John and John, Where Have Ye Gone?

If you're a comedy lover, March 5, 1982, and March 4, 1994, are two days in history where you had better laugh just to stop from crying.



When you talk to someone born between, say, 1940 to 1960, they'll have some sort of story about how the assassination of President John F. Kennedy shocked them like no other death of a public figure, or for that matter, any other tragic event they'd witnessed. After that, it gets a little more fragmented and particular, depending either on your political stripe or entertainment taste. And for me, my personal JFK moment has always been when I came into my father's house on a Friday afternoon, just after buying snacks for the evening's VHS rental, and as I walked into the dining room, the news on the TV was announcing that John Belushi had died.

I thought I was pretty together for a 12-year-old. Sure, it was shocking when Elvis died at 42, I had been listening and pantomiming his records alone in my room and was thus a fan, but I was in grade school and he was my parents' rock star: I shook my head and went on. I was up past my bedtime watching "THE TONIGHT SHOW," as was my regular routine, when the news interrupted that December night in 1980 with news that John Lennon had been shot; again, I was shocked, especially since his new album had only come out three weeks before, but somehow I got over this too. But when I heard Belushi was gone, I was inconsolable for weeks, and there's a part of me that's never gotten over it.

Perhaps it is because unlike Presley and Lennon, Belushi felt like he was mine, a star that belonged to me and was not my parents' hand-me-down. I found him by staying up late to watch "SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE," I had the ludicrous tingle of going to an R-rated movie like THE BLUES BROTHERS to see him do his magic...nobody older than me had to set the stage and sell me on any sort of past track record, I was seeing his legacy happen from the ground floor. And at that stage of my life, I was a little husky like he was, and I looked up to his ability to be physically graceful and command attention and be attractive to girls. I wanted to be him when I became a man. And in most of the right ways, and even some of the wrong ways, I still want to.

It seems strange to make this kind of observation about a man who is remembered for his domineering qualities, but Belushi emerged from an artistic mindset that is very hard to find in the entertainers of today, where genius was not only in how they could project, but also how they could hold back. If you watch enough classic SNL sketches you will see how John can play completely normal while another player or guest star takes focus and gets the laughs. It may not have been his personal instinct - he was notorious for trying to sandbag female writers' sketch ideas - but once a sketch made it to show, and the camera was on, he was all about the scene, whether he was the prime mover or the straight man. And while he certainly owned the frame when he was headlining a movie, when he was playing support, such as to Talia Shire in OLD BOYFRIENDS or Jack Nicholson in GOIN' SOUTH, he knew when to turn his wattage up and when to turn it down. Maybe that's old Second City discipline straight from Viola Spolin and Paul Sills, maybe it's from working with people whom you enjoy playing back-and-forth with, but it is a skill that is missing from a lot of comedy nowadays. I am not here to accuse modern comedians of being attention hogs, far from it: most have trained in the same talent incubators (Second City, the Groundlings) under the same standards, and in the best comedies, are still capable of this proper give and take. I feel the finger is better pointed at more modern comedy producers, who after overpaying for talent, panic if every second of their screen time is not taken up with a laugh.

Example: I saw ANCHORMAN 2 in December, and pretty much hated on it for multiple reasons, but especially because it felt like for all the trouble it took to reunite all the principal cast from the first film, it was fully the Will Ferrell show with maybe Steve Carell getting the most significant screen time because of his increased stature, while the rest were just left to get a few sporadic moments to shine. But I went the other night to see the "763 New Jokes" alternate R-rated cut that was reissued to theatres this past weekend (in advance of the home video release), and while it still has many problems, actually liked it better, precisely because it spread more screen time and material to the supporting players, but certainly carried the perceived downside of making the movie longer. As such I could easily understand the pressures on Ferrell and director Adam McKay from all sides, and deciding to hedge their bet and sacrifice development for jokes-per-minute. John Landis has often remarked on the decision to carefully parcel out Belushi's appearances in ANIMAL HOUSE for maximum impact, and even in many of those moments, he is in concert with the primary cast, and not always getting the payoff. Landis would likely not have that option today, instead he'd surely get besieged with studio notes demanding more Bluto scenes, "because he's the star."

This is what I wish more people would dwell on when the legacy of Belushi is discussed, rather than the usual topics of his excessive behavior in films and in real life. He was described as being able to walk into a room as if he were on horseback, to pull all eyes to him. However, too many don't recognize that once he had that attention, he gladly gave it away to others. It can be as obvious as the easy rapport he enjoyed with Dan Aykroyd in their multiple movies, or sometimes not for public consumption, as when he came to support friends Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas during a press op for STRANGE BREW, and insisted on not being filmed, so that all attention could be given to the rise of the McKenzie Brothers. There was a touching testimony by the late SNL writer Michael O'Donoghue for a Rolling Stone memorial issue, where he listed five reasons why John went straight to Heaven - I can't find the original text, but two that stood out to me was that he regularly sent money to Albanian relatives he'd never met, and that he reunited his old high school band to play together for all their friends. In short, what made Belushi special was that he not only had the confidence to draw attention to himself, he had the generosity to spread the wealth around..."Oh, you think I'm funny - here's these guys I know and enjoy, you should be watching them too."

That is what I think I love most and miss so much about Belushi decades later, and the lesson I've tried to carry on from him: the notion of shared elevation, of making everyone in the scene look good. As a high school football star, he knew if you can grab that ball, then go ahead and run with it all the way to the goal, but if you got a teammate to make the pass to, trust in them to rise to the occasion.

One of the prime recipients of his comedy trust managed to go on running with the spotlight, and my heart, for over another decade. And when he unexpectedly died 12 years later, one day before Belushi's marker, and within days of another comedy legend, Bill Hicks, it made me so despondent I left a sobbing message on a friend's voice mail bemoaning, "All my heroes are dying."

Upon discovering the quasi-adult pleasures of watching "SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE" as a child, I was soon hungry for more. And I don't know how precisely it was that I found "SECOND CITY TELEVISION," later to just be "SCTV;" I guess I somehow saw it listed in the TV Guide described as a sketch comedy show, and my curiosity drove me to fiddle with the antenna to get a decent signal from the Dayton station that aired it after SNL since no Cincinnati stations carried it. But after that first episode, I was hooked. And, naturally, was the only kid on the playground talking about Count Floyd and Edith Prickley and Bobby Bittman. And, when I did get to go to that previously-mentioned taboo screening of THE BLUES BROTHERS, when a smug detective showed up where the boys were staying, I was certainly the only kid my age in the theatre to look at the screen and excitedly say, "That's John Candy!"

To this day there are plenty of people who don't care for Belushi or his work, who merely see him as a fat pampered train wreck, but there is practically nobody out there who doesn't have a kind thing to say about John Candy. His history is similar to Belushi's in terms of Second City education, ensemble performing, and public charm, and also full of outgoing gestures to friends and fans, of cooking large meals for the crew of his movies, of sitting in the cheap seats with hockey lovers who came to see the team he co-owned for several years. The popular perception is that Candy was a more sensible person than Belushi, since he lived longer, didn't abuse drugs and liquor, had a more solid marriage and raised children, and did not have a record of erratic behavior to sully his image. But as demonstrated in his final years, Candy was susceptible to the same addictive swings that Belushi was prone to, just through more socially accepted dependencies on cigarettes and food. And as such, both men reached such a need for those perceived comfort items which they inherently knew would decimate them, it put all who loved them in the position of either enabling or disengaging, and speaking from personal experience, disengagement is worse precisely because you don't know how bad things are getting.

Candy, I feel, also had a gift that is often overlooked when his body of work is discussed. Belushi only made a handful of movies, and while the greatness of some of them remain in debate (I count myself in the small but vocal rally behind NEIGHBORS), he didn't leave behind any clunkers. Candy was not as lucky; there are plenty of stiffs in his resume, including, sadly, his swan song, WAGONS EAST. But I maintain that while Candy has appeared in movies that didn't work, he never gave anything less than 100% to those roles. He could take substandard material and elevate it just enough so that you never felt like your two hours were a total waste, only a minor disappointment; you never lost your goodwill towards him, if anything you bemoaned that the rest of the movie didn't deserve him. As a tweener, I thought GOING BERSERK was a neglected masterpiece, and even though through my adult eyes, I can see how threadbare and misbegotten it is, I remember his scenes and I'm still laughing. Candy could sell like a champ: he could take a tired predictable punchline and make it gold, like this one from another misfire, ONCE UPON A CRIME:

"Why, you married for money!"
"That sir, is an outrage! I married for lots of money! Huhuhuhuhuhuh!"
(seriously, that classic Johnny LaRue laughing-verging-on-sobbing is irresistible)

Selling when the ship is sinking is another lost art. It's not that there aren't devoted actors today who try to make the best out of lousy material, but ultimately they come off as too guarded or too desperate. Somehow, Candy was always eminently watchable no matter how badly everything else was turning out. You can try to just blame it on '80's nostalgia, but I guarantee you 10 years from now there will be more people watching ARMED AND DANGEROUS than, say, THE WATCH, and I'll stand on Ben Stiller's coffee table in my Chuck Taylors and say that.

Ultimately, Belushi and Candy were brothers from another mother. They were friends, excellent team players, men who challenged conventional notions of attraction, and engendered enormous audience affections that continue long after their departure. For whatever vices they picked up that should have been left behind, perhaps even those were simply part of how they treated their art and their lives, from the cardinal rules that everyone is taught to do in improvisation: say yes, explore, and heighten. And in the best moments, and the detrimental moments, they kept to that standard.

Belushi would have been 65 and Candy would have been 63 today. And they would have been as grief-stricken as we have been at the recent loss of their friend Harold Ramis. As all three of them were when Doug Kenney inexplicably departed before properly enjoying the success of the movies he co-wrote with or for them.

In his exploration on Belushi's legacy, Roger Ebert observed, "Tragedy is when you know not only what was, but what could have been." That's why my elders have not forgotten the shock of their fallen heroes, nor I mine. I think if there is a difference, it's because, well, if the two Johns stuck around a little longer, we would have had a lot more laughs in the world. And we're always going to need those.

But thankfully, we have what they left behind, which is still a lot of great stuff.

Little Chocolate Donuts will always be the donuts of champions!

And Johnny LaRue will always be NOT GAY!

The Coming Attractions of Twenty Heaventeen

If there is anything that truly deep-in-the-stop-bath film lovers secretly, or not-so-secretly, love to do, it's imagine the dream movies their heroes would make if by some miracle said obsessive was greenlighting projects. Seattle's long-running alternative weekly The Stranger used to have a wonderful series of Photoshopped advertisements touting fake "lost" movies by dead filmmakers, suggesting that Orson Welles had done a drama about corruption in boxing or Sam Peckinpah managed to get one last bloody western made. When beloved New Beverly Cinema founder Sherman Torgan died in 2007, Patton Oswalt paid tribute with a wonderfully poignant "film festival" of, as he put it, "never weres, could-have-beens, and the lost." Certainly among the millions who enjoyed last year's Academy Award winner ARGO were those who were busy imagining what the fake movie at the heart of its plot could have looked like were it shot. And one of the most anticipated movies of the new year is JODOROWSKY'S DUNE, a documentary about the ambitious, and ultimately futile, attempt by the legendary director of EL TOPO to adapt the dense Frank Herbert sci-fi epic before its ultimate compromised version years later by David Lynch.

As such, I'm not immune from these fantasies, and during some slow nights this past holiday season, when I needed to economize and couldn't justify going out to the movies nor muster interest in what I had on DVD at home, I thus came up with a list of bogus blockbusters of the future that I would lurve to see. As much as I often dream of a world where the directors I love that are currently stuck working network television and teaching classes would get million dollar budgets again, and Michael Bay would have to hold a bake sale just to shoot a SnapChat photo, on this occasion I chose to stick to writers and directors currently active and "hot" right now, for the same reason that George Carlin and Billy Heeny "thought about" girls in the neighborhood: it seems more possible. At least a few of the talents in question have indeed visited in here in the past, so maaaaaaaaybeeeeee this might spark some imagination to make these a reality in the not-too-distant-future, next Summer A.D.

(That being said, aside from novel adaptations, let's consider these pitches under common-law-copyright to me; if I discover you horking these concepts the way you horked Quentin's HATEFUL EIGHT script, you'll be hearing from my attorneys at the law offices of John, Jacob, Jingleheimer, and Schmidt.)

RED LORRY, YELLOW LAURIE - written and directed by Edgar Wright

An English long-distance truck driver (Nick Frost) is forced to share his cab with a slimy efficiency expert (Nick Kroll) from the American corporation he delivers for. They must, however, work together when their route crosses paths with the dangerous "Burma-Shave Killer" and one of his escaped targets (Jaime Winstone).

WE HAVE A SAVIOR - written and directed by Asia Argento

The Shaggs were easily the most unconventional pop act of the late '60's, three sisters practically forced into making music by their spiritually-motivated father. As such, under the vision of Argento, their story is bifurcated into an initially straightforward account of the drama behind their sole album, followed by a wild speculative alternate history about the worldwide success that had been dreamed of in their inception, including an explosive appearance on Italian television featuring cameos by Ellen Page and Argento herself as popular European chanteuses Rita Pavone and Mina. In exchange for financing this project, Argento agreed to come out of acting retirement to appear in...

xXx: E PLURIBUS BURNEM - written and directed by John Hyams

When NSA Agent Augustus Gibbons (Samuel L. Jackson) is murdered under impenetrable means, Agent Darius Stone (Ice Cube) is promoted to his position, and his first order of business is to locate the falsely-believed-dead Xander Cage (Vin Diesel) and his ally KGB agent Yelena (Asia Argento) to investigate this mystery. Once found, they are thrust into a deep penetration mission in Turkey involving bankrupted Greek industrialists, Armenian militants, and the Arab Spring, with a much-too-genial street bootlegger (Jason Mantzoukas) the apparent link to the impending carnage.

THE SATURDAYS - written for the screen by Diablo Cody, directed by Lorene Scafaria

Elizabeth Enright's beloved series of books about the four precocious Melendy children in pre-World War II New York City begins with the siblings agreeing to pool their otherwise small allowances so that once a week, one of the four can go off to have a unique Saturday afternoon to remember. And as the eldest seeks to present herself as more adult, the middle two explore high art, and the youngest discovers how to make the large-looming city smaller and more navigable, they all bond in what their singular explorations have brought to their collective growth.

MAFIA KINGPIN - written for the screen and directed by Rian Johnson

In 1981, Sonny Gibson wrote a purported autobiography called MAFIA KINGPIN, casting himself as a connected hitman, drug-smuggler, and well-paid male prostitute who turned his life around in prison. But years later, a court case proved he and his failed pop-star/co-author/girlfriend Reparata Mazzola were none of those things, just small-time con artists. But for decades, they continued to ply this fake legacy into film projects and business deals that swindled hundreds. Johnson hilariously yet sincerely contrasts the real-life career of Gibson and Mazzola to the outrageous fantasy of big time crimes they documented in their fictionalized book, to illustrate how and why such a wild tale could be conceived by them, and sold to others.

FEAR OF FLYING - written for the screen and directed by Lena Dunham

After decades of false starts and being considered near-unfilmable, Erica Jong's influential novel finally reaches the screen. Isadora Wing (Alison Brie) is a working published poet in the '70's feeling herself overwhelmed by an unsatisfying marriage, lack of respect from her peers, troubling reactions from readers of her work, and her constant conflicted sexual desires, exemplified in her obsession with finding the mythical "zipless fuck," the perfect unburdened encounter with a stranger. And on a globetrotting voyage for academic and personal purposes, she learns even more complicated details about the new sexual freedom and her place within it.

KING AND JESTER - written and directed by Robbie Pickering

In the early '60's, the two biggest stars working for Paramount under canny producer Hal B. Wallis (Bill Murray) were Elvis Presley (Channing Tatum) and Jerry Lewis (Josh Fadem). When studio president Barney Balaban (Bob Balaban, playing his own father) suggests teaming them up for a movie, everyone agrees this is a natural pairing. So why did the movie never get made? This comedic mystery suggests that shady dealings by the infamous Colonel Tom Parker (Toby Jones) and some military secrets inadvertently picked up in Germany during Elvis' mandatory Army service, not to mention the wild offscreen antics of both stars, may hold the keys to the Greatest Teaming Never Told.

THE ANGRY GRIFFITH SHOW - written and directed by Ava DuVernay

Race relations and cinematic sacred cows are mercilessly satirized as a media production student (John Boyega) at a Southern college, irritated when his objections to prolonged hagiography of BIRTH OF A NATION are blown off by his pompous professor (Glenn Howerton), decides to get even by writing and directing a savage mock "making-of" the film as his final project for the class. But when he challenges himself to use the same technological limitations as would have been in place at the dawn of feature filmmaking, the ambitious plan begins to overwhelm him, as he himself runs afoul of campus p.c. enforcers uncomfortable with his editorial decisions, and the stress causes him to repeatedly have hallucinations of D.W. Griffith himself (Tim Roth) taunting him. He soon fears that he may not be able to make his artistic statement without also becoming memorialized in infamy.

FOUCAULT'S PENDULUM - written for the screen and directed by Shane Carruth

The dense and confounding novel by NAME OF THE ROSE author Umberto Eco is adapted by the director responsible for two mind-scrambling fantasies of his own. Three men working for a small publishing house amuse themselves by trying to link every popular conspiracy theory, shadow organization, and other assorted urban legends into one master conspiracy. Gradually, however, they begin to believe in their own connections, and other mysterious groups start coming out of the shadows who believe in the unification even more so than them, and demand they deliver answers that the three did not plan for when they first started coming up with "The Plan."

DEBORAH'S DYNASTY - written and directed by Quentin Tarantino

In early 20th century New York, an immigrant runaway (Saoirse Ronan) is torn between keeping a dead-end seamstress job and joining the rising Suffragette movement. But after a series of brutal murders of women remain unsolved by a less-than-aggressive police, and a deadly fire kills hundreds at her factory but the rich proprietors elude justice, she is drawn into a secret all-female vigilante society named for the Biblical warrior judge, who intends to punish all those who are profiting from the abuse of women. As their notoriety spreads, the forces that want to end them come closing in, including that uncaptured serial killer. The surprising conclusion to the "Right Side of History/Wrong Side of an Asskicking" trilogy also stars Colleen Camp, Carol Lynley, Sybill Danning, and Emily Lloyd as Nellie Bly.

That's enough fantasy film foolishness for this entry. Intermission time.

In Just Seven Frames, I Can Make You a Cineaste

(or: Fuck Film School, Let's Get Drunk And Eat Meatloaf!)

You there! With the stack of black T-shirts and the $75 Blu-Ray player you got on Black Friday! Did you go to that revival screening of a favorite '80's movie and find yourself surrounded by bitter bloggers in junket hoodies and Teva sandals mocking you because you didn't know the difference between the KICKING AND SCREAMING with Chris Eigeman and the KICKING AND SCREAMING with Will Ferrell? Did you sign up for a what you thought was a production class at your college only to spend hours having some deranged Eastern European drone about how Anton LaVey cockblocked him over Maya Deren? Do you just want a little head start in learning the lingua franca of film geeks so that you can hold your own in 2a.m. Denny's debates and not get sent over to sit in the other booth with Mohammad, Jugdish, Sydney, and Clayton and listen to them badly recite the same "BIG BANG THEORY" quotes again?

Sure, you know plenty of the names that everybody knows in the film industry, but the reason why is because we hear those names repeatedly on a regular basis, on TV, in gossip magazines, critics lists, etc. And they're mostly new movies, directors, stars, the occasional screenwriter, etc. How can you get familiar with all those really geeky names and titles that separate the players from potzers, and how do you know which ones of those are going to carry weight and which ones will just clutter your head?

Believe it or not, there's a great way to hotwire the process, and in all likelihood, it's happening at a Friday or Saturday midnight show near you, if not this weekend, then sometime this month. You won't need to open a book, just your mind...and maybe your shirt, if you're a first-timer and get collared into a Virgin Sacrifice. That's right, just going to THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW on a regular basis will help you get a leg up on the pile and teach you about some behind-the-scenes technicians in modern film you should be appreciating. And all for less than the cost of one Learning Annex lecture, plus you get to hang around people that have actually had sex.

First off, when the movie starts, you're already getting a roll call of some of the most memorable movies, characters, and talent that shaped so many imaginative minds in their wake. It's a shopping list you don't need to write down because you can sing it to yourself as easily as "A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter." And granted, we're still waiting on a properly restored edition of DAY OF THE TRIFFIDS, but almost everything else Richard O'Brien sings about is easily found on DVD, usually pops up on Turner Classic Movies, and even gets screened every so often in better revival theatres. You can get extra help from watching this video, where one intrepid soul went to the trouble of recreating O'Brien's originally scripted concept of opening the film using film clips instead of red lips:

"Aha, but what about all the audience yelling? Isn't that going to impede whatever constructive information I could receive?" Well, callbacks vary from city to city, but if they're anything like what I learned to shout out when I was fully immersed in the scene, they often actually help draw attention to the guys you oughta know.

Regardez:

"How do you say 'shit' in Polish?"

Peter Suschitzky was the cinematographer for THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK, MARS ATTACKS, and has the distinction of shooting every David Cronenberg film since DEAD RINGERS in 1988. Now that's some shit!

"The editor greamed on Clifford!"

Graeme Clifford apprenticed under the great Robert Altman, doing second-unit work on McCABE AND MRS. MILLER and editing on IMAGES. He also edited two of the most-acclaimed films of cult director Nicolas Roeg, DON'T LOOK NOW and THE MAN WHO FELL TO EARTH. He went on to become a director himself, helping steer Jessica Lange to her first Academy Award nomination for Best Actress in FRANCES, and immortalizing Christian Slater in skater-punk glory in GLEAMING THE CUBE.

 "Smoke La Roche! Smoke La Roche!"

Pierre La Roche only has a couple cultural credits, but they're pretty big. As makeup artist for David Bowie, he came up with the iconic Ziggy Stardust third eye and lightning bolt look, which, naturally, was immortalized in D.A. Pennebaker's concert document ZIGGY STARDUST AND THE SPIDERS FROM MARS, has been copied and parodied for decades, and is probably being aped on a T-shirt at a Hot Topic franchise. As an actor, he appeared in the film referred to as Canada's version of EASY RIDER, GOIN' DOWN THE ROAD; that may not impress any of your Yank friends, but if you find yourself with a couple Canucks, just start talking to them about how you heard Toronto's got jobs, and watch 'em reply, "JOBS? WHOO-HOO!"

"Fuck the roach! Go for the Snow!"

Terry Ackland-Snow has provided art direction for some of the most indelible movie moments of your adolescence. Three Jim Henson projects (including THE DARK CRYSTAL and LABYRINTH), three D.C. superheroes (SUPERMAN II + III, SUPERGIRL, and BATMAN), and one James Bond outing (THE LIVING DAYLIGHTS). And when Dr. Scott blurts out "ALIENS!" during the boring dinner scene, well, yes, Snow worked on that James Cameron epic as well.

"Look, Ward; it's Wally and the Veevers!"

"And Colin always gives me the Chilvers!"

The late Wally Veevers has the distinction of actually working on two of the movies name-checked in "Science Fiction Double Feature": CURSE OF THE DEMON ("Dana Andrews said prunes gave him the runes...") and DAY OF THE TRIFFIDS ("I really got hot when I saw Janette Scott fight a Triffid..."). He also provided visual effects for Stanley Kubrick in DR. STRANGELOVE and 2001: A SPACE ODYSSEY, invented some of the photographic trickery for SUPERMAN, did uncredited effects work on LAWRENCE OF ARABIA and Kenneth Anger's LUCIFER RISING, and before his death in 1983, lent his services to two of that year's best films, THE KEEP and LOCAL HERO.

Colin Chilvers, meanwhile, collaborated with Wally Veevers on four other movies, including SUPERMAN (for which he and his team won a Special Achievement Academy Award), and, on his own, was special effects director for SUPERMAN II + III and FOLLOW THAT BIRD, and special effects coordinator for BRIDE OF CHUCKY and the first X-MEN film. 

Oh, and have you ever seen that music video of Michael Jackson's "Smooth Criminal"? He directed that. From a Sweet T to a Smooth C - that's T.C.B.!

There you go. Now, the next time some Comic-Con cornflake tries to pull rank on you, you can show him who's Boss.

"Wait, that wasn't seven frames!" you say. Okay, fine, so I lied. Guess what, Charles Atlas lied to you too: his real name was Angelo Siciliano. Go call the human race and cry about it, provided you can find a castle with a phone!

By One, Get the One Three

(press play to get the full effect of this opening)

"On June 11th, 2013, Marc Edward Heuck was asked to remove himself from his place of employment. That request came from the corporate office. Deep down, he knew they were right, but he also knew it was a lousy deal after 14 years of service. With few 35mm venues to be found, he looked in on the friends whose dual-projection booths were intact, and sporadically gave them a turn. Can an untimely-job-divorced movie geek subsist in his apartment, without driving himself crazy?"
Yep. It was kinda like that this year, without the Neil Hefti score. My first summer as a free man in Hollywood was an event that was overdue yet still felt undue, but it did yield quite a lot of unique adventure in its wake. It's a most complicated knot of emotions, to have happy opportunity tied up in the hemp strands with frustration and loss, and it's always going to be there even as I theoretically go forth and get wished well in my future endeavors. But to paraphrase Penny Lane, when it gets lonely, you go to the movies and visit your friends. And while I'm not going to join the hype parade suggesting 2013 is another 1939, I gotta say that yet again, this year has had way more good movie experiences than bad ones. I dare say three years into this new decade and there's already an awful lot of bonafide classics stacking up.

A perfect lead-in, thus, for my special Jury Prize of the year: György Pálfi's overwhelming FINAL CUT - LADIES AND GENTLEMEN. Using pieces of 450 different movies and TV shows, it takes the familiar tragectories of the classic stories we've enjoyed on screen - courtship, conflict, and reconciliation - and takes all the many different ways, different faces, different genres that have been used in these endeavors, to demonstrate just how universal this human comedy truly remains. It can't be categorized as merely a clip reel, montage, or mash-up; it's everybody's love story about love AND about the movies. It will likely never get a home video release due to the insane clearances it would require, so if you are passionate about those flickery images on the screen as I am, and are lucky enough to find it in a festival or museum presentation (or, if you must, find it in a darkened lockbox on the internet that can be picked and torrented), let nothing impede you from taking a deep swim in its pool of cinema history.

I'm also throwing in a "Runaway Jury" Prize for my single-most enjoyable off-the-rails movie experience of the year: Tyler Perry's TEMPTATION: CONFESSIONS OF A MARRIAGE COUNSELOR. This is not a movie that was made with any kind of coherence, real-world experience, or understanding of human nature...as they say in the science community, it's not even wrong. But dammit, I went to see this THREE TIMES because no other movie could match it for sheer Martian entertainment value. It's like watching a Skinemax erotic thriller written and directed by a teenager at a Christian youth retreat who didn't actually get to see one, but had one described to him by an uncle who watched the scrambled signal from an old ON-TV converter box: you can't hate the sinner because he obviously has no idea what the sin is in the first place!

And seeing as how movies are my church, let's start with some indulgences.

Ten worthwhile films nobody saw but me:

A.C.O.D.

Aftershock
A Band Called Death

Big Star: Nothing Can Hurt Me
From the Head

Gimme the Loot

Paradise

Sightseers

The Silence

The We and The I

And with that out of the way, let us begin the Stations of the Crosscut: the Top 13 of 2013

13. FURIOUS 6

12. THIS IS THE END

11. FRUITVALE STATION

10. THE PAST

9. NEBRASKA

8. THE WOLF OF WALL STREET

7. HER

6. THE ACT OF KILLING

5. BEFORE MIDNIGHT

4. THE WORLD'S END

3. FRANCES HA

2. 12 YEARS A SLAVE

1. GRAVITY

On a sadly somber note, I would like to dedicate this post to Jen Roach, a longtime friendly eager face that for years could be found at the New Beverly Cinema supporting all manner of screenings, be they high art, low comedy, or deep horror. Her visits became more infrequent in the last couple years, mostly due to raising a son, but also, unbeknownst to many of us, because of much harsher health problems that shockingly claimed her life this past Monday. She should have had decades worth of family time and return visits ahead of her. One of our other mutual regulars, Cathie Horlick, posted a wonderful memorial at her Tumblr.

When you are a hardcore cinemagoer like myself, you often see the same people at the same venues, and when that happens, they'll either reinforce your sense of community or make you feel even more alone and isolated. Jen fell firmly into the former camp: we rarely socialized outside of the moviehouse, but anytime we were in that darkened auditorium we were family. We can only pray that over time, her seat will be filled with someone else who loves the movies as much and as often as her.

So if and when you watch a movie in company with someone this holiday, give them an extra hug please.

It Is The Octopus That Eats Desperate Men

Much like its tortured protagonist and his journey, it could be said the American remake of the 2003 South Korean revenge epic OLDBOY was doomed from its initiation. While many were dismayed but not surprised when talk first surfaced of an English-language adaption of Chan-wook Park's breakout hit, it was likely a curious moment for those same fans when it was announced that it would be directed by longtime firebrand director Spike Lee. Thus, the already skeptical climate this project would have received under normal circumstances by being a remake became a downright minefield of bad press due to the controversial nature of its artistic captain - some of it rather overblown (the process of finding a name actor to co-star with Josh Brolin, the initial lack of a major studio attachment), some of it quite detrimental (artist Juan Luis Garcia calling out the producers' outright theft of his unpaid advertising prototypes and Lee's curt reply of indifference, likely due to his own displeasure with the producers' editing demands, leading to his removal of his longstanding "Joint" designation and well-known 40 Acres & A Mule logo branding). Its release on the Thanksgiving holiday carried a de facto albatross on its neck by opening on only 583 screens nationwide (compared to 1516 for the family drama BLACK NATIVITY, 2572 for the Jason Statham vehicle HOMEFRONT, and 3742 for Disney's FROZEN), resulting in a total opening gross estimate of just over $1 million, and for being the final release for distributor FilmDistrict, whose management and company apparatus are to be fused into rival distributor Focus Features. In short, almost all observers basically declared this film a failure before it even had its first public screenings this past Tuesday evening.

This write-off on the film, figurative and literal, upsets me not just in principle, but in specific to the merits of the finished work. Let me clearly state upfront that Park's adaptation of the otherwise lesser-known late '90's graphic novel is still the better film: its changes to the manga's storyline, its fevered pace of pursuit, its operatic levels of tragedy...as Roger Ebert wrote in his four-star review, "OLDBOY is a powerful film not because of what it depicts, but because of the depths of the human heart which it strips bare." However, and get your torches and pitchforks ready, I feel this new reinterpretation credited to screenwriter Mark Protosevich is the more interesting tale, even though it does not succeed as well as its predecessor. The majority of reviews that have surfaced for Lee's remake essentially carry the same argument for dismissal, saying that for all purposes, it's a note for note copy of the original. Well, to use the parlance of the jazz music that Lee has long championed, it's the notes between the notes you really need to pay attention to in this film.

Need I say we will be dealing in absolute spoilers for both versions?

What initially put me off while watching the new version was the rather extreme unlikeability of Brolin's protagonist Joe Doucett compared to the careless but otherwise nonthreatening air of Choi Min-sik as Oh Dae-su in the original. Both are alcoholics who behave irresponsibly in public and neglect their young daughters on their birthdays, but Dae-su is just a hapless dope, while Doucett is a raging asshole who gets drunk on the job, sexually harasses his assistant, and screams at his estranged wife. As such, the viewer is almost perversely glad to see Doucett get mysteriously imprisoned and isolated from society while they're shocked at the otherwise random jailing of Dae-su. Moreover, when Doucett is freed after 20 years (he spends an extra 5 years in captivity versus the 15 years Dae-su received, probably an appropriate douchenozzle bonus tax), while he has made positive changes like kicking alcohol, getting in shape, and acknowledging the pain he's caused his daughter, he still often behaves like the entitled jerk that he was before his mysterious imprisonment, while Dae-su, just as violent and driven, has a more sympathetic air during his quest. So I can understand if audiences don't feel as invested in his journey, or take any kind of excitement from his numerous battles with the hired hands that stand in the way of his discovery of the truth; it almost seems as if Lee himself doesn't like him either, leading many to suspect it's his passive-agressive way of declaring disinterest in the material.

However, once we finally meet the antagonist, Adrian Pryce (played by Sharlto Copley), I began to get a better inkling of what Lee was really interested in exploring by agreeing to helm this project. Much like his equivalent Lee Woo-jin (played by Yoo Ji-tae) in the original, Pryce seems to have limitless wealth, and is ready to offer a huge amount of it, along with exoneration for the murder of Doucett's wife previously blamed on him, and most importantly, his own suicide, if Doucett can tell him why he caged him for two decades. In both films, it is revealed that a thoughtless incident of youthful voyeurism and slut-shaming by each protagonist led to the death of the antagonist's sister and his desire for revenge. In Park's original, both boys were in high school, and Dae-su is unaware that Woo-jin and his sister were engaged in an incestuous relationship, or that she committed suicide soon after. In Lee's version, both boys (along with another friend, a character in the original manga but omitted from Park's film) are in a much more elite prep school, and this time Doucett unknowingly witnesses Pryce's sister having sex with their father, a moneyed alumnus. It is also revealed the father molested Pryce as well, and after the family relocates to Sweden in the wake of Doucett's rumormongering, the patriarch commits murder-suicide on the entire household, with Pryce as sole survivor. Of all these horrifying revelations, what is the most striking is that as he describes these circumstances, Pryce almost calmly accepts his father's abuse of himself and his sister as normal and acceptable due to the power and respect he commanded by his wealth. Thus, where previously, Woo-jin seeks revenge on Dae-su out of misplaced emotions for his sister, blaming him for the loss of his true love, Pryce, now living under an alias in the wake of his father's rampage, blames Doucett for the loss of his family name and the influence it had carried. And that was where it all clicked for me.

This adaptation of OLDBOY is not meant to be so much a tragedy about the quest for revenge, but a bitter jeremiad about the ingrained structure of white privilege. It's no accident that Doucett, during his captivity, is rankled at seeing the mocking grin of a black concierge on the sarcastic "hotel service" poster in his cell (which comes to life in a hallucination played by the director's brother Cinque Lee), or that the discovery phase reveals his captors to be almost all minorities (led by Samuel L. Jackson) who are ultimately pawns working in the service of an even more powerful white man in Pryce; these are direct confrontations to his pre-captivity image of himself and the world. Moreover, what little he can glean about the world during his 20 years out of it comes from television, and that's no way to have any kind of realistic education about the reality outside. When he's freed from his cell, he's left inside an archaic steamer trunk in an open park, like the artifact from another time that he both metaphorically and literally is. It's quite telling that Doucett drops a quip about THE COUNT OF MONTE CRISTO, and not, say, THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION; he doesn't see himself as an innocent man imprisoned, but as an aristocrat dethroned. Even the title gains a different meaning - rather than suggesting the aging of the protagonist in captivity as it did in its original incarnation, "Oldboy" now summons up notions of "the Old Boys Club," entrenched millionaires cackling like Jim Backus and saying things like "Have another martini, old boy!" And, in the icy sociopathy of Pryce, the incestuous nature of dynastic wealth is carried to the harshest possibility. Meanwhile, the two most sympathetic white characters in the film are Chuckie, the former prep school friend of Doucett who has fallen lower on the class ladder but seems much happier with his life, and Marie, a nurse specifically devoted to working with the underprivileged.

Not that this is a completely humorless story, though how much you laugh depends on your own mordant sensibilities. The ongoing references to Doucett's disconnect from modern progress - learning the internet, searching for a Yellow Pages - are effective not just as a tension-breaking aspect of his captivity, but also within the film's theme of affluent men who live in such a bubble they don't know the world has changed around them. While Doucett's surgical flaying of Chaney's neck for information is most gross and horrifying, I must admit I began to imagine this sequence as some sort of subconscious revenge fantasy on actor Jackson by director Lee in regards to the very public fracas over Quentin Tarantino that led to their longtime rift after multiple film collaborations, and chuckled to myself. ("THAT'S for telling Quentin it's okay to use the n-word in his movies! And THAT'S for you saying the n-word all those times in his movies!") And when Pryce reveals that even the television programs Doucett was able to watch in captivity on the ancient TV with the '70's "clicker" remote were often curated or even flat-out faked, my mind was instantly grateful for getting an answer to my wonky question of "How did they get around the analog-to-digital TV transition of 2009?"

A very effective change, in my opinion, is the elimination of post-hypnotic triggering that was a significant element in Park's film, for though it was very effective in bolstering the classical allusions of a hero and heroine unaware of their manipulation or their fate in that film, in this outing, it would have played like a convenient excuse, because Lee and Protosevich insist on Doucett taking responsibility for his bad choices pre-imprisonment, so it is only right that the all-too-predictable manner in which an Alpha male like him would solve his dilemma should create his ultimate downfall. The way in which Pryce has manipulated the lives of Doucett and Marie make hyponsis unnecessary - he has already planted the seeds by depriving one of human touch or kindness, and reinforcing a combination Florence Nightingale/daddy dependence in the other. For those who complain that how would Pryce know that they would fulfill the needs of his master plan, well that's easy: simple human nature. The impulse to help a rattled stranger with severe injuries, a quest for justice, trauma from unexplained attacks. And, of course, having enough money that if the scenario isn't playing as speedily as you would like, contriving some other details in your favor. (Fascinating that, for a story that is often remembered for a man devouring an octopus, few notice that it is the tentacles of a billionaire that, in effect, devours that man.) More important, what previously offered Doucett any sense of advantage over Pryce or his family, whom he didn't even realize existed during his brief interaction with them, were the choices he made, be it to tease and expose their daughter, or to piss away his oppotunities by his alcoholism, or his casual unappreciation of his own family. And Pryce wants to drive home what another ruthless billionaire once opined, that "most people never have to face the fact that at the right time and the right place, they're capable of anything." Taking advantage of the fact that Doucett has lost 20 years of his life, but he still thinks that he can throw enough punches or dollars at the situation to get to the truth, Pryce lays out a series of moments where he could have done something differently, but chose not to. He could have taken the money that was left in the wallet and fled town, but instead he chased the girl with the yellow parasol and met Marie. He could have called the police on Chaney's bizarre prison/hotel when he found it, but instead he went on a hammer rampage. And he could have politely rebuffed Marie's advances in that hotel room, but instead he gave into his base impulses. As another movie about the framing of a guilty man observed, "Hell is the time you should have walked, but you didn't." Doucett has been manipulated by a man deranged, but he cannot take solace in being forced into bad choices under hypnosis like Dae-su; he made them clean and sober.

And the last major change this movie features from its Korean predecessor that, for me, makes it more interesting (if, keep in mind, not necessarily better), is its resolution. Park's OLDBOY, after the last heartbreaking revelation and the suicide of his enemy, leaves Dae-su self-amputating his tongue and seeking the same hypnotist who induced his fateful triggers to help suppress the memories of the experience, with a reunion between himself and young Mi-do leaving ambiguity as to whether the maneuver was effective. In Lee's telling, after his enemy's death, Doucett uses the significant fortune promised to him by Pryce to pay Cheney to allow him to return to his previous captivity, along with a financial provision for Marie, who will be spared the truth of their connection, but will never see him again. In the wake of everything he has learned about Pryce and about himself, Doucett has determined that he has no place in this society or in the life of Marie, and chooses to spend the remainder of his days isolated from it all, in the hope that things will get better by his absence. In effect, in contrast to Pryce, whose very name suggested all could be bought and controlled, Doucett is finally living in the peaceful gentility his name origin suggests. I can't say if this means that Lee's final statement on rich old white men is to spread the wealth among those who need it (working class, charities, etc) and then get the hell out of the way, but in the case of this one man, he has finally done one deed that, as director, Lee does respect and admire, and believe will finally bring him redemption after a lifetime of near unforgivable acts.

Spike Lee's OLDBOY does not and will never trump, transcend, or escape the shadow of Chan-wook Park's OLDBOY in the manner that, say, John Huston's THE MALTESE FALCON supplanted Roy Del Ruth's earlier production. However, as a stand-alone movie, as a different reading of a familiar story, and as a unit (if not a full-on "joint") of Lee's large body of work, it's a compelling film with something to say, even if for now, nobody wants to listen. I hope it doesn't take 20 years for it to find a hospitable audience.

Sad Song on the Fourble Board

This past Tuesday, I performed two otherwise completely unrelated activities. I bought a CD of a legendary rock album, and I listened to a classic episode of an old time radio scary story. And in the middle of the night, I pondered on the spiritual link between them...

Most recently brought to light by a tweet from Patton Oswalt, "The Thing on the Fourble Board" from the series QUIET PLEASE is ranked alongside Orson Welles' adaptation of "The War of the Worlds," the "Sorry, Wrong Number" episode of SUSPENSE, and the "Chicken Heart" episode of LIGHTS OUT as one of the scariest, creepiest radio broadcasts ever performed. And after taking a listen to it at, oh, around 2:37 a.m. after a tumbler of Old Crow, I too was finding myself rattled by ordinary house noises as I attempted to go to sleep soon after. Like many who discover the tale, I'm loath to go into details until the reader/listener themselves have had a chance to experience it themselves. So set the reading aside for a half hour and listen to this, okay? I'll wait.

(or, if you'd rather listen on a uZuny or whatever device, you can download here)

Did you listen? Good. Are you rattled? It'll be okay. Let's talk it out.

On a surface level, this episode is effective because of the deceptively dry, matter of fact manner in which the narrator lays out what seem like tedious details of his life and job - his unattentive wife, how drill bits work, the length of oil pipe - and then applies that exact same ordinary tone to the ickier reveals he has in store for us, his unspoken houseguests. It's a narrative device that rarely fails, whether used to unnerve, as when Shirley Jackson states "Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones," or to amuse, as when Donald Barthelme opines "I also thought four hundred dollars for a [gallows], on top of the expense for the drinks, invitations, musicians, and everything, was a bit steep..."

But what I think really seals the deal for those who have embraced this story is the peculiar mix of abject horror and empathetic love the narrator develops and expresses for the titular creature whom he refashions into a wife...how, despite claiming the lives of his friends, nearly costing him his own freedom during police investigation, and its possessing a body that previously existed only in his nightmares, he is stricken with pity at its predicament in a world it has never known, of being maimed itself by a threat it never experienced, and sees humanity in its visage. This narration is punctuated by equally scary yet poignant wails from versatile voice actress Cecil Roy.

It stood there dripping with red paint, blood-red from head to foot, like some horrible dream. And it put its hand on my arm. Its hand was stone. Living, moving stone. And it looked into my eyes. And mewed like a lost kitten...I discovered many things about it...it was invisible and couldn't see people when it was invisible; that if you sprayed it with mud or paint or greasepaint -- make-up -- then it could see people. And, believe me, I didn't want to see its body -- I can see that in my nightmares. But its face...I can't help wanting to see that pathetic, little girl face. I'm afraid maybe I've fallen-- Ah, but it's very beautiful. And when it's well made-up, it's...But making it up, rubbing greasepaint on a stone face that looks at ya and smiles and it makes sounds like a lost kitten yet. I can disguise the body in long dresses. She can’t hear very well and when she’s hungry, I have to stay out of her way. 

The album I picked up hours earlier that evening also involves a narrator dryly observing and accepting sordid behavior from a female partner and himself. One of the tracks even features similarly jarring cries of lost children.

They're taking her children away

Because they said she was not a good mother

They're taking her children away

Because of the things that they heard she had done

The black Air Force sergeant was not the first one

And all of the drugs she took, every one, every one

And I am the Water Boy, the real game's not over here

But my heart is overflowin' anyway

I'm just a tired man, no words to say

But since she lost her daughter

It's her eyes that fill with water

And I am much happier this way

The recently departed Lou Reed released BERLIN in 1973, his third solo album after the breakup of the Velvet Underground and the success of his previous record TRANSFORMER, which yielded his sole Top 40 hit, "Walk on the Wild Side." Conceived as a song cycle, it tells a bleak story of a quickly curdling relationship between two drug addicts in the decadent city, where mutual abuse and infidelity lead to tragedy and icy resignation. Even for fans of Reed at the time, who were well-versed in songs like "Heroin" and "Waiting for the Man" depicting all manner of outré living, and likely well aware of his participation in such activity in real life, this album initially proved too dark to embrace. It received poor reviews, and was considered such a disappointment that for years, Reed never performed the album in full; it was only in 2006 that he revisited it for a series of concerts staged and filmed by painter/filmmaker Julian Schnabel, by which time its reputation had so improved it was listed at #344 on Rolling Stone's Top 500 Albums of All Time.

While BERLIN is not a horror story in the conventional sense of what most would say the term suggests, it offers up an interesting convergence to the earlier tale of monstrous embrace from the radio days. What is scary about both situations are the depictions of someone not so far removed from ourselves to willingly be suborned into heinous acts in the name of misplaced affections, be they an oil-rigger luring human food to his mate, or a failed dilettante passively watching his lover prostitute herself to get them more drugs. Also scarily real, the relatability of how unhealthily co-dependent these relationships are to their storytellers -- the narrator of "Thing" likes the face of the creature, but not much else about her, and for all his pity, does likely enjoy being in a position of power as its caregiver, much like meth addict Jim expresses how happier he is to not be burdened with Caroline's children, leaving her to turn her attention fully on him. They are both Water Boys tendering and enabling wounded yet destructive lovers.

The thing on the fourble board lost a finger.

Of Caroline, "Somebody else would have broken both of her arms."

As such, this radio drama and this musical drama are effective kindred, tapping into our fears of how susceptible we could be to doing and accepting bad things for what seemed like rational reasons, and our skill at putting aside our consciences to live with the evil we've done. And consuming each of them for the first time on an ordinary Tuesday made an extraordinary impact for me. Do I recommend this caustic cocktail for yourselves? If you're ready to appreciate the beauty of bummer endings, by all means. Just keep a night light and a white noise machine at the ready if the quiet is too much to bear.

If you don't have a white noise machine, METAL MACHINE MUSIC will do.