tarantino! Paul was terrific, he spoke a lot about PHANTOM OF THE PARADISE (which was presented in a print almost brand new) and his career in general. I was struck by the fact that Paul is 67, but he looks even better than the "old" version of himself during the Faustian portion of PHANTOM. According to Quentin, who sat next to him, Paul had planned just to watch the first part of ISHTAR, since it started late and he's not a midnight person, but he not only stayed to the end, he sang along with all the funny songs he had written for the film. It was 3:30 in the morning when we all finally got out of the theatre, but it was a great time.
Now, when I spoke briefly to Edgar, he said there were still some kinks to work out in screening DOLLS next week, so there's a chance it may not happen. But I will keep you posted on that. So yes, absolutely, if it's a go, you should attend. You'll love Edgar: he's very handsome and energetic and I'm sure he'd get a kick out of meeting you.

What a fantastic turnout!! And, what a wonderful treat for all the fans!
Keep up the great work Marc!

And that, unfortunately, is where the correspondence ends. Part of the losing touch was just us going about our business and not having a real point-of-entry topic to start a new conversation. And, as I've learned in the recent days, a large part was likely the toll that cancer was taking on both her husband and herself; I had not seen her name attached to any of the events she had long been a fixture at, but I had chalked that up to other possible personal reasons besides ill health.

Which brings up the other reason I'm writing about Cynthia. Like many Americans right now, the combined costs of care for herself and her husband wiped out almost all their assets. The family does not have enough money to even pay for her cremation or for a chapel to hold a service, so a very generous friend and fellow Playmate is raising the funds to give her a proper sendoff. And they're pretty close to their goal, so I would like to play a role in putting them over the top. So if you have been reading as a fellow fan or just from a name-curiosity search, any dollar amount, even literally one dollar, that you can add to the till would be welcome.

Thank you, Cynthia, for large images and small kindnesses. See you in the long run.

Hat, Meet Hand: Has Anyone Seen Silver?

2011-11-08T17:15:00.000-08:00

I always find promoting my own work a bit of a dicey proposition, at least at this blog. A blog post that is ultimately just a crossplug to some other site, or more importantly, some other site where you're expected to spend money, to me is not a real post; much like my concern about lists, links are not literature. However, I'm a little tired of getting informed by DVD companies that the movies I provided my services to aren't selling, because it stands to reason they're going to determine that maybe it's not the movie that's unpopular, it's me. While most believe that the broken clock is supposed to be right twice a day, but I maintain if it's digital with a couple diodes out, well, let's just say where in the world is it ever 1-:7P o'clock? So I suppose it is my obligation to the men who gave me a microphone and a credit on the cover to spread the word on what I've done that's on the shelves, in the hope that maybe one or five of you (or, most desirably, 3000 of you) will drop some legal tender and take home a shiny platter that contains my voice on it.

To give you background, after the slow, prolonged demise of that game show, I spent a good couple years as a freelancer for the late great Subversive Cinema DVD label, and while I only did one audio commentary for them, I did plenty of other tasks that tapped into my well of creativity and cinema knowledge. Unfortunately, all those discs are out of print, though in many cases the printing quantities were so high you can find new and used copies at a reasonable price. I have since done the bulk of my work for Code Red, and it's put me in the orbit of many interesting films and people. I should stress, though, that unlike the greats of the DVD special features business, like David Prior and Mark Rance at the majors, or Elijah Drenner and Mike Felsher for the indies, I really don't get to pick and choose my assignments. In fact, it often goes down like this:

Fictional exchange: not an actual transcript

"Hey Marc!"

"Yeah?"

"I got this movie in that Canadian package, never got released. But I found the guy who did it. Wanna do the commentary?"

"Has he done anything I've ever seen?"

"Naah, it's his only movie."

"Whatever. Send me the screener."

Two days later.

"Hey Marc! You watch the movie?"

[a beat]

"Why do you hate me? What did I ever do to you? I work for free, I give you my learned counsel, and this is how you repay me?"

"You don't like it?"

"I was in pain. I had to mute the audio, I couldn't listen, it was so painful."

"So you don't wanna do the commentary?"

"I'll do the damned commentary."

"Naw, if you don't like it..."

"I googled this guy, he has an interesting backstory. I can talk to him about that."

"You're not gonna make fun of..."

"NO! I'm not gonna kiss his ass and lie, but I can ask him questions about the project and make him look good at least."

"Ask him about the Juggalos."

"What the fuck do Juggalos have to do with this movie?"

"The makeup this one kid is wearing looks like Juggalo makeup."

"You told me this movie is from '89 and never got released. Why would there be any connection between it and the Juggalos?"

Blather, rinse, repeat, usually over the span of 45 minutes, and you'll have an inkling of what I do to keep myself gathering dust in the ersatz "Cult Movies" section of the local Fry's Electronics while everyone buys the latest repackaging of THE PRINCESS BRIDE. Yes, it is true that much like the original pressing of "You And I And George", the DVD release of NIGHT OF THE DRIBBLER featuring my commentary on it sold exactly 2 copies: I bought one, and The Dribbler bought one -- Where were you? Did I mention that I take my pension in ~~loneliness and alcohol~~ free DVDs and no actual money? But nonetheless, I continue with this special kind of movie mishegoss, because, well, what is the alternative? NOT getting to be immortalized for 90 minutes? History may have taught us nothing, and there's plenty of those nothing-taught fellows out there who would gladly do my job for the same not-pay, so I'd rather be the fool who at least knows what he's talking about when someone's magnum opus gets its one go-round in the digital realm.

So in anticipation for the November 15th availability of my latest (and for the moment, last) work, the Shout! Factory Select exclusive release of Katt Shea's STREETS, I thought it was time to aim the barrel of my sawed-off journalism shotgun at my toughest subject yet...MYSLEF! {echoes ridiculously} Eh...I mean...myself. So here, in another instance of hard-hitting, buffalo-style journalism, is a ranking, of sorts, of every DVD commentary that I've participated in or moderated, in terms of how professional I come off, how illuminating the comments are from the panel, and how entertained you are likely to be by the discussion. This should reflect every piece of work I've done, save for two which, due to ownership dispute, have not been released - if those ever surface, you'll hear it from me - and another two where I'm actually just playing second fiddle to another moderator because all I really do on those is provide comic relief, and they don't reflect what I want this whole piece to demonstrate: I can handle things! I'm smart! Not like everybody says...like dumb...I'm smart and I want respect!.

Going from the butt-bottom to the best:

SCREAM

As I once bemoaned in a dedicated post, this is likely the worst movie I ever agreed to give a full hearing, and probably the worst commentary I've ever done. I spend the entire time trying to glean something deeper from director Byron Quisenberry, and end up with the aural equivalent of a shaggy-dog joke. Code Red, who recently reissued this as a double feature with TERROR CIRCUS (under its BARN OF THE NAKED DEAD alternate title), ported over the previous TERROR CIRCUS commentary track but not mine, prefering to use the bitrate to offer more footage of the charming and delightful Maria Kanellis making fun of the movie, a wise decision if ya ask me: would you rather watch an overdeveloped girl or listen to an underdeveloped thesis? So unless you are heavily into the backstory of bad cinema, and want to hear me grasp at straws that fly out of my fingers like poor Beth Howland during the opening credits of "ALICE," you can safely skip this one.

URBAN LEGENDS

So shocking that it had to be hidden in the brown paper credits for "THE UNKNOWN COMEDY SPECIAL," there is a work of homemade horror that, as a student of the art form, provided plenty of LQTM's, but probably would not be as amusing to someone looking for a degree of coherence in a movie. URBAN LEGENDS was an early effort by performance artists/pranksters Dino Lee and Carl Crew, which got usurped by producer Bill Osco and mangled up into what is now, as Mondo Digital observed, "A staggering train wreck that will have you doubting your sanity and rejecting whatever religion you hold closest to your heart, this belongs on your shelf in a deep, dark corner next to atrocities like COOL AS ICE, THE UNDERGROUND COMEDY MOVIE, and TRANSFORMERS 2." The commentary track with Crew, which was supposed to be a co-host gig with our mutual friend Lenora Claire until she was unable to appear and I had to go solo, is a fun listen, but I always got the notion that in klassik karny style, I was being kayfabed by Crew, especially on the topic of his late friend Eric Fournier and their controversial media creation Shaye Saint John. So between the lack of structure in the movie and the lack of transparency from the interview subject, I only recommend this to my most devoted fans.

THE BEING

Another Bill Osco production I got roped into. Since most of the principals of this so-called-spoof-that-doesn't-seem-to-have-any-larfs-or-sex were either dead (Jose Ferrer) or were too media shy (Osco himself), I sat down with the quite informative and still funny Johnny Dark for this commentary, despite the fact his contribution to the film lasts less than 10 minutes. You'll learn very little about the movie, but you'll learn a lot about comedy history from Johnny, who rattles tales about the great stand-up strike of the '70's, performing with both the Osmonds and the Jacksons, and his decades-long friendship with David Letterman.

NIGHT OF THE DRIBBLER

If you want a clinic on how not to write or perform a horror comedy, you can watch this. If you want to hear one legendary funnyman, one hardworking producer, and this squirrely nut trying to crack each other up to compensate for the lack of laughs, this one is right up your alley. There is a retroactive poignance to this track since neither me nor HOSTEL producer Scott Spiegel were aware that Fred Travalena was valiantly fighting cancer when he sat down with us, and would ultimately lose that fight a few months later; he coulda fooled us, as he was fast with the quips and honest with his assessments on the state of comedy. It's essentially the career retrospective interview that would not have happened were it not for a movie that Fred probably would have been happy to forget, so something good came out of it all.

HORROR HIGH

So, now we start getting into movies that I genuinely enjoy, and feel quite happy to be associated with. This occasion was borne out of an initial problem: Actor/producer Pat Cardi had long been challenging the ownership of this film by Crown International, and as such refused to participate in this release. And aside from Austin Stoker, most of the cast had disappeared to the four winds and could not be found. Code Red approached me about doing a "comedy commentary," and initially I bristled because I didn't want to anger fans of the movie like me who genuinely liked the film, plus recently there have been too many sub-par pretenders to the "MST3K" throne that were making tracks that were either tired drunken rambling or mean-spirited snark. But when they suggested I reunite me mates from "BEAT THE GEEKS," I warmed to it, because J. Keith and Paul know how to be funny and smart and not lean on tired condescenscion for laughs. And it worked out great: we cracked some good jokes, and I even got some legitimate history on the production into the mix. I think even Cardi would approve of what we ended up with.

THE PYX

I had quite the struggle to get this commentary done: it took a lot of honeyed discussions to convince Karen Black to sit down for one of her not-so-beloved movies, then there was the matter of nailing down a date to record it, and finally the finished commentary was literally added to the mastering process at the last minute! Thankfully it all came together. I think I'm alone in the wilderness in my genuine enjoyment of this long misunderstood film, which is really less of a horror film about devil cults and more a MEMENTO-style mediation on religion and righteousness. I only rank it lower than other commentaries I've done because upon listening to it, I have so many "Um" and "Ah" moments that the Toastmasters would grill me alive; I'm sure that's present on other commentaries I've done, but it just felt especially egregious here. Well, that and I occasionally lose my focus when Ms. Black chooses to take the discussion in another more interesting direction. Ultimately though, a long poortly-treated movie finally gets its due, and I got to help.

~~STREETS~~

Katt Shea had always been an inspirational figure to me - moving quite quickly from "Pretty Girl" dayplayer to stylistic auteur in a few short moves, with the nurturing of sex-positive and sexually-progressive producer Roger Corman - and it had always bothered me that her career advancement hit a wall. In this commentary track, not only did I get to meet an idol, I got to ask point blank what happened. And she answered it, in a frank and refreshing manner: Shea addresses low-budget shoots, working with real homeless kids, and why it's still so damn hard for women directors in this business. And since Christina Applegate's excellent and touching performance reminded me an awful lot of a girl I used to know, the whole thing got emotional for me; you might just hear me tearing up as we wrap. It also took a little behind-the-scenes wrangling for this to get out, so I'm very grateful you'll be able to hear it.

Update:Contrary to what I had been told by a trusted source, my commentary with Katt Shea for STREETS is NOT offered on the just released DVD of the movie. So if you ordered it hoping to hear her tell the story of the making of the film, I'm sorry I misled you.

THE VISITOR

Joanne Nail didn't make many movies, but at least two of them have found long-loyal fans over the decades. And when technical snafus forced a previously-recorded commentary with her to be scrapped, and I was asked to sit with her and re-do it, it was a privilege for me to sit with the eternal Switchblade Sister. THE VISITOR is quite a goofy movie, with its parade of slumming legends (John Huston, Shelley Winters) and bizarre patchwork of elements from every major '70's trend (demonic possession, space travel, conspiracy theory), but you get caught up in it all the same. Part of the reason is the legitimately thought-out and committed performance by Nail, which she details in our chat, demonstrating that sometimes the best acting is devoted to the most ludicrous stories.

THE CANDY SNATCHERS

This one is still the big glittering prize for me, even though technically I play second fiddle to Subversive founder Norm Hill, because it was my determined efforts that helped put the otherwise reclusive Tiffany Bolling and Susan Sennett in the studio in the first place. And when you hear them talk, you feel you're sitting in on some heavy emotions and confessions that have been waiting years for revelation - relief that work is appreciated, scars from harsh shooting conditions, lives that took deep turns. It becomes less of a chat and more of an encounter group, and you almost feel guilty for eavesdropping.

MEN CRY BULLETS

After all these years, after movies with higher profiles and bigger stars and bigger stakes, somehow, I still think this is one of my best moments, because it was my very first commentary track ever, done in the service of a close friend who was also recording her first commentary track ever. As such, while both of us would go on to more polished work, here we were like two kids playing dress-up and going for broke, me as the overly prepared interviewer, her as the iconoclastic director. Sure, I think you'll learn a lot about this specific movie and indie filmmaking in general from our talk, but I think you'll also learn about us and who we were all those years ago. And I think the thrill of the best commentaries is not so much dry information but really gaining intuition into the personalities of those artists that move us, what makes them tick...and in certain moments, finding out why we were drawn to each other.

And of course, there's my commentary track for LADIES AND GENTLEMEN THE FABULOUS STAINS too - but I don't really feel like I should include that on this countdown since it didn't get on the actual disc, and you can download that for free by just moving your cursor a little to the right and clicking. Nobody's going to judge my ability to move product for that one.

So there's my list of what I naively hope may just fill up your shopping cart and perhaps even pop up near the end of the year in wrapping paper under trees and 8-holster candelabras. Movie Godz willing, maybe next year I'll have some more commentary trax to ~~level the business end of my 12-gauge journalism bazooka squarely at~~ for you to listen to...even if it's just white noise to help you fall asleep. It's okay, I've done it myself; That SCREAM DVD is better than those Sharper Image environments synthesizers!

"All I want to do, is to spend some time with you..."

2011-09-30T05:18:00.000-07:00

For all the philosophizing, soul-searching, and navel-gazing that the onset of online social networking has brought about in the realistically short time it has existed, I've considered it nothing but a gift. Much as I can't be content to just enjoy a movie and leave it behind like the disposable entertainment item most others view it as, I cannot do so with the people in my four decades of life who have had the remotest amount of positivity for me. Thus, any time one of them chime in on a video I repost, or type out reactions of laughter if I make a particularly strong wisecrack, I feel very happy. It's a small daily validation that just as these people contributed to what I became, and what I am now, in a small way, they're letting me know I'm doing a small, similar amount for them as well. I am quite aware that most likely almost none of the people I went to high school with read this blog, since I'm waxing on subjects for which they don't share my deep enthusiasm, but I do know that they are happy for me and encourage my writing from the little pokes and comments they leave in the short bursts of correspondence such websites thrive upon.

It's hard now to contemplate that even a decade ago, for all purposes, unless you really worked at maintaining communication, that whole cross-section of your friends, of your life, could essentially be left behind for good. It was that heavy notion that came to my mind on a late-night drive home in August of 2001, when I began thinking of a friend that I had lost too soon...

Maria Olberding was one of the upperclassmen in my high school days, my superior by two years. She was active both in the drama guild, which was my strength, and in high-endurance sports, which was my absolute weakness, and worked both disciplines with enormous enthusiasm. Thus I was an enormous fan of hers. Were she not slain in a robbery attempt in 1994, no doubt she would still be working those talents. As such, to quote David Simon & David Mills, once her life ended, all of us who loved her joined a club. It's a very exclusive club. But the funny thing about the club is that none of the members want to belong. It's like some sort of secret society where only the initiated can recognize the other members.

Thankfully, because the majority of her life was so upbeat and energetic, so has her memory been kept in such a fashion through the Reggae Run, a yearly event in Cincinnati that continues to both draw over 8000 first-class runners from around the world for a daunting 5-kilometer race through the hills of the city, and raise large sums for the Make-a-Wish Foundation. As Elle Woods observed years ago, exercise raises your endorphins and your subsequent attitude, and to not enjoy a large spread of good food and solid reggae music is nigh impossible; with these two elements in tandem, it's a fine way to remember a great lady.

In 2001 however, I was far away from all of that. I only had sporadic contact with Maria's younger sister and my graduating classmate Patti Olberding, and I knew about the race from clippings my dad sent me, so in those days before Zuckerberg's Famous Ping, there was a feeling of being cut off from that section of my history. And while now I can message with Patti frequently and keep up with her and all our mutual friends from school, and I'm able to use my blog to eagerly promote this race in Maria's legacy, I thought it would be interesting to go back to that pensive night before all that was possible.

It was during that long late night drive from work when I was inspired to write this posthumous note when I got home. I didn't know if I would ever show it to anyone, especially on the public scale which I'm presenting it now; I think I just wanted to document a moment lest it get lost. With all the renewed cameraderie that I'm amidst today, I feel okay in sharing it with the world. Aside from some grammatical fixes and strategic hyperlinks, I am presenting it as is from a decade ago:

When I was first made aware of you, and who you were, I could tell you were one of the cool people.

I don’t use that term to imply some sort of exclusive cabal, the kind of mythical illuminati that run the high school in so many people’s troubled memories of their adolescence. I mean that I could tell you were one of the interesting people in the universe of our high school.

I think the initial instance of seeing you was in a play my freshman year, which meant already that I idolized you because at that time I still entertained notions of acting. At that time, the school was not co-ed, and I was still navigating the strange new world of high school (and in candor, doing a horrid job of it), so thoughts dissipated. After all, out of sight, out of mind. Then I tried out for the spring play, and made it in. And you got cast too. You and your sister. Although I look at the person I was back then and shudder at my maladeptness, you both seemed to see some good in me, and I was invited to socialize with you with regularity since.

When I became convinced of your coolness was at a cast party for another play. We were in your basement, listening to a mix tape you had made. Since you were older, you were getting hip to the really good music, the stuff that wasn’t getting played on the Top 40 parade I was still paying attention to. I remember it had all the now classic alternative hits that were still fresh and new and making all of us teenagers feel we were discovering something—Depeche Mode, Modern English, etc. It had an extended mix of Tears for Fears’ “Head Over Heels,” that had an intro and exit that sounded diametrically opposed to the short single version that was sandwiched inside, but that captivated me. That, and it had a song I knew existed, but had never heard, or at least, never listened to properly: “Red Red Wine” by UB40. By the time the toasting bridge portion of the song came on, the addictive chant of “Red red wine you make me feel so fine, you keep me rockin’ all of de time…” I knew in my heart that you were hip. You were pretty, smart, athletic, artistically inclined, and now, I knew you had the best taste in music.

With all those elements in your favor, long before Nick Hornby quantified it in literature, it was inevitable: I had a crush on you. You and your sister. Actually, in honesty, I had the bigger crush on your sister, because she was my age, in the same classes as me, and it seemed more plausible to possibly date her than you. By the end of my sophomore year, you were already on your way to college; it would have been totally impractical to attempt anything. But each time you came to school wearing those electric blue running tights under your uniform skirt, I always mused a little on the “if onlys.” Nothing ever materialized with your sister either.

I keep using the phrase “you and your sister.” If I can indulge in a sidebar, that last sentence is the title of one of my favorite songs. It does not actually apply to my musing, because the song is a plaintive ballad of a man who only wants time with the object of his affection, trying to counter the warnings of their sibling, whereas outside of perhaps some private comments about my overall sanity or lack thereof, I don’t think your sister has ever voiced any derogatory feelings about me. I bring this up because this is a song I discovered after college that I would have expected you to know, with your exquisite taste. Or perhaps one I would have tried to turn you on to, to make some sort of repayment for the music you introduced me to in my formative years.

I felt a great deal of sadness when you were murdered. I was in my 20’s, in another city, and I hadn’t seen you in a couple years, but when I got the news from my parents, I felt deep grief. For the family, for the friends, for never getting to see you again. And that’s where I felt an even deeper sadness, because I had to stop and consider that for all intents and purposes, I would never have seen you again anyway. By the time you left school, you were already on a different path in life than me, connected only tenuously by my friendship with your sister, our common friends and school experiences. Now we were in different cities, different lives, likely only to meet or hear of each others events through rumor and five-year reunions, seeing as a similar divergence occurred with your sister. Short of some radical change in either of us that was not a plausible possibility, we would have no reason to be in each other’s lives. My time of being part of your world had ended long before your untimely death, and it made me miss you more.

You see, some people are content to leave even the most idyllic of pasts behind, to be reduced to anecdote, a couple funny photos, maybe an occasional lunch, and staying smartly and rigidly focused on the present and future. The recent movie CHUCK AND BUCK is very uncomfortable to watch for the fact that it captures the awkwardness of what happens when two childhood friends meet again: one is still living in those memories and wants to behave accordingly, while the other has a new and different life and does not have feasible room in said life for that kind of friendship. Indeed, while I strive to maintain better than average contact with people from my past I consider significant, I’m smart enough to know that significance has diminished for us both. We have lives that don’t mesh, newer and more convenient friends, families of our own (well, they do anyway – I’m still single with no dependents and living a bohemian life, so I could be in an arguable state of arrested adolescence). The past is always pleasant, and we like to be updated on the present and future, but the relationship from long ago has become the acquaintanceship of today – it ain’t the same anymore. But those “if onlys” do stay the same. We are always drawing speculative maps for those roads we didn’t travel, the choices we couldn’t make because they weren’t available. And memory operates in such peculiarity, the most mundane elements can trigger the most deepest recollections.

Like tonight. I was inspired to write this because driving home tonight, “Red Red Wine” came on the radio. By now I’ve heard it over a thousand times, and it often just goes in one ear and out the other, like anything else we’ve heard in excess. But tonight, and frankly on many occasions before, when it played, I thought about the first time I heard the song; how I was at a party in the basement of a girl who was pretty, smart, athletic, artistically inclined, and at that moment, had the best taste in music. The embodiment of everything I looked for in a girl.

And even though I am now twice the age I was when I first received this hormonal epiphany, I still search for a companion with cool tapes and clingy opaque tights, and I begin to think maybe you still are.

I would likely never say this to you if you were still alive, because it would be inappropriate, or uncomfortable to hear, although I would like to believe you would smile and laugh and pat me on the shoulder afterward. And if you were still alive, some other man would be able to revel in that wonderfulness about you. Or at least I could think that the next time “Red Red Wine” came on the radio.

So, if you're in Cincinnati this Saturday and feel up for some heavy breathing in a forward motion, or just want to bypass the race and get to the music, please head down to Ault Park and enjoy some good fellowship. If you're not in town but want to put in, the Reggae Run website has plenty of merchandise for sale that will help the cause too.

Otherwise, just tell a friend you haven't spoken to in a long time that they still mean something to you. And maybe try listening to a special song as if it were the first time you heard it.

Never Get Involved in a Fan War Over Asia

2011-09-20T06:10:00.000-07:00

"I mean, seriously, Asia? You framed an Asia poster? How hard did the people at the frame store laugh when you brought this in?"
"They did not laugh at me."
"Know why you're gay? Because you like Asia."

For the progeny of talented and acclaimed artists, there is always rocky terrain where one would suspect there should be rose petals. In public, perceptions of nepotism and favoritism must always be fought, and the legacy of one's elders is expected to be matched or trumped. In private, there is often the feeling that one is in a competition with the muse for a parent's time and affection. Some Hollywood families are hallmarks of balance and support. Others are more fraught with conflicted emotions that get transcended only after years of struggle. As the man once said, "Buffalo Bill's son couldn't shoot as well as he did," but few take the time or the concern to ask whether a) he was still a decent shot on his own; b) if he had other skills that he was better at than his father, and c) as long as they were a productive member of society, should these even be an issue?

Today is the birthday of one of my favorite second-generation artists. A lady who drew me in by the family name, but took her circumstances and made her own fortune upon them...and with whom, unlike my hapless non-connections with another celebrity crush, I was able to share one all-too-short evening of convivial exchange. If you're reading aloud or sounding this in your head, the proper name pronunciation is "ahh - SEE - ahh"...as in a red door you want to paint black...but the moxie within is equal to the size of said eponymous continent: Asia Argento.

As stated previously, being a maven of the films of her father Dario Argento, I was essentially a fan of young Asia by default, watching her mature in a parade of Eurocult horror and the occasional arthouse crossover. So I got quite excited when in late 2001 America at large took notice of her, first as Vin Diesel's inscrutable love interest in xXx, and then with the strategically-delayed-after-xXx release of her writing/directing debut SCARLET DIVA. As is often my wont, I was finding myself alone in my enjoyment of her crypto-autobiography: patrons at my screening were mercilessly mocking what they perceived as her first world problems, and were hoping she'd be carried away by a "waaahbulanza" by movie's end. And as caustic friends have said countless times before, I have a fixation on brunettes with the appearance of severe emotional problems, so that partly accounts for my affection for this film. But what most see as pathological narcissism in this story I see as a heightened fiction; Asia is creating what people think she is like for the sake of drama, while indeed addressing some of her real baggage - a goth chick spin on STARDUST MEMORIES. And I also simply enjoyed the random traveling nature of the narrative, one minute in historic Italy, the next hanging with pretty gay boys at a WeHo IHoP...maybe it's the cinematic equivalent of playing with Colorforms ("Put her in France! Now she's in a disco!"), but dammit, it kept my attention. And from what few glimpses I've had at the demonic netherworld of reality television, it would appear an awful lot of those art directors have been copying this movie's aesthetic. It is a movie I somewhat enjoy more for its cheek than its coherence, but SCARLET DIVA demonstrated to me that Asia had the instincts of a good filmmaker, and since all my favorite directors have at one time been branded a pasticcio caldo, I would be eager to see more.

I did get to see more, both in film and in the flesh, as I will unfold.

We now go forward to November 2004, during the AFI festival at the ArcLight Hollywood. Cult-bombshell-about-town Lenora Claire was generous enough to tell me that her artist friend Gidget Gein had passes to the premiere of the new film by my intended future ex-wife, an adaptation of THE HEART IS DECEITFUL ABOVE ALL THINGS by JT Leroy. I had been wanting to see this film since I first heard about it, since I was curious about Leroy's work though I'd never read it (I liked ELEPHANT, which he produced and likely helped Gus Van Sant write under the table), and the concept of cosmopolitan Asia going to hard country Knoxville, TN to make a film made me very curious. But first, there was the matter of getting in.

Gidget met up with me and warned that he may not be able to get me into the sold-out screening, it would have to be wait-and-see. His '+ 1' for the evening as it were was filmmaker/author Kenneth Anger, who in odd circumstance was occupying the apartment previously held by Miss Lenora, who was not present. I hadn't spoken to her since the initial invite, so I did not know if she was just sitting out the show in favor of other things, or waiting at home to learn whether she could get in also. As for Anger, I'd met him a few times at work and other locations, and gotten a taste of his...ummm...how to be polite...his eccentric nature. And that evening he was walking around the yard on his own agenda while Gidget and I chatted and waited for Asia's manager to arrive and confirm whether more tickets could be freed up. Gidget found Anger, began to brief him, and it went something like this: [paraphrased quotes]

Gein: "We're still waiting on her management to arrive, see if there's tickets."

Anger: "You tell those fucks I'm not going unless all my friends get in." (looking to me) "See, I only go to movies in parties of three." (looking at me closer) "You should smile more, you have such a stressed look."

Me: (trying to make light) "Oh, I'm just anxious to see if I can get in, I've been wanting to see this a long time."

Anger: "Oh fuck all of this, I'm going home!"

And with that, he just stomped off never to return. So it was just Gidget and myself catching the show. Very odd. But fortuitous, because the house was packed and we got on line at the right time; by the time they started admitting, the patrons waiting stretched from the upstais of ArcLight all the way down the stairs and practically to the gift shop. Thus was this an evening when Anger solved my problem, literally.

Things got even stranger when we got our seats. Directly in front of me was a former contestant from "BEAT THE GEEKS". And not just any contestant, but the one...I think you know who I mean...the blond circuit boy who got the tainted victory in the Geek-off by rattling off a couple horror titles and a bunch of numbers to get an impossible to beat score and pissing me off enought to curse him out on air and cause my mother to denounce the show and berate me for weeks in despair as to how she could raise such a son that would use the "F" word on national TV? Yeah, that one. To our mutual credit, it was a diplomatic affair, and we made nice and called truce. Seemed an interesting enough chap, we had mutual interest in exploitation films, and he said he rather liked my insult of him from the show, describing him as looking like what would happen if Crispin Glover had a one-night-stand with a Breck girl. I commended him for even knowing what a Breck girl was. {You see, boychiks, years ago dere vas this shampoo company, and dey had the gemutlich blonde goils who were on the bottles like Ivory soap flake babies...wha?? What about the Ivory Flakes? Aaah, who needs you, putz!} I would later learn that my former Breck bête was in fact comedian John Cantwell, co-founder of the acclaimed sketch group the Nellie Olesons, so it's probably a good thing we're on the same side now.

THE HEART IS DECEITFUL was not a pleasant evening's diversion, that's for dead sure. There is very little element of hope in this movie, barring the fact that what was a purportedly loose autobiographical story had a de facto happy ending because "the real JT Leroy" was alive and writing now and had people looking out for him. I had to admit to feeling a sort of abuse fatigue, watching boy protagonist Jeremiah suffer one humiliation after another at the hands of his unhinged mother (played by Asia) and a long string of untrustworthy adults and thinking it's never going to get better, so is there any other point to this story? But yes, it was a good film. The child actors had roles with character arcs adult actors dream of, and everyone else managed to create scary people that were still human and rounded. I especially liked one scene with Peter Fonda as the ultra-pious grandfather grilling Jeremiah with questions and showing a bizarre, stoic sympathy to his plight even though he's going to ultimately make it worse by instilling an irrational fear of God. TARNATION was much better in the 2004 series of "resilliency of abused children" themed films, but this sophomore feature proved Asia had a distinct voice as an artist. And today, long after the revelation of Leroy as a creation of Laura Albert and Savannah Knoop, the film that pseudo-scandal inspired is still worth your time if you're ready to get down with the sickness.

One month later, the weekend before Christmas, I had been assisting with hosting and closing a Friday midnight movie, a fairly regular activity for me, except for what would follow when I casually checked my email at 2 a.m. for the first time since before I left for the theatre, and saw a message from the ubiquitous Lenora...

"What time do you get off work? Asia's having a going away party tonight. Call me!"

My thought process worked remarkably fast. Lenora Claire -> Gidget Gein -> Oh, snap: THAT Asia!

I grabbed the phone and dialed feverishly. Lenora was still up, but on her way out of the party, it appeared to be winding down. But she said if I hurried, I could catch the last gasps. I thanked her, punched up Mapquest so that I wouldn't be hunting like a fool around the neighborhood, and burned rubber to get there. Found parking and found the house much easier than I should have under my normal cloud of fuckupitude. Walked in, and yes, the house had the barren messy allure of a move. What I gleaned from Lenora was that Asia was going back to Europe, and a lot of what was left in the house would be up for grabs. Not many people were around, but those that were all looked like they'd been there a while.

Within a few minutes I was looking right at her.

NOT ACTUAL PHOTOGRAPH FROM PARTY;
LIKELY ACTUAL FACIAL EXPRESSION

Naturally, there was the brief awkwardness of having to explain how a solemn Dickensian street urchin in a black trench and a large soda cup wandered into her party.

"Helloow."

"Hello, I'm Marc. I'm a friend of Gidget's."

"Ah yez he iz upstairzz."

Gidget was indeed upstairs with his girlfriend and other appropriately glam types. He was happy to see me, asked me about an upcoming reissue of ON THE WATERFRONT, and we talked of favorite moments from the film. (His is, of course, "I coulda been a contender," mine is Karl Malden's eulogy for the dockworker, "This was a crucifixion!") A monitor aired what appeared to be a poor tape of some '70's-era film, and naturally I was occupied with trying to identify it. Asia came upstairs looking for her camera and a light. By the time she found her lighter, I correctly identified the movie: it was the documentary MARJOE, about former child evangelist turned B-movie actor Marjoe Gortner. I asked if playing that tape was her idea. She was impressed that I was the only person to correctly identify the movie. "No one elze here knowwz Marchoe." A somewhat dazed lady friend of a handsome fellow lying on the nearby bed seconded the right-on for Marjoe. When she found her camera, she asked to take my picture. I set down my soda cup but she insisted that I hold it in the picture. She pulled a couple curtains behind me, positioned me...next best thing to being directed by her in an actual film. Gidget told her the story of the packed AFI premiere of THE HEART IS DECEITFUL ABOVE ALL THINGS, and I provided the color commentary on how I wound up with Kenneth Anger's ticket. She was amused and not surprised at the curious turn of events.

Sadly, fate was kind but time was not: practically everyone disembarked around 3 a.m. She entreated the bed-sitting couple to stay a little longer..."We could zit a while and talke abowt muuzik."...but they had to go, and if "Fab iz leeving", everyone had to leave. And as I tried to think of musicians with that name since he did not look familiar to me, I thus came up with the double-edged thought, "Was I in the room with a Stroke?" So in making my goodbyes, I was able to do the following:

1) Tell her I had been looking forward to meeting her since moving from Ohio 5 years before, and was quite thankful to get this first/last chance;
2) Proclaim that I enjoyed both of her directorial outings and that I hoped to work on one with her in the future. She asked what I did, I told her that I wrote, and had at least two scripts with her in mind;
3) Gave her a quickly-improvised going-away present, a copy of the now out-of-print 2002 Sins o' the Flesh calendar. I figured she would appreciate some lovely cheesecake photos of L.A.'s ROCKY HORROR shadow cast, and since she would be leaving the next day, I would not be able to lure her to an actual performance as I had hoped. Embarrasingly, the calendar had gotten wet from an errant partygoer (along with some CDs I had brought from the car because people had been taking turns DJ'ing), but she found it amusing and adding of character.
4) As she said goodnight in Italian, it led me to riff a bit clumsily in Italian and French in turn, explaining my mother's mixed background. She liked the fact that my mother still only speaks French to me to keep me from losing it.

I can't call the night a total smash, because it was all over much too quickly and I didn't get to ask any of the things that I have wanted to ask for years. Had I access to the web 2 hours earlier, I could have arrived there in a timelier manner to enjoy a more substantial party. But 20 minutes with a subject of admiration is better than none at all. And while I doubt I made any large impression, she was quite nice, admitting that she is shy by nature despite the exhibtionistic public persona out there.

"Please don't stay away from here too long. I want to meet you again." I said.

"Then we weell have to do so," she replied.

I contentedly walked back to the car, clutching my slightly-soaked CDs. Water damaged jackets would normally annoy me, but now I have a story behind them: instead of just a household accident, it's "Oh yeah, that's one of the CD's that got damp at Asia's going-away party." I take my memory touchstones where I can get 'em.

After almost 7 years, things have changed for us both. Happily for her, Asia has married and dotes over her children like any good old European mamma. Happily for me, I started this blog and have slowly begun to reclaim some degree of public validation for my otherwise dubious body of knowledge. Sadly for us, Gidget died a couple years back, much too young. Asia has not directed another movie, but she still acts in plenty of them and they're always provoking curiosity. I have not been lucky enough to have that promised second encounter, but the first one took long enough so patience is worth maintaining.

What has not changed is that Asia has not had to do anything she is not passionate about; no paycheck gigs to pay a mortgage, no Hollywood dreck to please an agent. She's an all or nothing kinda woman, so here's a little tribute to all that:

Buon compleanno e buon viaggio, donna Asia. A giorno quando voi rittorno e mi videre ancora.

"Do you ever feel like there's a thousand people locked inside of you?"

2011-08-20T06:50:00.000-07:00

I found out quite unexpectedly about Jaime Grijalba's challenging Richard Kelly blogathon at his Exodus 8:2 site; had the maverick Eric Kuersten at Acidemic not provided a submission of his own, I likely would not have heard about it at all. But since it's going on, it provides me an opportunity to yet again race under the wire to offer my thoughts on the much-battered sophomore outing from the ballsy writer/director.

Having seen all three of his theatrical features, and also Tony Scott's film of his screenplay of DOMINO, a theme has come to my mind that I don't see much exploration of. For all the expansive environments he presents, be it the suburban playground of DONNIE DARKO or the penultimate days of apocalypse in cosmopolis in SOUTHLAND TALES, or the southwest social junkyard of DOMINO, all of his produced screenplays also suggest that, quite possibly, these dramas exist entirely within the mindscape of one of the movie's characters, as purgative fantasies.

For an obvious example, at its core, DONNIE DARKO is a retelling of Ambrose Bierce's AN OCCURRENCE AT OWL CREEK BRIDGE, only instead of a condemned soldier fantasizing of escape to home and wife, it is a troubled teen who, in the seconds he has to contemplate his death, purges his guilt for the tumult he's created by fantasizing that it's all for the best, and he will be vindicated by his family and peers. The haunting, Kieslowski-esque "Mad World" montage serves the latter purpose - even Patrick Swayze's false healer/pedophile character can sense the loss, because while his career is ruined in Donnie's alternate reality, it brings a closure to his double life that he will still be tortured by in a Donnie-less world. All the allusions to theosophy and portals could just as easily be deathbed notions of escape from his environment, or perhaps his transition into another existential plane, a theme revisited in Kelly's adaptation of Richard Matheson's story "Button, Button" into THE BOX. For a more opaque example, Museum of Cinema proprietor Blake Etheridge has posited that in Kelly's screenplay for DOMINO, the events described to government investigator Taryn Mills by Domino Harvey are entirely a lucid mescaline fever dream; Domino has been earning a living as a bounty hunter, but the events which brought her into custody are by no means as colorfully bizarre as she is describing them. Consequently, with SOUTHLAND TALES, while Kelly would like the viewer to plunge into the adjuncts to the film (the prequel comic books, Krysta Now's website, Boxer Santoros' MySpace page) and immerse themselves in the side details of his ambitious vision, they're all red herrings, entertaining but non-essential, in the same manner that "The Philosophy of Time Travel" is an engaging but ultimately needless sidebar to DONNIE DARKO.

Before I go any further, I want to give a huge acknowledgement (and some web hits, I hope) to the excellent and provocative critic Kim Nicolini, whose wildly enthusiastic review of SOUTHLAND TALES back in 2008 inspired my own analysis, which I initially offered only to her and a few messageboard denizens. Kim had eagerly devoured all the extracurricular material Kelly created and thus included them in her analysis of the film, so it feels a little funny that I am also praising it while dismissing said added material which was partly integral to her enjoyment. But then, much like Hercule Poirot stated in MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS, this mystery has a simple solution and a complex solution, and perhaps they are both correct.

SOUTHLAND TALES is another extended fantasy, though despite the constant allusions to "the end" not a deathbed fantasy. To me, almost all of the sprawling tale is a somewhat drug-induced construct of Justin Timberlake's wounded war vet narrator Private Pilot Abilene, who is wrestling with how to deal with the injuries done to him, both by his best friend Taverner in combat, and by his country as a whole. Key to my reading is that aside from tertiary contact with minor characters, and his firing the fatal shot that kills a government mole (which would thus be an imaginary act through this reading), Abilene has no interaction with Boxer, Krysta, the Frost family, or any other of the ostensible leads of the story. Abilene lives separated from them all in medicated inertia amidst a hyperpoliticized America, angry with the friend who scarred him, the politicians who sent him to kill, the revolutionaries who failed to stop it, the celebrities who sold the war to him, etc.

So he begins to split these people as if they were all "good cop/bad cop" (literally for Scott's character Taverner), which allows him to explore and empathize with their redeeming qualities. By letting his imagination run wild, he finally begins to see that all causes can be corrupted, good souls make bad compromises - the duality of humanity is inescapable. And he sees how to reconcile those two halves, in the almost literal manner of his former best friend. Yes, the friendly fire incident left Abilene ugly and wounded, but it also got him out of the war zone, where he would have likely perished, and back to a semi-comfortable life in America. The "end of the world" he keeps talking of is not a literal one, but of the fogged, drugged world of hurt and anger he inhabits - the "bang" is the necessary rush of pain when the drugs are gone and he is fully conscious of everything that's happening. And now that Abilene can understand that his friend Taverner can be both source of his disfigurement and savior of his life, as can his country be, he can forgive them both and start his life anew.

I am always left to wonder if this is an autobiographical read on Kelly's behalf too. In interviews, Kelly has never been terribly vocal about politics (I've found no declared party affiliation) or religion (for all the constant notions of Christ figures in his movies, he professes to be an athiest). But when one considers that the Republican party is depicted as the initial antagonists of his story [though ultimately, every fringe group is shown to be venal and corrupt], and Dwayne Johnson and Sarah Michelle Gellar were registered Republicans during filming, that odd contrast offers intrigue. The film definitely takes a dim view of the Iraq war and its effect on society, but this spirit of collaboration with actors of an ostensibly polarized opinion to his parallels Abilene's resolution, as if to say Kelly once judged his stars by their politics, but now can see they had a sincere belief in the same manner he had one that was in opposition, and that all of them found flaws in those systems of belief.

On a dishier level, I'm also rather fond of the possible "shoot" aspect of the tensions between the characters played by "SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE" alumnae Jon Lovitz, Nora Dunn, Amy Poehler, and Cheri Oteri. The four play characters very definitely at odds with each other, and each actor comes from a different incarnation of the show's history (Dunn and Lovitz sharing theirs). Again, there's no high profile accounts of any rivalries between the performers, but comedians are a family that can be both collaborative and savage, so when Poehler's character castigates Oteri's with "Just 'cause it's loud doesn't mean it's funny!", you are reminded that Oteri's "SNL" tenure consisted of portraying a lot of shrill characters, and Dunn's character's duplicitousness towards her cause may remind older fans of her rather self-serving refusal to work with shock comic Andrew "Dice" Clay when he appeared on the program. Comics do certainly love to milk dirty laundry for a laugh, so it wouldn't surprise me if Kelly encouraged the performers to improv and throw a few low blows.

I instinctively feel I'll always carry a minority opinion on SOUTHLAND TALES, and depending upon my debate opponent, I may not always be in the mood to defend it; if left to fight an army of snarksters fully bent on declaring it "Worst. Movie. Ever.", then, as the late Frankie Bastille once said, I may as well be Captain Kirk left to fight the Klingons in a Mercury fucking station wagon. But it's a film that's given me stimulation over repeat viewings, and for fans and foes of Richard Kelly's who aren't intimidated or annoyed by the film equivalent of an Everlasting Gobstopper, I would firmly say it's worth visiting multiple times as well.

Sarah Holcomb: A Letter for a Lost Friend

2011-08-18T06:19:00.000-07:00

Hello, Ms. Holcomb. My name is Marc Edward Heuck. How are you? I know that is a banal question that gets thrown around for empty conversations several times day, but I am honestly interested. You don't have to give a boilerplate answer like "fine" or "okay" if you don't want to; I certainly don't like those vague terms. I always lean towards words like "reasonable" or "content" myself - it's still pleasant enough to let the moment fizzle and go back to the day's business, but it does makes the other person pay attention and notice that I'm not just saying what they expect to hear. And right now, I would like to hear whatever is on your mind, in however manner you would like to express it.

"Once I was part of the scenery
Now I am part of the problem
Everyone looks at me funny these days
But I'm not laughing

Nobody knows what to say to me
Nobody bothers to ask
Once I was part of the problem
Now I am part of the past"
--Mike Viola

I know who you are. Like many who perhaps try to strike up conversation with you, I grew up in your shadow. You're roughly a generation older than I am, you were already making commercials and ready for college while I was still in middle school, so I was not supposed to be seeing you or the movies that you were so funny in. In fact, I recall my mother literally gave me a Come To Jesus speech when she found out my father let me watch them during my weekends in his custody. But the dirty deed was done, and besides having two movies that I would go on revisiting to the present day, I really liked Clorette DiPasto and Maggie O’Hooligan, I wanted to be friends with them. I didn't want to date them - Clorette was too young and sweet and to try heavy petting with her would make me feel as guilty as Pinto felt, and Maggie was so ruff and tuff and pissed off all the time that I probably would have annoyed her as a boyfriend - but they were good-hearted gals and it would have been fun to spend more time with them beyond what the VHS tapes offered. And so, as my lifelong obsession with film got honed and refined, and I started paying attention to character actors, I figured out that I wanted to be friends with you, Sarah Holcomb.

That's an odd statement to write, and I'm sure it's a hard statement for you to read, because I've spent a lot of time piecing together your life's story, and the recurring line I'm finding is that you didn't have a lot of good friends...or at least, the right kinds of friends. There were probably the enabler friends, the ones who knew that you had health necessities but instead of helping you manage them, they took advantage of them because they found it entertaining. And the fair-weather friends from the movie sets, who liked you hanging around unless you got to be all heavy and uncool, and then forgot about you when they moved on to other movies and other friends while you took the steps necessary to heal yourself. Certainly there were good, kind people who wanted to help you, but couldn't understand what you needed, or lacked the patience to be there when you couldn't go it alone. And among the myths that have arisen since you took your exit from show business, what is certainly the most heartbreaking one, provided that it is true - and I speak for many when I suspect and pray it is not - is that over the years, you have been passing your time in near-seclusion, never seen in pleasant company or sharing animated conversation with others. Of course, if that is true, maybe that is what you want, and from that track record of people letting you down in the past, I would not find any fault with that choice. Similarly, hearing a complete stranger in the cyberverse say they want to keep company with you may well sound sour as well, since I don't really know you, we're not in the same city, and "cyberhugs" are empty treacle when one feels really isolated.

"That's the memory I filed on the fringe
Along with the memory of the pain you lived in

I don't have the password
But the path is chainlinked
So if you've got the time
Set up the tone to sync
Tap in the code
I'll reach you below

Hello, hello
Are you out there?"
--Poe

Sifting more through the truths and the speculation in the wake of your exit, I can imagine the hurt and pressure of trying to keep all your conflicts contained in that harsher period of history, when mental and emotional obstacles were not spoken of in the common vernacular, but were more often fodder for ridiculous third-act twists in horror movies. Today when bad wiring and bad choices reach critical mass, an entertainer can publicly say they are seeking help and no one will blink. Heck, I have close friends who speak candidly about their struggles with depression or bipolar behavior and the progress they are making in keeping it from devastating them. We might be a society that overdiagnoses and overmedicates what is arbitrarily determined to be aberrant activity, but at least we understand that these are real problems and no one need apologize for them. In this modern climate, I could easily imagine you engaging in some gallows humor, perhaps using that lovably terrible Oirish accent from CADDYSHACK to mutter "Ran outta me meds agin; that's a' ah need!". I can't help but feel that you could have been much more at ease in those later years that I came of age, and would not have to make the all-or-nothing choice that you did.

"You had a dream
You know you dreamt so much
You had a dream
You know it meant so much

You're just a victim of the circumstance
I mean, what else could you do?
You saw your dream and you just took a chance
And for a while your dream came true
What could you do?"
--Pete Ham

What troubles me most in the fog of rumor about your life now is the notion that you take no pride or pleasure in your small but potent body of work. That because of all the terrible realities that took place when the cameras stopped rolling, you can't look at Clorette today and laugh, and appreciate that you had excellent comic timing. Or that in the off chance someone recognized you and tried to compliment you, it would only send you back to the bad times and thus darken the moment. Again, a perfectly legitimate and understandable reaction if this is true, but as a viewer who loves to watch your finest hours, still a sad thought. Because it was not just Elton John sitting in the 22nd row and looking at you and our other favorite screen females with simple innocent thoughts of appreciation and respect back then, and today there's even more of us who genuinely like you for being such a great presence in those movies. To learn of any apocryphal sordid events offscreen would not nor should not diminish our love of you and the work, and it seems to me that when you've brought that genuine, unblemished pleasure to millions over the decades, that has to be a good thing, something for which you deserve to reap the rewards.

Because I don't know if you ever spend time on the internet, or Google yourself, but you are still on our minds. A one-time encounter with a kindly railroad worker has become your unofficial messageboard for fans and former schoolmates of yours, trading memories and prayers. You have inspired orginal artwork, and eclectic mixtapes. And, well, a whole bunch of urban legends...

"In 2000 I heard she lived in Boston. Thats all i know"

"I googled her name and came up with a photograph on the website for Northern Arizona University. Account for age and it sure looks like her."

"A Providence radio DJ claims to have seen a former cast member of Animal House working in a convenience store near Brown University."

"Sarah still resides in Connecticut receiving government assistance far removed from the public eye and prefers to remain that way."

...and the one thing in those tall tales that is indeed clear to all of us is that wherever you are, you're not coming back, and you'd like us to let you be. And for as much as we miss you, we just want you to be as untroubled as possible, so we are all keeping our distance.

"But it's too late to say you're sorry
How would I know, why should I care
Please don't bother trying to find her
She's not there"
--Rod Argent

Thus, this is where my outreach to you ends. For all I know, you will never read this letter, and things will stay as they are. But in that microscopic chance that you would ever want to say something, anything, to a receptive stranger...I'm an easy person to find.

In the meantime, I guess all I can do is play you a song.

If it is true that you've dismissed your previous achievements as nothing, well then, to borrow from your own quotebook, "Tanks fer nuttin'." Because for many of us, your "nuttin'" was really something.

"Wherever she is, I hope she's doing fine,
But I wish that she would phone or drop us a line.
Till then I've got nothing to ease my mind,
And I'm thinking about her all the time"
--Ray Davies

"Just like an old time movie, 'bout a ghost from a wishing well"

2011-07-20T04:55:00.000-07:00

Weeks ago, I delved into the dangerous terrain of SUPERMAN III, and in my travel I was able to glean some insight about the nature of Superman and the character's hold over us. As stated in that previous essay, the most interesting aspect of the otherwise dismal movie is Superman's choice to either revel in his superiority to humanity, or to keep it in check, the better to relate to the citizens he has chosen to live among. It's a conflict that many of us go through every single day - we may not have extraordinary powers, but we have those moments like choosing whether to embarrass the office dullard when he has facts wrong or otherwise let him have his moment, whether to have it out with that rude store clerk or try to be nice and empathize with what is making them so grouchy - and thus we can relate to feeling like we're the superior person, but choosing not to be a dick about it in public, even if the result is having to watch someone else continue in their own dickitude.

So much credit for that relatability must go to Christopher Reeve. Probably not since Leonard Nimoy put on pointed ears or Boris Karloff wore bolts and platform boots did an actor so perfectly inhabit a character to the point where fans were hard pressed to separate man from role, and while initially chafing at the typecasting, the actor would ultimately embrace how much that portrayal transformed into positive energy for the whole world. Reeve understood this quite well, and used it to a practical advantage when producers coaxed him to return for one more flight with the cape: he not only leveraged the making of his pet project STREET SMART as a condition to appear in SUPERMAN IV, he also came up with the film's central theme of Superman as world pacifier, attempting to calm the planet by eradicating nuclear weapons, an issue which meant a lot to Reeve and millions of others in the waning-but-still-tense days of the first Cold War. The film ultimately became an infamous disappointment, even more reviled than SUPERMAN III, both due to the inherent real-world limitations of the story (Superman determines that unilateral disarmament is impossible without the will of all rulers), and the ridiculously cheap budget, script, and shooting schedule afforded him by Cannon Films. But aside from a little ribbing in the press, Reeve still enjoyed enormous public goodwill, and had he chosen to make another appearance as the gregarious superhero (which, for a short time, looked possible with a finished script and contract negotiations), fans would have eagerly lined up to see the return.

Thus, when the world grasped the enormity of Reeve's horse-jumping accident, that barring a miracle he would never walk or raise a finger again, not only was there enormous sadness that a nice fellow like him suffered such a terrible misfortune, there was probably also some less-relevant (but no less heartfelt) dejection that Reeve would not get to redeem the Superman legacy that he had so skillfully created onscreen. And as we all watched him demonstrate genuine, amazing heroics in his campaign for fresh thought on paralysis treatment and in his physical rehabilitation, including, yes, lifting a finger on command, we shared humongous pride in his achievements, but still felt a little wistfulness that were he to beat the odds and stand tall again (as so tantalizingly suggested by his 2000 Super Bowl commercial for Nuveen Investments), he would change the history of spinal injuries, but he would never be able to change that SUPERMAN IV was his finale as the Man of Steel, a fate neither the fictional hero or this real-life hero deserved. Sure, there would be attempts to continue or relaunch the series without him (including the notorious debacle of SUPERMAN REBORN, where despite the participation of Kevin Smith, Tim Burton, and Nicolas Cage, Warner Brothers spent $30 million with not a single frame of film shot), and there would be respectful acknowledgements to what he established (In the TV series "SMALLVILLE," Reeve appeared twice as a doctor and spiritual counselor to collegeiate Clark Kent, essentially passing the torch for a new generation of fans), but for everyone who grew up with Reeve as Superman, neither of these felt quite right. Despite every bit of logic that hit us like a speeding bullet, we wanted Reeve's Superman, our Superman, back.

Five years ago, around this time of summer, is when SUPERMAN RETURNS played in American theatres. Producer/director Bryan Singer, who had been successfully navigating the rival comic book movie franchise X-MEN for Marvel Comics and 20th Century Fox, had come up with the story idea for the film, and more importantly, was the first of the almost dozens of screenwriters that had passed under the WB watertower to seriously suggest that the first two SUPERMAN films directed by Richard Donner serve as canonical backstory for this new movie; that for all purposes, it would be a true "threequel" to those films, and completely ignore the unloved parts III and IV. In contrast to Christopher Nolan, who wisely intuited that Batman fans had enough of the elements from the previous 4-film series and were ready for him to start from zero with BATMAN BEGINS, Singer wisely intuited that the primary audience for a new Superman film very much still loved what had been established previously, and wanted more of the same. Newcomer Brandon Routh clearly carried the appearance, and to a lesser degree, the demeanor, of a young Christopher Reeve; co-star Kevin Spacey had the natural mix of smarm and charm that fit the template for Lex Luthor established by Gene Hackman. Naturally, he also insisted on the use of elements from John Williams' legendary score. Also, taking advantage of the approval of Donner and the nullification by death of Marlon Brando's longstanding contractual gripes with the studio, Singer was able to integrate previously unused footage and dialogue of Brando as Superman's Kryptonian father Jor-El into this project. This was already a wedding cake of Comic-Con-Cosmic levels, with cameos by TV's original "ADVENTURES OF SUPERMAN" stars Noel Neill and Jack Larson as jordan almonds on the table. Again, Singer was hardly being altruistic by his choices. Everyone involved in its creation wanted to see this film make Superman a viable franchise again, so he was making what he thought were the best choices to get the mythical four quadrants into the theatre: familiar images for the older crowd, modern action staging for the younger crowd. And for all the linking to the older series, this was to be the start of a new storytelling line, with almost all the main creative personnel locked under contract for sequels, so this was less about continuing Donner & Reeve's legacy but transitioning it into Singer & company's future.

Most observers have determined that ultimately, SUPERMAN RETURNS delivered a push: hardly a failure, but not the success the studio suits wanted. The movie delivered good, though often mixed, critical reviews, and delivered very good box office returns for Warner Brothers, though still not good enough for them to muster complete enthusiasm into putting the planned followup into production. It did not make leading man Brandon Routh a sensation as the first SUPERMAN did for its rising star, but he continued to deliver great performances in later films like ZACK AND MIRI MAKE A PORNO and SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE WORLD, so it hardly hurt him either. But these dry data readings ignore an admittedly quiet detail that makes the movie significant to me years after it has been mostly forgotten. What it delivered to me, and I suspect, to many of the people who went to see it, was something that from all public appearances, was an unintended by-product, yet I believe in my heart was a secret goal for its producer/director/originator Bryan Singer: to everyone for whom the death of Christopher Reeve was still a gaping emotional wound, it provided closure.

If Superman is the hero we count on to fix things which we believe cannot done by ourselves, then SUPERMAN RETURNS is the movie that is trying to fix a filmic past that had been thought irreparable. Which is problematic because if Superman previously left movie screens looking foolish, this movie often gets weighted by gravitas. While there is certainly lightness and humor to be found, especially in all scenes with Parker Posey as Lex Luthor's half-hearted henchwoman, there is an attempt at a more serious tone to the performances and story, no doubt to counterract the forced slapstick of III and IV, so much so that it put off some critics, notably previous Superman partisan Roger Ebert, who described the movie as "glum...dutiful instead of exhilarating." Ebert's assessment is most applicable to the film's particularly somber third act, where Superman, weakened both by being stabbed by Kryptonite and launching the giant land mass created by Lex Luthor into space, must be rescued by Lois Lane's husband, and spends time comatose in hospital, with doctors attempting surgery but unable to penetrate his body to examine or operate, as the world waits in vigil for him to recover. Understandably, since Old and New Testament Messianic metaphors have been integral to the history of Superman since he emerged from Siegel and Shuster's inkwell, most viewers and critics took this story thread as Singer making heavy-handed allusion to the death and resurrection of Jesus of Nazareth...which, let's be honest, is almost always a buzzkiller or at the least a tired pretense. But there's actually more to this particular segment that puts the whole movie in perspective.

What Singer must have understood in his original treatment, and consequently puts into practice in his execution, is that since Reeve's life has been haunting the Superman legacy, this movie must perform an exorcism. However, unlike most haunting stories, where the ghost won't leave until he finishes the business left behind by untimely death, it is we, the living, who are keeping his ghost captive until we feel the business is finished. SUPERMAN RETURNS begins with a dedication to Christopher and Dana Reeve that a packed Westwood Village midnight show audience applauded more noisily than one would expect for your average onscreen honorarium, and as it unfolds to tell how Metropolis goes from resigned cynicism to a renewed civic involvement upon his return, for as much as the movie is ostensibly about welcoming Superman home, it is also very much about offering Reeve a proper goodbye. Again, since Routh was chosen because of his resemblence to Reeve, one senses that the casting choice is not just to offer a familiar-looking face to the audience, but on a subliminal level, to initiate a gentleman's agreement between Singer and the audience that Routh will be portraying both Superman and Reeve. Therefore, in the last Sirkian quarter of the film, Singer is depicting an alternate history for our beloved superhero and movie star...where we as ordinary mortals came to his aid when he was near death, we did everything in our power to heal him, and we were able to see our devotion succeed: his hospital bed is empty, he leaves under his own power. Our hero is whole again, and we helped make it happen. That too, is a bit of a Biblical concept ("When I was naked, you gave me your coat; When I was sick, you looked after me..."), but it is also an effective element in the better superhero films (SPIDER-MAN 2 is elevated to greatness in its scene where a very vulnerable Peter Parker finds unlikely help from the public), and most importantly, it understands our relationship with Reeve the man: after his accident, if we as fans believed there was an action we could do to help him, we did it. We wrote him letters of support, contributed to his favored charities, and certainly would have given him even more direct help if the opportunity arose. Thus even after his death, we were tightly clinging to the ghost of Reeve because he was so good in the movies and so enormously great in his most challenging hours, and because Superman looked a little silly in III taking on a weak villain and frankly got punked in IV because he had to defer to all the governments (including our own) who wanted to keep their nukes. So to alleviate these residual regrets, Singer allows us one last chance to see the serious and strong hero that Reeve was in reality and that Superman should have been on screen, and we watch that image walk, jump, and fly away one more time; all we had to do was agree to believe in this kindest of illusions, to pretend that it wasn't Brandon Routh in the costume. And when it was over, like Demi uttering "Ditto" into the white light, we could let his ghost go now.

The Superman saga is now truly starting again from zero, as the upcoming film MAN OF STEEL, to be directed by Zack Snyder from a David S. Goyer screenplay, has announced casting for Jor-El, Clark Kent's parents, and other characters associated with his origin story. Fans are divided as to whether having the screenwriter of other successful comic book adaptations will make the series fresh, or if having the director of SUCKER PUNCH will plunge the franchise into a swamp so deadly not even Solomon Grundy could emerge from it. The underlying suggestion by this new project is that Singer and Routh failed to make moviegoers accept their new Superman. But in the most heartfelt moments of SUPERMAN RETURNS, they did the next best thing, which was to put the spectre of Christopher Reeve to rest and make it possible for moviegoers to accept any new Superman in the first place.

Watching the Seductives

2011-06-27T23:59:00.000-07:00

The following is my yet-again-under-the-wire contribution for today's Queer Film Blogathon, mounted by Caroline at her Garbo Laughs blog, in celebration of LGBTQ Pride Month. I may be more of an occasional dinner guest of Dorothy than a full-on friend, but to paraphrase the old bumper sticker, I remember when "queer" meant "unusual and arousing curiosity," and as far as I'm concerned, it still does. As such, I'm eager to put my $3 bill's worth into this discussion.

Aside from my personal affinities, I have a particularly interesting history with LGBTQ media. For a period of about 2 years in the mid-'90's, I was the resident film critic, and only straight male writer, for a lesbian-themed 'zine in Columbus called Sovreignty for Women, a position given to me most generously by its publisher, who cared more about my talent as a film lover than my gender or sexual identity. The inherent humor and ironies within such a position notwithstanding, I did not shy away from rankling the potential readership with my opinions on film in general, and gay film in particular. In an introduction for an fall '95 article on my favorite portrayals of gay people in then-recent film, I opened up with this toss of the gauntlet:

After the first two installments of my column, I know some readers somewhere must be asking, “If this magazine is published by and for gay women, why aren’t you writing about gay movies?” And upon first thought, I find this question moot. To believe that gay people are only interested in gay movies is an insulting stereotype, as ludicrous as believing that African-Americans are only interested in rap music or Japanese people are only interested in Kabuki plays. Just because Hollywood seems to be controlled by straight white men does not make the entire enterprise sick.
There’s a bigger reason for me, though. Most “gay” films bore me. They coast on their subject matter alone, with no regard to compelling plot, characters, or arresting visuals. They play like grown-up ABC Afterschool Specials, thinking as long as they keep mentioning homosexuality, the homosexuals will watch. AAANK, wrong answer. Tom Hanks deserved his Oscar for PHILADELPHIA, but the movie itself is a long “Gays are our friends” morality play. For every lesbian I’ve met who enjoyed CLAIRE OF THE MOON, I’ve met two who would rather watch karate films. EVEN COWGIRLS GET THE BLUES is best described by Lea DeLaria as “Even Worse than You Think.” And as much as I love Sandra Bernhard, INSIDE MONKEY ZETTERLAND is a pretentious, self-righteous yawn.
To me, I don’t really give a damn about the sexual orientation of the characters in the movies I watch. I care about the characters. Sure, perhaps the monopoly of straight characters over gay ones in films would appear to the average radical as being some sort of “Only straight is good” conspiracy, and I object to the previously caricatured portrayals of gays and lesbians in the past, just as I do stereotyped minority portrayals. But I am also tired of how the pendulum has swung to make every minority angelic and politically correct, such as the black police superintendent that must bench the white loose-cannon cop. If a non-sympathetic movie character happens to be gay, such as Lee Harvey Oswald in JFK, or even suspected of being gay, like serial killer Jame Gumb in THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS, loud wearying protests arise. Using that logic, shouldn’t straights be protesting their buffoonish portrayals in gay films? Everybody chill!

I still hold to that standard today. Postive gays, negative gays, dysconjugate gaze, just don't preach, pander, or bore me.

Also, I spent a significant chunk of my 20's working in a 24-hour video store, owned by gay men, and which featured an adult section with a healthy selection of male/male porn. And during that time, I learned something about myself, which is that the men that were being featured on the covers of gay porn did not turn me on. That is not to say that men period did not turn me on, just those being sold to me as a gay ideal. Consequently, while I have been open and often eager to watch gay sex on film as an abstract, in practice it has happened very rarely, because...most guys who have been doing it with each other on film are not my type. I'm hard-pressed to tell you what my type is, though I certainly don't have that "Masculine guys only, no femmes or fatties" hangup one sees in the Men Seeking Men section of the personals.

But back to the critical matters at hand. This whole month, in anticiption of the blogathon, Caroline has been taking a film containing signficant gay content from each decade of the 20th century once narrative film became a commercial medium, and analyzing it as both entertainment and historical document. It's interesting stuff to read. And in an oddly appropriate way, I like the fact that while her posts are looking at the history of gay portrayal on film, mine is looking at the future, and a rather promising future in the case of my particular choice. In full disclosure, I came upon this film because of the involvement of a close friend in its postproduction, but I promise that my enjoyment of the finished product was solely due to its artistic merits and not just because of my relationship to one of the creative contributors.

For decades, a common story theme in gay-themed films, from the arthouse to the grindhouse, has been the journey of the Hustler, the Rent Boy, the handsome, anonymous young man who goes from one sexual encounter to another, bearing Voltairean witness to all the partners' tales and desires. In skillful hands, this has served for great drama, as in Pier Paolo Pasolini's TEOREMA with Terence Stamp, where the stranger seduces male and female members of the same household, unlocking their buried ids, but more often, the trope has been employed either in the service of simplistic titilation for the viewer, watching multiple types of guys get it on, or for cheap moralization, with degradation and despair compounding from the hollow sex and abusive johns until the protagonist is left ruined or dead.

As such, anyone quickly browsing the gay DVD section (because, sadly, we aren't open-minded enough to integrate movies with gay protagonists into the ordinary genre categories) would be forgiven if they glanced at the advertising for STRAPPED, with its image of fetching lead Ben Bonenfant teasing the reveal of a bare chest, and initially wrote it off as yet another man-pageant posing as a drama. That was the initial concern of author and blogger Ian Rosales Casocot, who pretty well spoke for myself and most casual movie hunters in the opening paragraphs of his rave review of the film...

When I first began viewing Joseph Graham's STRAPPED, I was ready to dismiss it as one of those mindless gay films that serves more as a flesh buffet without paying much attention to story, to character, to insight about the human condition. We've all seen pictures seemingly like this, and they've all been fruitless exercises in gay excess for the most part. [It] centers, after all, on an unnamed male hustler who follows a trick to his apartment complex, and then after the tryst...meets assorted characters, all gay...The premise sounds like it was made for a porn movie...

Well, you know that old joke about what the difference is between a romance novel and a pornographic manuscript: the lighting. And writer/director Joseph Graham knows a lot about lighting, not just in a literal fashion, since STRAPPED has a beautiful look that transcends its ultra-low-budget, but also in a spiritual fashion, because his approach to the proceedings is, yes, illuminating! Immediately at the film's opening, during the first appointment for our never-christian-named hustler, the staging is tender and unexploitative, playing like the ending of a short story, but it's only the beginning. And as the protagonist leaves, and changes names and refashions himself to the roles suggested to him by the colorful series of men he meets that night, we feel that we are not only learning about the different experiences and lives all these men have led, we also are actually learning something about this proverbial blank slate in his dealings with them, instead of just watching the act of prostitutional pretense. The other characters, who to an extent are representing familiar types of gay men - the self-hating closet case, the hedonist, the wizened pioneer - play like real people and not just attributes. Graham, forgive me for abusing the metaphor one last time, puts the spotlight on a whole group of people that we have heard about but few of us have known, and made us care about them. I would be interested in how any one of their stories played out long after our hustler has left them.

Let's talk about star Ben Bonenfant. He's terrific in this role that always keeps one last card unrevealed. He's playing a faker, but nothing ever feels fake. He could be all of these boys, he could be none of them. It doesn't matter: as actor playing actor, he nails it. And, yes, it helps that he is very attractive, not just to his hook-ups, but to us the audience, because we know what it feels like to want to believe in him and what he represents to each man he meets. It's that feeling of deep and widespread audience empathy that has quite often been missing from other gay films, and what makes STRAPPED such a special treat.

And in the spirit of the personal admissions from above, when he became intimate with his most compatible companion of the evening, I not only felt an emotional elevation from a story turn that depicted two wandering souls were finding mutual happiness, I also felt a primal excitement that these two good-looking guys were going to make out! And I think this is one of Graham's most significant successes in this movie, and why I think he has the potential to create more great movies. Which is clearly what he was after, as he told to Gaydar Nation in an interview this past winter:

"I do wish straight men did not have such a difficult time looking at gay sex in the movies. Gay men look at straight sex in the movies all the time. I think human sexuality is fascinating. All of it."

Graham is not only correct, but he's done something about it. It's not something as trivial as casting two hot boys and stripping them naked, though I suppose that's what I'm making it sound like. It's that he's taken what is a fait accompli - after all, if he blue-balled the primary audience, and didn't have a really good lovemaking scene, this would end up being his only feature film - and created real suspense and emotion around the moment everyone has been waiting for. Which is what every great director does in the genres they excel in. Like Radley Metzger with SCORE, or John Cameron Mitchell with SHORTBUS, he presents gay sex in a way that it transcends any sort of straight viewer's trepidations, and makes it as joyous as any heterosexual climax in a standard movie romance. In short, as I demanded before, Joseph Graham did not preach, pander, or bore me. He entertained me.

I don't think I would recommend this to every single straight person I know, not because of the subject matter or the sex, but because its low budget and mostly-conversational story would probably not satisfy a palate that is used to more polish and action. But for anyone who likes to step outside of their comfort zone, is interested in affairs of the heart, and wants to see the debuts of a charismatic actor and a gifted filmmaker, you should definitely take a chance on STRAPPED. It has not gotten much coverage beyond the gay media, though it did receive very good mainstream reviews fromThe New York Times and DVDTalk. I'm going out on a limb and predicting great things for Graham and Bonenfant, so anyone who is in a position to give them work, help prove me right!

And to bring things full circle, what brought me to STRAPPED in the first place was Graham's extremely wise choice (winking) to enlist one of my favorite friend-fronted bands, Windows to Sky, to provide a few songs for the film. I was already grateful to him for giving my colleague's band a gig. Now I'm even more grateful that it was in the service of such a very good movie. Here is one of their songs, specifically written for the film:

"Look what you've done to the rock'n'roll clown"

2011-06-25T16:04:00.000-07:00

To all you pimps makin' money on his name
How do you sleep, don't you feel ashamed?
He went through the test, he's outta this mess
Be my guest, and let him rest

We are coming up on a date that still manages to shock and sadden multiple generations around the world. The sudden and questionable death of Michael Jackson may have ended his life and body of work, but the speculations about that life will likely never abate, nor will we likely ever learn the true answers to those questions, which even the most otherwise indifferent spectators to this never-ending circus would certainly listen to when presented. Though that has not stopped, nor will it stop, dozens of authors, pundits, former acolytes, and anyone with a tangential connection to his life to weigh in and give you what they think is the real story, and naturally, those "real" stories will have to be filtered through multiple prisms of self-interest and intent, thus rendering their truths to the granules of sodium chloride.

That being said, anyone who has expressed heavy interest in Jackson, either for his staggering talent or as ugly symbol of celebrity culture unrestrained, would be better served by viewing a pair of movies that were made while Jackson himself was still a child, when he was famous but hardly the obelisk of polarized opinion he would become in adulthood. In short, both of these films frighteningly predicted the arc of Michael Jackson's life - before he even had a chance to live it.

PRIVILEGE, from 1967, is a documentary-like story about a futuristic London where government, church, and big business have quietly come to cabal-like agreements in regard to Steven Shorter (Paul Jones, former lead singer for Manfred Mann - the "Doo Wah Diddy" incarnation, not the "Blinded by the Light" Earth Band), the country's most popular singer. Shorter is used to sell all manner of products, to help to boost church attendance, and overall placate the youthful masses and divert them from any sort of real rebellion. Naturally, this takes a large emotional toll on the performer himself, who spends most of his time sullenly going through the motions, though he occasionally brightens in the company of an artist (Jean Shrimpton, an early "supermodel" then romantically linked to Terence Stamp, and later immortalized in "Behind the Wall of Sleep" by The Smithereens) hired to paint his portrait. Shorter will ultimately reach his breaking point, but the powers that be already have a contingency plan for that.

PRIVILEGE was made by a former documentarian named Peter Watkins, who arguably perfected the dramatic device of the "mockumentary," albeit for hard and serious storytelling, long before Christopher Guest spun the genre and made it synonymous with semi-improvisational comedy. Many elements in the film were liberally borrowed from a National Film Board of Canada documentary on pop star/songwriter Paul Anka called LONELY BOY, which depicted the gradual toll fame as business can exact on an otherwise well-meaning performer: thankfully, the short has been included on the current U.S. DVD of the film. Watkins previously made a nuclear war docudrama for the BBC called THE WAR GAME, about life after the bomb, that was so intense the BBC refused to air it; it was ultimately screened in some theatres in the U.S. and U.K. Another fiction film of his, PUNISHMENT PARK, took on the premise of youths isolated to play a kill-or-be-killed game for the benefit of polite society a good two decades before BATTLE ROYALE. [Watkins in fact was a guest professor at OSU while I attended their film program, although I never had a class with him--Rats!]

As such, PRIVILEGE is at its heart political agitprop drama rather than pop culture critique, and some of it now plays rather earnestly to modern tastes. But it is dead-on in its vision of how we would see rock co-opted by the establishment in the present day, and it's extremely perceptive about how easy it is to buy and sell both rebellion and people. And yes, its observation that rock stars at the height of their fame become less people and more corporate behemoth is very applicable to the later years of Michael Jackson. When the consortium decides to change Shorter's image from persecuted rebel to obedient choir boy, they position his "conversion" within a huge religious rally in Wembley Stadium, complete with a firebrand reverend leading the crowd in a chant for conformity, disabled children brought to the stage for potential healing, and pageantry reminiscent of images from Riefenstahl's TRIUMPH OF THE WILL. Years later, Jackson employed similar "messianic" staging for a performance of "Earth Song" at the 1996 Brit Awards, leading Pulp lead singer Jarvis Cocker to cheekily disrupt the performance; while he considered himself a fan of his music, Cocker explained his actions by saying, "He was pretending to be Jesus - I'm not religious but I think, as a performer myself, the idea of someone pretending to have the power of healing is just not right."

Though quickly abandoned by Universal, PRIVILEGE did manage to find a devoted group of fans, most visibly the multi-gifted Patti Smith, who covered the film's signature song "Set Me Free" on her EASTER album, which also features her original version of "Because the Night." Another high-profile fan, writer/director Allison Anders, who has told much more hopeful stories of rock'n'roll living in GRACE OF MY HEART, SUGAR TOWN, and THINGS BEHIND THE SUN, and presented PRIVILEGE at her first "Don't Knock the Rock" film festival, explains her love of PRIVILEGE in this Trailers From Hell commentary.

STARDUST is a quasi-sequel to an earlier film called THAT'LL BE THE DAY, about Jim MacLaine, an aspiring rocker modeled on John Lennon and played by David Essex, singer of the glam rock standard "Rock On". However, you do not need to have seen that film beforehand: this film stands alone with or without its predecessor. Moreover, this movie so strongly builds and heightens upon the first, and has such an epic sweep, it's like THE GODFATHER PART II of rock dramas. Both films were written by novelist Ray Connolly, who began his career as a rock journalist, and before that, a schoolmate of Mick Jagger, and thus brings an insider's eye to the subject matter. The film is a sophomore narrative work by Michael Apted, who also began his career in documentaries by creating the epic 7 UP series (the latest installment, 56 UP, is expected in Spring of 2012), then moved on to acclaimed films as COAL MINER'S DAUGHTER, CONTINENTAL DIVIDE, and THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH, and still returns to the documentary form in BRING ON THE NIGHT and INCIDENT AT OGLALA. While I was already a fan of Apted as director, when I finally saw this at the first "Don't Knock the Rock" festival in 2003, I sat there in awe, amazed that he had this kind of Scorsesian vision, and so early in his career.

Essex plays the same character from the earlier film, and tells a large if somewhat painfully familiar story of the rise of Jim MacLaine's career and the cost to his soul. It shows the path of going from living in a van playing from pub to pub, to eclipsing the original front man of his band, to record company corruption, to solo stardom and pretentious artistic ambitions, to public alienation and erratic behavior, and finally reaching such insane detachment that it eventually drives him to seclusion and possible madness. As we get the public tragedy writ large, we also witness the private tragedy, as MacLaine finds his bad choices enabled by those who stand to make money on him, or being unable to attend a family funeral without being beseiged by the tabloid press, and watching his longest friendship, with his road manager Mike, turn into a curdled, Albee-esque duet of cruel one-upsmanship. To paraphrase the poster above, it's not the story of John Lennon or Jim Morrison...or for that matter, Michael Jackson or Axl Rose or Whitney Houston, but it easily could be.

The supporting cast features a staggering amount of musical Who's Whos, including Keith Moon, Dave Edmunds, Nick Lowe, Marty "Abergavenny" Wilde, Paul "Heaven on the Seventh Floor" Nicholas, and Edd "Kookie" Byrnes, along with Larry Hagman as a U.S. record company weasel. It has an incredible soundtrack of songs, including recordings by Carole King, The Beach Boys, and The Beatles...so incredible that to clear it all for DVD would be too cost-prohibitive for the likely demand, so a stateside home video release by Columbia is very unlikely. (In the U.K., StudioCanal did put out a double feature DVD with THAT'LL BE THE DAY, though it is currently out of print) However, it is currently available for streaming on Hulu and Crackle, albeit in an old monophonic, non-widescreen transfer. But like Smokey sang, beggars can't be choosey, I know.

So, if you're a genuine fan of The King of Pop, or if you just want some sort of explanation as to why the people who have everything always seem to be unhappy, you have a couple cinematic treatises to give you some insight on the pitfalls within the cult of personality.

For the record, I was a fan. Still am. And I wish life had not imitated art in his case.

Dé a Diablo Cody su deuda

2011-06-14T07:20:00.000-07:00

I am not Charlie Kaufman or Sofia Coppola (much as I supplicate at their Cannes-weary feet.) I'm not Paul Thomas Anderson. I'm not even Paul W.S. Anderson. I am middle-class trash from the Midwest. I'm a competent nonfiction writer, an admittedly green screenwriter, and a product of Hollywood, USA. I am "Diablo Cody" and if you're not a fan, go rent PROSPERO'S BOOKS again and leave me the fuck alone.

Indeed, at this moment of time, three years after the wide success of JUNO, one month after the abrupt cancellation announcement of "THE UNITED STATES OF TARA", and a hypothetical three months before the first open screenings of her newest screenplay collaboration with director Jason Reitman, the territorial battle lines over the most visibly successful (and well-compensated) female screenwriter in Hollywood are in essentially the same place: there is the contingent that takes pleasure in her loquacious characters, in the same manner that previous generations lapped up the urbane banter of Preston Sturges or Hal Hartley, and the immovable regiment that insists her career advancement is due only to a series of fornicate events that would make Xaviera Hollander look like a Lutheran minister. And much like 9/11 Truthers or Obama Birthers, there is no reasoning with the latter camp, because as writer/entrepreneur Tim Ferriss said on Chris Hardwick's Nerdist podcast, "You can't reason a person out of a position they didn't reason themselves into."

I have been privileged to keep company with Diablo Cody in the past, and on at least one occasion she actively promoted an event of mine, so I am not here to play august scholar on why she is in fact a vital and welcome voice in Hollywood, because the opposition can rightfully say I do not have enough critical distance from my subject. It's pretty obvious my opinion is prejudiced at best. But I can point to stuff in her work that has stuck with me long after viewing it, and say why it is good, and hope that I've earned enough trust with you that you'll believe it as the voice of a film lover and not a sycophant.

Let's start with the big one, the gold winner. Something that few people have ever picked up on in the ongoing debate about JUNO is the unique nature of the friendship between Juno and her best friend Leah (played by the criminally underrated Olivia Thirlby). Leah, by all outward appearances, is the more classically attractive girl, is on the cheerleading squad...in a typical Hollywood film, she would be the protagonist, and Juno would be the wacky bohemian sidekick, and of course there would be the standard boilerplate "ABC AFTERSCHOOL SPECIAL" conflicts over her being prettier or more popular that would launch the third act. Cody not only flips the paradigm by making Leah the sidekick, she also flattens it by never making their differences an issue - there is no heavyhanded preaching about how misfits and princesses can get along: they just do. Juno is doing her thing, Leah hers, and they have their happy common ground. In fact, there's no hackneyed teen conflicts anywhere in the environment: even when Juno is speculating about the buried lust that hot girls have for older teachers, it's from a state of precocious amusement and not hostility. There are some high school environments where everyone may not be friends, but no one is actively starting shit either: the organism works. Coming from my own experience of high school, which started out with some hazing but ultimately settled into an easygoing mutual acceptance, it's nice to see that represented on screen.

As for the often-maligned follow-up screenplay, JENNIFER'S BODY, while I don't think it's effective as a horror film, it is definitely entertaining as a seriocomic metaphor on how troublesome it is to extricate yourself from a bad friendship. Unlike the dynamic between Juno and Leah, the relationship between Needy and Jennifer is a definitely one-sided one, even before the incident that turns Jennifer into a flesh-hungry succubus, with Jennifer getting all the benefits. Yet for as long as she can stand it, Needy stays loyal to Jennifer. Most readings of the film suggest that this is partly a romantic motivation - at a recent screening hosted by maverick San Francisco programmer Jesse Ficks, Cody openly declared as such, though in an interview with the website AfterEllen, she was able to go at length and describe it as less of a lesbian attraction and more of a simple teenage intensity, of being so enamored of your best friend you want to bond with them in as many ways possible [Peter Jackson's HEAVENLY CREATURES explores this concept also]. But I also saw in Needy the feeling that she's Jennifer's only good influence, that as long as she is there to be her Jiminy Cricket, Jennifer can never be all bad. I'm sheepish but not ashamed to say I stayed in some long bad friendships for the same reasons: When you side with a man, you stay with him. And if you can't do that, you're like some animal - you're finished!. And sure enough, Jennifer does not "stay" with Needy, and she does become an animal, feeding herself on Needy's clothes, then her man, and ultimately Needy herself, until she finally summons the strength to end this otherworldly power grab. But even after that, when their friendship is decisively over (the manner in which I won't detail lest I rile the Spoiler Police), Needy stays loyal to Jennifer's memory by hunting down the treacherous parties that caused her demonic possession in the first place. As wily ol' Sam Spade once said, in perhaps the first cinematic explanation of "bro's before ho's", "When a man's partner is killed, he's supposed to do something about it. It doesn't make any difference what you thought of him. He was your partner and you're supposed to do something about it." Again, Cody spins the gender around, throws in some blood and bon mots, and makes it fresh.

For reasons of my own legal protection, I can't provide any of the specific details as to why I am about to state that on Febrary 27, 2012, Diablo Cody will likely have another molten gold humanoid holding court in her home. Just know that I would never make that kind of brash statement without something to back it up. Watch this space.

Well, you are 33 today, Ms. Cody. You have outlived Christ, Hicks, Belushi, and Bangs, and I'm certain your generous words of dialogue are going to live a lot longer than the gutteral words of diatribe the haters still fill their favorite echochamber messageboards with. Happy Birthday from another arguably competent nonfiction writer from the Midwest.

Burned Hard for Bernhard

2011-06-07T03:15:00.000-07:00

I have had a long, strange, frustrating, moving, and very laugh-filled love affair for over 25 years with a woman who doesn't know I exist. That sounds like the words of obsessive stalkers, I grant you, but really, it's just how I express that I am more than a fan but obviously less than a realistic equal to one of my favorite entertainers. And since yesterday was her birthday, I guess it's okay to go into detail

I don't quite know what the turning point was that made my teenage self fall in love with Sandra Bernhard. I was too young to have seen her on Richard Pryor's short-lived variety show, and I did not remember her specifically from the dozens of comedians who worked their material on the late '70's incarnation of "MAKE ME LAUGH," so that can't come into play, though it has been fun to revisit those appearances years later. I definitely enjoyed her numerous visits to "LATE NIGHT WITH DAVID LETTERMAN," where she was perfecting her unique style of reviling and reveling in celebrity culture, but I can't zero in on a certain episode where it went from "She's funny!" to "She's my ideal woman!" I know that from puberty onward as a Nice White Catholic Suburban Boy From Cincinnati, I was fervently attracted to girls who were outside of any or all of those adjectives, and Sandra was definitely penciled outside of the Scantron circle, so to speak. As such there may not be a firm date of origin, but midway through high school, I got infatuated - much to the eternal bewilderment of my father who could not see her beyond two lips and an attitude - and to this day, I still dig her.

In college, I had an eye-opening friendship with an older woman who also enjoyed Sandra a lot, and from her I received her first book, CONFESSIONS OF A PRETTY LADY, which made me an even bigger fan, with its combination of legitimate autobiographical details and saucy, teasing "did this happen/is this fiction" gossip. I felt a kinship with this girl from Detroit who drove to L.A. in a crummy car with a dream in her bag, whose parents had broken up and who liked to be funny in dark moments, who could alternately hate and love the excesses of show business, who could be tough and biting yet have a sweet and vulnerable soul. Much like the ethereal Kira from XANADU, Sandra straddled that fuzzy line between infatuation object and big sister to me, someone flying the freak flag with panache in advance while I slowly brought up the rear. From said friend I would also receive the cassette tape of Sandra's one-woman show WITHOUT YOU, I'M NOTHING, and I wore that tape out memorizing those great monologues, including this favorite one, which somewhat mirrored my eventual clumsy exploration of gender identity:

(since some of you are wondering now, to quote my friend Phil Porter,
"Marc is not gay. It just took him three tries." I'll let you ponder that a while...)

My attraction began to receive a little more acceptance from my friends in adulthood, primarily because of those few years at the end of the '80's/dawn of the '90's when she was palling around with Madonna; girls were interested in this otherwise cult figure she was hanging with, and the guys were wondering if they were doing it. Despite having a public friendship of really less than four years that ended 20 years ago, it is a linking that continues to this day to be discussed by press, columnists, and fans alike when they interview Bernhard. Oftentimes inquiries are in the quest for good dishy dirt (Did Madonna "steal" Sandra's girlfriend? Was she just looking to borrow a dream as it said on page 140?) But on a November 2010 appearance on "THE WENDY WILLIAMS SHOW," she encapsulated what made their time together so enticing to me and other fans, and recently repeated it today to another online interviewer:

"I see why people still link us. It's so rare that two really strong women become good friends and play it out the way we did on the public stage. I'm sorry that the friendship didn't flourish and continue but these things happen with showbiz people. But we really had fun.

Indeed. We do still live in a media environment where the press and the gossip vultures would rather report on (and often themselves incite) catfights and feuds between two female stars, rather than present them working together and mutually elevating themselves. And rewatching that Letterman appearance reminded me of what a great comic team they were, riffing and one-upping each other as David all but yields the floor to them. They could have been the MTV Generation's Martin & Lewis - Madge the smooth unflappable one, Sandra the manic loudmouth. Hollywood seriously screwed up by not putting them in a screwball comedy after this appearance! My first attempt at screenwriting was in fact a buddy movie intended for them.

Which leads to the "frustrating" part of this essay. I have come sooooooooooo tantalizingly close to having a significant encounter with my idol over these decades, but always missed it by that much! Shall I count the ways...

Sandra does a combination spoken word/Q&A at Ohio State around '92. I get my turn at the mic, and after I ask my primary question, I then ask if I can hand up the script I wrote for her. Since she's been making jokes during the show about not getting better roles, she says sure. Audience laughs at my audacity. [Note to craven young screenwriters: This was the early '90's, when this sort of tactic was rare and funny. If you do this today in any public event with your favorite star, you will be booed and castigated, and you will deserve it because this sort of tactic is not cool anymore. DON'T EVER DO THIS!] 20 minutes later, she gets bored with the questions...and begins to read the script out loud! AUDIENCE ROARS! She only gets a few pages in, none of which involve her character, sadly, but her guitarist knows the music cue I wrote in, and plays it underneath her reading. She claims to be intrigued from what she's read, but I never hear back from her despite having all my contact info on the title page.

In '96, a local gay newspaper is sponsoring another Bernhard appearance, and holding a contest for readers to describe what they would do in order to obtain a personal audience with her. I submit that because her words have been so influential to me, I would stand in front of the theatre and have one of her essays painted onto my body, Peter Greenaway/PILLOW BOOK-style. The newspaper declared me as one of the winners of the backstage passes...but the show was cancelled due to illness and never rescheduled.

2000, Sandra does a show at the now-shuttered Knitting Factory in Hollywood. It's a small enough venue I that could cross paths with her if I just find the right exit. But I don't. I do experience a nice moment during the performance, when I notice that standing next to me is her longtime friend and stand-up mentor Mr. Paul Mooney. Within a long audience applause break, I just lean over to him and whisper, "You must be very proud." He smiled and nodded.

Finally, on Halloween 2005, close friend and czarina of the L.A. underworld Lenora Claire gets me a last-minute invite as a costumed "party guest" during a live broadcast of "Queer Edge" with Jack E. Jett on the now-defunct pay-cable channel QTN, because the big prize is that she who smells like angels ought to smell, the goddess, the perfect woman...Sandra Bernhard is the special guest! This is going to be the closest I'd ever get to her. I throw together a makeshift Angus Young costume and race to the studio. As "party guests" we are supposed to be dancing it up during the house band's musical interludes, so I make sure that I throw around lots of energy to sell the concept. It gets a little comical in that every time I try to steal away from the set to hit craft service, the show is about to go back to "the party" and the floor is barren, so we get herded back to fill it up. But hey, them's the rules of being background, so I just start skanking again when the music starts. Sandra stays the whole three hours, and of course she was perfect. Unfortunately...I don't actually get to be that close to her. We are on the same set the whole time of course, but I am...here...and she is...there. And like a good background player, I am not going to overstep my bounds. When the show wraps, I manage to get a few words of admiration to her as she leaves the studio. I mention the Ohio State incident, hoping it will open the door to conversation, and while she laughs, she doesn't stop walking. So...foiled again. But I can't blame her for wanting to get out of Dodge: it was a long shoot, and she probably wanted to go back home to her daughter and share the holiday properly.

No, at this point I am more likely to catch scurvy from Andy Dick than I am to ever have a full, dinner-length conversation with Sandra Bernhard; it's been sufficiently proven that Elijah, Loki, or Yehudi will not stop jockblocking me. But at least nobody can say that I didn't do my damndest...whether or not I should have will be up to you, and hopefully not the Police department, to decide. And I'll always have my vinyl copy of I'M YOUR WOMAN.

So, wherever you've been on your special day - meditating at Kabbalah, cavorting with the kid, crying for Elaine's - thank you, Miss Sandra. You inspired a long-haired, big-nosed misfit kid to take chances and believe in himself. I've been kissed hundreds of times by your words, it's alright if I don't get one from those actual legendary lips.

When the Captain Was Left Out to Sea

2011-05-30T16:05:00.000-07:00

On Memorial day, we honor all the fallen heroes in the nation's service who made sacrifices for us as civilians. And as we are in the midst of another bloody culture war, I'd like to celebrate one of our greatest heroes of that front.

If you spend enough time listening to the mutterings of ordinary people, sooner or later you will hear that things are in a bollix. It's a timeless rant, to be sure, but to an extent, I am in agreement with that complaint. Consequently, everyone wants to know when this country went down the toilet, to pin it down to a single event. Depending on the political stripe of the complainant, it is usually attributed to when the rival party achieved certain power or passed certain legislation. Some like to pin it to a certain social sea change, usually involving the increased influence of an "other." And as such, I have my theory.

We as a nation became damned when CBS cancelled "CAPTAIN KANGAROO."

Up until that moment, on national television, there was still something front and center that was geared for a purpose other than money and ratings. Sure, TV networks and stations had public interest programs, but those were usually buried in deep programming holes guaranteed to be found by no one. (See: SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE"'s dead-on "Perspectives" sketches with Tim Meadows). Sure, there was ostensible children's programming, but those were increasingly turning into garish, half-hour toy commercials with a clumsy 30-second "morals" segment to fulfill the contractual obligation of being "educational." (See: "Knowing is half the battle: Go JOE!") Yes, of course there was "SESAME STREET," but PBS programming still had trouble reaching many households due to poor UHF reception, and this was a TV show that depended on government support (The Corporation for Public Broadcasting) and generous benefactors (Carnegie Corporation, the Ford Foundation, and grants from almost everybody but the Chubb Group) precisely to keep it protected from the kinds of mercenarial market forces that could dilute its mandate.

But "CAPTAIN KANGAROO" was right there on CBS at 8 AM, five days a week. It was a beacon that told America that their growing children, easily succeptible to the lure of television, would have a place to go to where they were safe. There would be sweetness, but it never felt contrived or saccharine. There would be stimulating images, but he always pushed the young viewer to create their own images later on. There would be slapstick and maybe some embarassment for the Captain, getting pelted with ping pong balls by Mr. Moose, but no humiliation or degradation. Offscreen, Bob Keeshan strictly monitored what ads the show ran: he was businessman enough to know that you had to sell stuff, but he made sure the kids weren't being exploited, so sugary foods were kept to a minimum, and violent war toys were flat out not welcome. Even the opening montage, where you might see anyone from kids to adults, farmers to bankers, and famous people like Tom Brokaw or The Fonz or even the President saying "Good morning, Captain," sent a subtle message to kids at home that grown-ups knew the Captain was an important man and someone to respect. Even when you reached 3rd grade and were too cool to watch those baby shows any more, if you were home sick from school, you probably sneaked a look at the show and laughed at Mr. Moose still, because, well, ping pong balls are always funny.

And then, despite multiple Emmy nominations for the show and host, and Keeshan quickly recuperating from a heart attack that required triple-bypass surgery (where he receved thousands of get-well cards), CBS unceremoniously tampered with his program. First, in September 1981, the show was cut to a half hour and moved up an hour earlier to 7 AM, which affected the leisurely pacing that had made him so soothing. They literally renamed the show, "WAKE UP WITH THE CAPTAIN," suggesting that instead of having time to contemplate the day and hang around, kids had to snap to it, get dressed, and out the door. Then six months later they moved him to 6:30 AM, when most kids were still asleep! A year later, he was moved to Saturday mornings, where most affiliates couldn't be bothered to even run the show and yanked him off the air. Despite all of this, Keeshan and the show continued to win Emmys and accolades. But he clearly got tired of the constant heaving from CBS [and if I may interject, I know firsthand about the practice of a network constantly changing a program's timeslot to insure nobody will watch it and thus justify cancelling it], so he let his contract expire and "CAPTAIN KANGAROO" was gone for good by 1984, just shy of its 30th anniversary on television.

Why would CBS give the bum's rush to an American institution, a personality that had been as synonymous with their identity as the Eye logo? Why would they jerk around the man second only to Fred Rogers who demonstrated the positive power of TV on society?

To expand their morning news, so they could compete with "TODAY" and "GOOD MORNING AMERICA" for an already finite audience, and more impotantly, the advertising dollars.

With one act, a major television network told America's children, "Fuck off. We can make more money running a program for adults that is exactly the same as its competition, where we can sell ads for snow tires and Maalox. Because adults have disposable income, and you don't. You kids are not important, go somewhere else." The ultimate exclamation point upon the Me Decade.

Today, there's lots of good shows for children on cable and satellite. But you have to pay for cable and satellite...it's called PAY TV for a reason. Maybe the saturation is such that only 24% of U.S. households don't have subscriptions, but that's still 30.7 million households relying solely on over-the-air broadcasting for their television viewing. (And that of course, is provided that those crappy digital converters--and don't get me started on those!--even work) Also consider that while kids could conceivably watch stuff on the internet, 40% of households don't have the broadband or high-speed connections required to watch longform streaming media, and 30% have no internet access at all. Which means those kids, who need positive TV programming the most, are shit out of luck.

Some shows are still available for free on PBS. But PBS depends on outside money, which is getting harder to come by every year, especially in this intense partisan climate where it has become a convenient political football. And much of the shows are just pleasant white noise ("TELETUBBIES"), or dumbed-down pandering ("BARNEY"), while "SESAME STREET" has drastically cut down on new episodes and sadly, Mister Rogers doesn't even surivive in reruns.

What little programming the major over-the-air networks offer to satisfy the FCC's mandatory 3 hours of Educational and Informative content for kids are mostly more of the same loud glorified toy commercials. NBC repuposes a few semi-educational series from the "qubo" collective on Saturday mornings...and if you're lucky, maybe you can find an affiliate who actually airs that lineup instead of pre-empting it for their own syndicated sports, news, or lifestyle programs for adults. To say that enforcement of this rule has been lax is not only a given, but would prompt Mr. Moose to notice that the FCC "lax" balls and thus bring a shower of them on their heads.

And by the way...CBS has never, ever, EVER...prove me wrong, TV heads...NEVER been able to dominate NBC or ABC's daily morning news shows, not with Bryant Gumbel, not with Paula Zahn, not with Martha Stewart...nothing.

When CBS devoted an hour each day to "CAPTAIN KANGAROO," they told kids that it was great to be a kid, there were all manner of possibilities in the world to explore, and there were friendly adults to help them navigate it.

Somebody at the network decided they couldn't spare an hour a day for America's kids. And to me, that's obviously where things go wrong.

Supe for Wan

2011-05-24T22:14:00.000-07:00

In late April, a tempest in an inkpot erupted when it was announced that in DC Action Comics issue #900, Superman would stand before the United Nations and renounce his U.S. citizenship. Lest anyone think the Man of Steel is about to become a Kryptonite-munching hippie subversive, first off, it is only one of many self-contained stories in this landmark anniversary issue, and the storyline by David S. Goyer is quite thoughtful in its real-world implications, essentially putting forth the question of whether Superman's mandate for justice and peace is not just for the United States, but for all the universe and its citizens. The Chilean playwright Ariel Dorfman wrote a further thought-provoking essay about this story, and meanwhile, comics websites, message boards and talk radio are fired up about what is really just a great hook to sell more copies of a collector's item, a thread that will surely be tidied up to everyone's satisfaction in a few more issues, faster than it took for him to return from his "death" via Doomsday.

The increased news coverage being heaped upon the finely chiseled ubermensch, along with the ongoing debate about the onslaught of superhero origin films to arrive this summer, put me to thinking about the first significant time I witnessed Superman asking serious questions about his identity. Granted, it was within the confines of a movie that severely tarnished the image of comic book movies for years afterward, but the question was there regardless.

SUPERMAN III, released in 1983, has served as a prime example of what is both interesting and irritating about "threequels" - the perception that this is where the franchise can go into heretofore unseen directions, bring up details heretofore ignored, and potentially here-and-now go off the rails. As far as superhero movies go, it's rather uncanny that future threequels SPIDER-MAN III and BATMAN FOREVER would also explore a similar sort of identity crisis plotline, thus making it a harbinger of things to come...especially since those threequels were not very good. And make no mistake, SUPERMAN III is not very good. You will find some brave souls ready to defend it, and the distinction of worst Superman outing ever still belongs to the moth-eaten SUPERMAN IV: THE QUEST FOR PEACE, but do not for a minute think this is some sort of misunderstood crystal in the Fortress of Solitude.

SUPERMAN III is the cinematic equivalent of fugu: on the whole, it is a poisonous beast that will suck the oxygen out of you and bring death. But if you carefully carve it up, there is some tasty meat within that can be enjoyed.

Before discussing any of its merits, we must acknowledge it is nigh impossible to watch the movie in the present day and not be cognizant of the loss of both of its above-the-title stars, and the long, heartbreaking exits they took - Christopher Reeve from quadriplegic paralysis, Richard Pryor from Multiple Sclerosis. Both men, previously icons of energy and youth that repeatedly drew in audiences, ultimately became noble representatives for dealing with their abrupt misfortune with calm humor and determination to continue working until death. As such, the viewer wishes that their one shared movie offered them better material to work with. But thankfully, it is their respective skills that provide what good points the movie has.

First, the film provides a well-needed stretch for Reeve, taking him beyond the established polite nebbish/confident hero dynamic of the first two films. It is forgotten that in his first national exposure, on the TV soap opera "LOVE OF LIFE," his character was often so callous viewers would openly castigate him in person. Thus, when tainted Kryptonite infects Superman and drives him to mean-spirited selfish acts, Reeve throws himself into the bad behavior with relish; Metropolis may be horrified to see Superman being such a colossal dick, but it's a lot of fun for us to watch his heel turn. Which, of course, climaxes in the movie's best set piece, the junkyard brawl between "bad" Superman and "good" Clark Kent, a well-choreographed arragement of camera trickery and stunt doubling that manages to be funny and still inspire a degree of suspense as to how the hero will overcome his dark side. (Surely Sam Raimi, who would go on to helm all three SPIDER-MAN films, took inspiration from this sequence for his similar, albeit completely for laughs, smackdown between good and bad Bruce Campbell in ARMY OF DARKNESS.)

Then, there is the matter of Pryor's oft-maligned performance. Pryor himself was very harsh in his assessment of the experience: the movie merits only one page in his autobiography PRYOR CONVICTIONS, where he concedes the script was terrible but as it was then the highest salary ever offered to a black actor ($4 million) he took the part anyway. He also acknowledges he was still abusing crack during production, and it was shortly after filming when, on vacation with his children, he finally quit drugs for good. For fans who wanted to see the animated, take-no-bullshit persona that Pryor perfected on stage, earlier movies, and in his short-lived TV series, it is certainly a disappointment to witness the beginning of what would become an unwelcome trademark of his later movie roles, what the sketch comedy series "IN LIVING COLOR" (featuring his longtime friend Mr. Paul Mooney as a staff writer) derided as "Richard Pryor is...'SCARED FOR NO GOOD REASON!'" It is also the blueprint that in the present-day has similarly hobbled other great comic actors - Jim Carrey, Ben Stiller, Eddie Murphy, Jack Black - who start out transgressive and dangerous but get stuck in a rut of making repetitive and bland movies "for the kids" and can't seem to recapture their adult glory.

But while revisiting the film a few weeks ago, I was reminded of a quote Pryor provided author Arthur Grace for his photo-essay book COMEDIANS...

"I see Laurel and Hardy up there with van Gogh. I do, really. Cause they were just there, man, you what I'm saying. They had a love. They had a magic together."

And as I watched Pryor playing the soft-spoken and often-reluctant criminal sub-genius Gus Gorman, it hit me. Pryor's approach to the role - the half-baked bravado, the physical slapstick, the quick retreats upon confrontation, the occasional squeak of fear - is to emulate Stan Laurel. You even see a sort of Oliver Hardy-ish bluster to Robert Vaughn's industrialist villain for Pryor to play his Laurelisms against. And, considering that Reeve's Clark Kent, a modest bespectacled gent secretly capable of feats of strength, owes more than a little debt to silent comedian Harold Lloyd, a similarly mild-mannered fellow who literally climbed a tall building in a single bound in SAFETY LAST, I find it rather charming that the work of such comedy pioneers is quietly being reenacted decades later. It's not completely effective, especially when you know it goes against his better comedic impulses, but it is interesting because of the contrast, as if trying to prove to the world (and himself) that he could be funny without any of his earthier hallmarks, to use the template of the comedians that he had grown up enjoying to demonstrate his versatility. There is also the harsh reality that, in a family-friendly franchise film which he was receiving a cool $4 million to appear in, there would be no room for the dirty stuff anyway.

But again, perhaps this is what Pryor wanted at the time. Initially, Pryor had practically begged to be involved in the franchise, excitedly talking about his love for the first film on "THE TONIGHT SHOW WITH JOHNNY CARSON," an incident which first inspired producers Alexander and Ilya Salkind to make the large money offer to Pryor in the first place. The offer came after accepting a starring role in another family-friendly comedy, the American remake of Francis Veber's THE TOY, oddly enough directed by original SUPERMAN director Richard Donner. A couple of years earlier, Pryor had taken a trip to Africa, where, as memorably depicted in LIVE ON THE SUNSET STRIP, he was inspired to renounce his use of the racial epithet that he had previously played to the hilt, and while his first interests were still big paychecks (and his drug addiction), he definitely wanted to be a world entertainer and not just a black comedian. All these circumstances suggest that contrary to the dismissal in his book, SUPERMAN III to Pryor was less a cavalier cash grab and more of a sincere desire to pay tribute to things that brought him happiness as a kid, and maybe repay the favor for his own and the next generation. Again, that doesn't make it a good movie, but it provides a new lens with which to observe the mess.

And that brings things around to the beginning of this essay and the element of the movie that I do find still holds my interest. Superman, in his most passionate fans, constantly inspires questions, whether, as was being asked in the aformentioned Issue #900, if Superman is an American, or in other circles, what is his religious/ethnic identity. But in SUPERMAN III, it comes down to the ultimate question, not just for Superman but also for his ersatz nemesis/admirer Gus Gorman - "Who am I?"

Superman, during his infected rogue phase, is more than just indulging in nasty behavior; for the first time, he's allowing himself to feel better than humans, because, well, he isn't one. After all, he tried being human in SUPERMAN II and was terrible at it. The kryptonite has unlocked residual resentment at being unable to engage in romance because of his hero duties, having to play nice with the people or let them push him around when he's in street clothes, and now he is retaliating against the world, demonstrating what chaos he's capable of doing in a fit of pique, because of his otherworldly powers. When it's time for that I Against I grudge match, it's become a spiritual fight between openly showing off his might and menace or concealing and modulating it in the cloak of ordinary men. The striking image of Clark Kent winning the fight, and then revealing the cleaned up shield beneath his drab suit, says that Superman has willingly made the conscious decision to be outwardly meek and humble, to be a mensch, and let his real strength be within himself. Contrary to what Bill said to The Bride, Superman is not critiquing the human race by his life as Clark Kent, but embracing them, because they embraced him all his life. (In a future essay, I will discuss how the people repaid the favor.)

Gus, meanwhile, is a venal opportunist who is really just trying to improve his lot in life and doesn't want to hurt anyone. His first grand scheme, engaging in salami slicing to fatten his paycheck, he sees as a "victimless" crime since the money goes nowhere otherwise, thus he later allows himself to be co-opted by a megalomaniac for what he thinks are similarly victimless schemes in order to live his silly dreams. When he must confront the fact that his actions have consequences beyond his small world, including destroying Superman, he renounces everything - his criminal benefactor, his supercomputer - that has given him his exalted status...perhaps mirroring how Pryor in real life abandoned his previously-favorite curse word.

Whatever grand ambitions and ideas are within, SUPERMAN III is still a slog for the average viewer and is only recommended to those with strong constitutions or a good fast-forwarding thumb. It is nice to see it still has some degree of positive impact years later, either obviously, as the initial financial scheme is reprised for bigger comic effect in Mike Judge's classic OFFICE SPACE, or interpretively, as Richard Pryor's Gus Gorman seems to have been a partial influence on John C. Reilly's lovably befogged Dr. Steve Brule character on "TIM AND ERIC AWESOME SHOW GREAT JOB". Perhaps in one of those DC multiverses, Reeve and Pryor made a really great sequel, and my surrogate will be writing an essay about how it could have gone horribly awry...

Aleph of Love, You Bet

2011-04-21T17:22:00.000-07:00

This compendium is respectfully dedicated to comedian, actor, radio personality, author, and most importantly, my close friend of over two decades, Dino Tripodis, on this his 52nd birthday: Appropriate to the theme of this post, he has always loved the movies, and he is most definitely a memorable character.

Taking on a long-overdue impetus from Brian Saur at Rupert Pupkin Speaks, I am presenting an entry in the ongoing "Cinematic Alphabet" meme. But I decided to do it a little differently - instead of movie titles or movie actors, since in each category some letters had a monopoly on my favorites than others, I decided to try an alphabetical list of favorite characters. There was still some overlap on some letters - whether I used first or last names, poor Corrine Burns from LADIES AND GENTLEMEN THE FABULOUS STAINS still got trumped by someone else - but for the most part, I think this is an excellent, eclectic sampling of some of the people I've enjoyed meeting at the movies:

A is for Alice Spages

B is for Beatles

C is for C.C. Baxter

D is for Doria Houston, Miss Anaheim

E is for Edward D. Wood, Jr.

F is for Frank'n'Furter, Dr.

G is for Girl

H is for Henry Hill

I is for Ian Curtis

J is for J.J. Hunsecker

K is for Kira

L is for Lloyd Dobler

M is for Mac MacIntyre

N is for Nick Burns
(a/k/a Wilbur Malcome Burns / Theodore Burns / Raphael Sabatini / Dr. Morris Fishbein / Woodrow Burns / Chevrolet Burns / Big Sam Burns / Lefty Burns)

O is for Otis P. Driftwood

P is for Primo

Q is for Queen Bee

R is for Rudy Russo

S is for Suzy Banyon

T is for Tripper Harrison

U is for Ursa

V is for Varla

W is for Wallace Wells

X is for Xu Jiazhen

Y is for Yolanda Honey Bunny

Z is for Zachary Garber, Lt.

Tear the Truth off the Suckered

2011-04-12T06:33:00.000-07:00

Last night, I finally went out and saw Zack Snyder's would-be Gyno Gearloose epic SUCKER PUNCH. Or as I will be facetiously be calling it among my cattier friends, PAN'S LAPPYDANCE. No, it is not good. I don't hate it with the ridiculous fury of a thousand Sunny D drinkers as Geekscape writer Jonathan London has correctly criticized, but I must stand with the majority of my close friends and trusted voices and agree that it is a loud, mostly unpleasant hodgepodge of dubious grrl power, pointless genre side trips, and yes, a blatant point-by-point horking of Guillermo Del Toro's deeply moving parable of trauma and transcendence, right down to its Dickensian ending. I will be surprised if I don't hear reports from the next MTV Movie Awards that Del Toro put Snyder in a headlock and maniacally giggled, "HERE IS MY SEQUEL TO YOUR RIPOFF OF MY MOVIE. I CALL IT SLEEPER HOLD!"

And, I am ashamed to say, I will probably go see it again on its inevitable second life on the "Awful is the New Awesome" revival theatre mandate, and I will probably buy the threatened unexpurgated edition on DVD later this year. I am completely cognizent of every wrong thing in this movie that should deign it to the scrap heap of "So Bad It's Gone Past Good And Back to Bad Again" with other unloved failures like THE LEAGUE OF EXTRAORDINARY GENTLEMEN and THE DUCHESS AND THE DIRTWATER FOX, films that even the most rabid proponents of cinema d'ordure will never dare try to lure Wiseauholics to watch at midnight. But for all my intellectual distancing, there was that sliver of my psyche that was having a good time.

It could be the relentless injection of elements from steampunk and anime that has not been prevalent in most major studio movies, imagery that I do enjoy looking at: In the larger fantasy scenes I heard a rather Ponsonby Brittarian exchange in my head..."Well, there's something you don't see everyday, Chauncey." "What's that, Edgar?" "An art deco bullet train traveling towards the rings of Saturn populated by faceless robots." "Oh, I don't know, Edgar; mass transit has taken some amazing strides." It could be that I was slightly impressed by Snyder's commitment to a crazed vision - "So, you're really going to use a 21st century battle weapon to mow down WWI zombies? This is really happening? Okee dokee then." Or, it could just boil down to the fact that I'm an unrepentant perv who's had a lifelong weakness for girls in sparkly tights and cabaret pumps. Looking at the sullen, joyless, wizened faces of the two other men who were in the auditorium with me, I do sadly fear it's that last explanation...and that they are my future self. But at the end of it all, SUCKER PUNCH crossed my line and became that dreaded trope known as the Guilty Pleasure.

Like many of my contemporaries in filmmaking and criticism, I am often loath to use the term "guilty pleasure" to describe a film. Primarily because 85% of the time if I like a movie there is no guilt in it: I can point to something in there that makes it worthwhile, I can argue that it is legitimately good. If asked, I will mount passionate defenses of oft-derided efforts like THE POSTMAN and MYRA BRECKINRIDGE. But yes, there are some movies that I know in my heart are not misunderstood, just plain irredeemable. There is no justification for them beyond the fact that I inexplicably like them, and the fact that I like them should make you lose all respect for me and my palate. Again, it goes back to the concept of neo-sincerity: I can easily point out all the faults, but I choose not to. And while some of them are well-known to you too, seeing as how I almost single-handedly put one back on the map (Thanks for nothing, ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY!) and have been busy keeping a newer one in constant consciousness, I can't resist an opportunity to bear my tortured soul on a few other less familiar outings of the outre.

Again, in no particular order:

H.E.A.L.T.H.
Though Robert Altman was enormously adept at telling multiple stories that add up to one big story in film after film, sometimes he let his cleverness get ahead of entertainment. HEALTH was made at the end of what I like to call Altman's "Green Awning" period at 20th Century-Fox (named after a Mel Brooks riff about how when a director is hot, he could pitch a movie about just a green awning and producers will take it seriously), and was intended to be his big 1980 election satire, using the power-play for leadership of a health organization as extended metaphor for political dirty tricks. Or at least, that's what I've always taken from it; according to background actor Lary Crews, who served as Altman's assistant and typed the script for him, the story was constantly altered and changed by Altman and his collaborators under the influence of sandwiches and weed. Fox, naturally, found it so weird they buried it worse than they did IDIOCRACY; even when the studio released a purportedly complete box set of all their Altman movies on DVD, this was conspicuously left out.
It alternates between sledgehammer obviousness and obscuro minutiae (even I would have to say you must be really historically adept to get the fact that Lauren Bacall and Glenda Jackson's characters are meant to represent Dwight Eisenhower and Adlai Stevenson), and ultimately plays like one dip in the NASHVILLE pool too many. Still, though, I'm fond of it for its sheer audacity, and there are moments that I think really work. But this would be way low on the list of Altman movies that I would recommend to the novice viewer.

LAST HOUSE ON DEAD END STREET
This story about a pornographer who turns to snuff for bigger kicks is a humorless and grim exercise in nihilism chic, with all manner of graphic excess to try distracting you from the otherwise pointlessness of its existence. Yet somehow, it grabs me the way that my first viewing of R. Kern's shorts kept me in the room despite my repulsion. It's completely unpleasant, but it has a stench of authenticity that makes me compulsively respect it, as if Faye Dunaway's NETWORK wet dream came true and real psychopaths got hold of 16mm equipment and filmed their exploits. And if you consume the hard-to-find DVD's extras, you'll learn that indeed, the late director Roger Watkins had some serious issues. This falls under the category of "Movies That Will Get You Divorced and/or Lose You Custody of Your Kids."

ELIZABETHTOWN
The movie that landed Cameron Crowe in director jail for almost a decade, which gave license to chuckleheads to piss and dismiss his catalog of lovably flawed protagonists and for satirists to suggest he should only make soundtrack albums...yes, it is an indulgent soup of overromaticised redemption. From the melodramatic set-up of Orlando's blunder, to the preciousness of the fourth act (when could Kirsten Dunst have all that time to make her customized road map and CDs?), even resorting to that horrid trope of every college sophomore's party-kitchen philosophizing, the question "But who are THEY?", indeed, after viewing ELIZABETHTOWN it is enough to make weaker souls take the baseball bat to Lloyd Dobler's boombox. But I loved every phony, hokey minute of it, as soon as that retro Paramount logo started the show. I wanted to live in that universe where losing a billion dollars could be sloughed off, where family quarrels could be peaceably resolved with a stand-up routine and a divided funeral, where you had time to drive across America and just look at stuff and listen to tunes, and yes, where a perky flight attendant knows all the deep album tracks and secrets of the heart. Really, it's biggest crime is that it's just too darned nice of a movie, and thus there's no suspense for the average viewer in seeing how it will turn out. Yet for me, on days where the world has been one big meanie to me, I go back to ELIZABETHTOWN and indulge in a little sugar. And yes, I bought both soundtrack albums too, because the Onion can snark all they want, but dammit Crowe makes good mix tapes.

THE HOUND OF THE BASKERVILLES
There are few things more painful than truly funny people in the middle of a not very funny movie. And that's probably what fans of Peter Cook and Dudley Moore felt like watching them parody Sherlock Holmes, as director and former Warhol acolyte Paul Morrissey tried to continue the over-the-top antics of his surprisingly successful Dracula and Frankenstein film satires with Udo Kier. But I discovered this movie before I was even 13, when anything slightly resembling "adult" comedy was exciting, and if I loved the performer enough, I could convince myself anything they did was funny. Which is essentially what I did: I watched, listened, and memorized this movie and made myself love it. I suspect it's not the material in the movie but my memory of it and that time of my life that is triggering the laughter.
No, I take that back: Dudley playing Sherlock's phony-psychic mother as a hectoring yenta who keeps calling him "Sherl" is legitimately funny. "I've lost a medium; rare in a world in which the steaks are high."

And so, I stand before you with the evidence of my criminal diversions in full view. Launch whatever rejoinders you will. But keep in mind I have years of training in the art of dodging rocks and garbage.

As Smart as God and a Lot Less Nice

2011-04-01T05:49:00.000-07:00

(open cheek, insert tongue, commence with the silly...)

It was Rod Serling who pointed out the opportunity science fiction offered to the writer with a message. "Words that dare not be said by a Republican or a Democrat can easily be voiced by a Martian," he declared. And so much of our best science fiction has been able to convey deep truths through the cloak of mere diversion. Think of the anguished pleas for racial harmony Charlton Heston beseiged us with in SOYLENT GREEN, calling attention to how our hatred made us literally eat one another, and reminding us that the great truth of society is, "PEOPLE! IT'S MADE OUT OF PEOPLE!!!" Even the densest of personalities could surely see THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW as the symbolic struggle for England's future as the power play between Dr. Frankenfurter and his servants stands as extended metaphor for the upheaval of the decadent bourgeoisie by the even more decadent working class, as Brad and Janet--i.e. America--stand by helplessly waiting for the winner.

Nevertheless, on January 14, 2000, I attended the opening night of the film SUPERNOVA, expecting merely another space opera with pretty lighting and cool gizmos. Imagine my surprise to find a compelling treatise on the need for responsible sexual behavior, both now and in the distant future!

The movie opens with the crew of a medical rescue vessel called the Nightengale, in a comfortable state of leisure. Two lower officers, Lou Diamond Phillips and Robin Tunney, are introduced to us as being in a healthy, monogamous relationship. Later on, they will fill out an application for permission to engage in childbirth. Already we are presented with a utopian ideal--parents who do not bring life into the world until they are physically and emotionally ready, and can produce the proper paperwork to prove it. At the same time, newly-joined lieutenant James Spader attempts wooing lead medical officer Angela Bassett. At first, she is justifiably suspcious of him, as he is recovering from addiction to a futuristic hallucinogen called "hazen." (Get it, it puts you in a haze. Damned clever!) We will later discover a former abusive lover was also addicted to the drug. But she is a doctor, and quickly ascertains he has not only a body, but a soul that must heal, and soon they also join together in love. On board also is Wilson Cruz, a seeming odd man out, who fills the void by reprogramming the ship computer with a female voice and fuzzy logic, and nicknaming it "sweetie." While a layman would see this as a sign of desperation and loneliness, it is the thinking viewer who reasons that a computer program is ultimately an extension of one's own personality. Thus the computer serves as a manifestation of his feminine side, and they live in comfortable co-existence. It is a love affair with oneself essentially, but was it not Whitney Houston who proclaimed learning to love oneself was the greatest love of all?

The peaceable status quim is soon shattered when, in answering a distress call by hyperwarping, the ship is damaged, physically by the warp, and spiritually by the caller, Peter Facinelli. He is a handsome man with that MIAMI VICE beard shadow that, in our hearts, never went out of style. Facinelli purports to be the son of Basset's dangerous ex, and claims to have been abandoned by his friends on a barren mining planet. Facinelli, when analyzed, is found to have increased regeneration powers, as if growing younger and stronger by the minute. And he brings with him a mysterious object that had been buried within the deepest gully of the mine. Initially, no one, not even the computer, can discern the origin or purpose of the vaguely vulvic-shaped object, but it and its porter quickly disrupt affairs on the ship. Phillips finds himself repeatedly drawn to it, to touch it intensely--not without being noticed by Spader, who sternly admonishes, "You've been playing with it, haven't you." At the same time, the handsome Facinelli incites Tunney to infidelity, only to cast her out into space when finished. Bassett finally learns the object is a ninth-dimension interstellar bomb meant to either destroy entire planets and stars, or strengthen them after its matter bonds with them. And Facinelli is not the son of her ex, but the actual ex, made younger, stronger, and more dangerous by his contact with the volatile object, who has in fact killed his previous crew, and sets out to do the same with her ship, in the worst case of romantic stalking this side of Alpha Centauri. I don't dare give away the clever manner in which Facinelli is given his comeuppance, but I will say if there's anyone who's got a history of getting the upper hand by appealing to a man's jealousy, it's James Spader!

Can't ya see it? The bomb is woman! Who among us has not felt younger and more powerful after contact with a good woman? It tempts Phillips away from true love. It drives Facinelli to destroy others who would take it away from him, makes him cocky enough to steal other women and attempt to regain those lost before. And by its nature, the bomb destroys life or strengthens it. Isn't that not the nature of female?

The moral imperative of SUPERNOVA is clear: Space poon is nothing but trouble!!!

Supernova - Bande annonce VO by _Caprice_

In short, there may be 100 films to symbolize the best of the 20th century, but when it comes time to itemize the 21st, a good film theoretician must acknowledge SUPERNOVA in their research!

(retract tongue, search Blue Shield guide for good mental counselor)

148,000 Light Years and Back, Sailing on a Silver Train

2011-03-22T05:29:00.000-07:00

This is my under-the-wire contribution to the Japanese Cinema Blogathon To Aid Earthquake and Tsunami Relief, hosted by Japan Cinema and Cinema Fanatic. These wonderful bloggers, and their contributors, literally pulled together with barely two days notice to create this past week of scintillating reading to raise money for Japan's recovery. All these entry links are collected here, and, most importantly, you can make a donation by clicking on the banner above.

Note to the otaku: I'm sure I'm going to drive you nuts by referring to so much in this essay by the bowdlerized American terminology you've spent years correcting. But this is not a history lesson about the works themselves; there are literally dozens of better blogs and official websites to tell the truth about that. This is about my history with the works, when I didn't know what I know now about them. As such, I'm using the names by which I first experienced them and grew to love them.

It's 1979, and I'm in the fourth grade. I have already determined that I was going to have a career in movies. STAR WARS has made it that I'm eager to devour almost anything science-fiction related on film and television, though many times I'm looking more at the costumes and toys than paying attention to the storylines; I watched most of the first season of "BATTLESTAR GALACTICA" but I'd be hard-pressed to tell you what was happening on the show. Meanwhile, though, I'm still jonesing for the chance to take sick days, blow off school, and watch daytime TV: I consider it a rotten deal that so many good cartoons and game shows are being aired when I can't watch them.

And sure enough, I catch cold, and I'm out for almost a week. And amidst WXIX-19's normal lineup of Bugs Bunny, Popeye, and The Flintstones, they've added something new to me at 8:30 a.m.: "STAR BLAZERS."

And instantaneously, I can sense that this may be a cartoon, but this isn't kiddie fare. For starters, this is an adventure show, but it doesn't wrap up in a half hour like "JONNY QUEST" or "SUPERFRIENDS;" there's an ongoing story, like the old time serials my dad has told me about, or the soap operas that I tend to avoid. Something about Earth contaminated by radiation caused by an alien enemy, and a starship crew who must go an enormous distance in one earth year to find a cure AND defeat the would-be conquerers. An exciting storyline, but one that also infuriated me, because, well, sooner or later I was going to have to go back to school and I had no way to keep up with the story and find out how it would end. Videotaping was an expensive luxury reserved for important TV events, and I didn't know anyone who was going to be at home to watch the show and recap it. It was absolute dirty pool of Channel 19 to run such a demanding show for an audience eager to devour it in a timeslot that guaranteed they would be unable to watch it in sequence!

I subsequently managed to catch isolated episodes over time through sick days and holidays, ultimately pieced together the important stuff, and it continued to reinforce my earlier appraisal that this was something special. Besides the ongoing threat of Earth succumbing to radiation, onboard the Argo there was the kind of adult romantic tension between hotshot captain Derek Wildstar and slinky, solemn nurse Nova that I was used to seeing on prime time, the so-called "spring water" the ship doctor was regularly drinking was definitely a potent potable, and most importantly, characters actually died! When I finally got to see the resolution of the first season (SPOILER: Earth survives), and learned that Captain Avatar, the gravelly commander in the opening and closing credits of each show, would not live to see Earth restored, and later would be accorded a very emotional funeral (this was a good 2 years before Spock would get his sendoff in STAR TREK II: THE WRATH OF KHAN), I was heartbroken, likely among many unprepared kids shocked and saddened at this turn.

Since I was already starting to pay attention to details like production companies and personnel, the building blocks of my Movie Geekdom, I looked carefully at the credits to this series. The syndicator, Claster Television, was familiar to me because I had seen their name on "ROMPER ROOM" and I had noticed they were an arm of Hasbro Toys. But what really caught my attention was that most of the names on the credit roll were Japanese...and that there was a screen reading:

ORIGINALLY PRODUCED IN JAPAN BY
YOSHINOBU NISHIZAKI
UNDER THE TITLE "SPACE CRUISER YAMATO"

My only previous exposure to Japanese-made programming was "SPEED RACER," which I had remembered loving as a pre-schooler but began to notice its limitations in animation quality. But there didn't seem to be any limitations here - the combination battleship/spaceship was elegant, the people were all attractive, and I was enjoying the gravity of the proceedings. As such, I was beginning to grasp that in Japan, animation was a much more serious business than it was here in the states.

A couple years pass. I'm now already in the thick of building my film knowledge base, and I'm heavily into Roger Corman's New World Pictures, because they're releasing all kinds of interesting stuff. Besides the horror movies that I'm still too chickenshit to watch, I see their name attached to great foreign films like CRIES AND WHISPERS and AMARCORD, rock movies like ROCK'N'ROLL HIGH SCHOOL and THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT, silly kids stuff like SATURDAY THE 14TH and THE PRIVATE EYES, and, yes, cheap but cheerful space fluff like BATTLE BEYOND THE STARS; kids on the playground raved about George Peppard and his automatic whiskey belt.

Sneaking a look at my dad's ON-TV subscription TV channel one night, I see a trailer for an animated movie that I didn't recall playing Cincinnati - GALAXY EXPRESS. It promises the story of a boy traveling on a train that floats in space. But this is no Disneyesque romp: the boy is grim and determined, with a gun, looking for revenge. And he's in the company of an alluring and mysterious older blonde woman. And when it finishes, it has a New World Pictures byline on it. I determine that if New World is putting it out, it must be cool. But it would take me all the way to college before I would actually get a hold of a VHS copy and see it.

Even in the adult post-graduate status which I watch GALAXY EXPRESS, I react to it as if I were back in middle school, the same relative age as the movie's protagonist, the improbably named Joey Hannakannabobbakamanda Smith. I used to take holiday trips on Greyhound, often times alone, and watching Joey on a near-barren train stirs up the feelings of excitement and fear of traveling on my own like an grown-up. The weird convergence of childlike trust, sisterly affection, and buried attraction between Joey and his enigmatic guardian Maetel reminds me of how I felt towards older girls in my childhood. I find myself grimacing yet laughing at the same time at the ridiculous pseudo-John Wayne voice accorded to the arresting supporting character of space pirate Captain Warlock. At times I'm getting lost in the story, unable to keep track of everything, and having my rudimentary knowledge about Roger Corman, I suspect this has been radically edited from what the Japanese producers initially presented him. But I think IMDb user "perfectpawn" sums up the whole of my emotions as I watched the movie:

Well, I WAS a 7 year old kid when HBO played this movie in 1980 or so, and it disturbed the HELL out of me. I'd never seen things like this in a cartoon before -- the main kid's mom getting killed, female characters stripping down, the little kid getting the crap beat out of him by robot thugs, his mom mounted like a trophy in Mecha's throne room, the kid freaking out as he was about to be turned into a bolt(!), Maetel totally selling the kid out and then admitting that her body was once his mother's, and then that incredibly sad ending as she left on the Galaxy Express and told the kid she'd only live on in his memories.

Oh yeah, that ending. After all that's happened between Joey and Maetel, the fact that he ends his journey having avenged his mother but losing his soul mate made me as misty-eyed as when Charlotte spun her last web.

I'm not going to bother trying to explain what I have learned in the decades since then about the true origins and expanse of the universes of what should properly be known as "SPACE CRUISER YAMATO" and "GALAXY EXPRESS 999." If you google or wiki those titles, you'll learn the meat about why they're so great and continue to amass huge amounts of fans to this day. I will say that SyFy channel has made an excellent decision in choosing to rebroadcast the first season of "STAR BLAZERS" this April, and that you can also go to Hulu and see the proper 100+ episodes of "GALAXY EXPRESS 999" without the truncation or bad dubbing and get caught up in it.

These two pieces of what was being called "Japanimation" back then, and "anime" today, discovered in childhood, even while watching one in, at best, arrested adolescence, using the medium of cartoons which had otherwise been a source of happy-minded distraction, sent a message to me. These animated creations did not talk down to young Marc Edward Heuck, no matter how much doctoring the American producers may have done to make them kid-friendly. They were straightforward about unpleasant subjects like doom, emnity, isolation, abandonment, betrayal, death, and uncertainty about the future, because even if they had the impact of a falling pallet of bricks to my soul, it was as if the artists felt I was mature enough to withstand the hurt, learn from it, and recover to become stronger afterwards.

Somehow, I think that's an appropriate message coming from the country of Japan.

And that's why I'm donating. Not just out of charity, but out of thanks for the life lessons...and the animation. Please give too.

Of Noir and Guitar: One Vigilant Vixen

2011-02-22T18:00:00.000-08:00

And here we are at the closing day of, and my final contribution to, The Self-Styled Siren and Ferdy on Films terrific For the Love of Film (Noir) Film Preservation Blogathon. If you go to their respective sites, you'll see that they are knocked out with submissions from writers both lauded and loaded, and as of this writing have already raised over $5000 toward the restoration of THE SOUND OF FURY starring Lloyd Bridges, just from the pocket change of shlumpfs like you and me.

So, the Blogathon may be over, but the love, the appreciation, and the art form keeps on going. Thus I'm posting today in postscript.

While I've been musing on the past in my previous entries, today, we're looking at the present and future. Presently, the Noir still has a compelling draw, as witnessed by the success of this Blogathon and the participants it has attracted. Outside of our little borough, however, it's still a bit of a fight. It's peculiar how we have arguably the most film-literate generation walking the streets and yet so many have never had chance, or even openly eschew the opportunity, to watch classic B&W filmmaking. The studios are no longer putting as much historical love into making them available to the public: where at the dawn of DVD we were spoiled by carefully crafted box sets of favorites and discoveries, catalog titles are no longer a priority and have mostly been relegated to the no-frills frontier of Manufacture-On-Demand releases. TV airings are extremely sparse: if you don't have Turner Classic Movies, you'll have a harder time finding a noir on TV than you would a prison screw who isn't on the take.

And meanwhile in my particular focus, the music video, on the surface, times seem as harsh as the setting of a noir. With the democratization of YouTube, videos are at once everywhere and nowhere, so while they are still made, they're not the must-see attraction they once were - no "MTV Exclusives," no theatrical runs, no multi-million-dollar budgets - so everyone, professional and potzer alike, are fighting for the same scraps of your attention like dogs on a meat truck. A band like OK GO can still get famous for an innovative video, and even build a following on a small budget, but more often than not, YouTube superstars become nostalgia acts as fast as you can say "Chocolate Rain." Nevertheless, good, creative types still explore the possibilities and make three minutes of Heaven, and many of them can even go on to solid success in longer-form work. And if there's an honest pair of dice in this crap game, the following lady just might be next in line.

Victoria Lane is a committed actress, a fearless promoter, a mordant writer, and as Jason Robards once observed about Stella Stevens, the ladiest damned lady I've ever known. Taking the professional subtitle of "Retro Hollywood Starlet," she has been one of a fiercely dedicated group of artists keeping the archetypes of Noir alive and relevant, through modeling spreads and live events. I've been privileged to know her for almost a decade, and to contribute from time to time to her projects.

Recently, the groundbreaking and resilient '80's band Duran Duran announced that they would hold a contest for fans to make their own videos for their new album ALL YOU NEED IS NOW, with winners receiving a cash prize and their videos collected on a DVD tied-in to the physical CD release of the currently download-only album. Victoria has submitted an entry for the song "Before the Rain." Considering Duran Duran's roots in the New Romantic movement, their frequent collaborations with the previously mentioned Noir-enthusiast Russell Mulcahy, and Victoria's love and understanding of the genre, frankly, this is a perfect marriage. As such, I asked Victoria to talk about her background and the production, as an example of how Noir can and will continue to fascinate new generations.

What was your first encounter with film noir?
I grew up watching old black and white Hollywood movies. I am not exactly sure when I first encountered the noir genre specifically, though. I just know that I was well versed in genres and noir was one of them. I was drawn to the early days of Hollywood for a variety of reasons, particularly the elegance of black and white film. Painting with light and the use of shadow were tools I understood very early as an artistic language.

That first noir film I happened upon was a movie starring Veronica Lake. Now that I look back, it’s a bit of twisted foreshadowing that I latched onto her. Many of the things she was accused of or criticized for have haunted me as well, though I’d kill to have had a higher profile career than I have thus far enjoyed. Minus the drinking. I have my vices and have had a wild period that makes Lindsey Lohan look like an amateur but I am nowhere near the tragic alcoholic Veronica Lake was legendary for becoming.

What are the elements that attracted you to it? Were you an instant fan, or did it take time to become your favorite genre?
There was always a little something wrong with me (or right with me, depending upon your perspective). From a remarkably early age, I was able to ferret out the bad guy in a movie before he revealed himself. I was attracted to the dark side. At first it was a sort of innocent type of romance. The thrill of going toe to toe with evil and walking away in tact.
But as I lived, experienced, loved, hated, and saw humanity for what it was, I started to have a burgeoning affinity for darker genres, particularly film noir. The concept of people being forced into extreme situations and engaged in mortal as well as moral combat all at once appeals to me. I understand how a perfectly good person can fall down hard. I fully condone adventuring through one’s vices and partaking in ‘sin.‘ And I like the idea of redemption, though not the sort you’ll find in a church. Having the strength to be you, both dark and light, is very attractive to me. All of that is found in film noir from the writing to the production value.

Up until now, what have you done to elevate its profile?.
I like to refer to myself as a living film noir vixen. It isn’t entirely a compliment in my mind. I am quite literally at that scary point in my life where I am standing at the end of my fading youth after a fast lane life of easy money and big dreams that amounted to so much stardust easily blown away by the faintest breeze. I took it on as a sort of theme from the way I dress to the creative projects I select.
I’ve recently posed in some beautiful images by photographer Mark Berry, done a night of Naked Noir for Dr. Sketchy’s LA and produced a little short set to Duran Duran’s recently released "Before The Rain" with the hopes of perhaps winning a contest to help fund a larger project set to execute this year.

What were the circumstances that led you to make your music video for "Before the Rain"?
That was a perfect storm. I have always wanted to be a Duran Duran video vixen. But by the time I had the self possession to do such a thing, Duran Duran was no longer dominating MTV.
Also, I have been trying to do my first film noir for years now. I had a basic plot and a very lush world carefully constructed. I had the beginnings of a script too. But between the Writer’s Strike and the economy, I had to sacrifice that whole thing to focus on surviving.
In December of last year Duran Duran released their latest album. It was one of the darker months of my adult life. The album was a bit of bright spot that shot like a laser beam through the darkness and woke up something deep inside of me. A week or two later, the band Twittered about a video contest. It was one of those moments where I felt like the Universe was talking to me and giving me the chance to fly if I had the guts to jump off a cliff. I couldn’t get it out of my head. I had to do it.
And so I decided to make two of my dreams come true. I made myself a Duran Duran video vixen (on a very limited stage, of course) and I co-produced a little noir movie with Todd Liebman.

(It has been brought to my attention that the embedded video is not showing up on some browsers, particularly Internet Explorer. If you can't see it above, you can click here to watch at the Genero.tv site.)

Why did you pick this song? Did the film noir concept come first, or did the song inspire the concept?
I picked the song for a few reasons. It was the only near gothic track on the album. And, given the clear hits other people were responding to, I expected it to be largely ignored by other filmmakers.
The song is not a frivolous pop hit. It’s a very dark, exquisite piece of poetry with a distinct pulse. The story we imagined came after listening to the song repeatedly. Granted, the story we came up with and what we were able to film in three days with a very limited budget as well as all the inevitable flaking of others were completely different, which still vexes me. But part of the whole process of making a film is realizing it is a living being that takes new directions. Being able to handle that is just as important as meticulous planning.

Describe the production. Was it a difficult shoot?
Filmmaking is challenging. It is not for the faint of heart nor the stubbornly rigid. Every single day was full of setbacks from locations falling through to people simply not showing up or expecting to be paid insane amounts of money. Indie film is a concept lost on a lot of people here in Los Angeles. When they hear "movie," they think of studio budgets that can shut down swathes of the city. I think we spent a total of $400. And no one was paid for their time. It was all contributed.
Todd and I had to do everything ourselves. Even on a four minute film that is a lot of work, particularly for Todd who was his own crew. It was very odd for me at times to be an actor in the movie but also the line producer keeping everything on schedule. It took some very intense compartmentalizing on my part.
I think the hardest bit for me was having to let go of the original concept and accept what we could get done. When we were shooting, we had a particular deadline looming set by the contest which was later changed. We weren’t aware of the additional two weeks added in the final days.
Also a total bitch? Loading that damn gun clip. Repeatedly. Putting bullets into a clip is not easy. You need some serious hand strength. (The clip was real. But the actual gun was not.)

Do you feel you have more to explore within the noir genre, either in short form or perhaps a full feature film?
I am not even close to finished with the genre. I am still going to produce the feature length noir. The current working title is “Pain Doll.” After seeing what we can do in three days, I am convinced this is what I am supposed to be doing. It’s not a bad first stab at filmmaking and even earned us a few investors as well as a real music video gig.

So what's next?
Next, I finish cleaning up “Pain Doll,” get some financing and kill myself to get it in the can. I’d like to do some live shows, maybe finally get back to singing in some of the lurid little jazz clubs popping up all over LA and pose for more fine art photography. Predictably, I am busy writing the ‘Great American Novel.’ I may eventually finish it up and put it on some dead trees before that becomes a thing of the past. I want to hold at least one book I wrote all by myself in my hands before I die. In fact, I’d like to be buried clutching it to my chest with a look of satisfaction painted on my dead face.

I would say clutching a work of art involving Victoria Lane would bring a look of satisfaction to anyone's face.

If you enjoyed Victoria's video for "Before the Rain," please go to Genero.tv and vote your appreciation for it. While it is not clear whether internet votes will determine the winners of the contest (the band will be picking favorites too), it will certainly help draw more interest and visibility to the vixen.

And, you can still donate to the THE SOUND OF FURY preservation fund by clicking on the custom banner below.

My enormous thanks to Farran and Marilyn for hosting the Blogathon, to Victoria for taking time to talk about Noir, and all you lovely little people in the dark for reading these posts...hopefully not in the dark, it's bad for your eyes!

Of Noir and Guitar: A Prime Mover

2011-02-18T05:59:00.000-08:00

Today I continue my contribution to The Self-Styled Siren and Ferdy on Films ambitious For the Love of Film (Noir) Film Preservation Blogathon, where all manner of terrific writers have joined to remind you of the beauty of Noir, and to fund the restoration of the underrated 1950 thriller THE SOUND OF FURY starring Lloyd Bridges. Clicking on the banner above will allow you to make your own donation to the cause. Again, even if you think you can barely help out a fellow American who's down on their luck, a single dollar or two is welcome; we've all lived through a sob story or two. Random donors will be selected for great prizes, including DVDs, original artworks, and books related to all things dark and forboding, so if anything, you might be able to stop your sobbing.

When I left off in my previous post, it was the dawn of music video, where all you needed was a girl and a gun and you had a compelling video. But as the '80's wound into the '90's, the landscape was changing. MTV was leaning on more long-form programming, the audiences at home needed more to wow them, and the record companies were spending more money in order to wow them, so it would no longer suffice to just buy some vintagewear at the thrift shop and restage CASABLANCA. Also, technology was advancing, the toolbox of tricks was expanding, and new directors realized you didn't need to tell a narrative story, you just needed to do something visually interesting. One would think under these conditions, Noir would be replaced on the playlist like Academy aperture was replaced by CinemaScope. But like a underestimated patsy who doesn't know they're supposed to be dead, Noir kept permeating the thoughts of musicians and artists alike.

Looking over the generation of music video directors that emerged from this important transitionary period, I am definitely not alone in espousing that one who has, in his own special idiom, maintained the promise (or, in keeping with the tropes, the ruse) of Noir is David Fincher. Though never so obvious in his homage as the previously analyzed Russell Mulcahy, what he has eschewed in traditional trappings he has more than made up for in emotional roots. And before he was even entrusted with a feature, he planted those roots in the music video realm. And even there, he was able to change the rules: not one of the 3 example videos I've chosen feature a gun or a detective or any of the usual totems of the layman's understanding of Noir.

We are, however, treated to a protagonist who fears a deception only to learn he's sealed his own fate...

...two different interpretations of the physical evidence and aftermath of a lover about to lose their object of affection...

...and an icy blonde growing aware of being pursued by the one hit man no one ever escapes.

And in the shift to features, there is always some similar sort of emotional root of the classic noir in every single film of David Fincher. Consider:

The doomed, violent criminals stalked by a more violent aggressor, who innately understand even if the police arrive, it will not be to save them;

The veteran detective and the young turk who fail to contemplate the depths of one sociopath's calculations;

The rich heel who begs to know who and how many are trying to bring him to ruin and why;

The light sleeper who cannot, or does not, want to acknowledge his darkest wishes;

The working stiff who betrays his rich client in pursuit of an illusory payday;

The representatives of authority who willingly take a one-way trip to Hell in a futile attempt to corner a serial killer who always has an alibi;

The man with a secret, who effectively knows when he will die, and must piece together who he is before he will lose the capacity to do so;

And the cagey manipulator, who seems to double-cross every meaningful person in his life, including himself;

In short, you don't have to be Jewish to love Levy's Rye, and you don't have to wear Fedoras in monochrome to tell the story of a stacked deck.

For my final installment in this Blogathon, you'll meet someone just starting to bring the joy of silvery imagery to new viewers. Meanwhile, keep reading the submissions and send some simoleons through those internet tubes.

Of Noir and Guitar: Origins

2011-02-16T06:32:00.000-08:00

Last year, I was privileged to take part in a noble blogathon begun by Farran Nehmes (The Self-Styled Siren) and Marilyn Ferdinand (Ferdy on Films) as a spotlight and fundraiser for the National Film Preservation Foundation. My submission drew lots of praise and is still one of the most-read articles here. Well, they're at it again, with a special focus on Film Noir and a special target for their fundraising: the restoration of an endangered 1950 thriller THE SOUND OF FURY starring Lloyd Bridges. Clicking on the banner above will allow you to make your own donation to the cause. Any dollar amount is welcome - if you've got $10 for a movie or a pay-per-view download, put it off for a night or so and invest it here. Random donors will be selected for great prizes, including DVDs, original artworks, and books related to all things dark and forboding, so you may see your investment pay back in entertainment as well.

To be honest with all the good and soft-boiled-souls reading this blog, I'm not the brightest bulb in the streetlamp when it comes to the subject of classic Noir. I've seen plenty of them, and love to devour them, but there are literally hundreds of writers participating in this event that can be more elegant or punchier in selling you on their seamy goodness. What I am better at, I think, is shining my dim light on their influence in places you would not normally consider. And for this entry, and a couple more to follow, I've chosen a medium that has more in common with the classic noir than initially thought. A medium that, like the low-budgeted and non-star-driven noirs of old, was dismissed by many for years as nothing more than disposable, derivative time filler: the music video.

It is probably hard to consider the music video carrying any kind of respect in the modern day. Even the network that made them famous rarely plays any. What few are made anymore are usually expensive vehicles that are more testaments to performer ego than storytelling. There are still plenty of others that are creative and unique enough to merit passing on to friends and posting on social networking sites, but it is safe to say that they are ultimately swept up amidst the salad of piano-playing cats, news bloopers, vanity webcam testimonials, and all else that constitute the daily memeage in our online diversions. And they definitely are not as effective in their first and foremost directive: to get the song played on radio and purchased by fans. But as stated by Girl On Film at the Images of Heaven blog, "[Given] how bloated and self-important music videos have become in the past 15 years or so, there’s something refreshing about revisiting a clip from 30 years back, when rock bands were loosely corralled before 16mm cameras to half-heartedly mime along with one of their 3-minute songs. The results of these brief, unpolished sessions were often crude little gems that captured more spark and natural charisma than any big-budget video produced today."

And in keeping with the theme of film preservation, many of these groundbreaking works are not being well-preserved. I saw a compilation DVD of Michael Jackson videos a couple years back and "Thriller," once the most expensive video ever made, shot in 35mm by John Landis and even exhibited in theatres, looked like it had been sourced from an old 3/4" tape! While most arguably famous artists have had their videos remastered from original film and tape sources and posted on the web by their record companies, many others surface only from fans' old home recordings...and, ironically, often get yanked from YouTube by the very record companies that have failed to preserve them! Reportedly, when WB wanted to include the two-part promotional video for Cyndi Lauper's "Goonies R Good Enough" for a DVD release of THE GOONIES, Sony Music only had the first half in their archive; a collector had to provide the concluding segment. While not often as prestigious or of august artistic value as a classic Noir, this still is a part of our cinematic history that deserves better protection that what it is being offered by those charged with its custody.

While many of the nascent directors at the dawn of music videos were taking their cues from an obvious source - the grandiose movie musical full of extras and spectacle - just as many, if not more, were taking their cues from Film Noir. Whether they were experienced filmmakers like Roger Corman protegee Jonathan Kaplan, whose Hitchcock-influenced video for "Infatuation" by Rod Stewart features MURDER MY SWEET co-star Mike Mazurki, or rising talents like Steve Barron, who made a matryoshka-style tribute in his video for "Don't You Want Me" by The Human League, they seemed to know that this was a chance to indulge in a style that was not often in demand for studio features. Bands themselves were just as inspired: the New Romantic movement of the early '80's popularized by Roxy Music and Duran Duran emphasized head-turning glamour to provide contrast to the no-frills bluntness of punk, and reveled in Noir imagery and themes. It is safe to say that the tropes of many a beloved Noir - B&W photography, smoke, rain, romantic obsession, criminal tendencies, and nihilistic endings - were the same tropes in music video that became so commonplace as to seem parodic.

And of the directors who made a name for themselves in this period, and used those tropes time and again, easily the most prominent Noir champion was Australian director Russell Mulcahy, lovingly described by Quentin Tarantino as "the poor man's Ridley Scott," an apt metaphor considering that Scott's '80's output (BLADE RUNNER, SOMEONE TO WATCH OVER ME, BLACK RAIN) has been considered among the vanguard of what constitutes modern Noir. In a recent interview, he laid out the basis of his attraction to the art form, stating, "[The] older noir films definitely had a quirkiness to the them and a black humour, but they also had a serious, strange, underlying tone to them..." And time and again, Mulcahy drew out those elements, in varying ways.

It could depict feelings of unexplainable persecution, as in one of many clips for Ultravox...

...or of solitude and isolation, as in this starmaking clip for The Motels and their lead singer Martha Davis...

...or even darker ideas, such as getting inside the mind of a stalker with violent fantasies.

It's an aesthetic that Mulcahy would carry into his feature filmmaking career. While he has worked in genres like science-fiction and historical epic, it is definitely the Noir that is his favorite. His most famous film, HIGHLANDER, is ostensibly a sword and sorcery action film, but spends much time in the dark alleys and fog of the big city.

His underrated adaptation of radio and comic book hero THE SHADOW reveled in the period accoutrements.

His most recent film, GIVE 'EM HELL, MALONE, takes a more meta-whimsical approach, placing the trappings of Noir in an otherwise present-day setting.

One could look at his style and snarkily say he's just blowing smoke up the viewer's ass, but nobody blows that smoke quite like him, and that's what makes him such an entertaining quantity to me and a laudable keeper of the flame.

In posts to come, I'll look at the work of an even better-known, Academy Award-level director with a Noir influence, and an up-and-coming champion bringing their love to the next generation. Meanwhile, visit Farran and Ferdy's blogs and read the other outstanding submissions to the Blogathan. And donate, so that our children will know the pleasure of villains and vixens!

"I'll just die if I don't get this recipe."

2011-02-09T05:36:00.000-08:00

Hope Kaplan is a close friend, a virtual den mother to the music cogniscenti of Los Angeles, and keeps a rather fine blog of her own. Don't ever dare question her rock'n'roll credibility: she was a Tacky Tartan Tart, and you weren't.

About a week ago, Hope wrote a thoughtful distillation on Radiohead's 1995 hit "Fake Plastic Trees," partnered with "Creep" as one of the band's best-known and loved songs, a cut which even the average over-40 "not too hard/not too lite" radio listener is familiar with and can hum a few bars. As detailed by Hope, songwriter Thom Yorke explores the notion of artificiality in the quest to conform to a societal standard, and how people, both through coercion and through willingness driven by loneliness, are sucked into the charade.

It's a common theme in his other songs, such as "Bodysnatchers" from the "pay what you will" 2007 album IN RAINBOWS ("They got a skin and they put me in"). According to Yorke, the latter song was partly and directly inspired by Ira Levin's novel-turned-cultural-talking-point THE STEPFORD WIVES. Yorke directly referenced the work in his earlier song "A Wolf at the Door" from the 2003 album HAIL TO THE THIEF ("Stepford wives who are we to complain?")

More importantly, however, it is readily apparent that his appreciation of the film was already in place back in 1995. Look at the hit song's equally iconic video directed by WELCOME TO THE RILEYS director Jake Scott...

...and look at the final scene from British director Bryan Forbes' 1975 film adaptation. Better yet, watch it, then turn the sound off on this clip, and watch a second time playing the song over it:

(Sorry for the anamorphic squeeze on this -
I tried to stretch it to a proper width but no luck)

Primary research has not turned up any conclusive proof that direct homage was being made by Yorke and Scott to Forbes' staging, and this ain't quite Dark Side of the Rainbow territory, but I think the elements are in place to suggest that the band has had an appreciation for the film and the themes it explored years before they began to actually write about it themselves. And their 1995 song meshed against the 1975 production fits as nicely as a Victorian maxi-dress on Tina Louise.

Then again...This is all so silly... it's just my head. This is all so silly... it's just my head. This is all so silly... it's just my head...

"No, I better, I say, I better not look; I just might be in there."

2011-02-04T15:45:00.000-08:00

Twelve years ago this very day, I became a Los Angeles resident. First parked my car in the garage, slept a night in my apartment, bought a bag of Jack in the Box. It was easily the biggest change in my life I ever made. I came out here with a dream, a dream that to a significant degree is still unfulfilled, but if you consider that the average sleep cycle contains multiple dreams, then it can safely be said that while one has yet to arrive, others have been lived out quite nicely.

I do not think it is hubris or hyperbole to bring up the fact that a significant portion of today's readership of this blog is due to the generous nature of filmmaker Edgar Wright. When I declared his most recent film to be one of the decade's best, he liked my words so much they were tweeted to over 200,000 followers, many of whom came to visit, and out of that contingent a select few have chosen to continue visiting. I subsequently had occasion to provide some material assistance to Wright's second programming block at the New Beverly Cinema and again received both public and private gratitude from the genial maestro. While I do not classify myself as any kind of professional critic, and he has been just as generous to my friends Julia Marchese and Peter Avellino so I am not any kind of golden child, I daresay I have not witnessed this kind of mutual appreciation between creative visionary and cultural arbiter since Werner Herzog and Roger Ebert. And it serves as template for one of the installments of the REM cycle that came in the package with my move to the West Coast.

Like many a child of the '70's, I was raised on the groundbreaking story and song omnibus FREE TO BE YOU AND ME, and among my favorite pieces was Betty Miles' modernized (and to some degree, benevolently sanitized) legend of Princess Atalanta and the foot race, where a headstrong princess plans to thwart her father's desire to marry her off by agreeing to wed the winner of a marathon she knows she will trounce all competitors in, and an ordinary boy who wants merely an audience with the princess and trains fiercely to compete in the race and match her skill. They end up in a tie at the finish, the boy refuses to accept the marriage unless the princess desires it also, and both parties choose merely to spend an afternoon getting acquainted and go their separate ways, with the narrator proclaiming that perhaps they will meet again, perhaps not, but in either case are living life as they wish. While most read this as a feminist spin on traditional fairy tale myths, few seem to pick up that it is also a rather observant parable on aspects of our desire for fame which a lot of people never quite understand.

James Mangold's WALK THE LINE more explicitly provides similar insight into what we might call the Atalantian myth. At the beginning of the movie, boy Johnny is shown as fascinated by show business, lovingly quoting Foghorn Leghorn, and more importantly, a fan of precocious child star June Carter, the unspoken key being that she is living the life that seems so unlikely but that he yearns for: comfort, warm family, singing, success. While he grows older, he aspires to the dream, works at it quite fiercely, but he otherwise follows the patterns of sensibility by marrying a childhood sweetheart and getting a salesman job, because everything he's experienced says he won't make it, even dwelling on the fact that he really does not know first wife Vivian that well, but he begs her to marry him because he has already absorbed the notion that she is as good as he deserves or can expect. Then Johnny breaks out. And now he's considered the equal of a hitmaker like Elvis. And, more importantly, the equal of June Carter; he gets to talk to her and be friends with her. He's gotten validation that yes, what was seemingly impossible is happening, and unfortunately, his wife hasn't dreamt as large as him. Sure, she loves him and is happy for him, but she sees entertainment as a job that can be left behind when at home, when he sees it as his whole reason to go on.

Let me compare this to a plot thread in Stephen Hopkins' rather terrible HBO biopic THE LIFE AND DEATH OF PETER SELLERS. There is a crucial scene where he tells his wife and family that he's leaving them because he "loves Sophia Loren more" than them. Maybe those were his exact words, but in the way it is presented in the movie, it is not correct to his character. Yes, Sellers was a cold, selfish bastard who put himself ahead of his family as opposed to Cash, but in a way they were similar. What Sellers was likely trying to convey to his first family was that after years of being the chubby boy who did silly acts in the longshot hope that a pretty girl would just look at him, he was now getting that kind of attention without having to be "on." He was in love with what Loren represented, that he was cast as a romantic suitor for her in a movie (where, in keeping with the Atalantian myth, she was playing a princess), and that it was considered plausible to do so. Again, it may not be fair to compare two famous people of different integrity, but the execution of this common obsession which unites Cash and Sellers is handled better. In both biopics, we see the requisite road flings, the tension at home and on travel, the channeling into drugs and violence. But Hopkins' agenda is just to show what a nasty prat Sellers was, at best an egotist and beauty/star-fucker, while Mangold understands that Cash stays drawn to June because in his youth, he basically wanted to be her, and upon getting to know her, and their heretofore unknown commonalities (overshadowed by a "better" sibling, sublimating insecurity through comedy, dealing with public shame over a first divorce), realizes (too late for his own marriage) his insight was better than he could have guessed and that they were meant to be in each other's lives.

Sure, on the surface this is naive, and could be interpreted as suggesting that Jodie Foster should have had a one-nighter with John Hinckley. But this does get at why we love certain stars: the notion that they are doing the things we would like to do, and that if we worked hard enough on our own, we could be on equal footing to them. The term I particularly like for this status of equillibrium comes from professional wrestling. Most matches you see on TV are called "squashes" - some ham-and-egger gets pummeled by the star in under two minutes, demonstrating that the erstwhile challenger is clearly not in the same class as the victor. But then there are the matches where someone still rather unknown but not obviously green is in the ring with a much bigger name, and that match goes for a longer stretch, and even if the star still wins, he has made it look like that new guy was a legitimate challenger, and the crowd starts respecting that new guy more and paying attention. It's called "The Rub." An established, respected performer elevates a lesser-known individual and gives them the appearance of being on their level. And all of us who ever plucked three chords or first learned how to say "To be or not to be" go forward in the hope that our skills will be strong enough to earn that rub from those that inspired us.

Which is where I drag myself into the story. I would be lying if I didn't admit to some of my hopes upon moving to Los Angeles being unrealistic. In some cases, such as meeting a pretty ingenue at a premiere party and asking for a phone number, they still are. And on those nights where you're looking at $30 in the checking account and how many $1000's in credit card debt, in a cluttered apartment where no woman has set foot for as many years as it took to release "Chinese Democracy," you wonder if the whole megillah is a misguided notion. But in the decade-plus I've been here, I think it's safe to say on more than one occasion I've run that foot race with Atalanta, and spent some wonderful vigils together. Whether it was Mark Cronin putting me in pole position on a silly game show for 130 episodes, or Edgar Wright tweeting this blog to some of you this past New Year's Eve, there have been enough applications of The Rub to tell me that my dreams are still worth pursuing.

So here's to 12 years of training, prayers, and vitamins, and down-to-earth princesses. Let's keep running a while shall we.

Pimpin' My Pops

2011-01-26T04:39:00.000-08:00

Today is the 72nd birthday of that Great American, Captain of Industry, Patron of the Arts, two-time invitee to the Bohemian Grove, and...uhh...oh yes, the guy who made me possible: my dad, Roger William Heuck. Last year, I marked the occasion with a retrospective on himself and the Heuck family that met with accolades beyond my wildest expectations. I don't think I can top what I wrote there in 2010: much like the fox auditioning for Porky Pig's talent agency, I can only do that trick once.

But it's a birthday and a son wants to show off pride in parenting. So considering that I spend a great deal of time flogging my own projects, and my father is a damned fine artist, the best thing I can do is stir up your interest in my dad's work. Now, unlike myself, he ain't exactly what you call a starving artist, though depending on the day's headlines you may get an earful from him about the havoc those pointy-headed intellectuals running the government are causing to his cashflow. But very like myself, he puts a lot of time and research into his work and takes great pride in it. And we both like to get a sale or two for our trouble.

So, here is a sampling of his body of art. And yes, all of these fine paintings can be purchased, and could be hanging in your own home right now. Imagine all the oohs and aahs of your friends when you tell them YES, that's a genuine Heuck in the house!

"Presidential Parlor"

"Day Lilies at Dusk"

"Immaculata Church Mt. Adams"

"Sunset & Sloop"

"Venice Aglow"

"Admiring Monet"

You can see many more images of his artworks that are in private collections, and get details on how to actually purchase these and others that are available, by visiting his website: RogerHeuck.com.

Happy Birthday, dad, and thank you for a lifetime of artistic encouragement and achievement.

"You can fight a rumour only with an even wilder rumour."

2011-01-22T16:30:00.000-08:00

Exhibit A: In 1979, Werner Herzog obeys the terms of a bet to documentarian Errol Morris, and allows another documentarian, Les Blank, to film him boiling and eating one of his shoes.

Exhibit B: Werner Herzog is first on the scene of Joaquin Phoenix's 2006 car accident, and helps the disoriented Oscar nominee out of the wreckage to safety.

Exhibit C: Despite being shot in an uncomfortable place with an air rifle by an unseen sniper, Werner Herzog calmly completes a TV interview with the BBC.

Conclusion: WERNER HERZOG IS THE NEW CHUCK NORRIS!!!

Introductory facts:

Werner Herzog single-handedly rid Germany of the Berlin Wall. He merely looked at it and said, "I am laughing at you" without cracking a smile. The wall collapsed in disgrace.

Before "99 Luftballoons," Nena originally wrote a song called "99 Herzog Films," predicting that when they would be screened together in festival one day in the future, it would cause such a riot of emotion that Earth would explode.

A traffic camera once photographed Werner Herzog running a red light. When he saw the flash, Herzog stopped the car and got into a staredown with the camera. The police arrived, and Herzog said, "If the camera returns my soul, I will leave in peace." The police immediately let him go and destroyed the camera.

On the television news, a giant "H" on the weather map is not an indication of a high pressure front: It is merely where Herzog has chosen to bend nature to his will that day.

There is no such emotion as angst: it is only the awareness that somewhere in the world, Werner Herzog is doing your life's work better.

"Take that damned pipe out of your mouth, you rat!"

2011-01-05T08:00:00.000-08:00

Many moons ago, my friend Joseph, the musical pioneer behind the band Windows to Sky, saw a stage production of URINETOWN and wrote an incredibly intelligent deconstruction about why it did not work for him. Now, unfortunately for most of us, it's not available for public reading, but in brief, he spoke about the play's overreliance on satire and irony, a cause that I will always take up and run with further. I was put in an awkward position, though, because I then used his argument to rip apart a movie musical that he truly likes. But I found it appropriate, and we agreed to disagree. Since we're getting into Oscar season, and the inevitable talk about the most unworthy films to have won the big prizes, this particular movie is again a timely matter. As such, I'm reviving the argument, and have excerpted pieces of his critique in small print to bolster mine.

musicals I Like or Love: INTO THE WOODS. LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS. SINGIN' IN THE RAIN...these are pieces of art that generally speaking work on every level: from each character's story, to the story between the characters, to the story of the society and world in which the action takes place. plus, the songs and the movements pulse with life - the life of these characters, about whom we care, even if we care cynically. we are engaged in wanting to know what happens, and every step taken is one step further along that path.

Many more moons ago when I first bought my ticket to see Rob Marshall's film adaptation of CHICAGO, I was very excited about it. I had never seen the show done on a stage, really only knew the hit songs. But I had positive expectations. However, after the first 20 minutes, I felt a strange icky feeling. I did NOT care about these characters. Not even cynically. And while I was going to stay and see what happened next, it had quickly turned to an act of obligation and not of true interest.

CHICAGO is a technically, artistically, aesthetically, musically brilliant film, and if the movie had been nothing but those great musical performances, I probably would have liked it. Unfortunately, those musical numbers are in the service of a story that wears it's contempt for you and me right on it's chest, and is centered around four of the most vile, unpleasant, unamusing characters ever created, and I had to listen to these people talk, and talk, and whine, and hiss, and lie, until it reached a point where I didn't even want to hear them sing and dance anymore. The women are harridans, Richard Gere is a slime, and John C. Reilly is a passive-agressive, self-pitying mope. There is not a single person in this story one can or should give a rat's ass about.

There is no story between the characters, there is no "there" there. This is among the many eternal arguments I have with CHICAGO fans -- Of course they're empty and shallow, they're supposed to be. Indeed, I had that figured out before I even walked in the theatre. After all, some of my favorite movies have no sympathetic characters in them -- SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS, SOAPDISH, THE KING OF COMEDY, these films have protagonists that are devoid of any likeability. And in those settings, yes, those qualities can be made interesting. So why did I feel such a violent reaction to CHICAGO's rogues?

And it hit me: not only are they horrible people, they're boring!

For example, TO DIE FOR covers the ground of people who are driven to be famous because they have no skills for anything else, and honestly believe adoration of strangers will make them better people. What is the difference? Flat out: what Nicole Kidman does to become famous is interesting, funny, and ultimately shocking, while what Jones and Zellweger do is predictable, tedious, and unpleasant. Also, Kidman's character honestly believes in the ridiculous platitudes she espouses, so we laugh at her naievete, but the CHICAGO girls seem to know what they are professing is bullshit, and so how can we invest any interest in it if they can't even believe in their own philosophy?

the characters are two-dimensional, but that's okay, it's a satire! we don't know enough about the two leads to feel their situation has any real human gravity - but that's okay, it's what makes it cartoonish! cartoons are fun!

As for the cartoonishly nasty tone, mean for mean's sake is never enough in a story. Something has to back it up. In SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS, when J.J. Hunsecker makes an insult, he has the force of his career to back it up: be glad it's just words, because in fact he could have you killed. Sidney Falco is a self-loathing weasel, and his insults carry that awareness: yeah, I'm a louse, but I know what I am, and you're a hypocrite for not recognizing your own sleaziness. Whereas the manner in which the protagonists of CHICAGO are written and performed gives them nothing else to offer but their vices. They have one note -- vanity -- and it wears out very quickly, there's no other dimension to them. The would-be funny banter between the girls in prison is just a pot and a kettle arguing over blackness: it may as well be Pee-wee and Francis yelling "I KNOW YOU ARE BUT WHAT AM I?" ad nauseam. If you had to share a cell with any of these fucks, either you would have hung yourself or you would have stuck a shiv in them before they could start that first song.

Another big problem with CHICAGO: No straight man, audience surrogate, voice of reason. Not a choirboy, mind you, just someone grounded in the real world who can speak for us. The closest it has is John C. Reilly, and frankly, he's nobody's hero. He is a whiny drama queen who if he had any spine would have split a long time ago, but instead stays and puts up with Zellwegger's abuse and expects us to feel sorry for poor "Mr. Cellophane." But he loves her! What is to love? We have never seen a single moment where they appear to have had any joy, or even where he alone has had any joy of being with her. What is the first thing you tell a suffering alcoholic? "STOP DRINKING!" If they can't do that, then any other investment in their welfare is worthless. Same for giving two shits or ten bricks about his character or condition.

I kept wanting to care, so I could find the heartlessness actually painful. I wanted my heart to go with them, so the satire could have bite. when we watch Homer Simpson fuck up, we laugh, but on some level, we still like or relate to him. he represents things we care about. these people really didn't, most of the time.

So if there is no individual stand-in for us, then we must identify with the citizens of the city of Chicago. And in that environment, we are depicted as sheep, easily manipulated by people not even that much smarter than us. And while we toil in daily drudgery, we are shown eagerly paying for the big reunion show of the two murderesses. "We win, you lose, and you're too stupid to care." Maybe that assessment is true, and worth stating to our modern-day bread-and-circus-freaks mentality. But is that an original idea? No. Is this idea presented in such a manner as to inspire the audience to rethink their gullibility? NO. So what was the purpose of making me sit through your litany of narcissism and contempt?

Okay, so you don't like the characters. You're not supposed to. You gotta admit the dance numbers are great.

CHICAGO is technically flawless, well-staged and executed. But if I hate somebody, why do I want to watch them sing and dance, especially when the topic of their song is how they can stomp all over me and what I believe in? By a certain point, I have written off every character in this movie as a pig. (And not a sweet cuddly pig like Babe or Wilbur, I mean an ugly, smelly, shit-stanky wild boar with tusks, like Mason Verger was breeding to get revenge on Hannibal Lecter, something from Russell Mulcahy's nightmares.) And no matter how much lighting and lingerie and choreography you throw in, you cannot make me forget that I AM WATCHING UGLY FUCKING PIGS IN COSTUME SING AND DANCE. And I don't want to watch ugly fucking pigs in costume sing and dance! I want to slit their throats and eat them so that they never bother anybody again and that I can get finally get some worthwhile item of pleasure from their person.

CHICAGO has no heart. And it has no original thought. It glorifies insincerity. It is a soulless, derivative machine.

I've said enough, I think you all get that I hate this movie. And I'm not dumb enough to believe that I'm going to make anybody rethink their position on it. But I gotta say, with absolutely no irony, I rather wish they made musicals like THE APPLE again.

For All of the Nought

2010-12-30T10:30:00.000-08:00

Contrary to popular belief, it is no easier doing a Best of the Decade list than it is doing a Best of the Year list. Many think it's just a matter of plucking all your number ones and then ranking those, right? Wrong.

For example, some movies I saw missed deadline for their calendar years thanks to evil release strategies (a notorious crime around the holidays), and it's too unwieldly to, say, tell everyone "Okay, you know what I said was number one? It ain't anymore - you have to shove everything down and put this new thing on top." I did that once, and after all the confusion it caused, I decided ya know, I gotta stand by the list I made that year, because that's where my head was, because THAT'S WHAT THE MAN SAID YOU HEARD WHAT HE SAID HE SAID THAT... That mindset has orphaned some great films, to be sure, and had I the same privileges Oscar voters get for early viewing I could have written a better list for that year, but I can't rewrite history. I wrote and presented those lists, right or wrong. Thus, a decade list is a chance to right the wrongs done to some modern classics.

Also, not every #1 of each year constitutes the decade's best. Some calendar years yield more than one stupendous creation that just overshadow what the best of another year was. Frankly, you could almost sum up the decade's best with films just from 2007, but I'm not that lazy, although I did take two for mine. And some movies that ranked lower for a certain year rank higher when viewed in the prism of history, either by their influence on later works or repeat viewing, or even the gauntlet they throw down for the future, in the case of one of my choices.

As I assembled this list, it occurred to me that many of these choices affected me in their undertones about the strength of art. Whether they are exploring the way it can provide escape from oppression, or a means to beat depression, or heal real-world suffering, or even triumph over evil, when movies are able to cleverly dramatize all the baggage which came with us to the theatre, they're doing something extremely special, and that's to be rewarded.

So now, it can finally be told: THE BEST MOVIES OF THE DECADE

13. WALL-E
The history of the Pixar studio seems to be taking one unusual premise after another, and making those stories succeed beyond the wildest expectations of their creators. And none could be more difficult to sell than one that begins with the ostensible end of Earth as livable planet, a non-human leading character, and almost no dialogue for at least an hour. Yet instead of the somber canticle the premise would suggest, Andrew Stanton treated us to a joyful voyage of discovery, of finding the flower in the desert, of learning that no matter how far removed one is from a point of origin, there is always the ability to start over.

12. INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS
Blending his post-modern skills with classic action structure, Quentin Tarantino makes the WWII movie that could never have been made in that time, but which every grunt in a foxhole or homefront girl on a factory line or expatriate in a cinema dreamed of in their mind. An epic where victory is determined not by generals in smoke-filled rooms or lucky hits dropped from planes, but the cunning and raw will of a few scrappy savages and one femme fatale. Not many filmmakers could get away with a war movie with little actual warfare, or an American-made movie that is half-subtitled from other languages, or a historical movie that blatantly disregards history, let alone all these contradictions, and make it appeal to a wide audience. The fact that he pulled it off cements Tarantino's place among the great filmmakers.

11. SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE WORLD
More than just a exercise in nerd culture or dating metaphors, Edgar Wright captures the nature of what it is to be young and not-completely-worldly, where you initially think yourself the hero of your own movie, where every unpleasant emotion feels like a near-death blow because you have no previous point of reference to measure it against, and where you do co-opt the language of your favorite distractions to express yourself, with a unique editing style that captures the speed and leaps of time which life seems to take in your twenties. As Bava achieved with DIABOLIK or Friedkin with TO LIVE AND DIE IN L.A., Wright has created a film that is both an artifact of a date and time, and a universal emotional ride that will endure after the references get older.

10. MULHOLLAND DRIVE
Not since BLUE VELVET has David Lynch found a means to blend his respect for the classical storytelling of the glamourous star vehicles he grew up on with the non-narrative impulses of mood and fantasy that he made his reputation upon. Rather than put us through the numbers and bullet points of resolving a plot, we linger in those moments of discovery, of uncertainty, of regret, until we think less about figures in a landscape or players in a play, and more about how their actions would affect us in those moments. What is "real" and what is "dream" is ultimately irrelevant, it is the emotional response it stirs in yourself that Lynch is after. And no matter the answers we have to the whos, whys, and whatevers we have seen in this filmic fever dream, all of them are right.

9. TARNATION
While it will certainly be blamed for a subsequent flood of recorded internet navel-gazing by attention-starved narcissist depressives, Jonathan Caouette's groundbreaking dissection of his mother's years of mental illness and the ultimate effect it had on his evolution, intercut with home movies and found footage, was a stunning presentation. There is a lot to do with death in this movie - of joyful spirit, of innocence, of beauty, of lucidity, the literal end of life, but most importantly, the death of pessimism. For all the tragedy that engulfs this true story, it's never depressing, glum, or pathetic; Caouette demonstrates that there will always be difficulty, but gives us the sense he has put much of that horror away for good...for all metaphorical and literal interpretations of the word "good." A grand story of taking responsibility, and artistic channeling, that demonstrates how sometimes the most universal stories are the most personal.

8. AVATAR
James Cameron took his sweet time to invent, and then use, the technological paintbox he needed to create a new universe, which in the process, is the mirror by which the often-criticized storyline might be better judged. Much as Martin Scorsese was an asthmatic child who dreamt of leaving a small home to play cowboys on the open plain, or Stephen Hawking transcended the frailty of his body to contemplate the wonder of the infinite, Cameron has not just recycled "the hero's journey," but encapsulated the notions of what drives our great dreamers, how their vision can be in sharp contrast to our outward notions. It is old-fashioned spectacle to get moviegoers off the sofa spiced with the modern capabilities of the present. Poo-poo the finished product if that is your honest opinion, but do not mock the ambition.

7. GHOST WORLD
Similar to SCOTT PILGRIM in its graphic novel origins and young adult protagonists, Terry Zwigoff's tart comedy is definitely a much darker look at growing up. In this era where the youth seem to be jaded before their time, this film puts a human face and soul on the situation. Depicting a society where it seems everyone is either banal or aloof, we watch two best friends who, while initially bonded in their goal to beat the system, will ultimately drift apart because one learns how to make peace with the strangeness, while the other's fear of picking wrong leaves her completely disconnected. Biting but not mean, satirical but not nihilistic, this is the snapshot of a generation: if you know or are raising a cynical kid, this story has probably encapsuled their adventures.

6. ETERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND
Charlie Kaufman has been responsible for many unconventional screenplays in this decade, but this is probably the most emotionally accessible, and thus the best. And through the playful, elastic universe of director Michel Gondry, the surreal seems downright sensible. Taking off on the notion of literally eliminating someone from your mind, we see how truly difficult such a task can be, not only because we loath to lose the good memories as well as the bad, but also because that person becomes so embedded with other incidents and aspects of our psyche we feel a void if they're not around, and because we know in our heart our imprinting is such that to forget those "mistakes" would only cause us to make them over again.

5. CHILDREN OF MEN
As BLADE RUNNER displayed the Baby Boomer fears of a future that functions at the expense of human kindness, Alfonso Cuaron displays the similar dread of our generation. But rather than succumb to nihilism like other tired science-fiction dystopias, he fights back with faith and humor, and an immediate on-the-spot momentum that, while acted terrificly by Clive Owen, often duplicates the endorphinal rush one feels from watching "COPS" or playing first-person games like DOOM, as if we are right there living the chase instead of Owen. If the England on screen feels like a Pandora's Box of xenophobia, denial, and extinction, it must be remembered that the last item to emerge from that mythical chamber was hope.

4. CITY OF GOD
Directors Fernando Meirelles and Kátia Lund may have been working with an old screenplay trope - childhood friends living in poverty grow up into completely divergent paths of virtue and vice - but their striking opus made it feel like we were seeing it for the first time. Staged in actual slums of Rio with nonprofessionals, the film crackles with its roaming narrative, colorful characters, infectious music, and real-life urgency. Much like Jamaica's THE HARDER THEY COME, it directs the world's attention to a previously ignored microcosm that is enticing yet dangerous, and announces that they're ready to start telling their own stories instead of passively watching those of others.

3. ZODIAC
Using the word "messy" as a compliment is not an ordinary thing to do, but the real-life details of the Zodiac serial killer were not ordinary and indeed very messy, and David Fincher takes that sprawl and makes it a strength. Depicting how seemingly one person was able to not only upend the security of a city, but engulf and almost ruin the lives of every person who sought to solve the crimes, Fincher crosses three decades to show the death of '60's idealism, the birth of '70's paranoia, and the growth of '80's ambivalence. We experience the weight of having to sift through promising leads and dead ends, and the frustration of knowing that some stories will never get resolved, long after they seem to have come to an end.

2. THE FALL
Equal parts storybook fantasy and Salingerian character study, Tarsem presents not just an elegant visual feast (shot in real, not computer-generated, locations) but also an emotional chamber piece about the complicated relationship between artist and public. Using the characters of stuntman, at once the most anonymous and disposable yet indispensible members of a film crew, and young immigrant farm child, at once the most eager and vulnerable consumer of the finished product, we explore themes of the pain of creation vs. lack of recognition, of how we bring our own life's perceptions to alter the initial intentions of the artist, how self-destructive impulses almost drive a creative type to alienate their most faithful supporters, and how sometimes a work of art no longer belongs to its parent but to its audience.

And so, true believers, we get to the big one. The movie that ostensibly stands for all the collective emotions, possibilities, innovations, and future of film and its audience. It's a Difficult Responsibility. But as W.C. Fields said, there comes a time in everyone's life when they must take the bull by the tail and face the situation. I've made my choice, I'm sticking to it.

1. ONCE

Over a century ago, when the the earliest pioneers of the new art of moving pictures were beginning to make and exhibit their work, they knew the capacity to dream large, be it the Lumiere brothers with A TRIP TO THE MOON or Edison's adaptation of FRANKENSTEIN. But these burgeoning artists also knew that the ordinary travails of real life would be just as compelling to audiences, be it capturing a sneeze, two men dancing, or the life of an American fireman. Decades later, after the advent of color, sound, widescreen photography, visual effects, and all the other tricks of the trade, benchmark films from Ozu, Cassavetes, Rohmer, and others proved this ultimate simplicity was still in effect: Cahiers du Cinema critic and future arthouse enfant terrible Jean-Luc Godard recognized in his legendary maxim, "All you need for a movie is a girl and a gun." More decades later, an unassuming director of Irish television was able to prove that statement true on a large scale, albeit modifying the elements to a girl and a guitar.

ONCE is the bridge between the spare maxims of the past, and the technological democratization of the present. It tells a story that could not be more simplistic: boy meets girl, they make something, then they split up. In fact, it doesn't even have what would appear to be conflict - there is no antagonist, no dark forces to overcome - everyone we encounter in the short span is helpful and encouraging. Thus it hardly seems a novel concept amidst the large and complex possibilities of all the films released in the Noughties. Moreover, shot with consumer grade equipment in 17 days with untrained talent and friends, financed by the Irish Film Board and the director himself instead of the backing of a studio, it would sound like more self-indulgent home movie than anything else. But that is exactly the point. John Carney strips away such artifice as glossy photography, complicated subplots, mannered acting, and sticks to the core of two strangers' short intersection and the creation that emerges, confident that it will be compelling enough. And as Francis Coppola opined years ago about the mythical fat girl in Ohio with her dad's camcorder, he demonstrates that without the trappings, you can get to the real art, and the people will react to it. Which of course, they did: from Steven Spielberg's advance quote about the film restoring his inspiration, to Jon Stewart's yielding his Academy Awards podium to allow co-star Marketa Irglová to finish a prematurely truncated acceptance speech for Best Original Song, and the millions worldwide who embraced the film over multiple viewings, it was the Little Movie That Could.

In short, if the past indicates that that there will always be an audience for a story of love and the human condition, and the future is all about people taking the means of production into their own hands and beating the bloated Hollywood money machine at their own game, ONCE is the gold standard uniting these disciplines, demonstrating that the more things change, the more they stay the same. If we are moved and entertained, it doesn't matter if the artists had 200 crayons or one nubby pencil to decorate that canvas. Thus, for me, it is the right film to represent all that was good about film for the last ten years.

Happy New Year, everyone.

13 on 25 for 2010

2010-12-25T04:38:00.000-08:00

So it was a year ago today when I planted flag on this piece of virtual estate, telling longtime friend and wandering stranger alike that I had a foul mouth and a firm opinion on what my 13 best stretches of flickering images were from the calendar year. Since then, I've been lucky to amass lots of new readers, respect, and my fair share of fortran spitballs to the face, and I'm grateful for it all. And so it's time to do it again.

There was every reason to believe that 2010 was going to be a washout instead of a watershed. While plenty of good, solid movies were released in the first half of the year, most did not make the crucial dent in the public sphere, but those bad, sordid movies in the first half of the year, they not only dented the sphere, they nearly crushed it into a battered rhomboid. Rom-coms bereft of compelling rom or amusing com. Action epics that only provided epic fail. Dramas so dry and boring that they were easily overshadowed by one lone Bed Intruder for keeping people's attention. Shall we utter those names for one last public shaming? No, we shan't; the law I have followed from the Streets of Laredo is Speak Not of Their Name, and Their Name Will Pass On.

But then July came around, and it seemed almost instantly that things became right again. Innovation was presented. Intelligence was rewarded. You weren't encouraged to turn off your brain, but to let it fire all synapses. By the time December rolled around, yet again, I was faced with the problem that using an already indulgent baker's dozen to indicate my favorite films of the year would seem too little to capture it all. Thus reinforcing my longtime belief that no matter how many toy adaptations, brainless remakes, and rickety sequels would suggest Hollywood is finished, there will always be enough quality films to make the whole enterprise worthwhile.

First, I want to give one last special Jury Prize of sorts to acknowledge the delirious pleasures of both GONE WITH THE POPE and STANDING OVATION. There's no way in this world or the next I can remotely suggest either of these as among the best films of the year, but I must say I don't think I had a bigger amount of fun and good cheer than when I saw them in the theatre multiple times, and I'm extremely happy each of these peculiar outings are finding an increasing body of fans. If you're the kind of brave soul who doesn't need stodgy things like coherent storytelling or grounded reality to enjoy a movie, you're in for a grand time if you seek these out.

So meanwhile, for the rest of you who have sensible tastes, working up the hill...

10 worthwhile films nobody saw but me:

Cemetery Junction
Centurion
Four Lions
Leaves of Grass
Mother
The Slammin' Salmon
Splice
The Square
Tiny Furniture
Valhalla Rising

And now, for your viewing irritation, The Top 13 of 2010:

13. ENTER THE VOID

12. RED RIDING TRILOGY: 1974/1980/1983

11. HOT TUB TIME MACHINE

10. TRUE GRIT

9. SHUTTER ISLAND

8. WINTER'S BONE

7. TOY STORY 3

6. 127 HOURS

5. INCEPTION

4. BLACK SWAN

3. SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE WORLD

2. EXIT THROUGH THE GIFT SHOP

1. THE SOCIAL NETWORK

So that's 2010. And for me, that's also the end of the Noughties. So in a few days, we'll take a look at that super-perfundo Best of the Decade.

Thank you, vocal supporter and anonymous troller alike, for taking the time to visit this here tourist trap on the information superhighway. This year of validation is a fine Christmas present for me, and I hope my thoughts have kept you similarly pleased.

"Call Me Daddy..."

2010-12-20T04:00:00.000-08:00

My longtime friend Laura Majeski, who among her real world achievements in chemical and biological science, also managed to take a previously moribund fan community for my former game show and turned into a Dadaesque Wackyland of fanfic, slashfic, and whatthefic, complete with its own language, is easily the world's biggest Robert Downey Jr. fan. Each day she presents a "Daily Gorgeous" with which to inspire the world, and she's so far amassed over 1400 images, so that's a lot of gorgeous.

Amusement aside, right now, what is not to love about Robert Downey Jr.? He's always been an irresistable presence on film, not just going back to his teen idol years but even further with tiny cameos in the early films of his father. His brief moments of screen time in POUND and the just-reissued-to-DVD GREASER'S PALACE are not only retroactively cute but unnervingly effective within the context of how he is presented. After a long period where he seemed to be mired in the swamp of addictive behavior and tabloid headlines, he has succeeded in maintaining a healthy personal life and a genial public profile without any sort of heavy-handed hairshirt wearing. And best of all, he has demonstrated an ability to be both a headlining actor that can open a movie, and a team player that will gladly take secondary roles and generously share focus with his higher-billed co-stars.

It is his two hit movies of this year onto which I would like to put the deeper vision today, especially since most would say claim there is not much depth to them upon the first viewing. But upon some stewing, together they make an interesting statement about him and this stage of his life. Seeing how his father cheekily credited himself as Robert Downey Sr. (A Prince), it is readily apparent that this Son of A Prince is quite ready to become a King.

While most people who watched IRON MAN 2 this past summer enjoyed it and forgot about it, since it didn't have quite the impact of the first installment nor ratcheted up the stakes of its ongoing story like THE DARK KNIGHT, some took note of various themes presented in the film. Obviously, there is the ongoing linkage to upcoming Marvel-produced films, with introductions to characters and elements to be featured in THOR, CAPTAIN AMERICA, and THE AVENGERS. And Tony Stark's inventor father Howard and his "Stark Expo" diorama (not to mention the pencil moustache used by actor John Slattery) certainly made many people think of Walt Disney, including my blogger friend Carla Regina at Popspiracy, especially ironic as during production of the film Disney spent a fortune to purchase the Marvel Comics empire. But what few seem to have paid attention to is what is likely a very personal convergence of themes for Downey - the notion of surpassing your parent's success.

Tony Stark, in both films, spends much time pressured by the shadow of his late father, and feeling that at best he was an afterthought, that he was treated as more like a corporate successor to the company and not so much as a son. It is what fuels his hedonism, his workaholic and alcoholic tendencies, though he still feels that he won't live up to the legacy. But in the archival footage of Howard Stark left to him by Nick Fury, Howard directly addresses Tony posthumously to not just assure him of his love, or to profess his confidence in his son's talent, but to suggest he is counting on Tony to use the means of science that are not available in Howard's lifetime to overtake him. In short, his father actively believes and hopes that his son will become more successful than him.

Similarly, Robert Downey Jr. has had a trying relationship with his own father. While they have collaborated frequently, with the younger appearing in seven of the elder's features (albeit three in childhood), he has also held him responsible for introducing him to the drugs that fueled his longtime substance addiction, and it stands to reason that financing for those latter-day films (Sr. has not directed a narrative feature since 1997's HUGO POOL) was contingent upon getting his services, suggesting an uneven dynamic. The stage manager on my former TV show was a longtime employee of Chuck Barris, and told us of an occasion when, during the making of THE GONG SHOW MOVIE, on which Barris collaborated with Downey Sr., he was asked to spend a Saturday morning helping a teenaged Downey Jr. move out of his father's house after a particularly large quarrel. As such, one can imagine Robert taking extra notice as a struggling son of a large-looming father playing the struggling son of a large-looming father, and through that making peace with the fact that yes, he has surpassed his predecessor in the public sphere, and that it is not only acceptable, but the deep-seated wishes of his parent.

Moving on to this past November's DUE DATE, the mixed receptions this film has received from critics and viewers alike indicate that in all likelihood, the majority of people who have seen this film have not caught on to what this movie is really about. Most have dismissed it as a wannabe-meaner rehash of John Hughes' legitimate masterpiece PLANES, TRAINS, AND AUTOMOBILES, merely because both films involve two fractious strangers traveling cross-country to meet a deadline with the main character being an orderly type forced to endure a more slovenly companion. But while the older film is concerned with getting past outward appearances to find mutual compassion, the latter film has a different angle, one that, admittedly, does not fully make itself known up front; it took me nearly to the end before it hit me.

I find it odd that WB released DUE DATE just after its bland and formulaic "sudden-parenting" comedy LIFE AS WE KNOW IT, because this film is in fact the smarter, cleverer, and funnier primer on that concept. Consider that Downey's Peter Highman is in a rush to reach the West Coast in order to be present for the birth of his first child, yet his mannerisms - impatience (especially with other children), prim sarcasm, trying to turn things his way with money, and an instinct to abandon problems - indicate that he is not an ideal candidate for fatherhood. Zach Galifianakis' Ethan Chase, meanwhile, is traveling West to disburse the ashes of his dead father, and exhibits the traits of what we would traditionally call a manchild - blind adherence to institutional rules, need for immediate gratification, indulgence of a pet, asking dozens of random questions, imprudent behavior, low common denominator taste, wild mood swings, and a comical yet sincere attachment to his deceased parent.

In short, the road trip and the comedy therein is designed not to explore traditional male bonding, but to present expectant father Peter with almost every nightmare scenario that his future child could conjure up, and see how he will deal with it. From small things like annoying conversations, bad judgment calls, and unrealistic career goals, to legitimately giant messes like misstatements that get them kicked off a plane, and wrecking their rental car, Ethan is not only testing Peter's mettle for enduring disaster, but his capacity for forgiveness and understanding, the qualities that he is going to need in order to be a good father. The surprise revelation that Ethan serves near the end, which could easily be the last straw for their relationship, reminded me of a story I once read in the L.A. Times about an adopted child so fearful of being rejected by the family that took her in that she would often commit increasingly dangerous acts, as a "test" to see if they would still keep her or give her back to the state; while his character is not consciously pursuing the same goals with Peter, there is still the fearful undertone of, "Will you still love me if I tell you..." in his manner. Having lost his real father, and obviously so socially maladept that he has few friends, Peter is the sensible adult that at this moment of loneliness Ethan desperately wants to cling to. And in turn, Ethan is hardly the person Peter would ever want to be around, but as he spends more time with him, despite the exasperation he feels at his every blunder, he does develop a sense of responsibility and protection for him.

Again, this role likely holds some special meaning for Downey on both ends of the parental spectrum. He became a father at age 28 to Indio Downey, and it was early in Indio's childhood that his substance abuse began to reach crisis levels, to the point where his first wife Deborah Falconer left him and suspended access to their son in 2001. From all public appearances today, the two men now enjoy a healthy relationship. As such, between the years of bad behavior, and his period of rehabilitation and healing behavior, Downey had a large reservoir to draw from to shape a character like Peter, who begins the movie thinking first of his own needs and of children in the abstract, and through harsh adversity learns to take care of others and provide patience and forgiveness, things that Downey in his troubled years desperately sought.

Not many people in the world, let alone in show business, are able to make the turnaround in their lives and personal fortune that Robert Downey Jr. has achieved. So there is a little extra pleasure in seeing him not only prosper, but take those low points and use them in the creation of great entertainment. Perhaps that's why he has reached this all-time-high of moviegoing affection, and will certainly maintain it for a long time to come; if he can go from punchline to paragon, there's no reason any of us can't either.

Kristine DeBell and Living Next Door to Alice

2010-12-10T08:00:00.000-08:00

A prologue:

In 2006, I was invited by the now-defunct label Subversive Cinema to work on special features for a highly-anticipated DVD release of the legendary 1976 adult musical adaptation of ALICE IN WONDERLAND. A difficult task, since many in the cast worked under pseudonyms, director Bud Townsend had died years before, and most importantly, the star of the film had not been heard from publicly in many years. Therefore, this essay was written for inclusion on the DVD as an attempt to speak on her behalf, say what I think she would say, and start tipping the balance the other way against the years of scandal talk. I long hoped that she would read this and privately say that yes, I nailed it, somebody understands, thus making any sort of public statement from her unnecessary anyway.

Unfortunately, when the disc was ready for market, Subversive was out of money and closing its doors for good, so the essay was omitted from the release. In honor of her birthday this day, I am finally making it publicly available here...

If one believes, as the Jesuits say, "Give me a child until he is seven, and I will give you the man," then it is not too far-fetched to say that soon after, give me a significant celebrity crush of that child, and I will give you the woman he will search for as a man.

"Let’s say it was the moondust
That drifted down from heaven
That sparkled on your shoulders
And nestled in your eyes"
– Terry Black

When I was ten years old, my worldview would be irrevocably changed through the act of my father taking me to see Ivan Reitman’s MEATBALLS, the compromise film for tweeners ready to get away from kiddie fare and parents who could not in good conscience take their children to watch ANIMAL HOUSE. By the time that movie was over, I would elevate Bill Murray to the iconic level of cool my father likely held for Steve McQueen, and I would harbor enormously unrealistic expectations of summer camp for the remainder of my childhood. But while I had to respect Bill for focusing his romantic pursuits on the butch counselor played by Kate Lynch, my youthful affections were zeroed in on the next most prominent female at the camp, A.L., as portrayed by Kristine DeBell.

You remember A.L., don’t you? The energetic C.I.T. with the blond hair and the freckles and the husky voice? Still one of only four people in recorded history who could sport long socks with Dr. Scholl sandals and make it look fashionable? She and Wheels were the hottest couple last summer, but it was uncertain they would rekindle their romance again. Can you summon back that memory now? Remember when you heard her voice break with misty joy as, bless him, Wheels remembered their anniversary? That smile bloomed on her face and you were melting with happiness for her, weren’t you? If you were a boy like me, you promised yourself right then and there you were going to do the same thing for your girlfriend…once you were old enough to have one, of course. Much like a future generation of young women would aspire to a boyfriend like John Cusack’s immortal Lloyd Dobler in SAY ANYTHING, many boys like me hoped they’d meet a girl like Kristine’s A.L.

In the 10 most active years of her currently dormant career, the appearance of Kristine DeBell in a film or television show was a welcome occasion. Like many actresses of the modern age, Kristine got her start as one of the fresh faces of the hot-button Ford Modeling Agency, but unlike the glamorous but intimidating and off-limits appearance of the other famous alumni, she always radiated friendliness and approachability. For boys like me in a pubescent state of confusion, with voices and confidence always ready to crack, Kristine drew us in because she struck as not only pretty, but kind; the type of girl who wouldn’t laugh in your face after you stumbled over your initial request for a date. Perhaps this was a hindrance in terms of acting versatility, relegating her to a series of roles as girlfriends or friends of girlfriends, but it was also a gift because in those roles, she embodied what the average viewer at home was seeking in their own friendships. Whether she was a bored call girl who’d sooner watch The Beatles on TV in I WANNA HOLD YOUR HAND, or barely concealing her awe at daredevil boyfriend Jackie Chan in BATTLE CREEK BRAWL, or tempting genial Judge Harry Stone with rock star life in a beloved "NIGHT COURT" episode, you didn’t so much think you were watching an actress in a role, as you imagined you were looking at somebody like you living in extraordinary circumstance. Kristine was definitely the Girl Next Door, in all the high notes a pop songwriter could conjure up.

"you take the words I say and make them mean
everything they don’t baby you’re obscene
you don’t listen you don’t hear
you’re blinded by the fear that surrounds you"
-- Sam Phillips

Paradoxically, it is this enormous audience goodwill that has rarely been given credit to, yet has certainly contributed to the longevity of, the 800-lb mushroom of Kristine DeBell’s career, her starring role and debut in the 1976 loose musical adaptation of ALICE IN WONDERLAND, one of those films like Frankenheimer’s THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE, where the public at large is more familiar with the mythos surrounding the movie than the movie itself. So much misconception has grown over the decades since its release that in most circumstance, it is not even regarded as a movie, but as a punch line to a joke, or a skeleton in a closet, something to be suppressed rather than discussed. A Film That Dare Not Speak Its Name.

Thus, this is as good an occasion as any to set details straight. Yes, ALICE was conceived as a film that would have sex as its point of focus. In the maverick period of filmmaking that arose from the creation of the MPAA and the demise of local censorship boards, many mainstream films had sex and all of its possibilities as their main topic, including Mike Nichols’ CARNAL KNOWLEDGE, Hal Ashby’s SHAMPOO, and Ted Post’s THE HARRAD EXPERIMENT. And yes, ALICE was released in theatres with an X rating. Again, nothing unusual for the time: X ratings, merely denoting content not suitable for minors, appeared on films from all the major studios, including THE DAMNED, TROPIC OF CANCER, POUND, and the 1969 Academy Award-winner for Best Picture MIDNIGHT COWBOY.

Thus the question must be asked as to why there is still a stigma attached to ALICE IN WONDERLAND and DeBell’s performance, when other works and actors that demonstrate a similar candor do not carry one? Why is it that one can rent HENRY & JUNE, another movie carrying an equivalent adults-only rating of NC-17, among all the other films in the drama section, yet one must go through the tavern doors or the beaded curtain to get a copy of ALICE, provided the video store even offers it? And most annoyingly, why is it when you Google actresses who have also given performances of sexual honesty, such as Chloe Sevigny or Kerry Fox, the initial links simply use the word "actress," but if you Google Kristine DeBell, you will be inundated with links perpetuating the highly incorrect and downright rude description "porno star?"

The likely reason for why ALICE IN WONDERLAND inspires nervous reactions to this day is quite troubling. American actress Margo Stilley, who stars in British director Michael Winterbottom’s controversial relationship drama 9 SONGS, provides a concise analysis:

"I suppose coming from a background that tells you, 'Sex is bad, sex is bad, you're going to hell, sex is bad,' and then seeing on the news that the president is having an affair, it's not really put in a good light...What I find in films I see is that sex is always a turning point in action, someone's cheating on someone, or someone dies. It's always the kids having sex in horror films that die. And I didn't like that. And in the sexually explicit films I've seen like [Nagisa Oshima’s IN THE REALM OF THE SENSES, where the heroine emasculates her lover], they're crazy, people don't do that, it's not normal!"

While a blanket statement, the sentiment definitely applies to the performances given by Fox in INTIMACY and Sevigny in THE BROWN BUNNY. Both films' presentation of coupling is at best somber, and ultimately brings the protagonists no happiness; indeed it only furthers their respective sad endings. By contrast, Alice’s encounters during her surrealistic journey may often bewilder or intimidate her, but they prove to be fun. The message is disappointing: if you feature real sex but frame it in pathos, you have an art film, but if you feature real sex and frame it in pleasure, you have a porno film.

And for all its frankness, ALICE cannot be classified as pornography, though it is almost always grouped with it in the minds of fans and foes alike. The understated tone of the adjective "enjoyable" in my previous paragraph is intentional, because it demonstrates the clear division between the former’s portrayal of lovemaking and the unrealistic notions on display in the latter. In pornography, every man is the best lover in the world, every woman is loudly satisfied, and regardless of what clothesline plot is introduced, the sex has no context or motivation; it exists solely to be filmed and viewed.

This contrivance is not on display here. Alice's journey parallels that of her literary counterpart, full of discoveries and adventures that, while interesting, ultimately do not suit her. Her fantasy ends with her finding happiness in conventional monogamy with her true love. If there was ever a message that clearly contradicted the "anything goes best" mentality of pornography, it is this ending. To say ALICE is the same as any number of coarsely-titled productions in the video store back room because they both involve sexual behavior is as ludicrous as saying that a bottle of Veuve Clicquot is the same as a hip flask of Thunderbird because they both contain wine.

"Alice, the world is full of ugly things, that you can't change
Pretend it's not that way, it's my idea of faith
You can blow it off and say there's good in nearly everyone
Just give them all a chance
Alice, give them all a chance"
-- Ben Folds

Enough time has been spent discussing the unfounded negative perceptions about ALICE. Better to talk about the goodness of the film, that which has kept it an audience favorite for nearly 30 years. Many elements helped it make the crucial crossover to movie lovers like myself not normally inclined to watch anything of a racy nature – the audacious premise, the catchy songs, the corny jokes, and, through wordplay and irreverence, its surprising faithfulness to the ridiculous nature of Carroll’s original work.

And most importantly, what has drawn and continues to draw viewers is the overwhelming likeability of Kristine DeBell as its star. Kristine is such a nice, kind presence that in the manner that I quickly invested in her happiness during my first viewing of MEATBALLS, proper adults (and probably the occasional high schooler who sneaked a look on cable when the folks were asleep) have found themselves genuinely interested in watching her, as Alice, make her clumsy journey into libidinous liberation. Because she is a nice girl, we can’t feel a detached lust like we could if it were some stereotypical "porno actress." Instead, we identify with her, just as we would in all her roles that would follow later on. Since she is the embodiment of the girl we want to love or to become, her journey is our journey, her sexual awkwardness mirrors our own awkward first discoveries. It’s that spirit that makes the movie something that inspires a grin instead of a leer. Maybe you came for the naughty stuff, but you stayed for the smiles. This jovial attitude was not missed by critics of the time:

"[Its] most pleasant surprise is its star, Kristine DeBell, who projects such a freshness and naivete that she charms us even in scenes where some rather alarming things are going on. I think she has a future in the movies...there's an openness to her expression, a directness to her acting, that's genuinely appealing...She looks just like the healthy blond with wide-set eyes and Toni curls that sat across the aisle in high school -- or should have." -- Roger Ebert, Chicago Sun-Times

"Playmate Kristine DeBell, a most engaging cutie, manages the wide-eyed wistfulness as deftly as she executes the [specifically sexual] scenes." –Richard Corliss, Time Magazine

Thus, contrary to the prevailing notions that DeBell was able to have a successful career "despite" her appearance in ALICE, indeed it can and should be argued that her performance is so fetching, she was too good an actress to not move on to better things. And for 10 great years to follow, all of us were able to see Kristine return again and again and radiate that winsome charm.

"I don't why she's leaving, or where she's gonna go,
I guess she's got her reasons but I just don't wanna know,
'Cause for twenty four years I've been living next door to Alice."
-- Mike Chapman, Nicky Chinn

Kristine DeBell has never publicly commented about her experience making ALICE IN WONDERLAND. As long as the media irresponsibly continue to throw around loaded terms like "porno star" to describe her, and discussion of the film is monopolized by the raincoat contingent who leave comments at the IMDb so crude you want to wash their keyboards with soap, she probably will continue not to speak about it. Perhaps the aforementioned Margo Stilley, who has also advanced to plenty of mainstream roles from appearing in 9 SONGS, has a viable hypothesis for Kristine’s mindset at the film’s creation:

"I wanted to make a film about something I really believe in, which is to show sex in a very positive light, as a very important piece of everyday life and a very important piece of a relationship, whether it's successful or unsuccessful...This is a nice thing, it's fun, everyone does it...and when it's someone you're in love with, it's great."

But perhaps also, there is ultimately no need for Kristine to tell the story, because her life has virtually mirrored the film. It is not difficult to fathom that much like Alice, she came into the film’s production somewhat naive, had a good time while it lasted, but chose for the better to leave it all behind. Those of us who have been her fans have no doubt that, just as she sang in one of her stand-out numbers from ALICE, she settled down and got married and moved to a house with a white picket fence filled with kids and a little (erf-erf) puppy.

And as that child who was so pleased to see her character beam on the movie screen is now me, grown-up, I can continue to be glad in the belief that the real woman has also found her happy ending.

An epilogue:

In the years since I wrote this essay, I did finally make contact with Kristine DeBell. After a long time out to raise a family, she is in the process of reviving her dormant career. I am very privileged to call her a good friend. She has read what I wrote, and I am posting it with her approval. Thus it gives me extra pleasure that I can share my essay with you as a birthday present to her.

Happy Birthday, A.L., and thank you for the moondust.

On the Border of Nod

2010-11-14T16:05:00.000-08:00

When my parents divorced, I essentially had the same custody arrangement from I was 7 years old until I moved out of Cincinnati and went to college: I visited my dad on Tuesday nights, spent Friday nights with him, came back to my mom's on Saturday at 6 prompt. Any variations had to be cleared with her in advance, and had better be good to get her to agree to it.

By high school, both my parents had cable, but my dad sprung for the pay channels. So on Friday nights at my dad's house, if I wasn't lucky enough to find out about a party, which was often, I stayed up late, kept the volume low so as not to keep my dad up, and either watched movies, or kept the VCR on pause to tape my favorite videos of the day, maybe a snippet of a sitcom rerun, or a particularly good trailer on the Viewer's Choice preview channel (at the time, they ran real trailers instead of the crappy short promos they would eventually create to push the pay-per-view movies). Also, for a long while, WGN in Chicago would run an hour-long "TWILIGHT ZONE" episode at 1:30 a.m., followed by a half-hour episode at 2:30 a.m., and I would try to stay up for those. It was on a typical Friday night that I first stumbled across my decades-long obsession, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN THE FABULOUS STAINS, on USA Network's "NIGHT FLIGHT" program.

Amidst all of this, something I strangely remember with much fondness would be the nights that I would temporarily zonk out in front of the TV and reawaken, sometimes after 3 a.m. If I was watching those "TWILIGHT ZONE" reruns, in my netherzone of consciousness and sleep, I created intriguing "new" episodes in my head from the snippets of visual and audio that I could recall. Or marvel at some of the truly bizarre programs or movies that were on that late, because back then there really was a difference; not like now when the same informercials run on every channel. I instinctively knew after 3 I should really be in bed, especially if I wanted to be up at an hour that my father would not berate me for being a lazy sod for waking up at, but on those nights I was discovering the alternate world of the middle of the night. Dubbed Eurotrash sex comedies on Showtime After Hours. "RAT PATROL" reruns. Joe Franklin.

I had a room upstairs that was not wired for cable, but I did have a component stereo. So I would turn on the radio, again low enough not to wake anyone, and sleep with it on. And again, in dreams I conjured up incredible music videos for the songs that filled my sleep. A slow-motion Sam Peckinpah massacre scored to Lionel Richie's "Hello." Heavy petting with an unrequited high-school crush atop a bank of washing machines in a junkyard to Smokey Robinson's "Shop Around."

As an arrested adolescent now who often sees strands of daylight by the time I go to bed, I miss that time of innocence and forbidden pleasure. I try sleeping with my TV or a CD playing sometimes, but it's not the same like it was before.

This past night as I drove home from a late night gathering, "Wishing" by A Flock of Seagulls came on the radio. I had seen the video many times when ths song was first released, but it was on one of those Friday night 3 a.m. reawakenings that I really "watched" the video and "got" the song and it became truly beloved. I think it was the earnest juxtapositions of computers and isolation and space and the great void by journeyman director and frequent Seagulls collaborator Tony Van Den Ende with those simple lyrics of longing that resonated. It was the middle of the night, I was by myself, and my similarly earnest and simple self identified with feeling like being alone in the middle of nowhere, gazing at eternity.

As a jittery Christian, I aspire to an afterlife and reincarnation, and that my life's work will be exemplary enough to reach that ascended state. As a pragmatic realist, I prepare for the likelihood that there is nothing after death; at best, maybe the electrodes in my brain will go a little while longer after my body conks and it will be like one last, good dream.

But in either case, it would be nice if I could know that one day, I will be 15 again, taking the pieces of the pop culture that intrigue me, and creating my own visions around them as I had before. I wouldn't spend my life just wishing...