The Duality of Dodge

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!

For the Love of Film...and Filmmaker Marketing: Hitchcock as Hitching Post

But, I did let it sneak up on me. As you've noticed, things have been slower than Ben Stein reading aloud "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" here at this blog. I even publicly shut the doors a month ago, partly out of humiliation that my output was so sporadic, and partly to parcel time on a more ambitious project. But when Marilyn Ferdinand and Farran Nehmes come calling, a man's gotta put on his typing gloves and do his part for the third year of their world-renowned For the Love of Film blogathon. The project, which this year boasts 100+ participants beyond myself, raises money for the National Film Preservation Foundation, and after the success of last year's focus, film noir and the restoration of the underseen THE SOUND OF FURY, they've raised stakes and gooseflesh by putting the emphasis on a very big Hitch...

 ...Yes, not only are all the blogathon entries going to cover the multitude of ideas that emerge from the legacy of Alfred Hitchcock, but the proceeds will be directed in the service of a heretofore thought-lost and now partially-found silent film, THE WHITE SHADOW, directed by Graham Cutts and written, assistant-directed, and manipulated in multiple manners by the Master of Suspense himself. The goal is to raise $15,000 to digitize the material, record the newly-composed score by Michael Mortilla, and stream this treasure online, free, so that everyone and not just lucky film snots in big cities or swanky circles can see this early beginning work of a legend.

If you drop his name to even the most limited movie viewer, chances are that person will be able to rattle off something that Alfred Hitchcock was known for. Surprise endings, chases in unusual places, blondes, taboo-pushing, black humor, "MacGuffins"...these and more have just permeated the world's consciousness. What fewer people assign trailblazer credit to him for, if ever, is his prescient courting of the public outside of the cinema: Hitchcock is, for my argument, the first Director as Rock Star.

Okay, maybe that's a stretch: at least perhaps Director as Pop Star: if Tarantino is generally perceived as the Elvis Presley, Hitchcock is undoubtedly the Frank Sinatra.

From the dawn of film to the '50's, there were plenty of acclaimed directors who could attract press and make news, but one is hard-pressed to find one that could be called a genuine household celebrity. The show business people that were getting the most notoriety were, of course, the movie stars, but then after that, the producers of hit movies: Mayer, Selznick, Zanuck, Warner, Goldwyn, etc. They were getting their names above the title much more often than directors were. Sure, there were producers who also directed - Cecil B. DeMille, Joseph L. Mankiewicz, Stanley Kramer - but they would be more likely to draw attention for building the cruise ship rather than physically steering the boat. Directors were important, but a little interchangeable - not as interchangeable as the hapless writer entrusted with delivering that Barton Fink feeling, but when David Selznick had George Cukor replaced with Victor Fleming on GONE WITH THE WIND, even if there had been an internet back then, there would have been no fanboy outrage when that news came out.

Being a celebrity was probably not on Alfred Hitchcock's mind when he was making his reputation in Hollywood, but he likely understood what it meant in terms of negotiation weight when making a film. He began his Stateside career working for Selznick, and it was a very fractious relationship, with Selznick often objecting to and overriding his stylistic choices during the four films he made under his contract. When making films for other studios, he also encountered casting and story dictates that irritated him. But Hitchcock knew his limits then, remarking "[Selznick] was the Big Producer...[and the] Producer was king. The most flattering thing Mr. Selznick ever said about me — and it shows you the amount of control — he said I was the 'only director' he'd 'trust with a film.'" So after first taking on the line producing tasks for his studio projects, he eventually became his own producer, financing movies through studios but often retaining intellectual property rights. So by the '50's, he gained a degree of creative control over his films, but what came next would give him the real leap to legend status.

The turning point came in 1955, when his then-agent Lew Wasserman, whose Music Corporation of America agency was branching into TV production, suggested that he host an anthology series focused on suspense, murder, chicanery, and other aspects of the macabre.

The series, "ALFRED HITCHCOCK PRESENTS," was an instant success that ran for ten years, inspiring networks to outbid each other to get the show every few years, and expanding from 30 minutes to an hour. Here was an acclaimed major motion picture director, already somewhat known to the average citizen for a fine body of films, now in every living room once a week, putting his stamp of approval on tales of shocking twists of fate, while making droll, stone-faced jokes, and even confiding to the audience that he disliked commercial breaks as much at them. Though he only directed a small fraction of the hundreds of episodes aired, just as Rod Serling became the icon for the uncanny and strange with "THE TWILIGHT ZONE," Alfred Hitchcock became the icon for the canny and cruel to a generation of TV viewers.

This is where Hitchcock transcends the mere title of "filmmaker" and becomes a brand name, an instant adjective that tells someone what they can expect. From here came Alfred Hitchcock literary anthologies, an Alfred Hitchcock mystery magazine, a book series for young adults with Hitchcock as mentor to adolescent detectives, "Music to be Murdered By..." It's a meaty coincidence that this activity coincides with the height of Hitchcock's collaborations with graphic artist Saul Bass, the man responsible for literally hundreds of familiar corporate logos, fonts, and advertising treatments, because Bass also understood how to use one single image to convey multiple ideas. It is no wonder that in all those dry introductions to the program scripted for him by James B. Allardice that he was punting the sponsor's pills so much - all that valuable airtime Bristol-Myers was taking to sell their products could have been used by Hitch to sell himself! All joking aside, Hitchcock rather liked the idea of becoming a TV pitchman: in The Alfred Hitchcock Presents Companion by Martin Grams Jr and Patrik Wikström, he suggested, "I'd like to take two asprin and, after swallowing them, stagger off the stage. Or, after brushing my teeth with some toothpaste or other, rinse and spit out a mouthful of teeth. Or show Joan of Arc being burned at the stake and comment, 'Are you smoking more now and enjoying it less?'" Such concepts the irony-free conglomerate probably did not see the humor in. But millions of people at home swallowed his schtick like Carter's Little Liver Pills (not a Bristol-Myers product), and now Hitchcock was easily more recognizable than any other working director of the time, and likely better recognized than many of the actors he treated like cattle.

And like any other high-profile star, ripe for parody:

 "Sardines and milk weren't enough for you, Sylvester: you had to commit murder."

"Alvin Brickrock" (or is he really mad killer Albert Bonehart?) on "THE FLINTSTONES"

And of course, kids babysat by TV would absorb all of this.  While his erstwhile rival William Castle may have had the bigger teenage fanbase for his gimmick-laden spookfests, there were easily more reported incidents of girls on the playground being taunted by boys puffing out their chests and moaning, "Goooood eeeeeeeeeeeeevening..."

This kind of ubiquitous name recognition was good for more than just idle artistic gratification. Now, amidst a climate of growing changes with the way films and filmmakers were getting projects done in Hollywood, this gave Hitchcock muscle.  When he was in a peculiar situation of having his previous Paramount project, VERTIGO, perform poorly, but finding tremendous success making NORTH BY NORTHWEST for another studio, he wanted to turn Robert Bloch's lurid novel PSYCHO into his final film under their contract, but Paramount twice rejected his proposal and claimed there was no room on their lot to film anyhow. He thus put up the entire budget himself, agreed to defer his normal directing fee in exchange for negative rights, and use his TV crew to shoot the film quickly at MCA's just-acquired Universal studio lot; with these terms, Paramount relented. He was taking on multiple significant risks: using his own money, using a crew with little experience in feature production, and making a film with subject matter so squirm-inducing that even in 1984 the MPAA still saw fit to give the movie an R rating. But he had the confidence to go with that gamble, and one can surmise that part of his reasoning was that with a steady base of discerning adults and a rapidly growing base of teenagers raised on his cathode ray catechism, they would all take the plunge into the icy blackness of a man's mind with him.  And history proved him correct.  We won't know if he would have taken the same risk had he not a solid television series and household popularity under his belt - his temperament suggests that he probably would have done the exact same thing - but as fans of Joss Whedon, who filled the theatres for his adaptation of THE AVENGERS after having their formative years filled with episodes of "BUFFY THE VAMPIRE SLAYER" would attest, it didn't hurt to have that in his CV.  Hitchcock would not face another need to use his well-earned public goodwill as weight with a studio after the production of PSYCHO; he set up camp at Universal and stayed with the studio until his death, enjoying complete autonomy, and the only thing inhibiting any potential project he wanted to do was usually his own health.

As a new generation grew up into the '70's, whether it was Woody Allen actively cultivating his chatty nebbish on talk shows, or Francis Coppola arousing rumors in the gossip pages because the opening of THE GODFATHER was delayed from its intended Christmas '71 release to spring of '72, or the new style of celebrity journalism creating Steven Spielberg's myth of of the grown-up-wide-eyed-kid with a camera, the director was quickly eclipsing the producer as the Big Man On Cinema. For the first wave of Rock Star Directors like these two, or Martin Scorsese or Robert Altman, they didn't have to do much to sell themselves because in effect, critical opinion and box office returns were doing that job for them.  But while they may have been spoken of in more ordinary households than, say, Vincente Minnelli or John Huston were during their earlier prime, they weren't yet celebrities; your aunt and her friends wouldn't know them if they saw them on TV.  They were the Beatles, but they were still at the Cavern Club and weren't yet ready to fill Shea Stadium, so while they did benefit from the example of Hitchcock, and are certainly in his level of legend today, they are not what I would consider students of his style of active moviegoer courtship.  It is with the dawn of  home entertainment, the internet, and the "Sundance class of '92" movement, where we can really see how his astute creation of a public persona through a TV series and related marketing to draw audience interest to his films created a template that is commonplace today.

The two most apparent students of Hitchcock's strategy that come immediately to my mind are Spike Lee and Quentin Tarantino. These men did not have a reputation or body of work behind them like the directors that preceded them did; they were able to make a huge impression with their first films because they themselves made a huge impression on people. Island Pictures certainly worked hard to market his unusual debut comedy SHE'S GOTTA HAVE IT as they knew best, but it was Lee selling himself as an irascible motormouthed shitstarter, in Nike commercials and other strategic public appearances, that helped make the film a crossover hit and immediately thrust him into bigger-budgeted studio projects. Much as Hitchcock used the momentum of his public ubiquity to push back against an intransigent studio, Lee was also able to will his way into making one of his best and most signficant films, the biopic MALCOLM X, by first rallying his fans to protest the initial plan to hire Norman Jewison, a respected but rather uninspiring director, to make the film, and then through his unconventional long-lead marketing of hats, athletic wear, and other items with the bold simple black-and-grey "X" that would serve as the film's logo.  And as mentioned earlier, for as much as he may like to issue troll-bait comments such as preferring PSYCHO II to the original, the trajectory in which Tarantino created his own public image as an energetic encyclopaedic auteur, through his archival reissue labels Rolling Thunder and Dragon Dynasty, and hundreds of talk show appearances where he'll somehow work Kim Jee-Woon and Kim Kardashian in the same sentence, demonstrates an understanding of Hitchcock's style of brand-building.  Love them or hate them, if you say Spike Lee or Quentin Tarantino to someone who hasn't seen a movie since they created the PG-13 rating, they can give a semi-informed statement about them, or at least who they believe they're like. Their example is what has driven the Millenials to buy videocameras and shoot everything in sight in the hope of getting that standard rich-and-famous contract for a couple decades since.

Alfred Hitchcock did not likely anticipate that a cult of personality would build around directors when he became more famous than his movies.  But I don't believe it would bother him.  Like the murderers he loved to depict, he would understand the reason why: because in every caper, sooner or later, getting away with the plan is less important than making sure everyone knows you pulled it off.  He was just the first and the best at inspiring a lot of people to commit cinematic crimes, and to inspire many more to hand over their loot.

And speaking of loot, here is the part of the program where we kindly ask you to empty your pockets:

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.

The Projectionist is Down for Repairs

The projector has been drinking
My name tag is asleep
And the combo's just a dollar more
And the coffee starts to weep
And the carpet got a nose job
While the marquee looks like an eye chart
And the bathroom's out of hustlers
And the poster case broke your heart

And the projector has been drinking
The projector has been drinking...

And the audience is out of focus
And the Dolby track is Finnish
And the tech support's in Caracas
And he billed you for the visit

And the projector has been drinking
The projector has been drinking...

And the manager's a hippie
Feel-good petty tyrant
And the studio is a bean counter
With the I.Q. of a hydrant

'Cause the projector has been drinking
The projector has been drinking...

And you can't find your concessionist with a Geiger counter
And she hates you and your friends but you can't get scheduled without her
And the Movietunes need a gargle
And the Pepsi tastes of brack
And the popcorn's made of charcoal
And the Sour Punch Straws broke your back

'Cause the projector has been drinking
The projector has been drinking
The projector has been drinking
The projector has been drinking
The projector has been drinking, not me...

I Never Did Alexander Hamilton For My Father

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

Coming Undun in the One One

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

Maybe everybody learned their lesson from the forboding start of last year and decided to make some improvements, because 2011 was a wonderful year of moviegoing for me, not quite the watershed that 2007 was, but similar in the excellent pace and parcel of good movies throughout and not just in the fall. As the countdown of 13 primes began there were many early releases that held on for an awful long time, until the limits of my categories reluctantly forced me to send them lower. I've heard more than one critic say that they could make a second list of choices just as strong as the first, and I'll join that quorum. My one disappointment is that this year did not yield any strange, misbegotten, left-field, O.G. Watasnozzle-type movies that I could savor and pass on to other daring souls like a clubhouse password. Granted, SUCKER PUNCH had a decent amount of what-the-fuckery, but it did not qualify, because it is not a fun movie; when I watch it again, I will simultaneously be crying in my ice cream for that hideous, perverted corner of my soul that would not join the rest of my rational mind in abandoning the Saturn train, for it is that Black Spot which will certainly doom me to a solitary death in a welfare hotel. 

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

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

10 worthwhile films nobody saw but me: City of Life and DeathCold WeatherHigher GroundI Saw the DevilMargaretThe Myth of the American SleepoverShut Up, Little Man!TerriThe TripTyrannosaur
And here comes the deep end of this dive, The Top 13 of 2011:

13. 13 ASSASSINS

12. MIDNIGHT IN PARIS

11. MONEYBALL

10. BRIDESMAIDS

9. THE GUARD

8. THE DESCENDANTS

7. THE TREE OF LIFE

6. DRIVE

5. ATTACK THE BLOCK

4. HUGO

3. MELANCHOLIA

2. WARRIOR

1. YOUNG ADULT

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

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

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.