One of the greatest Sunday "Peanuts" strips Charles Schultz ever drew, based on a personal experience, involves Charlie Brown wistfully telling a story about his father's short romance with another girl, a movie they shared together that brought out deep emotions that stayed with him for years, the actress who starred in it as a constant reminder of that time, and finding out decades after the fact he'd fixed his memories on the wrong actress. Those first bites of culture we experience at pivotal points in our lives stay tethered to our hearts, but often times they are not tethered to accuracy and facts. I was reminded of this classic strip when earlier this evening, I was chatting with my father and the topic of classic movie serials came up. He told me a story of how, while traveling as a youth, he had seen a couple chapters of an exciting tale he remembered as "Sanazaro," and that he would go off and on for years trying to track it down with no luck, sometimes forgetting that odd title and then when it came back to him, trying to intensely memorize it harder to locate it later. It was only after over five decades that, on a chance channel flip to Antonio Banderas on TV promoting a certain action film featuring him and Anthony Hopkins, that the serial he had been searching for so many years was in fact called SON OF ZORRO.
If you think movie titles are easily mangled, they do not hold a carbon arc to that menace of all karaoke nights, the misheard musical earworm. Plenty of hay and lazy comedy has been made out of the disconnect between song lyrics and what people think they hear. ("Scuse Me While I Kiss This Guy," "A Nine, A Ten, I'll Lay Her Again...") Some of it can be attributed to bad hearing, mental projection based in personal issues, or, yes, that the artist themselves has failure to communicate. But what about that truly bizarre period of childhood, as my father experienced, when you hear a song that you can't quite make out, and since you're too young to know that certain things do not exist, you create an interpretation out of whole misbegotten cloth?
For example, in Beverly Cleary's book RAMONA THE PEST, first-time kindergartener Ramona Quimby spends 3/4 of her school year convinced that class starts with a song about a special lamp called a "dawnzer" that gives off a "lee light." Only months later do her parents explain there is no such thing, and clarify the actual lyrics to "The Star Spangled Banner."
Yep, my nascent brain took a hit off that same lollipop.
When I was about seven, I discovered a stash of my dad's old '50's '45's at our family's summer cottage, and went apenuts playing them over and over again.
One of them was "You Bug Me, Baby" by Larry Williiams, a labelmate of Little Richard at Specialty Records. (He also sang "Bony Moronie" and "Dizzy, Miss Lizzy") It's an R&B reworking of a standard Irish jig called "The Irish Washerwoman" - to be exact, THE Irish jig that always gets used when someone wants quick stereotypical color in something - with lyrics written by Sonny Bono. There is a couplet in the song that goes
When we go riding in the pale moonlight
All I wanna do is hold-a you tight
However, factor that most rock'n'roll is more concerned with cool delivery and less concerned with enunciation and phonics, and add that to my limited childhood abilities with language and dialects, and maybe you will understand how, for at least a year or so, I would swear that he was singing
When we go riding in a Peramo Line
"Pee-kaa?"
"A Peramo Line, you say? Pray tell, Mr. Heuck, what the fuck is a Peramo Line?"
Cut me a break, I was seven!!! I was just beginning to learn about the '50's, I'd only seen a few episodes of "HAPPY DAYS," what did I know of what was real and what was a fiction in my head? I dunno: I figured something teenagers did for fun back then was get together with their dates, drive their convertibles on a long stretch of road, and call it a Peramo Line.
It gets worse. While I was grasping the concept of a Peramo Line, I initially also thought that the second line of the disputed couplet was
All I wanna do is put a hole in your tie
"Marc, how many girls do you know that wear ties on a regular basis, and why would her boyfriend want to put a hole in one of them?"
Hey, the song was called, "You Bug Me, Baby." For all I knew, putting a hole in her tie was how he got revenge on her for all the times she annoyed him. At least it took less time to get this part corrected; I was almost ten before I finally figured out that back in high school my dad wasn't double-dating with Rudy Muckinfuss to go on a Peramo Line.
But here's the kicker, here's the filip, the freeze-frame before we iris out and roll credits.
In high school Latin, I found out that "per amo" literally means "for love."
So even though this ritual never existed, and "Peramo" is an invented word that came out of that confused megalopolis I call a brain...I had been grammatically correct the entire time! If teenagers were going for a group drive with the specific goal of making out sometime during the trip, it would be acceptable English to call it a Peramo Line. BWAAAANNNG!!!
Meanwhile I googled "Sanazaro" and all I could muster, aside from a lot of people with that as a last name, was that it derived from 15th Century poet Jacopo Sanazzaro who wrote ARCADIA, and his name derived from Saint Nazarius, who was martyred with his protege Celsus for reasons at best apocryphal. Now, in fairness to Dear old Dad, my longtime grade school principal and church pastor was named Father Celsus, and like Zorro the Fox, he wore black and took no bullshit. But that is generous stretching at best, whereas my dubious disambigulation has a direct, if retroactive, relation to reality. So I think I trumped him.
Meanwhile, I'm not doing anything Friday night. Who wants to go riding on a Peramo Line with me?
Here I am, crashing the party otherwise known as the Camp & Cult Blogathon, presented by Stacia at She Blogged by Night. While I may often believe that those two adjectives should be relegated to the other forbidden C-words in modern conversation, I certainly do love a little celebration of the histrionic and the dementedly devotional, so there's no reason to be a sourpuss just because a few people don't understand that not every movie with overacting is automatically funny, and not every ultra-low-budget poverty production deserves to be ranked in the same company as those that earned their legions. Dare I say it, you don't have a good camp experience without a good counselor, so here I am with my whistle, though I'm more apt to blow on it to chant along with a Donna Summer song than to call stop. And in this situation, I think I have a rather amusing little story for the bonfire.
While I was never a particularly devoted reader of his books, I had a fine respect for the late Gore Vidal. I had grown up hearing him name-checked by people of many stripes whom I knew were smart, and coming across a money quote of his - "As I looked upon my life, I realized I loved nothing - not art, not sex - more than going to the movies." - I sensed that this was someone who had my number. But as an individual who also grew up being told "If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him," and "If your mother says she loves you, check it out," I often found myself in disagreement with some of his pronouncements. So, with the help of some distance past his passing from the corporeal realm, I choose to commemorate his life by ruminating on my personal relationship to something he thoroughly detested: the film adaptation of his 1968 novel MYRA BRECKINRIDGE...because, to paraphrase what was once said about Led Zeppelin, I can only honor the great contrarian by destroying him.
For the uninitiated, MYRA BRECKINRIDGE was an amusing book by Gore Vidal that was turned into a harshly comic, proto-FIGHT CLUB rant on Hollywood by director Michael Sarne. The mysterious Myra (Racquel Welch), an inveterate lover of old-time movie glamour, comes to town to subvert and destroy all the trappings of new Hollywood -- overt macho, method acting, etc. She will run riot on her ersatz uncle-in-law, fallen cowboy star Buck Loner (John Huston), and seduce both man's man Rusty (Roger Herren) and his sugar-sweet girlfriend Mary Ann (Farrah Fawcett). The movie had instantly piqued my curiosity when my seventh-grade teacher, already savvy to my film obsession, lent me her copy of the Medved brothers' now-rather-harsh-and-easily-debunked book "THE FIFTY WORST FILMS OF ALL TIME," and it had a very detailed chapter about its notoriety. At the dawn of videotape rentals, I insisted my dad bring it home to watch, and it quickly became one of my favorite bizarre movies (and, if you wanna get technical, my first X-rated movie). As a child, I had embraced this as gonzo camp, under that unbearably hoary cliché of "so bad it's good" (which is so overused, it's done!), but over the years I've turned a corner (and I know I'm quite alone in this assessment) and openly declared this a misunderstood classic. Part of my reasoning came from reading the source novel it was based on a few years later as a full-fledged hormonal teenager: somehow, I just wasn't as entertained by Vidal's prose as I had been by the movie's repurposing of it. And I found the constant references to then-obscure-to-me-names like Pandro S. Berman and Francis X. Bushman to grow tedious. I could sense that this was subject matter that Vidal, through his protagonist, was not joking about, that he really was waging some sort of culture war against those damned hippie actors and their "Stanislavski" and their "naturalism" and wanted them all to get off of his Hollywood lawn. I found new cement for my reappraisal upon seeing David Fincher's groundbreaking FIGHT CLUB in 1999, because in its approach to adapting Chuck Palahniuk's best-seller, it was really following the exact same template: not only do both films satirize their target subjects, but they satirize their very own selves, reminding the audience that they are watching a movie and to not take anything seriously. Rather than treat the author's work like sacred canon, they openly challenge and exploit the flaws in the source material, an approach which a post-modern writer like Palahniuk seemed to enjoy, but which clearly rankled the comparably self-serious Vidal.
I stumbled into opportunity by meeting the movie's embattled director Michael Sarne in 2003 at my then-workplace. Sarne, whose career never truly recovered from the debacle that was MYRA, came into town from England, where he was working steadily as a character actor, to record a commentary for the then-upcoming DVD release. I gushed to Sarne like the excited movie geek I was, telling him how much I enjoyed MYRA and how underrated I thought it was. He in turn told me about his good fortune and that he was recording his commentary that Friday afternoon. He said he had never done one before, and was unsure how to go about it. I mentioned my experience with Tamara Hernandez and recording the commentary for MEN CRY BULLETS. GUESS WHO GOT TO SIT IN ON THE COMMENTARY RECORDING THAT FRIDAY AFTERNOON? (Yes, that moment still delights me that much that I needed the color emphasis on that rhetorical question.) Besides myself, Michael invited Stanley Sheff, an old friend, apprentice to Orson Welles, and director of LOBSTER MAN FROM MARS, to give him pointers as well. This setup was nice -- my first time in a soundproofed room, with timecode, synchronized recording with the master tapes -- way more pro than the D.I.Y. manner in which I had done Tamara's recording. Only Michael would be miked however -- we could prompt and comment during dead spots, but it would not be included -- the final audio is a complete stream of talk from him, though on occasion, you can tell he is answering a question one of us asked. And it was great, with good dishy details on the fighting and studio politics that went down during production. I was happy to be a part of it, however small. Afterward, the three of us went to brunch at Du-Par's, and I got to hear great tales of how long ago, when Sheff was working at the Whisky-a-Go-Go, he would raid movie lab dumpsters for stuff to run as loops behind bands and dancers, and how it became a mini-phenom there. And how he got to work under Welles on some of his later projects. I then gave Sarne a lift back to where he was staying, and he invited me in for a quick drink. We talked, I told him some of my film ideas and how at that point of my residency, despite four years and the big ups and downs I had taken, I loved this place and never regretted coming. He made me feel really significant. And he gave me an invite to watch the reediting later that week.
Oh, I should elaborate. In an extremely interesting turn of events we shall not likely see from a major studio again, 20th Century Fox not only commissioned a de riguer commentary track, but they allowed him to make minor reedits to the film. MYRA punctuates it's story points with classic film clips (a la DREAM ON if you remember that HBO series), and initially certain clips were denied him despite being in a workprint that tested well in San Francisco. Most notoriously, a MYRA character's fantasy sequence would have been followed by a clip from REBECCA OF SUNNYBROOK FARM, where Shirley Temple attempts to milk a goat and gets sprayed with the white stuff. She was not amused at the juxtaposition, and used near-Presidential influence to have it removed. While Sarne was still not allowed to use that clip, he was allowed to use a similar substitute (if one could be found), to smooth out and fix transitions between the film and the clips, and to make a key alteration to the film's ending in the manner of the DVD-only, "easter egg" B&W opening sequence on THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW. So now, I had not only sat in on the recording of an aural history of one of my favorite films, I was going to watch it get reedited, an enormous privilege!
So early one afternoon, before going to work, I politely blustered my way into the telecine/color correction session for MYRA BRECKINRIDGE. When I arrived, the work was already underway, just Sarne and a computer colorist named Sheri. The primary task at hand was to sort through the miscellaneous B&W clips interspersed within the film, and provide appropriate tinting to help them match the color scenes they bisected. This was NOT "colorization," like Ted Turner was trying to foist in the '80's, but just tinting the image so that if the color scene happens in a beige, muted room, that the B&W scene doesn't jar the viewer -- instead, it would have a similar color injected, warm the image from cold grayness. Sarne had always suggested that since the story could only exist as fantasy, that the clips should suggest that Old Hollywood was present in the "New" environment as these events were happening, and making commentary upon it. Watching the process, and having seen MYRA a few times, the tints made dramatic sense, and made the snippets more organic, less distancing. Actors and photos looked to have more fleshtone, were not so harsh. And it was amazing what the computer could do. For example, for some inexplicable reason, in the original theatrical print, a clip featuring Tyrone Power as Zorro had a weird, deep red tint applied, even though the scene it was interrupting was not dominated by red. While it could not be completely eradicated, the operator was able to mute it down, take it to a more palatable tan. I am unable to make vidcaps from my DVD to show you the specifics, and this detail seemed to elude DVD reviewers who watched both versions and failed to notice these subtle changes, but you can play this Zorro excerpt in each version on your home unit and see the difference for yourself.
But then, there was the big task. As I said before, there was the matter of that payoff to the dream sequence and the Temple clip was still off limits. But Sarne had permission to replace the mundane "cannon fire" clip that had been ultimately inserted in the original version. We had discussed during a break in the previous commentary recording why that scene was so funny in it's original conception. It wasn't just the juxtaposition of a face full of milk to an physical body reaction, it was that it was Shirley Temple, America's sweetheart and paragon of purity and virtue, getting the mess. So the best way to try to get the same effect would be to find a clip of a similarly beloved movie star looked to for her "virtue". At the session, only two movies had been provided by the Fox archivists for us to search for clips -- AN AFFAIR TO REMEMBER, and MOVE OVER DARLING. (Interestingly, MOVE OVER DARLING had originally been intended as a Marilyn Monroe film -- the unfinished SOMETHING'S GOT TO GIVE -- and footage from that abandoned shoot does appear in MYRA, in a scene where Marilyn appears to meet the characters in another scene shot at the same poolside). When I arrived, they were trying some scene from AFFAIR, involving Deborah Kerr reacting with mock revulsion at Cary Grant over some affront while swimming, as the replacement clip. I could see the logic, but we all agreed quickly it wasn't doing the job. So we put MOVE OVER DARLING in the deck and fast-forwarded looking for stuff. Doris Day certainly fit the bill as the kind of "good girl" archetype that could provide our punchline, provided we find the right clip. First, there was a scene of her peeking behind bushes at a romantic encounter between James Garner and another girlfriend, and her facial expressions of shock and huff played well, as if reacting to the event it would be preceding. But we wanted to keep looking. And then, comedy gold fell into our laps. A chase scene led to Doris driving a tricked-out Chrysler Imperial convertible into a car wash. And by nervous fumbling with the auto controls, down went the windows and water began to rain into the car. Then came the soap and wax dispenser (0:46-0:49)...
As John Ritter said in SKIN DEEP, "THERE IS A GOD! AND HE'S A GAG WRITER!" Instantly, all three of us were nearly out of our chairs; we didn't even need to try inserting it to know we had our, sorry but I gotta say it, money shot. We did a bit of fine-tuning to figure out when to start and stop the clip (ideally, it was supposed to use the exact same number of seconds as the clip it would replace), but for all purposes, we were very happy. A test screening a week later for friends and video department brass had everyone laughing at the new edit.
However, much as with Ms. Temple Black, the former Doris Van Kappelhoff was not amused either by this editorial choice, and would not sign off on its use. The fact that the bulk of her career consisted of many innuendo-laced comedies opposite the biggest closet case in Hollywood history would have implied to me she oughta have a more developed sense of humor about such things. In the final cut that made it to DVD, Sarne used a good-but-not-as-good Laurel & Hardy moment for his punch line. But o! what a fine moment that was. The thrill of discovery, the belly laughs, the ability to say "I was there, I saw it happen." I got a preview of what it would likely be like to edit my own movie, and find a moment on that bench that really works, that you know is solid. And though it could not survive in reality, it survives in my head, and now in this account. So, Mr. Vidal, I hope you can respect the notion of agreeing to disagree on this movie. Not like you're in any position to castigate me now, you motherfucker...as the children say nowadays.
It's dangerously maudlin, I tell you, this increasingly predictable pattern, to which I've succumbed, of publishing only when Death Carries a Cane and smacks me upside the head with it while screaming "You wanted an angle on this subject to get web hits, now you've got it!" I'm aware that a growing number of my dwindling readership must think I'm grooming myself to be a professional funereal orator, a Designated Mourner. But in fairness, this has been a harsher-than-normal summer in terms of losing people who have made an impact on me, be they on a directly personal or artistically emotional level. And, sadly, the hits just keep on coming.
First discovered on Facebook, and then confirmed by a touching commentary at the Tough Pigs fansite, I have learned the sad news that longtime Muppeteer Jerry Nelson died this past Thursday evening. Nelson was not one of the highest-profile members of the collective like Frank Oz or Kevin Clash, and aside from the immortal Count von Count, not responsible for many high-profile characters. But he was definitely versatile, doing one-shot sketch voices, appropriately deadpan narrations, and multiple musical styles and compositions. He was logging time on practically every Henson and Sesame Workshop project until he took retirement, and even then stepping back in on occasion when he felt able. I would obviously respect him for all of that, any Muppet fan would. But I especially must offer my doffed cap and the unruly mane underneath for giving life to my favorite character in the entire body of Henson's creations.
When a discarded green coat got cut up to create a puppet of ambiguous genus many decades ago, there could not have been any inkling that it would be the prototype of what is now an worldwide institution of sharp but gentle family entertainment. And somehow Jim Henson and everyone he gathered to work for him understood that important balance of taking a creature with an unnerving exterior appearance or behavior, and taming them just enough to make them relatable and lovable. I always found it astute that he chose to populate the Sesame Street neighborhood with monsters, seeing as how this groundbreaking educational program was coming to television just as a generation of children were getting a large (for its time) dosage of monster imagery...Disney witches, AIP horror films, and Japanese rubber-suited kaiju epics in theatres...TV airings of the classic Universal rogues gallery of Dracula, Frankenstein, and the Wolf Man...controversial E.C. comic books and the legendary "Famous Monsters of Filmland" magazine at the newsstand...even the radio offered tales of psychiatric breaks and big bad wolves, and what of the inherent spookiness of the pale skin, dark glasses, and quavering voice of Roy Orbison, or Johnny Cash dressed in black as he told of murder for the sake of observation? Henson understood the intersection of fear and fascination all these elements were inspiring in children, and embraced them by upending the scarier aspects in place of calming whimsy without completing defanging what made them so compelling. That formula didn't always work - a number-teaching segment involving creatures on a city-wrecking rampage was scrapped when kids identified with the civilians being menaced, and the alluring animator (and sometime Poubelle Twin) Vera Duffy deftly points out Beaker seems to exist solely to be punished, like some sort of synthetic sin-eater, the Muppet Show equivalent of Chaney's He Who Gets Slapped. But anyone who has imitated the Count's three..THREE WONDERFUL SYLLABLES of laughter ("Ah ah ah!"), or felt compassion at that moment when poor Sweetums is left behind at the used car lot in THE MUPPET MOVIE will vouch that more often than not, nobody doesn't love a Muppet Monster. And on "SESAME STREET," you had Grover, who had a high voice and a round head, whom kids could relate to because he was like a locquacious baby (remember, SuperGrover's secret weapon was, "And I am cute, too!")...and you had Cookie Monster, who had poor grammar but a healthy appetite, whom kids could relate to because they were new to words but fast friends with sweets...
...and then, you had Herry Monster. He was blocky-built, almost like Frankenstein's monster, covered with heavy fur, bushy eyebrows, big nose, low gruff voice, and very strong. In short, aside from an occasional fang-toothed extra in a musical number, Herry was easily the most monstrous monster on the block, and probably close to what children at home would perceive that mythical beast under the bed or creature in the closet looked like. So Herry had the toughest role of any of the monster characters, because unlike Grover and Cookie, he had all the exterior trappings that kids could find frightful - in his first appearances on the show, he does scare others, albeit unintentionally - thus he had the most preconceived notions to overcome. Of course, after being seen bantering with John-John and other kids, performing in Prairie Dawn's little pageants, and showing off his teddy bear Hercules with pride, it didn't take very long for everyone to see his inherent gentleness.
Jerry Nelson will be getting most of his posthumous accolades for the charming, witty Count, but I really feel he should be lauded for his development of Herry as well, because through his vocal delivery and gestures, he was able to make such an outwardly fearsome-looking creature warm and trustworthy. In short, while children gravitated to most of the Sesame Street characters because they looked pleasing and proved it through their personality, Herry won hearts because his sweet personality trumped his intimidating appearance. His voice suggested an old, grizzled soul, but his curiosity and interplay with humans and Muppets alike showed that he was still very much an excited child in the world, wanting experience. And I think kids who felt like they weren't as attractive or as confident as the other kids they saw at school or on the playground could understand that and relate to that. Heck, as a big kid today, I know that with my long hair and dark clothes and often glowering demeanor, I can steer away the fools I don't wish to suffer, but I probably scare a lot of other people away that I don't intend to, and that it's by exposing my vulnerabilities that draws folks back in and makes them accept me. As such, Herry has been my hero for years. And I always wished I could meet him and tell him how much I learned from him. Maybe even sing that "M" song with him: since he was a Monster and my name is Marc, and we both love Magnificent Meals, it would have been an appropriate duet:
I haven't had a delicious letter M for far too long.
The new generations who have grown up on Elmo and his friends are likely not as familiar with Herry, since because of his longstanding health issues Nelson essentially retired the character in 2004; he's shown up in older clips and appeared in a nonspeaking capacity in recent years, but not much else. With Nelson's passing today, we are left to wonder if he will return. The Count already has a new hand and voice keeping him alive, Nelson recognized that he was too strong of a character to leave dormant, but I wonder whether anyone else will have the right touch to reinvigorate my favorite Third Monster Through the Door.
For now, sleep well, Herry. Give little Hercules a big hug for me.
Sage Moonblood Stallone was born in May 1976, six months before his father, a struggling actor named Sylvester Stallone, became a worldwide sensation with the release of ROCKY (1976), an underdog drama he wrote and campaigned fiercely to star in, and which went on to win the Academy Award for Best Picture. Before his first birthday, young Sage had become Hollywood royalty.Spending much of his childhood on the sets of his father's films, Sage developed a great respect for the often unheralded supporting actors who provided memorable performances in often thankless parts. He also became fond of low-budget films, especially those originating from his family's native Italy, that often equalled or exceeded the entertainment value of the big ticket films to which he was normally exposed.Reaching adulthood, Sage decided to put his love of overlooked films into practical action. With partner Bob Murawski, Sage founded Grindhouse Releasing, a company devoted to the preservation of exploitation films. With a determination that has rivaled most studios, he has restored and saved dozens of titles from oblivion. Backed by Quentin Tarantino, Grindhouse successfully reissued Lucio Fulci's thriller THE BEYOND to theatres in 1998.Now, Sage has focused his energy on drawing attention to the people he has so long admired. His directorial debut, VIC, dramatizes the cause and the pride of so many actors of the past, with the talent to give one more great performance and the aching hunger for the opportunity to deliver that performance, in an industry that seems to have no time for them.VIC assembles a virtual dream cast of familiar faces at the peak of their ability, all under the wise and loving eye of a director who has not forgotten their greatness, and is eager to bring out their best again. With this film, Sage Stallone emerges as a skilled and promising artist who, similar to his father's triumph of 30 years ago, has found a new way to champion the otherwise unsung hero.
That was a biography I wrote in 2006 for a private DVD pressing of Sage Stallone's half-hour dramatic film, VIC. And if you can somehow manage to tune out all the tabloid noise and garbage-picking that is passing for reportage on his death, that is how I am hoping you will remember him.
szulkin hit me with your e mail tonight and mentioned a show. what is this show? tell me more right away. also, we got a whole shipment of prints.......so let's start screening!!!! sage.
I always felt very lucky and privileged to have Sage's friendship, and I talked about it proudly when it was appropriate, not because I was bragging over some tangential connection to somebody famous, but because he was doing the kinds of things that I wanted to do in this business. There are a lot of people at the bottom of the entertainment industry who talk about the way things ought to be but can do nothing to make them happen, and there are a lot of people at the top who pretty much do nothing because they don't have to make anything happen. Sage was neither of those people. He was well aware of his position of privilege, and he used it to do what I couldn't: save and release movies, put people to work, change the game. And when I was on a long long phone call that would go until sunrise, and he'd be talking on a tangent so much that I could put down the receiver, make a sandwich, come back, and he'd STILL not finished his point, I chalked it up to that he just had more passion than me...and that was a good thing.
Sage is being lain to rest tomorrow. We hadn't spoken for a couple years and nobody else in his family knew me, so I wasn't invited to his funeral, but I don't mind. I have the sad suspicion that with the circumstance of his passing, and all the outside elements that have attached themselves to this tragic period, it's going to be a very stressful event anyhow, and I don't want that kind of association with his memory. My kind of eulogy would perhaps not be appropriate for a church service as well; Sage was a mischievious sort, and that's how I would have to pay tribute to him. So, I'll do so here.
First off, if there's a theme that comes to mind when I think of Sage, it's that he loved playing the heel. His first acting work was "betraying" his grandmother Jackie when she was starring on the infamous "GORGEOUS LADIES OF WRESTLING" TV series in the '80's, aligning himself with the Bad Girl contingent. When he became grossly dissatisfied with the end result of a LAST HOUSE ON THE LEFT ripoff film called CHAOS which he had acted in, he fulfilled his contractual obligations to appear at screenings, but openly castigated the film and its director at those shows; audiences, for the most part, agreed with him. While sorting through some odd reels and trailers over a long night, he insisted on screening something for me without telling me what I would see, and all I have to say about that footage is what Carla Gugino screamed in SIN CITY: HE MADE ME WAAAAAAAATCHHHH! He was the kind of guy who would bust your balls, to say outlandish things, not because he wanted to start trouble, but because he felt like what he was saying was so ridiculous that of course it couldn't be true so everyone would get that it was a joke. It stands to reason that he grew up hearing all manner of ridiculous putdowns about himself and his family from people who knew little to nothing of his life, and by recognizing the patent implausibility of those rumors, or playing to those stereotypes by mock-acting as the bad guy, maybe it kept the hurt at bay. But it was always an act. Once the dozen-playing was out of the way, he was a polite, loyal, and loquacious man, and if he found out you were a mutual fan of something, you could end up conversing with him for hours.
What's going on man? Sorry i haven't called lately, i've been busy with
the completion of my own film and doing publicity for the most "no
good" film i have ever appeared in titled "Chaos"...Lame, Lame,
L-A-M-E!!! Anyways, hope things are going alright for you, and that
nobody's screwin' you over, because most people are "no good!"...and
you know it!
I also think of Sage's tireless archival instincts. When he was working on a project for his Grindhouse Releasing label, he did not settle for "good enough." Heck, even when he used the classic "Astro Dater" motif as the logo for Grindhouse, he researched the records of National Screen Service to find the kind of ground glass and gels used to make those swirly images to recreate them properly. And when he bought a movie and prepared it for DVD, it may have taken so long as to frustrate eager fans of the film, but he made sure every attempt to cover any interesting aspect of that movie was done, so that what emerged would be the most comprehensive release of that movie ever, that there would never have to be another one done. While you may blanch at the subject matter, his 2-disc release of CANNIBAL HOLOCAUST is one of the greatest DVDs made - special features covering the filmmaker, the checkered history, the hunt for cast members willing to talk, the art, the script - you could skip watching the movie and still get your money's worth from it just from devouring the extras. He was still sitting on many long-promised titles like Umberto Lenzi's ROME ARMED TO THE TEETH, Peter Traynor's DEATH GAME, and the Duke Mitchell films MASSACRE MAFIA STYLE and GONE WITH THE POPE when he passed, albeit having already prepared many materials for whenever he felt the time was right to put them out to home video buyers; we're left to wonder if they will ever come out now.
Sir....A tightly rolled piece of plastic stating (Please return to
M.E. Heuck) has been found. I trust you're a wonderful pervert like
myself, so i've painfully decided to return it...a gift for you, from a schmuck they call "Mr. Price".
There was a running gag that I first witnessed during a long strange phone call Sage conducted with Vincent Gallo at my workplace: every few minutes during their conversation, he felt the need to find some way to say to him, "YA NO GOOD!" This eventually became a running gag between ourselves as well: for years after that, this was our mutual catchphrase. Emails would arrive, under a colorful array of aliases, or phone messages would be left for me, all of them proclaiming the same thing: "YA NO GOOD!" It was never more wonderful to hear that phrase than from him. When I had chance to meet Gallo at the L.A. opening of THE BROWN BUNNY, I told him that someone had called the location earlier leaving a message for him, saying he was no good; Gallo's face lit up like a kid at Christmas, excited at the prospect that he was coming, though he ultimately did not appear at the function. I ultimately learned of the origin later on. For some reason, Sage was particularly fond of the climax of an episode of "KOJAK," where his father appeared as a rogue police officer, and the line was the punchy button to the big reveal (at 3:51):
Once, during the heyday of MySpace, and the waning days of my dubious celebrity, a spelling-challenged male fan sent me the equivalent of a drunken pickup line, typing, "OMG U R SO HOTTT, U LOOK LIKE SLY STALLONE!!" Naturally, since every straight man in a comedy sketch should get one laugh over the wise guy, I forwarded him the message. His reply: "NO! TELL HIM IT'S A WIG! TELL HIM YOU'RE BALD, BALD, LIKE YUL BRYNNER IN THE ULTIMATE WARRIOR! YEAH, WHATEVER...TALK TO YOU LATER, DAD!"
Speaking of his father, we didn't really speak about him. Sage was the guy doing stuff that interested me, not him, so that's what we discussed. And all tabloid coverage of his life aside, being a child of a messy divorce myself, I understood that it was likely a topic best left for him to bring up if he was in the mood. And when he did choose to talk about it, Sage always spoke of his father with a mix of annoyance and pride. He admitted their relationship wasn't great, that they didn't see eye to eye on a lot of things, and in keeping with his impish nature, he liked to needle him: he told of how he'd given him a DVD of underground director Damon Packard's infamous nightmare film REFLECTIONS OF EVIL, and that each time he'd visit their house, he'd find where he'd buried the DVD, and move it to a more prominent position on his viewing stack. He played me tracks from his dad's abandoned record album, offering his commentary on the folly of the project. And when ROCKY BALBOA mined a lot of the same "one last shot" drama that had been present in his own film VIC, right down to using the same UMBERTO D.-style device of a beloved dog, he didn't quite agree when I said it was homage. Yet for all the heckling, he also lauded his father's work, the early personal films he made before he became pigeonholed in cartoonish blockbusters, and railed against modern producers whom he felt took advantage of him and devalued his stardom. Overall, I got the impression he was like any other guy with a successful father who wanted to get out from under and make his own name, feeling both agressive and protective toward that legacy.
Don't be upset at me Marc, let's be in contact. You've done good by
me and payback is needed.
I'm gonna start haunting you. Last week I hibernated because of my painful root canals.
Let me know your schedule.
Regrettably, for the last couple years, we communicated entirely by rumor. All I would ever hear from him would be second hand from mutual friends, and knowing his propensity for tall tales, I could never be sure whether what I was hearing was true or just more extravagant bullshit. I'm always the type to worry that I've done something that will permanently alienate people, so I would constantly wonder if maybe this time he was legitimately angry or tired of me. But then I would remember all the times when, after long stretches of nothing, he came through when I needed him most, and ultimately determined that, well, I would hear from him when I heard from him.
But I'm never going to hear from him again.
And that's no good.
You've always been most honest, helpful, and trustworthy of my few
friends...so it was the least I could do.
"Sooner or later, there comes a point in a man's life when he's gotta face some facts...And one fact I gotta face is that, whatever it is that women like, I ain't got it. I chased after enough girls in my life. I-I went to enough dances. I got hurt enough. I don't wanna get hurt no more." - 1955
"I masturbate a lot." - 2008
Patton Oswalt once posited that if you reached 100 years old, you should be allowed to commit murder with your bare hands as reward for the milestone.
Ernest Borgnine, had he made it another 5 years, would have been capable of actually doing that. Of course, he was such an affable man that he never would do so, but you would know it was possible all the same. Kind of like when the US and Russia had the SALT talks and understood the concept of Mutually Assured Destruction.
He was the everyman that could embody our loneliness, our laughter, our rage, our strength.
He had some screw-ups in public, then he straightened out his act.
He won an award for playing a lump. A lump that got molded into something beautiful.
Putting on a smile and working hard each day, waiting to see if tomorrow would be a little bit better.
Not always special, but special because he understood it wouldn't always be special.
Another month, another blogathon, another kick in the pantspress for me to create and not just consume. And I'm quite happy to be part of the throng participating in this year's Queer Film Blogathon, an event not so large as to rival your regional White Party, but sizable enough to require two great blogs to host it - the classicly-minded Caroline at Garbo Laughs is now joined by the eclectic Ashley and Andreas at Pussy Goes Grr to collect all these diverse ruminations on identity, celluloid, and the ways of seeing them all.
This post is also respectfully dedicated to my close friend and analytical powerhouse Kadimah Elson, whose heavy intelligence has inspired me, whose viewing recommendation put me in the orbit of my essay subject, and whose willingness to take the occasional 2 a.m. phone call has kept me from closing up shop and moving to Alaska lock, stock, and barrel.
When I've spent enough time in the company of a new acquaintance that some small personal questions are not socially invasive on the whole, but could still seem gauche if their behavior is vague enough that certain answers are not obvious, I've had to find creative ways to make said inquiries. And what's most interesting, and gratifying, is when that person is so on your wavelength that they can see your dance steps and recognize the song, and in turn take you for a spin.
Within my first year of living in Los Angeles, somehow, I found that connection twice. Each time, it was with a female co-worker of multiple ambiguities. And after an appropriate couple days of surface conversation, along with no prying ears of others who might offer unwanted input, I would ask an unusual question: "So, Deion: baseball or football?" Now, neither of these women were sports fans, so I would not expect them to know of Deion Sanders' work in both disciplines. Moreover, the 1995 Pizza Hut commercial where this phrase first emerged had long ceased airing on television or to have any common conversational relevance, and it stands to reason they had never heard the logical-progression joke made popular by my comedian friend Jake Iannarino (whom, strangely enough in terms of timing, just recently had me as a guest on his podcast). But each time, the woman in question needed no metaphor explanation: without hesitation, they replied, "Both." And each time, we became friends pretty fast, although the friendship dissipated just as quickly: I haven't heard from either of them in almost a decade since. (Ms. McGill, Ms. Henry - if you're out there, and in the mood, please give me a shout.)
The kind of fluidity that is not capable nor content to stay confined to one paradigm, be it in competitive play or in gender identity, has been what queer culture has sought to nurture and allow to flourish. And the search for someone with that kind of instant understanding, that way of reading your shorthand without a primer...well, that's something we're all looking for, even if that proper term of namaste has been rendered unbearable by legions of p.c. patchouli princesses and trust-fund asshats who got astral wisdom through a shroom-enhanced home viewing of AVATAR. These two eternal search streams would be united in what is, so far, the sole feature film director credit of a most flexible and compelling artist: Harry Dodge.
My unlikely first visit with the 2001 film BY HOOK OR BY CROOK came about during a rare visit with the aforementioned Ms. Elson to the three-cats-shy-of-a-"HOARDERS"-episode firetrap otherwise known as my home. We were exchanging "I need you to see this" viewings, and while I cannot remember what I was stumping for, I firmly remember her solemnly expressing how much impact she felt after seeing this film, and inspired by that passion, watching it with her on the spot. I freely admit I was not prepared for the unfiltered milleu that writer/director team Dodge and Silas Howard dropped me into, and that I never fully found my bearings once there. My initial assessment made its way to the IMDb, and looking back upon it, even with all my ostensibly generous praise to the filmmakers, I feel I was a little harsh on it. I rated it a 6 out of 10, I think I would bump it up to a 7 now. The bottom line is that I came out cool on the product but very hot on the creators, and over the years, kept thinking about them and wondering when and what they would offer as follow-up. And even in my initial ambivalence to the film itself, I respected it enough that when I was in a going-out-of-business sale at a video store last year, I found a used DVD copy of BY HOOK and bought it, even though I didn't really plan on watching it again, but simply because I wanted it in my collection, as a statement to my belief in their talent, and perhaps to loan out to another friend ready to step out of their familiar zone of comfort films. When the solicitations came for this year's Queer Film Blogathon, I signed up before knowing what I would write about, and after mulling other possibilities, realized this was a good time to revisit this film.
The story elements of BY HOOK may seem familiar: small town drifter Shy (Howard), with empty pockets, hustles their way to the big city, meets Valentine (Dodge), another fellow down on their luck, and discover for as much as they're trying to assert how well they can navigate the world, they really need each other as friends to survive it. The prime detail that makes this all fresh is that both creators, and the protagonists they play, are transgender, so natural in their identity it's not a plot point at all, and practically not even an issue as they go about life, though at times the topic comes up among themselves and outside observers do notice - in one nice low-key moment, some kids notice Shy on a stoop and ask "Are you a boy or a girl?" and he calmly replies "Both." (I'm pretty sure Howard wasn't a Deion Sanders fan either) As such, nothing that takes place in the movie can be marginalized as some sort of specific or exclusive gay/lesbian experience - we're seeing a male-bonding arc like we would see in any number of conventional buddy films - yet we are in a place and among people we don't often get to meet in life or at the movies. Instead of trying to explain themselves and make us relate to them, we join Shy and Val already in progress, and naturally relate to them anyhow. As blogger Jesse Ataide wrote in his review, "[It is] just about the only film I can think of that allows the main characters not only occupy an ambiguous space in regards to both gender and sexuality, but also has a narrative that shows no interest in forcing or demanding distinctions be made...not only is it an alternative view of [San Francisco] but practically an alternative universe in and of itself..."
The other detail that makes this movie stick to the ribs like the rich dinner ostensibly promised by intentionally punnishly-named producer Steak House (and their Steakhaus Productions company) is Harry Dodge's performance as Valentine. Lest I disrespect the other parties, I must stress that BY HOOK OR BY CROOK is a team effort, not just involving the longtime friends and collaborators Dodge & Howard, but also substantial contribution from co-star (and Dodge's then-partner) Stanya Kahn as Billie, Val's supportive girlfriend. Together in their performances and improvised dialogue, they make the foundation that keeps the viewer interested in their story when it otherwise starts to drag. But while Howard is conventionally handsome as Shy, in his good suit and father's oversized shoes, and Kahn is adorable with her frazzled sense of fashion, as soon as we meet Val, he owns the movie. Vulnerable, prone to poetic ramblings and colorful slang, yearning for a parent never known, and playing much more of a tweener role with his gender than Shy, with Billie he has a girlfriend who loves him, but Shy is that kindred soul who gets him. And as Shy learns to put aside his thoughts of petty crime to help out Val, we get over the initial oddity of Val's demeanor and become fond and protective of his damaged soul.
Quoted as neither identifying as “either male or female particularly,” in the manner of pansexual provocateur Genesis Breyer P-Orridge (albeit without the surgical enhancements), for me Harry Dodge embodies that unclassifiability whom all those who have fought this culture war on the side of the square pegs and $3 bills had in mind. His scraggly twin strands of beard so small and fragile they remind one of a child playing dress-up with no regard to gender appropriateness, he seems always ready for play and exploration and unbothered by tired protocols. This isn't one of those, say, "if Mickey Rourke in THE POPE OF GREENWICH VILLAGE and Ally Sheedy in THE BREAKFAST CLUB had a baby" situations; those two got into Calvin's transmogrifier and got smushed into one person. His spirit embodies the first strand of my fifth paragraph, and BY HOOK OR BY CROOK nicely embodies the second strand of that preamble. I don't quite know if it's grammatically correct to use the term man-crush in this situation, but I think he's just dreamy.
The filmmakers and many critics have cited John Schlesinger's MIDNIGHT COWBOY as an influence on this film, and it's a sensible comparison: Val's observation "That is a colossal shirt" is directly stolen from that earlier film. But for me, the unacknowledged and closest spiritual cousin is Jerry Schatzberg's 1973 drama SCARECROW starring Gene Hackman and Al Pacino as wanderers brought together by fate, meandering around the highways. In fact they are so close as if HOOK were a free remake of the former. Hackman's Max is the tough, hardscrabble loner who is out to make and hold onto money to feed an illusion of security and success, just as Shy contemplates petty thefts to assuage his resentment over being poor. And Pacino's flamboyant Lion uses humor and pretty metaphors to insulate himself against large heartbreak as Val does. Both films involve one character creating a loud diversion in a store so that the other can pilfer goods. And the endings also present almost matching situations where a moral crossroads is reached. There is no evidence Howard or Dodge saw SCARECROW when they were picking bits of inspiration. But these two movies would make an excellent double feature someday.
Silas Howard has apparently moved forward to the greater commercial success that I had predicted. Already popular before HOOK from performing in the subversive punk band Tribe 8, Howard now has his own production outfit Standard Quality, has multiple music videos and commercials on his resume, co-directed (with Ernesto Foranda) the new comedy SUNSET STORIES which stars Jim Parsons of "HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER" and Zosia Mamet of "GIRLS", and is developing a biopic of closeted trans jazz singer Billy Tipton. Heck, when entertainment work gets slow, he'll even paint your house.
Dodge, meanwhile, being the more curious half of the team, has had the more curious post-film path. It's difficult to get a simple, one-stop curriculum vitae on the multihyphenate Dodge - in conducting research for this article, I went through about 13 Google search pages to get a truly rounded portrait. I suspect that this is hardly about maintaining some kind of Pynchonian pose and more about not being famous enough to have a dedicated Wikipedia listing; the artist has been forthcoming in all located interviews and never seems to blanch at personal inquiries. But I gotta say, when your body of art consists of playfully blurring lines, making a fella work to get the story helps keep them asking questions, so just in case this scattered data is a calculated manoeuvre...well played, Dodge.
I am aware that HOOK would not be seen by enough people of influence to help him break out into more film roles (though beforehand he already worked with John Waters on CECIL B. DEMENTED and later provided narration for Jenni Olson's docudrama THE JOY OF LIFE), but I am legitimately shocked nonetheless that he didn't get cast in more films, with his unique look and voice. Granted, that may have been by his own choice - until their professional split in 2010, Dodge and Stanya Kahn made a prolific body of avant-garde videos and exhibits, influenced by their love of stand-up and sketch comedy, and challenging the slick and staid nature of the art world (They received particular praise for "Can't Swallow It, Can't Spit it Out", which played many museum installations) - so maybe he just wasn't interested in staying within the confines of traditional filmmaking. Heck, as I type that sentence, it makes perfect sense with all the other aspects I look up to Dodge for. He has also been teaching at CalArts in Valencia for many years, and at last check, continues to do so, so at least he can influence new artists in that fashion. If you're one of his students reading this essay, stop playing Fruit Ninja in his class and pay attention!
In any case, I really do hope that sometime, in some capacity, we will see Dodge make another foray into the movies and put his own special touch on the human condition, where once again, we can see emotions we recognize in a face and space that we might not. By hook or by crook indeed!
Posts
