"I believe you; thousands wouldn't."

A preface: The following essay will be detailing almost every major plot revelation in LAST NIGHT IN SOHO, as well as that from another well-known Italian thriller by  a name director. I don't personally believe that knowing all the details will ever hurt a first-time viewing of a movie if the story is good and the direction well-executed, but there is definitely a specific pleasure to be obtained from going into discovering a previously unviewed film with a blank slate. So use that information as you will...

It lay buried here, it lay deep inside me

It's so deep I don't think that I can speak about it

It could take me all of my life

But it would only take a moment to

Tell you what I'm feeling

But I don't know if I'm ready yet

You come walking into this room

Like you're walking into my arms

Longtime readers of this blog know from previous writings that I am openly and unashamedly in the tank (or should that be in the boot?) for Edgar Wright. There is the surface appeal, which is his genial cinemania, both on display in his films via creatively repurposed homage, and in his public profile, refusing to engage in cultural gatekeeping by politely observing that those who have never seen any of the canonized classics have the unique gift of seeing them with fresh eyes. But always beneath the playful visualizations, there has been serious reflection on the difficult moments faced in a life, usually involving taking responsibility for bad choices amidst increasingly calamitous circumstances. In a sense, he is the current master of delivering potent medicine inside the most delicious candy coatings.

Yet even by that metric, LAST NIGHT IN SOHO is a striking variation on the Wright template. There is still virtuoso composition at work, but with much more discipline than the comical quick cuts in his comedies. For that matter, while hardly bereft of levity, there's little comedy at all in this production, with those being Laugh Quietly To Myself rather than Laugh Out Loud incidents. There is allusion to influential works of the past, but most are not so direct as to be pointed to by Rick Dalton watching himself on TV. Notably, it is his first film with a female lead, who also happens to be his youngest as well. And for once, the protagonist is not faced with having to change and adapt, it is the environment around her that is shown to be mired in stasis.

Ellie Taylor (Thomasin McKenzie), in the tradition of several Wright heroes, is living with the loss of her mother, made particularly painful in that the parent took her own life, as opposed to dying in accidents as Baby Miles' in BABY DRIVER or Danny Butterman's in HOT FUZZ, or being dispatched after zombie infection as Shaun's in SHAUN OF THE DEAD. However, the girl regularly senses her presence in mirrors, a mixed gift which alternately gives the comfort of feeling the absent parent is witnessing her still but leaves her worrying if she too will succumb to the same emotional turmoil that drove that end-of-life decision. When she moves to Soho, and embarks on a path of dream-state journeys with her Swinging Sixties avatar Sandie (Anya Taylor-Joy), Ellie receives physical sensations of the experiences, driving her to investigate if they're based in real events. And after an initial run of piquant encounters, the increasingly bleak and violent turns of Sandie's circumstance bleeds into Ellie's waking consciousness too, making her sense threats around her even she's in no outwardly perceivable danger. Effectively, her concerns about subsuming her mother's psychosis have now been replaced by inheriting the mounting paranoia of a kindred spirit and fearing that she too will be consumed by that darkness. To paraphrase an otherwise tired cliche, once you've been struck down like a nail, everything that comes at you looks like a hammer.

In short, if there were a giallo-appropriate alternate title for this tale, it should be The Girl Who Felt Too Much. The same internal chemistry that buoys her when she listens to '60s Britpop is what inspires embarrassment when her mother's energy is present, making her lie to her grandmother about how recently she's had the sensations. When initially thrust into a a clique of Mean Girls, she can't just blow off their catty insults or ignore the noise they make; it's directly injurious. Yet in the deceptively quiet confines of the quaint bed-sit she moves to, in the absence of people and cacophony, she ingests the energy of lingering memories that only near the end, she realizes were indeed based in reality; the life of her outwardly taciturn landlady...Alexandra Collins (Diana Rigg). Like Ellie, she too had pendulum swings of elation and paralyzing fear, but somehow Ellie never realized that Sandie resolved that problem by killing everyone who threatened her...because that's when Sandie stopped feeling anything anymore.

If you can't tell your sister

If you can't tell a priest

'Cause it's so deep you don't think that you can speak about it

To anyone

And you tell it to your heart?

Can you find it in your heart

To let go of these feelings

Like a bell to a Southerly wind?

We could be like two strings beating

Speaking in sympathy

Different viewers have been gleaning different themes from the film, mostly about the dangers of the big city, or of romanticizing the past. But these readings seem facile. Yes, London may be an overwhelming place for a sensitive "country mouse" as Ellie, but as Gary King might attest, small towns are just as capable of callous behavior since they tend to be the kind of place where everyone knows your business and has an unsolicited opinion about it, regardless of whether or not they have been absorbed into a giant alien consciousness. While the nightmare sequences well demonstrate how the surface image of smashing birds cavorting on Carnaby St. disguised how many women's throats were under the heels of Beatle boots, the present day sequences involving a creepy cabbie, space invading male students, and indifferent police, make it clear that not only has the misogyny not gone away, it's even more blatantly out in the open. Even when retired vice squad punter Lindsay (Terence Stamp) is revealed to be roughly benign, he is hardly a model of chivalry: telling Sandie in the midst of her sex work that "you're better than this," without offering any sort of direct route to that mythical better opportunity, is not the compliment he thinks it is, and the condescending tone he takes in conversation with Ellie suggests his attitude toward women may not be malicious, but it's not nuanced either. And for a vulnerable girl in any incarnation of the city, getting people to take them seriously when they claim powerful men have abused them is often met with as much resistance and ridicule as, well, claiming to possess paranormal capabilities.

However, people suggesting that Wright has made an opportunistic "#metoo" story are neglecting that in all his major works, the comedy may have the appearance of "lads being lads," but there's always been criticism of that mindset. Baby Miles Driver is often too clever for his own good, his impulses to show off in the face of threatening parties puts those he ostensibly cares about further in harm's way; even with all the people who vouch for his integrity, he's still going to have to do that prison sentence to get some perspective. When Scott Pilgrim meets Nega-Scott, and his antithesis offers to buy breakfast, it's pretty clear that the doppelganger was the "good" Scott all this time. Shaun may be easily distracted and Ed an enabler, but it is jealous jockeying by Liz's flatmate and unrequited lover David that brings the most cataclysmic battle of their zombie exodus. Danny Butterman ultimately stands up to the martinet classism, racism, and outsider demonization of his police chief father, but he and Nick employ the same militarized tactics to eliminate the Neighborhood Watch Alliance, and its hinted that much like the meme of a bomber plane painted with a rainbow flag, Sanford is going to have a more virtuous but not less violent police force. And Gary has found sobriety and consideration for others and asserted the worth of the individual (even alien clones), but he's forced the rest of mankind to return to hunter-gathering in the process. You could love all these men if you knew them in real life, but you would confess privately to those friends of yours whom they don't know that they're a handful.

In contrast, Ellie stands out not just by her youth and gender, but her willful reserves. She is still raw about losing her mother, but is secure in the knowledge she did not take her presence for granted like Shaun did, and unlike Danny, who has cocooned in childish police cosplay after his mom's passing, or Baby, whose tinnitus from a car accident may as well be mentally obscuring the memory of his mother's death throes, she presses onward with her goals. She must sometime retreat to herself when the world is hostile, but she has activated her self-respect a lot sooner than Scott Pilgrim has. Despite the mounting phalanx of horrors in her head, she soldiers through researching the forgotten crimes of the past, confronts the enigmatic Lindsay, and saves herself.

Thus, Wright and his co-screenwriter Krysty Wilson-Cairns demonstrate that in many circumstances, women cannot and do not take the luxury of stewing in their sorrows like his other arrested adolescent characters. This is echoed in the grim descent of Sandie, in the cautions of Ellie's world-weary pub boss, even in the glint of sympathy and strength accorded to Ellie's outward nemesis Jocasta (Synnøve Karlsen): admitting to a parental loss herself, her one-upmanship and over-it-all manner among her peers may well be projection of a personal pain she fears she should not admit to lest she be thought too weak and emotional too. It could be said that Jocasta is on the precipice of becoming a future Alexandra Collins, repressing her legitimate heartbreak in favor of callous bravado to survive, endangering her humanity. There's also an interesting parallel to Wilson-Cairns' previous screenplay credit of 1917 with Sam Mendes, where that film's two lance corporals are continuously attacked and injured, yet they must literally continue going forward or else they and thousands more will die. The bitter difference being that after two World Wars, the battle between the English and the Germans mostly ended, but the battle between the sexes has gotten more lethal.

Take away the love and the anger

And a little piece of hope holding us together

Looking for a moment that'll never happen

Living in the gap between past and future

Take away the stone and the timber

And a little piece of rope won't hold it together

We're building a house of the future together

But let us not allow the deep concepts being discussed here to overshadow that above all else, LAST NIGHT is a feast of luminous performers, gorgeous visuals, compelling set-pieces, and thoughtful connotations to a diverse body of songs and films that may not be readily familiar to its audience, raising awareness while remixing them to new effect. In a sense, it is the fulfillment of the possibilities offered in his exuberant fake trailer DON'T! from GRINDHOUSE in 2007. In fact, here there is a tip of the hat sent back to that ambitious Rodriguez/Tarantino project, in that deep cut pop band Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mick & Tich, whose 1968 single provides the title of this film, was a passionate subject of debate for Sydney Tamiia Poitier's ill-fated D.J. Jungle Julia in DEATH PROOF, and Ellie's ghoulish dark-eyed Halloween party makeup recalls the haunting visage of Marley Shelton as Dr. Dakota Block in PLANET TERROR.

Casting choices for the supporting players are particularly astute, not just for their iconic status from the bygone era, but for the specific archetypes they represented therein. Rita Tushingham is most perfect to play Ellie's supporting grandmother, because in the same manner of Ellie's travails in the city, Tushingham's film roles included an interracial relationship in A TASTE OF HONEY, growing too enmeshed with a serial killer in STRAIGHT ON TILL MORNING, and coping with sexual distress brought through miscommunication in THE KNACK...AND HOW TO GET IT. She even starred in an Italian murder film (albeit comedic) called BLACK JOURNAL about female serial killer Leonarda Cianciulli. And after achieving immortality for playing a sexy heroine named homophonically for her M(ale) Appeal, Diana Rigg not only presents an elegant coda to her career by playing a Darkest Timeline version of what her life could have become, as the elderly, hardened Ms. Collins, but also a sly tribute to other past characters of hers from THE ASSASSINATION BUREAU and THEATRE OF BLOOD, that on the outside seemed harmless but harbored deadly secrets within.

For all the British kitchen sink dramas and European thrillers that Wright has declared as influences on SOHO in interviews and promotional videos, a title I have not yet seen discussed that feels like a very direct inspiration is Lucio Fulci's 1977 mystery SEVEN NOTES IN BLACK, released in America as THE PSYCHIC. In that film's screenplay, written by Roberto Gianviti and Dardano Sacchetti, the protagonist, Virginia, is first seen as an English teenager in an Italian boarding school, who visualizes and feels the pains of her mother's suicide in Dover as it happens in real time, and then, as an adult (Jennifer O'Neill) in an otherwise pleasant marriage, is haunted by recurring visions - a deconstructed wall, a smashed mirror, a dead body - that suggest a killing has taken place in a mansion purchased by her wealthy husband Francesco (Gianni Garko). Against the disbelief of others, she investigates on her own, and the revelations initially contradict her claims - a dead body is found, but not the one she saw, a magazine was not yet published when the murder took place, etc - but soon she realizes she has not seen a past event, but a future one. What she does not figure out until too late is that the event is her own murder. Fulci had envisioned the film as a story about challenging fate, and whether it is even possible.

Ellie too is challenging fate throughout her entire odyssey. On a superficial level, the fate of being a small-town dreamer who can't hack it in the competitive field she aspires to join. On a personal level, the fate of being the daughter of a fatally depressed parent and potentially repeating the same fragility; a trajectory predicted by Jocasta within hours of meeting her. On a visceral level, the fate of being driven to madness by another woman's trauma. And then of course, the primary level of coming face to face with a murderer that wants Ellie to take her secrets to the grave.

The difference between Fulci and Wright's heroines is that unlike poor Virginia (her musical watch notwithstanding), Ellie succeeds in changing what would have been seen as inevitable. Not just that she survives the nightmare. She finds a balance for her sensitivity. London doesn't break her. Her artistic pursuits continue. Threats don't make her cower. And in a most poignant turn, she even changes the fate of Alexandra Collins: rather than watch her commit suicide in a state of self-loathing, Ellie intervenes and demonstrates that she has born witness to the promise and ache of young Sandie, she is that one person that understood her and what was lost so many years ago to a band of predators. Ms. Collins will have to face a fiery, lacerating death for the lives she ended, but she knows now, in her final moments, in the memory of one girl, she will not die as a monster.

In years to come, Ellie Turner may not become a popular cosplay subject like other Edgar Wright heroes, but her instincts for empathy, adventure, discovery, justice, and trusting in even the aspects of herself that others would mock, may well make her something better for the random distressed soul who sits down to watch LAST NIGHT IN SOHO for a little distraction: an understanding surrogate. Someone Sandie never had. Someone too many sweet souls of the past never had. 

Well, if it's so deep you don't think that you can speak about it

Just remember to reach out and touch the past and the future

Well, if it's so deep you don't think you can speak about it

Don't ever think that you can't change the past and the future

You might not, not think so now

But just you wait and see, someone will come to help you

- Kate Bush, "Love and Anger"

Fair Weather, Friends, and Two Garys

In 1955, the highly touted musical IT'S ALWAYS FAIR WEATHER left a discouraging set of damages behind after its disappointing theatrical engagement. Its studio, MGM, lost faith in the film, burying it in a double feature pairing with the drama BAD DAY AT BLACK ROCK, and declared a loss of over a quarter of its $4 million budget. Its president, Dore Schary, who had previously nixed original plans to reunite all three leads from the hit ON THE TOWN to star in this project, would be replaced as studio head a year later, partly due to this film and other underperforming releases. Its producer, Arthur Freed, saw his reputation diminished at MGM, with only one last hit project, GIGI, to emerge from a body of well-respected but poorly-performing musicals until his last producing credit in 1962. And its directors, Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen, saw their already tense friendship destroyed after over a decade of successful collaboration. As such, if you told any of these individuals in the immediate wake of their bad feelings that their film would see its reputation redeemed half a century later, it would be taken as cold comfort. If you were to go on to tell them that it would directly inspire one of the best movies of the early 21st century, and perhaps indirectly inspire another, they would probably think you were insane, or having a laugh at their expense. Yet at least 2 out of these 3 foundations are fact, and the remaining third is open to interpretation - which of course, is what I'm here to provide.

Strikingly dark in its subject matter for the cheery '50's climate it was released into, IT'S ALWAYS FAIR WEATHER spends a fateful day and night with three WWII buddies (Gene Kelly, Michael Kidd, Dan Dailey) on their promised 10 year reunion agreed upon after their raucous night returning home in peacetime. They will discover shortly upon meeting again that they don't care for each other's company, and as they go through the remainder of the evening, realize they don't care much for the people they've become either. Their existential self-discovery is molded through the intervention of big business advertising, television, and organized crime, forces that in the years to follow, will only intervene even harder in all of our lives. Many critics have noted its outright bitter tone that only sporadically gets broken up with moments of pure joy, such as its opening musical number and Kelly's later solo tap-dance-in-roller-skates number. Nathan Rabin's terrific revisitation for The Dissolve boils it down nicely: "[It] purposefully, brilliantly denies audiences much of what they’d come to expect from musicals, such as likeable protagonists and an upbeat sensibility." The two films I wish to bring into the discussion easily suggest the same kind of foiled expectations in their ostensible fields of comedy.

Allow me a brief diversion to introduce two small but key elements to the wild threading I will be engaging in later on.

Sidebar #1: The diminished world of Los Angeles repertory filmgoing made a dramatic turn upwards in 2007. In the wake of the untimely loss of New Beverly Cinema proprietor and programmer Sherman Torgan that summer, this tragedy was quickly countered with a heartfelt convergence of community and industry alike to preserve his legacy, with Quentin Tarantino stepping in as landlord to the building to seal its protection from unimaginative retail development. Later that fall, Hadrian Belove and his trusted friends established CineFamily at the Silent Movie Theatre, and introduced an unparalleled slate of eclectic programming that has become the envy of many film lovers across the world. These events in turn brought an exciting contingent of high-profile talent who came to watch and support these screenings, and sometimes present films themselves, bringing long-unprecedented visibility to these venues and others like them. Going to watch old movies became a cool activity again!

Among the luminaries at the forefront of screening and being seen at screenings in the salad days of this "movie revival" revival were a foursome enjoying banner popularity in 2007: Edgar Wright, coming off great reviews for his action comedy HOT FUZZ; Jason Reitman, preparing to release his second film, the teen pregnancy comedy JUNO; Diablo Cody, the screenwriter of JUNO, whose colorful personal history made her the alternately beloved/maligned "It" girl of the season; and horror maverick Eli Roth, who shares a birthday with Wright, and joined with him in contributing segments to the exploitation homage GRINDHOUSE. From roughly the fall of 2007 to the summer of 2008, before all disembarking for their own projects, these four were the base of an unofficial Rat Pack of Repertory: all of them were allowed to program their favorite movies at the New Beverly for two-week stretches, and were often spotted in the audience during other shows and personal appearances at the Bev and Cinefamily, graciously engaging with fans, including myself, and sometimes getting into animated discussions about the films that had just played that night.

Sidebar #2: There was a little-seen 1997 comedy by TV veteran Gary Rosen called HACKS (released to DVD as SINK OR SWIM), in which a group of struggling TV writers (including Stephen Rea, John Ritter, and Dave Foley) witness a mysterious encounter during their poker game, and once separated, spend the remainder of the night inventing stories inspired by what they saw while getting caught up in their own odd encounters.  To paraprhase Bryan Callen in WARRIOR, I remember it being very unmemorable; Keith Phipps' A.V. Club review kindly chalked it up as a "nice try" at best. But the central idea of how motivated writers can take the same source material and spin it in completely different directions was something I did successfully take away from the film, so on that level, it is not a complete failure. So I'm giving it due as building material.

As such, I put forth that this essay should not be viewed as some sort of SAT-level syllogism stating that Film A = Film B = 2/3 Film C, nor one of those "President Lincoln had a secretary named Kennedy" rundowns, but more of a deep musing on that notion of how Great Minds Think Alike. Indeed, reading the transcript of some Twitter banter inspired by a joke about Disney's OLD DOGS, these are minds destined to be Awesome People Hanging Out Together.  IT'S ALWAYS FAIR WEATHER did not screen during this period of social fellowship among these filmmakers, at least not to my knowledge. But considering the film literacy among all four of these people, and that 3/4 of them are involved the films to be discussed here, it is certainly within the realm of possibility that it was discussed among them during one of their outings, or perhaps they all gathered to watch it at home during some VHS-Night-of-the-Stars. It's Tiger Beat-level speculation of the lowest relevance, but hey, it's fun!

"I’ve always been the sort of person to dwell a little too much on the past but so much time has gone by since I left the town I grew up in that any ghosts left back there when I moved away have reverted to being little more than tiny pieces of memory rummaging around the back of my head. I’ve long since moved onto other hopes, other women, other regrets, other dreams that never quite worked out. You get older but those things still chase after you in the dead of night, the girls in question still pop their heads up when you run into them at the exact wrong time." - from Peter Avellino's THE WORLD'S END review

Edgar Wright's THE WORLD'S END is not only one of the best films of 2013, but it has the added benefit of being extremely rewarding to those with a small-c catholic film and cultural education. If you devour the special features in the Blu-Ray edition, such as the commentary tracks or the "trivia subtitles" option, you will get some teasing hints about the previous works that are integrated within. Last August, to promote the impending theatrical release, Wright again mounted a two-week festival of films at the New Beverly which he considered influential upon the finished storyline (and which, full disclosure, I provided some assistance with in print location and trailer programming). Some choices covered certain elemental strains within his film, such as the all-in-a-night adventure (AMERICAN GRAFFITI, AFTER HOURS) or the paranoia of the loss of individuality (INVASION OF THE BODY SNATCHERS) or of self-destructive behavior (WITHNAIL & I), and even the end of civilization (LAST NIGHT). Two desired choices, Bryan Forbes' original THE STEPFORD WIVES and Jason Miller's THAT CHAMPIONSHIP SEASON, were unfortunately unavailable to play. However, he stated that the combo that best embodied the whole of THE WORLD'S END was a pairing of THE BIG CHILL, hinting that his film would take a step above Kasdan's Baby Boomer drama and allow the corpse that brings the reunion together to be actually present to witness his friends' ambivalent feelings about his memory and their lives, and IT'S ALWAYS FAIR WEATHER. Having now watched both films over three times, I dare say that while Wright's clever comedy of angst amidst an apocalypse is indeed a perfect beast made up of parts from these varied bodies of work, it is built upon the sturdy skeleton of Kelly & Donen's earlier film.

"We all make our lives into our own personal mythologies. The songs we know by heart, the films we’ve seen countless times, the fond memories we have of a fun night with a friend that years later you discover the other person barely even remembers at all...I guess that’s the way it always is if you feel like you’re stuck back in a certain place, wishing that you could stay there to get one more shot at a party with a certain girl before the millennium hits and everything gets ruined." - from Peter Avellino's YOUNG ADULT review

Meanwhile, back in 2011, where most of the attention in the film community was taken up either by the complacent nostalgia of THE ARTIST and THE HELP or the existential questions of THE TREE OF LIFE and MELANCHOLIA, director Jason Reitman and writer Diablo Cody, reteaming after their successful collaboration on JUNO, took the truly ballsy step of asking audiences to find kinship and empathy with a destructive monster who seemingly could not or would not repent for their damage. YOUNG ADULT was my admittedly contrarian pick for the year's best movie, and it too has been the object of multiple viewings on my end. Interviews given by Cody stated there was not so much a direct filmic inspiration for her screenplay, that it was moreso drawn from personal thoughts about vicarious living, fiction writing, and social media. But, applying the GMTA principle from earlier, however unconscious it may have been, kinship can be found to the earlier and later films. YOUNG ADULT does not have the fractured group dynamic of WEATHER or END, but all three works feature a self-destructive protagonist mired in self-loathing over the failed promises of the past, returning to a place that was better left behind, and bringing chaos in their wake. The filip of the two latter films' lead characters being named Gary King and Mavis Gary is an especially tingling convergence.

So getting back to that skeleton from earlier, to show you just how close the movies hew...

• The similarities between IAFS and TWE start at the very opening, as they both present happy flashbacks to the past -- of Kelly, Dailey, and Kidd bonding in wartime and enjoying their armistice pub crawl, and of Pegg, Frost, and Considine bonding in high school and enjoying their post-graduation pub crawl. [While yes, there are five main fellows in TWE, the most important dynamic is between these three, especially since...here's the spoiler...Freeman and Marsan don't wholly survive their adventure.]  After this flashback, and some present-day background scenes, the events of IAFW and TWE will transpire over a single fateful evening.

• This is followed in all three films to a look at their mundane present, the roots of their alienation from each other, and the spark of their reunion.  -- a written reminder for the IAFS gang, an effective coercion for the TWE gang, an unexpected baby-shower invite for YA. We also get our first hints about just how bad things have gotten for our protagonists -- Kelly with his money troubles, Pegg in what appears to be a 12-step circle, Theron a model of inertia in a well-appointed apartment.
• As the characters reunite, old wounds and buried personal resentments quickly come to the surface, since nobody has really become what they aspired to before. Notably, in the male-driven films, both gangs feature an uptight brown-shoe personality (in IAFS, Dailey; in TWE, Frost) who has so buried themselves in work they have become estranged from their spouse, and worse, initially refuse to join the boys in drinking. Theron in YA may not have a crew per se to reunite with, but her initial conversations with Wilson show her desperate to pull him back into her orbit and make him remember highlights of their past that really aren't highlights to him, and her chance reunion with schoolmate Oswalt finds them quickly trading barbs about each other and how everyone else in their world has contributed to their misanthropy, in a sense reigniting what could have been in their youth.
• "You know what? Let's drink to old Bootsie."
  "Who? Who's old Bootsie?"
  "You know. Don't you remember? Bootsie. That kid in our outfit who was always tripping over everything. From the south. We always used to toast old Bootsie. Don't you remember? It was good luck, and then we always used to laugh."
  "Why?"
  "I don't know."
  "Sure. Come on, Doug. Old Bootsie."
   -- dialogue from IAFW
  
  "Drink up. Let's Boo-Boo."
  "Boo-Boo'? What is that?"
  "You remember 'Let's Boo-Boo'. You know, from Mr. Shephard's classroom, it said on the wall 'Exit, Pursued by a Bear', you know, from that Shakespeare play?"
  "'A Winter's Tale.'"
  "Yeah. What was it called?"
  "'A Winter's Tale.'"
  "That's it. And if we needed to make a quick getaway, we'd say: 'Exit, Pursued by a Bear'. And then, it was: 'Exit, Pursued by Yogi Bear'. And then, it was just, 'Let's Yogi and Boo-Boo'. And then, 'Let's Boo-Boo'."
  -- dialogue from TWE
  
  "You know, there's a lot of things you shouldn't bet on. Like that Shakespeare quote, for instance. It ain't 'The Tempest,' Act 2, Scene 7, it's 'As You Like It,' Act 2, Scene 7. 'Hey-ho, sing hey-ho unto the green holly / most friendship is feigning, most loving, mere folly.'"
  -- dialogue from IAFW
• As the IAFS gang are in an actual musical, they occasionally take a moment to sing about their past and its contrast to the present ("I Shouldn't Have Come" and "Once Upon a Time (Up In Smoke)"). The two Garys (Pegg and Theron) may not sing directly about their past, but are very much attached to mixtapes they made long ago in their youth, and still own cars that allow them to be played while the world has abandoned physical media as a source of driving music. They also wreck their initial cars and require the use of a second. Oh yes, and of course they're never without a drink.

• To varying degrees in each film, the characters are all confronted by a creeping force of corporatism and conformity that seek to control their circumstances. It's a three-pronged assault in IAFW, as Kelly is pressured by the mob to have his boxer throw a fight, a chance encounter with a TV producer inspires a craven talk show host to force a second reunion among the disillusioned trio for a ratings grab, and Dailey's despised advertising client Klenzrite just happens to be that program's sponsor. In TWE, even before the vast scope of influence of "The Network" is revealed, there is the observation by the group about the increasing "Starbucking" in their lives, from pub layout to beer flavoring to car designs. Starbucking has also been very much at work in Theron's hometown of Mercury in YA, as her old flame blithely rejoices in the arrival of Chipotle and KenTacoHut while they drink in a very market-researched and franchised sports bar.
• While earlier the two gangs of male friends have only found common ground in their mutual dislike of their ostensible leader, they come around to turning the microscope on themselves. In IAFW, this reckoning comes in the impressively synchronized song-and-dance number "Once Upon a Time (Up In Smoke)", as each sings about the personal disappointments that have weighed upon them. In TWE, there's no production number (unless you count the first fight with the Blanks in the bathroom), but a few bars and beers into their pub crawl, the disappointments of the gang in themselves versus each other begins to dominate the conversation. Theron does not openly share her disappointments until the closing climax, but every so often she drops hints about it, such as when she admonishes her parents to remove the photos of her in her first failed marriage from their wall.
• As the events of their day get increasingly heavy and their anger intensifies, the previously teetotaling Dailey and Frost fall off the wagon in a speedy and spectacular fashion.

• "I fucking hate this town!"
  -- dialogue from TWE
  
  "I hate this town! It's a hick, lake town that smells of fish shit!"
  -- dialogue from YA
• Each protagonist engages in a romantic pursuit of a partner that initially is clearly not interested in reciprocating (Kelly to Charisse, Pegg to Pike, Theron to Wilson), and the latter movies have the added detail of that partner being an individual from their past, while Kelly, arguably, yearns to recreate his own through playing up the charm that he possessed in the past. The paths obviously diverge therein, becausewhile Charisse finally warms up to Kelly, the two Garys will not succeed in reobtaining their past mates, though the friends on the side get an unexpected benefit as Pike warms up to long-crushing Considine, and, for one night, long-crushing Oswalt will enjoy intimacy with Theron.
• Those Blanks in TWE are able to take a lot of punishment and keep coming back for more. For that matter, so do those handsome dancers in IAFW Dolores Gray keeps violently rebuffing.

"Blanks a lot, but no Blanks"?

• Each protagonist soon realizes the full power of their outside threats, yet refuse to capitulate to them, endangering their friend circle. Kelly, though ostensibly doing the right thing by refusing to fix the fight, has effectively performed a selfish act in the service of his ego, and puts a target on his back by snubbing the Mob, who follow him all the way to the scheduled TV broadcast, putting his buddies in harm's way. Pegg, though ostensibly doing the right thing by continuing the appearance of the pub crawl to keep the Blanks at bay, has effectively performed a selfish act in the service of his alcoholic quest, and puts targets on everyone's back as that mob in turn keeps following them through town, causing two friends and a former ally to be subsumed by the Blanks. Theron may not be in mortal danger like Kelly and Pegg, but she's is so determined to follow through on her selfish desire to win back Wilson that when she reveals all at the baby shower, she is definitely harming the peace of his marriage and the community's opinion of her parents, who are present to witness her meltdown.
• Confessions:

• Each film offers a large final confrontation between the protagonist and the forces against them. In IAFW, Kelly and company openly acknowledge to a potential world audience (at least the world of NYC) their life's failings, and refuse to participate or be co-opted by all three of the networks they've previously been in service to - television, advertising, and organized crime. A huge fight breaks out, uniting the men in the manner they previously experienced in the armed forces, and while the criminals and the advertisers yield, Gray, representing the most obvious "network" in the battle, goes ahead and co-opts the fracas to reinforce their worth to the rest of society. In TWE, Pegg, Frost, and Considine openly acknowledge to a potential universal audience their life's failings, and refuse to participate or be co-opted by The Network. Seeing as they have waged many fights before this final face-off, The Network yields completely, giving up on offering any worth to the whole of society. In YA, Theron openly acknowledges to her former world of high school acquaintances and elders her life's failing, which, in some contrast to the men, was her desire to become part of the ordinary "network" of mommy goods and suburban living that her longterm relationship and pregnancy promised. She tries her best to provoke a fight, but no one will engage her. Thus, while she yields the situation by leaving the shower, she de facto refuses (though it is more of an acceptance) to participate in that life, a decision inadvertently reinforced after spending the night in intimacy with Oswalt and having a disastrously enabling conversation with Oswalt's sister.
• I think I will let Peter Avellino have the last words on the ending convergences:
  
  "The joint revelation the three men make at the end feels quietly satisfying...[they] have all realized once again that they really will be 'friends until they die' but they’ll still have to move towards the future without going back. As they seem to have discovered, there’s no returning to what once was." - from Peter Avellino's IT'S ALWAYS FAIR WEATHER review
  
  "Gary King’s business in Newton Haven is finished, sort of like everything Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg were trying to say about their own pasts with these three films is finished. My business in Scarsdale has long since been finished there too. No one’s waiting for me back there. But we each need to face up to our past in our own way. The future, meantime, is a sort of oblivion where if we’re lucky we can figure out what our own happy ending is."
  
  "I only wish Mavis well and even though she’s probably just going to go right back to her apartment I hope she realizes all the possibilities she now has in front of her, now that maybe she’s finally able to move on from the nineties and her past. And even more than the booze, I hope she gives up all that fast food and reality TV. It would really be for the best in the long run."

"Hey, I remember old Bootsie. The kid from the south that was always tripping all over himself?"

"Sure. His name was George something-or-other."

"Bootsie. Brown?"

"No, no. George Barry." 

"Barry! That's it!"

"We were always toasting him. It was good luck or something."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"I remember. When we landed at Anzio on the beachhead, he fell over his big feet and fell flat on his face. We followed him down. We thought it was orders. The machine guns opened up to let us have it, but we were down flat."

"That's right. That idiot saved our lives."

"Gee. Old Bootsie."

Three movies, similar but all distinct, with common threads but sometime conflicting patterns, done by great artists in their prime. All of them now among my favorite films of recent memory. As I hope they may be to you as well, especially if you've invested the time in reading this long wonky bit of folderol.

These stories may not have saved my life, but they all made it an awful lot better. So if there's a reason to be putting them together in this awkward reminiscence, I suppose it's to make sure their wonderful similarities are never forgotten like ol' Bootsie almost was. 

And that, friends, is worth raising a glass.

Edgarrific!

"[They] are so, kind of, like...their lives are so governed by pop culture and media and stuff that they can only think in those terms. So if somebody's having a...breakup with their girlfriend, they imagine it to have the same crushing kind of...feeling as the ending of The Empire Strikes Back."

When Edgar Wright first said these words, he was referring specifically to characters created by himself and Simon Pegg for the TV series "SPACED." However, over a decade after the debut of that program and three feature films later, he could just as easily be speaking for a generation whose have seen their dreams molded, stolen, and resold to them by media. And because of his ability to comprehend that mode of cognition, to meet and engage with it enthusiastically, and to convey deep and important ideas within that paradigm in such a way that it never feels condescending or pandering, it has made him one of the world's most beloved and influential filmmakers of the new century.

And I don't just say all these things because today is his birthday. Nor do I say them because I have a documented history of waxing Wright's car. After all, he doesn't keep one in America, because in this country, they drive on the wrong side of the road.

There are plenty of young and gregarious directors in the business right now, who, through the use of Twitter and blogs, or through strategic appearances on TV or at festivals, have learned the special skill of 24 hour semi-public engagement with their fans. Where another generation would look upon this as diving head first into a whirlpool in a fishbowl, these creative types welcome the chance to talk in a simple and unfiltered manner, to allow anyone interested to vicariously join them in playing with Orson Welles' great electric train set. But few have made use and benefited so greatly from this environment as Wright has. Wright's personal appearances all over the world, both on behalf of his movies and of other films that have influenced him, have become the stuff of legend, with sell-out crowds finding themselves getting a fun crash course in classic cinema. In 2009, during the long complex shoot for SCOTT PILGRIM VS. THE WORLD, he literally posted one small detail every day to the web, to let followers get a glimpse of the process and a peek backstage, and of course, to constantly whet their appetite to see the finished film that arrived a year later. And I defy you to find another director that eagerly welcomes and champions the reciprocal artistic expressions of people who love his work: Wright has reposted so many budding artists' drawings, parodies, and video tributes at his blog, you could call it the world's largest, most wonderful refrigerator door, and he's a proud parent with plenty of magnets to hang up more.

The best aspect of his graceful give and take is that underneath the witty banter, the signature whiplash editing, and the sly allusions that his films are known for, there are serious life lessons being addressed, responsible adult notions beneath the child's play. It's not just for irony's sake that at a recent BFI tribute, Wright asked to pair SHAUN OF THE DEAD with Mike Leigh's warts-and-all family comedy LIFE IS SWEET. Like Dr. Cosby and his carbohydrate-imbalanced animated hero, you will get music and fun from Edgar, but if you're not careful, you may learn something before it's done. I feel like enough better critics have discussed, say, SHAUN OF THE DEAD's message of having to leave comfortable slacking behind if one wants a future with a mate and a solid home foundation, or of SCOTT PILGRIM's literal pilgrim process of learning personal responsibility in order to roll with the punches of love, so if you haven't contemplated those concepts from seeing those movies, a couple pages of Google will reveal multitudes. But one of the best moral conclusions that I think Wright has ever offered in a movie seems to have gone unnoticed by even bloggers I respect, so I guess as my birthday present, it's my job to give him laud on this matter.

HOT FUZZ is a movie that understands playing cops and robbers is one of the most exciting games we learn in youth, and no matter how many ways parents try to shield the next generation from the glorification of violence, there will be that primal urge to run amok with screams of "BANG! POW! BOOM! YER DEAD!" That even efficient, clean-handed Nick Angel, who has rarely had to fire a weapon in the course of his job-ruiningly effective career, can't resist "a no-holds-barred, adrenaline-fueled thrill ride" of gunplay when he watches action films with the firearm-fetishing Danny Butterman. And as most of the popular action films champion the "loose cannon" cop who must work outside the law, especially when he learns the higher brass is corrupt, there is certainly the expectation that when Angel narrowly escapes the clutches of Sandford's Neighborhood Watch Alliance, he will take the familiar mantle of the one man wrecking crew and mow them all down. But when the climactic take down arrives, while there is a ridiculous amount of gunfire, Angel and Butterman do not shoot to kill, and when all the bullets are gone, they arrest all the conspirators and book them. Moreover, said villains are all suffering painful injuries, from the bullets and other unforeseen weapons (most memorably in the infamous wound suffered by Timothy Dalton's character). The only person that is killed in the finale is the ostensible weapons expert of the town, and that is by his own inadvertent hand, not in vigilante anger by Angel. In this masterstroke, Wright is able to have it both ways: deliver an exciting, guns-a-blazing showdown with a lone righteous hero, but also ever-so-politely demonstrate that 1) getting into a firefight can really bloody hurt; 2) the proper punishment is to put the bad guys in jail rather than killing them off in the name of catharsis; 3) no matter how many dirty cops there are, one can and should use the law to bring about justice and change.

I also rather like how Wright takes a look at longstanding problems of race without preaching. I'm sure many viewers get a touch uncomfortable when Lt. Frank Butterman gets blatantly ugly referring to the "gypsy scum" whom he blames for his wife's death, but for me it was a sharp reminder that so-called peaceful small towns like Sandford often are seen by their older residents as the last safe harbor from "them other people." It also gives extra counterpoint to his son Danny's need to ultimately reject him, since among other things, the movies he loves like BAD BOYS II feature black actors. When Angel gets a look at the hidden trove of comically macabre victims of the N.W.A. he sees that they are often either minorities¹ or represent their influence (the hoodie-wearing teenagers, who no doubt must have frightened Geraldo Rivera when they were first onscreen). And the more blatant joke of having the initials that scared white suburbanites for years being used for a cabal of deadly Caucasian nitpickers is not unwelcome, although Wright may not have been aware that for me in my childhood, the letters N.W.A. more often brought to mind Horsemen and Freebirds than urban gangstas. But lemme tell ya about that later, Gordon Solie...

Among the many reasons he has to celebrate today, Edgar Wright can take stock of the fact that his clever multi-tiered writing and his generous outreach to the people who have embraced him have engendered a goodwill that very few filmmakers enjoy right now. Where one can get lost in a morass of venomous character assassinations when reading about Quentin Tarantino or Kevin Smith or Joss Whedon, the harshest criticism you'll find about Wright, that doesn't come from some fogey crank who already hates millenials, is that he's spending too much time fraternizing with the public and doesn't have a new movie in production.

See that? Even the haters want you to keep making movies!

As a small sidebar, I'm sure many fans know that Edgar's GRINDHOUSE alumnus Eli Roth shares this birthdate. While I've seen CABIN FEVER and enjoyed it, and had pleasant personal interaction with him, and am also impressed with his courtship of the public, I must admit I can't yet write an essay on Roth because I'm just too darned chickenshit to watch the HOSTEL films. And I say that having sat through A SERBIAN FILM without breaking a sweat. But Edgar has opined that people who have not yet seen well-known films should be envied, because they will have the excitement of watching them for the first time. Thus I'm not ashamed, but instead I look forward to the day when I've got Roth's repertoire under my belt and can discuss him in my own particular fashion. Otherwise, I just dig having these cool guys born on the same day. I imagine sultry Barbara Magnolfi, in an alternate-universe version of SUSPIRIA that would take place at film school, strutting into a classroom theatre and purring..."Eeee-li...Ed-garrr...my mother once told me that names that start with the letter "E"...are the names of Excellent Entertainers!"

So Happy Birthday Mr. Wright. Scott Pilgrim may have battled the world, but from the vantage of my theatre seat, you have conquered it.



¹ When I first published this essay a year ago, I had mistakenly identified a gold-painted living statue performer as black; Edgar, while appreciating my sentiment, informed me that the actor and his character were in fact white. While this does somewhat throw a melted Cornetto into my theory, I still find the overall reading valid due to the other story details noted within my paragraph. Nonetheless, I make this public correction in the interest of offering both truth and legend.

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

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.

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

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.