Made Out Of Mouth

SKIDOO

2005-11-08T23:30:00.000-05:00

I have to admit that I was underwhelmed with the slightly overhyped Skidoo. More head shaking than jaw-dropping, this failed attempt to tune into the sixties drug vibe serves best as a cautionary tale for those clinging to coolness. Made by Otto Preminger (Anatomy of a Murder) in 1968 this comic, acid tripping romp stars Jackie Gleason, Carol Channing, Frankie Avalon, Cesar Romero, Mickey Rooney, and many, many others.

By 1968, most of the cast were cast off as "your parents comedians". Desperately trying to remain hip this aging pack of comedians attempt to tap into a free spirit style that is utterly foreign to them. Imagine your parents listening to "your" music. That's how pathetic Skidoo feels. As laughable as it maybe to watch Jackie Gleason undergo an acid trip, full of psychedelic cliches and not so groovy music, it is hard to stop from wincing at the sad fact that Hollywood had no clue how to handle the changing times of the late 60's. It's no wonder that a film like Easy Rider could throttle itself into box office stardom. Skidoo could not have been much fun for anyone back in '68. Parents who grew up with those comedian did not want to see them like this and the youth of '68 had to have sensed a rat. Skidoo sticks out like a narc at a biker rally.

Today, Skidoo is a humorous note in the annals of film history. It's a marker of a point in time when Hollywood was looking to strip cash from a changing culture that it could not put its thumb on. From the present day perspective its easy to see how mis-guided the whole project feels. One automatically wonders what drugs studio executives were on when they green-lighted a project that has Groucho Marx playing a mob king-pin known as God and has its credits sung by Nilsson. Yes, singing credits and Groucho Marx smoking the Pot! Perhaps, those are were the two selling points in a sales pitch that must have been hilarious to hear. Groucho and Nilsson are perhaps the two best points in a truly bungled picture.

Now, I am left to wonder what modern films will stand out like Skidoo. Hollywood continues to have trouble understanding the youth market and old celebrities refuse to die young. Will the present day obsession with the 80's, the persistent use of supercasts, or the heavy dependency upon irony leads us to our next Skidoo? Only time will tell. Until then be cautious of what you cling to.

STILL LIFE

2005-11-08T19:46:00.000-05:00

Still Life
(Bruce Baillie, 1966, 2 minutes, color)

A quaint joke at best, this short film holds for two minutes on a static shot of obstructed bodies sitting two rooms away as they discuss a photograph. Filmic jokes can only be told once, which makes them rather rather poor jokes.

TUNG

2005-11-08T19:40:00.000-05:00

Tung
(Bruce Baillie, 1966, 6 minutes, color)

Playing just after Bartlett's Moon, the opening shot of Baillie's Tung is rather confusing. The image of the distant moon reflected in a small body of water, perhaps a puddle, is one of the more striking images I have ever seen in cinema. Playing off Aristotelian ideas the univeral the practical image of the moon floating in a pool of water is poetic and haunting.

Sadly, this image is quickly obstructed and gives way to multiple exposures and distroted images that speak more to a fucked up state of perception than a quiet state of being. How quickly solace slips away.

MOON

2005-11-08T19:27:00.000-05:00

Moon
(Scott Bartlett, 1969, 15 minutes, color)

Bartlett finds a subject in the moon and then filters his subject through an series of video and film effects to create a drug induced trip to the moon. It's interesting if you are into the sort of images associated with drug trips. Personally, I'd rather watch footage of the actual moon landing that supposedly took place that same year. You don't need drugs to enjoy that. I'd rather watch those images than Bartlett's altered images.

MAKING OFFON

2005-11-08T19:25:00.000-05:00

Making Offon
(Scott Bartlett, 1980, 10 minutes, color)

During a video production course Bartlett and students recreate some of the effects used in his 1967 piece OffOn. Outside of a few moments where Bartlett acts like a magician revealing his tricks there is not much of interest in this piece. Oddly, a few technical explinations made to clue the audience into vocabulary being used by Bartlett was cause for chuckles amonst some of the film students in the audience. Why, I do not know? Is jargon now considered funny? I missed that memo.

OFFON

2005-11-08T19:15:00.000-05:00

Offon (Scott Bartlett, 1967, 10 minutes, color)

Bartlett was one of the first experimental filmmakers to create electronic cinema. Utilizing early video equipment and trippy film loops Bartlett was able to create mind-bending images. Today, they feel dated and regressive. We've seen it all before from music videos to feature films. The psychedelic images of dancing female forms melting into one another, wild colors, and crazy patterns. Pass the brown acid.

Obviously, I am not so impressed with this work. Growing up straight-edge and never having taken mind-altering drugs may have something to so with my lack of interest. More particularly, it is Bartlett's lack of subject matter that disinterested me most. He's just a boy playing with toys.

RAIDERS OF THE LOST ARK ( 5 Random Thoughts)

2005-11-07T22:25:00.000-05:00

I hadn't watched this in years, I'm going to guess at least 12. I thought I'd just zone out and fall asleep, but instead I ended up watching the whole thing. While I did these thoughts ran through my head.

1) What the hell sort of school is Dr. Jones teaching at? It's 1938. I believe he's in California. San Fran, from what I can tell by the map when his plane takes off. Is this Stanford or Berkeley? Why does it appear like he has nothing but girls in his class? Minus one or two boys, the classroom is swarming with girls. Was there a big female interest in archeology during the late 30's or were all those girls just looking to touch Indiana's whip. At least one of them shows signs that she wants to.

2) Wow! Talk about coincidences. I was just talking about surveying and how it was a lost art. I saw some students on campus doing an exercise and I commented that I thought it would be neat to know how to use surveying tools. I remember reading that a lot of our country's forefathers knew how to survey the land. Perhaps, is was a more necessary skill when you did not have satellites and Mapquest. I think it would get you more in touch with the land. But, I totally overlooked the fact that this ancient art could help you find the Ark of the Covenant. Yet, there was Dr. Jones scoping out buried treasure.

3) This is a rather violent film. I don't remember it being this violent. People get shot in the face, people get burnt alive, people get chopped up by propeller blades. Egads, have I grown old or was I desensitized to violence at a young age thanks to Steven Spielberg? Still, I now found this rather excessive, especially for a PG film. I know everyone laughs when Indiana shoot the sword swinging Arab. Ha-ha. But, isn't this just typical of Americans, always solving their problems with guns?

4) Flat-out and no bones about it, this is good screen-writing and good directing. I may not like much of Spielberg's adult work, but when it comes to Boy's Life fantasies I have to give the dude credit. But, I give more credit to Philip Kaufman and Lawrence Kasdan. One can only imagine what would have happened if George Lucas had bothered to write the whole thing himself. It would be over kill city with horrible dialog, but her the dialog is minimal, important, humorous, and sharp. The scenes are equally sly, especially having the heroine introduced in a drinking game only to have her high alcohol tolerance return at a later point in the film. I don't know if I caught that as a younger film viewer.

5) There are parts of this film that are still genuinely creepy. Both the image of the snake coming out of the corpse's mouth and the melting of the Nazi's is freaky shit. These little touches help move the film away from being a strict action/adventure tale and help add a touch of horror.

Now, let me go on record and say that it will be another decade before I feel the need to watch Raiders of the Lost Ark again, but here is proof that I've not completely turned my back on the films of my childhood.

JERRY'S

2005-11-07T12:35:00.000-05:00

Jerry's (Tom Palazzalo, 1974, 9 minutes, color)

Jerry's isn't your typical deli and that's because Jerry isn't your typical guy. He's a piquant shopkeeper who grabs customers by the arm, rushes them to the counter, and barks at slow ordering folk. He barks at his employees. He barks into the phone. But, his bark is worse than his bite as Jerry himself admits that his attitude it more schtick than anything. For all the guff Jerry dishes out it doesn't seem to slow down business and Jerry tries to analyze why people come back and agree to be man handled and yelled at.

Short, sweet, and full of life - real life, Jerry's is a wonderful gem of a documentary. More human than the Soup Nazi of Seinfeld fame, but just as unique. Sometimes truth is stranger than fiction.

RESTAURANT

2005-11-07T12:00:00.000-05:00

Restaurant
(Andy Warhol, 1965, 33 minutes, B/W)

Allow me to be smarmy for a moment. No one would give two licks about this film if it weren't for the cult of Warhol. Yes, one can enjoy the film for its minimal use of camera. The opening images flash by until the camera settles on a close-up of an ashtray, a few classes, a bottle, and random hands descending and ascending into the frame. The voices are barely audible, a dissonant white noise. Occasionally a shrill scream makes itself heard over the din. The film's star, Edie Sedgwick takes a prominent seat to the right side of the frame, but her face is far out of frame. As time goes on the camera slowly zooms out to revel a cluster of Warhol "stars" such as Ondine and Edie sitting at a table table. They gab, the order, they drink, and they smoke. Every 100th word is heard, but nothing makes much sense. Later, the camera shifts about the room attempting to pry in on the conversation of other diners. Finally, the camera returns to Edie and then the film runs out.

As an exercise in gesture or banal camera work this may hold the slightest interest. Many images appear like that from a liquor ad or an absurd play, with a gaggle of partygoers crammed around one table. However, if the film were only that and nothing more it would not have withstood the test of time. Since it was made by Andy Warhol the film continues to exist and it continues to torture film students and for once I actually felt rather sorry for the kids in the lecture hall. I only have to wonder what a faculty member would say if one of these students turned in a similar project. A or F, what would the student get?

ALMOST HOME

2005-11-02T19:00:00.000-05:00

Once again I am having to comment on the work of an instructor and find myself knowingly watching my words. So often, I shoot from the hip when writing these entries, but there is the occasional need to type cautiously.

As a PBS documentary I really enjoyed Almost Home. Being that it is a documentary intended for PBS its hard to fault the film for what it ended up being. Attempting to tell the story of a nursing home in the midst of change and the various stories of the people who live and work at this evolving site, filmmaker Brad Lichtenstein tackles a formidable task. It's never easy to show a comprehensive view in a mere ninety minutes.

Focusing on a few key individuals the film finds most of its structure in their lives and how they have been effected by the nursing and the new changes that are afoot. Taking a more caring and home like approach to assisted living Saint John's is allowing residents to have more say in how they are cared for and treated. Gone are the days of regimented feeding and bathing times. No longer are patients confined to wheel chairs, strapped to beds, or bound to their rooms. A family like environment is promoted, one that encourages staff to get to know the residents and to bond with them, but for an underpaid and overworked staff this may be asking to much. Many nurses complain and surprisingly so do some of the patients. Afraid that the new lax rules may allow for his wife to sleep her life away and slowly give into the dementia that already has taken away a good portion of her mind, one husband feels that the new policies are a hindrance to his wife's mental health.

Complain as some might, most are grateful for the new rules. Trips to museums, lunch dates at restaurants, and even an occasional visit to an old family cabin give back a great deal of life to those who may have spent the rest of theirs trapped inside a nursing home. A genuine sense of care and bonding forms between many of the staff and the residents as they learn to live with the new rules and with one another. Throughout the course of the film it does appear that things are getting better, even for some residents who must deal with the harsh realities of old age.

In particular, one distinguished senior citizen must watch as her husband succumbs to Parkison's disease. As his life comes to a halt she slowly distances herself from him. Still lively and still healthy, she shuns her own husband in favor of new friends she has made at Saint John's. As heartbreaking as it is to watch a man not only lose his mind, but his heart it is not a wholly sad story. By the film's end he has moved on and has found another woman, someone equally as incapacitated as himself, but just as sweet. The image of them in their wheelchairs holding hands is enough to make your cry. That is unless you consider the fact that he's still a married man. However, this concern does come up amongst the staff, but do to the state of these two beings and the man's wife wanting nothing to do with him, no one sees much fault in their youthful romance.

Told in a style quite similar to three various forms of documentary, Almost Home promotes itself as a cinema verte, but truth be told it can not rightfully claim this title. And, here is where I may find myself in hot water. The French filmmaker Jean Rouch coined the term Cinema Verte when he attempted to get to the truth through cinema. Through the probing use of questions, Jean Rouch would interview his subjects on camera, asking them question after question, always attempting to get to a deeper truth. Later, he would have his subjects look at the film he shot and comment on whether or not they thought it was truthful. Almost Home does include interviews, but you never hear the filmmaker asking the questions. Nor will you find the subjects looking at themselves and commenting on the honesty captured or not captured by the camera. Yes, there is a handheld, shaky, in-the-thick-of-it camera style in Almost Home and this same camera style was often used in cinema verte films. It gives the viewer a sense of watching life unravel before the camera. However, this same camera style is also found in the Americanized version of cinema verte, a style known as direct method. However, there are too many titles and too many stylized edits to make Almost Home a version of the very pure and very minimalist technique that is indicative of direct method cinema. Lastly, there is free cinema, a movement from England that emphasized films about non-glamorous, working class individuals and activities. In subject matter, Almost Home compares slightly with this branch of documentary. The worker's at Saint John's are certainly working class. The residents who can afford such luxury are probably not.

I do not want this to be a semantic argument. I merely bring up these terms because I feel that Almost Home lacks a distinct style. Floating somewhere between these three various styles of documentary I feel it borrows plenty from each, but does not lean far enough into any one style to give the film an overall aesthetic. For PBS this is probably not an issue as the blending of style s culminates into a highly emotional and informed piece that will surely spark debate and discussion. Speaking from the point of view of an artist, I feel the film is lacking a unique vision that would make this a Brad Lichtenstein piece and not just a PBS piece. Perhaps I need to see more of the filmmaker's work, but unlike a Werner Herzog or Fredrick Wiseman or Errol Morris who's personal style is so singular that you can not mistake them for someone else, Lichtenstein seems to have not found a personal touch.

I would like to cite one specific moment in the film before closing. Left alone, at a rather fancy dining table the film's heartbreaking hero battles with Parkinson's as he attempts to return his half-filled water glass from his lips to the table. With shaking hands he gets the glass to the table only to find that the clutter of napkins, utensils, plates, and additional drinking vessels has left him little room to place his glass down. While the nursing home has diligently attempted to recreate a fine dining experience in their food hall they have over looked the simple fact that for some, the difficulty of eating is only compounded by the overdressed tables. In this rather long shot, perhaps the longest shot in the film, we watch this man struggle to retain his dignity while enjoying some fine dining. Due to the length of the shot one is able to contemplate whether all this decoration is a service or dis-service to the individual. In essence, you have the gist of the film in this one shot. I only wish there had been more images like this- poetic and paused, giving room for thought.

NINE LIVES

2005-10-30T19:00:00.000-05:00

It is not often that I find myself praising a new release by a first time filmmaker. Nine Lives is the exception that gives me hope and reminds me that I am not a cinematic shark tearing apart every new vision I come across.

Nine Lives had all the potential to be a sentimental time bomb. On paper it reads like a bad Lifetime Movie. Rodrigo Garcia, son of famed poet Gabriel Garcia Marquiez, sets forth to tell the stories of nine separate women with slightly interconnected lives. The cast includes Holly Hunter, Dakota Fanning, Robin Wright Penn, Glenn Close amongst others. This alone should have propelled me to stay home, the fact that the screening was taking place during the final night of the Milwaukee International Film Festival was an equally good reason to catch up on some house cleaning, but I went anyways. For one simple reason I went to the picture show. I had read that the film was made up of nine shots, one long shot for each woman’s story. Being a sucker for such exercises in style I went.

Later I will comment on the film festival side of the screening. For now, I would like to praise Nine Lives for 9 simple things it did right.

1) It stuck to its guns. Garcia decided to shoot the whole film in nine shots and he does not cop out. One could argue that this may have limited him or that he was being lazy, but the Steadicam is no easy tool to use.

2) The camera work shies away from free-floating Steadicam bravado. Rather than exploit the mobile camera with visual tricks or uninformative gestures such as circling around a subject Garcia lets the camera follow the actions of the actors or redirect itself through off camera sounds. In no way is the work showy or invasive, but instead it feels natural and buoyant.

3) In 6 out of the 9 lives, Garcia calls cut at exactly the right time. The fact that he does not score a perfect 9 out of 9 is beside the point. Even a major league baseball player does not get a hit every time he steps up to the plate. For the most part Garica is productive with his choices on when to end a scene/shot. Perhaps he could have done so sooner in one or two scenes, but even so, the little bit of overkill that remains does not destroy the scene or the entire picture. Other new directors should watch Nine Lives just to see the right to get out of a scene, that leaves you feeling both satisfies and wanting to know more.

4) Others may love her, but I think she is a freakish looking child, so I am happy to say that Garica does not fill the frame with Dakota Fanning’s missing tooth smile. He keeps the camera at a distance. Those big eyes set in that big head are just too much for me. They belong on a velvet painting or in a creepy doll. Acting wise, Fanning is decent if not overly sweet. It’s hard to chastize a child actor, but someone should tell her parents or her agent (if they are not one in the same) to put the kid away for a few years before we all rot our teeth out on that precise little sugar cube.

5) The guys. I know this is a film about women, but with out stupid men would women be half as crazy as they are? Joe Mantenga, Aidan Quinn, Ian McShane, and Stephen Dillane. The last two coming as complete surprises; both with great sense comedic timing and class.

6) Speaking of laughs, the film is full of laughs. Garica is smart enough to know that you cannot have life without a little laughter and he sneaks laughter into some of the most inappropriate places. At funerals, during affairs, and in hospitals, humor creeps into the picture in that unsettling way it creeps into life. People laugh when they lack any other response, when their emotions overload, past the point of tears.

7) Two young women – Lisa Gay Hamilton and Amanda Seyfried. These two strong young actresses outdid many of their older contemporaries and they did so through their performance and not just their looks. They are not Hollywood beautiful, they are Hollywood normal looking. It is nice to see young, talented faces not just pretty, young faces.

8) The music is not reliant upon modern music. What a novelty. Pay someone to compose music for your film and ask them to play something classical sounding and not something in tune with the today’s coffeehouse muzak.

9) The women. With the exception of Glenn Close and Dakota Fanning all the women in this film are amazing and many of them are names that are either unknown or growing to old to shine. Hollywood has always had a hard time giving good parts to aging actresses. It is nice to see that you do not need Botox and a boob job to light up the silver screen.

I have lots of praise for Nine Lives and for Rodrigo Garcia, but for the last life I feel something should be said. Unlike the previous eight stories seen in the film, the last story is not really connected to the rest of the stories. Further more, it is a two person piece shared between the two worst actors in the film. Dakota Fanning and Glenn Close vie with one another for an Academy Award as they pour the worst parts of their acting talent into two overly ripe roles. From the on-set of the scene, something feels amiss and it does not take long before a perceptive view will catch on to the forthcoming twist. I will not ruin the mystery here. I will say that there was little or no need for this last story that so bluntly mentions the film’s title and its connection to the legendary nine lives of cats. Everything is too on the nose and the twist is enough to make you feel as if you have been punched in the nose in the hopes of making squirt a few tears.

That one scene aside, this is a rather strong film that received a rather strong round of applause from a very packed theatre. In a week this film will play a normal run at the same theatre and I doubt as many people would have shown up in the course of that run. The high turn out is strictly due to the fact that this was closing night at the film festival. It takes a big event to get people out to the theatre. The problem with big events is that people make them too big. The events stop becoming about the films and instead they become a long series thanks. Before the film could play, the audience had to endure twenty minutes of self-congratulations and promotions for the sponsors of the film festival. Then there would be the promotional video that has played before every film festival film. Even the speakers seem sick of that. Sure, all the speakers say they wish they did not have to go through the litany of thanks, but that with out these people and these companies the film festival would never happen, and so forth. Whatever happened to people giving just to give? Or to support the arts? Whatever happened to anonymous donations? Everything is now an even trade for ad space and name drops. People only seem to support these sort of events so they can put feathers in their caps. The problem now is that all those feathers are starting to obstruct the films. And, this is only year 3 of the Milwaukee International Film Festival.

ATOZ

2005-10-24T11:45:00.000-05:00

ATOZ
(Robert Breer, 7 mins., color, 2000)

Whether pronounced ATOZ or A to Z this short, colorful animated piece uses rapidly morphing shapes to represent the various letters of the alphabet. Seemingly made with magic markers, the film presents an array of ideas, but never finds a solid structure. Particular letters receive more attention while others flash by too quickly with the maker not taking the time to explore any ideas or objects often associated with that particular letter. For the most part, the pace is lively and the subject matter is kept humorous, even perverse. Still, this feels like an animated segment from Sesame Street done for a slightly older audience, post-puberty. If this is irony than I quit.

ZORNS LEMMA

2005-10-24T10:30:00.000-05:00

Zorns Lemma
(Hollis Frampton, 60 mins., color, 1970)

Going into this screening I expected chaos. I imagined something akin to that scene in Gremlins where the creatures have taken over the movie theatre. Of course, nothing of the sort happened. An hour long experimental film won't insight a riot. It will just put people to sleep.

Hollis Frampton's short piece, Lemon, was actually one of the more appreciated works screened this semester. My students found it quirky and amusing, but at only a few minutes in length they also enjoyed it's brevity. Somewhere, in some journal or notebook, I have a quote along the lines of : "Brevity is the soul of wit." I'm probably mangling the quote beyond recognition and I wish I knew who said it, but basically the world loves a short, simple joke.

I do not think Frampton intends for his films to be jokes, but they are rather whimsical. Perhaps they should be compared more to intellectual games as most of Zorns Lemma plays like a game revolving around the alphabet. Starting with spoken text from an early American grammar textbook, a black screen presents the viewer with nothing to focus their eyes upon. Switching from no image and sound to no sound and lots of images the bulk of the film is comprised of second long handheld shots of signs. Structured around the 24 letter Roman alphabet ( the 'i' and 'j' a re combined just as the 'u' and 'v' are as well) the film plays off of films frame rate of 24 frames per second. Cycling through the alphabet the shots of text plucked from signs loop round and round. In time, each letter is replaced by another image, free from text, but capturing a small action working towards completion. Some of these actions include the changing of a tire, the peeling of a tangerine, or the painting of the wall. As time progresses one realizes that the film will be over once all the letters have been replaced with images and once the action in all the images is complete. It took me some time to figure out that not only did the shots switch from one letter to the next, but that with each letter set the shots worked through an alphabetic pattern, thus the word 'meat' would be followed by 'meet' and so on. Realizing this I began to guess what words would appear in the next go around and groan when Frampton thought of a word I had not foreseen.

Uncertain where the film would end I began to grow rather frustrated with the game after it had persisted for over a half-an-hour. Rather than keep guessing what words might appear I found myself looking for mistakes in the editing. Knowing that certain images would always proceed other images I found my brain playing tricks on me as I swore that particular shots were now out of order. Like an elaborate game of Concentration I found my memory to be a poor tool for determining the film's larger structure. Certain that I was wrong and that Frampton had more time to map out the film than I had to remember the map he laid forth, I went back to guessing what the last few words would be. Trying to just enjoy the peculiar words he had managed to find on the street or the variety of fonts on display I let the next ten minutes click by and then nearly missed the last word in the cycle, as it switched from text to an image of a beautiful red bird. The game was over and I almost missed it.

The film ends with a series of long, wide shots of a man, woman and dog crossing a snowy field. The white of the snow acts as an opposite to the darkness that opened the film. However, this portion of the film has both image and sound. The sound is provided by multiple narrators reading from a 11th century treatise by Robert Grosseteste. The text speaks of light and being Hollis Frampton, a rather playful filmmaker, it becomes obvious that the film will not end until the white of the snow covered field has consumed the frame, leaving us with nothing but light.

Overall, Zorns Lemma is not that hard of a film to stay awake through, so long as you have a playful mind. Sadly, this isn't probably the case with most people. Though that's rather strange as most Hollywood films are all about playing games. I guess this is just a slightly higher level of play, akin to the Friday edition of the New York Time Crossword puzzle. I will still fault my students for not engaging the game. But then again, the Teaching Assistant sitting next to me didn't make it far into the film. So it goes. Sometimes you don't show up ready to play. I guess I'm just the sort of sick minded person that loves a structuralist film that plays whimsical games. But I don't think I'd want to play this game more than once every few years.

WHEEL OF TIME

2005-10-23T18:30:00.000-05:00

Sadly, this new Werner Herzog documentary does not possess the singularity of Grizzly Man, God’s Angry Man, or even his fiction narratives that seemingly captures the blind ambitions of one self-consumed individual. Rather than having its story chained to one or two individuals, Wheel of Time focuses on hundreds or thousands of individuals who travel great lengths to take part in a highly spiritual Buddhist ceremony.

At the center of this grand event is the laborious construction of a giant sand painting, know as a sand painting. Intricately designed and painstakingly crafted by well-trained artisans, this colorful map to the inner being is destroyed just after it has been finished and viewed by the many pilgrims who have trekked many miles for enlightenment. With a swipe of the Dalai Lama’s palm across the countless grains of colored sand, the impermanence of all things is visually expressed, but sadly, it is done in such a matter of fact way, that any sense of loss slips away from the image.

Taking the story away from the construction of the sand painting Herzog attempts to construct a larger picture of Buddhist practices. From lively philosophical debates to masochistic journeys across barren lands to Western Buddhists in Austria, the view Herzog delivers is that of a wide reaching National Geographic documentary and not the usual focused study that Herzog has been known to produce. The fact that much of the film is promoted as Herzog being able to get access to sacred lands and unseen rituals does not really help the film. One has a hard time believing that these images have not been captured before. Especially with many cameras in the frame.

Still, Herzog is Herzog. Whether he is debating with the Dalai Lama himself or he is taking the time to let his camera point out odd idiosyncrasies such as the security guards at a Buddhist meeting in Austria or the occasional Westerner influence upon Buddhist monks in India these are things one expects only Herzog to handle in such a delicate and contemplative manner.

Perhaps, if Herzog would have focused wholly on the construction of the sand painting, the effort and time that goes into it and then its ultimate destruction this film would have the same impact as Grizzly Man. Alternatively, perhaps, he could have marched for years with the one Buddhist who traveled cross-country by kneeling and pressing his forehead against the Earth after each step.. As it now stands, the Wheel of Time is interesting and engaging. It is an open look into a different culture, but outside of a few Herzogian moments of brilliance, it feels more like a travelogue done by a great director than a great piece of documentary filmmaking.

UNDERGROUND CINEMA #1 - FLESH FOR FRANKENSTEIN & BLOOD FOR DRACULA

2005-10-06T19:00:00.000-05:00

What started out as Summer Camp then transformed briefly into Unschooled Cinema has now become Underground Cinema. The idea behind each name has remained the same: show two films linked in some thematic fashion, with each film being something that would rarely be screened in a classroom setting. Whether the screening be held on a Friday, a Wednesday, or a Thursday, as the screenings now take place, the goal has always been to give students a four hour beak from the norm. Relaxing their minds from academic film viewing experiences and extending their film knowledge past that of the latest Hollywood trend, Underground Cinema hopes to rekindle the excitement and enthusiasm for film that often gets lost among deadlines, assignments, and tired film cliches.

Choosing the name Underground Cinema was not easy. With summer long gone a name change was in need and Unschooled Cinema just never sounded that great. I can't say that Underground Cinema sounds any better, but when you consider that the films are screened in the basement there is a rather cheap pun that comes into play. I like cheap puns and no one else came up with a better title. So, Underground Cinema it is.

A second reason for the name change involves the curious fact that the screening series is not legitimate. For over a dozen weeks we had been flying just below the radar, with word of mouth and e-mails spreading news of our weekly madness. However, a student organization known as SCAN (Student Cinema Action Network) agreed to sponsor our double features. It should be noted that the president of SCAN was one of the biggest fans of the Summer Camp series and that he is also the one active member of SCAN, so it was really all his doing. It should also be noted that the name SCAN is just as poor as Underground Cinema, but names are just names and what we want is action.

Action is what we got. We also got fliers and I think that may have helped with the turn out. Jumping from a usual turnout of 8 to 12 people I counted 22 people in attendance for the first film and slightly less for the second. It should be interesting to see if this high turnout continues or if people were just lured in by the name Andy Warhol.

When speaking of Flesh For Frankenstein or Blood For Dracula Warhol's name is often forced into the conversation. Yes, he helped produce the films, but these are really Paul Morrissey's films, much in the same way that Trash, Flesh, and Heat are Morrissey's films. This is no discredit to Warhol, who made some rather interesting if not mindnumbing films, but when it comes to narrative films Morrissey trumps Warhol, hands down. Andy was much better at the minimalist experimentations and that's fine and dandy, but Flesh for Frankenstein and Blood For Dracula would not be as fun in Andy's hands.

Flesh For Frankenstein
Udo Kier plays Baron Frankenstein. In his attempts to create the perfect creature, a mirror of Serbian physical superiority, the overly, dramatic doctor wrongly chooses the head of a celibate monk to top off his monster. With little to no sexual desire the doctor's monster hasn't the slightest interest in fathering a new master race. Elsewhere in the castle, Frankenstein's nymphomaniac wife (Monique van Vooren) seduces a local farmer hand (Joe Dallesandro), who happens to be the beheaded monk's best friend. When he's not getting it on with Baroness Frankenstein the strapping young farm lad is sneaking around the castle trying to find out what happened to his best friend.

Departing from Mary Shelly's classic gothic novel, director Paul Morrissey fills his colorful re-telling of the Frankenstein tale with plenty of ambiance and tons of scenery chewing. Sadly, we weren't able to project a 3-D version of the film, as that is how it was originally shown. While you can still spot a few of the more obvious dimensional gags, the real joy with this film has always been Udo Kier's performance. Kier comes right through the screen with each thickly accented line. Only, Frankenstein's wild-eyed assistant, Otto (Arno Juerging), can come close to upstaging Kier. But with lines like, "To know life, you must fuck death in the gall bladder," no one can out do Kier.

Flesh For Frankenstein balances somewhere between, horror film, soap opera, farcical comedy, and theatrical pomposity. It does a serious job of making a quality production while taking the time to never take itself that seriously. Rather polished, the film exceeds its low-budget. Having the airs of pretentiousness, the film also revels in campy, grotesque fun. Lacking the musical numbers of The Rocky Horror Picture show, that made that film a favorite with theatrical film freaks, Flesh For Frankenstein still possesses an off-kilter cult-vibe. Mixing together sex and gory effects helps make this Warhol produced horror-comedy a hit with those film fans who would prefer to let the actors do the acting and feel no need to sing and dance along.

Thankfully, everyone in the audience quickly saw the film for what it was and the applause of laughter showed that Flesh For Frankenstein was a smart choice to start the night off. The next question would be how well the crowd would hand Blood For Dracula.

Blood For Dracula
Udo Kier is back and this time he's an emaciated vampire. Egged on by his servant, Anton (Arno Juerging), the famous bloodsucker agrees to make the journey in the hopes of find many virgins amongst the highly religious people of the Italian country side. As the count rests, Anton seeks out possible blood donors. Learning of a family that has four unwed daughters the Count seeks refuge in their villa. Impressed with the regal sounding name of Dracula the father consents. It's not long after the Count moves in before he realizes that the daughters are not as innocent as they look.

Working as a companion piece to Flesh for Frankenstein this X rated reworking of the Bram Stoker vampire tale ratchets up the sex and violence. Joe Dallesandro returns as yet another farm hand with an overeager libido. However, this time Dallesandro's motives are not only sexual, but political. A communist flag hangs in his shed and he persistently talks of revolution and the spoiled life of the bourgeoisie daughters. All the while, he is making it with most of them and longing to make it with the others.

Working his way from one girl to the next Dracula sinks his teeth in each girl only to find himself violently ill from their non-virgin blood. The scenes of Udo Kier thrashing about the latrine, vomiting up blood are as gruesome as they are hilarious. Once again the comedy pushes the limits visually, but when Dallesandro's politically incorrect character starts talking about his desires to rape the families youngest daughter and when actually does so to save her from Dracula's fangs the film may slip over the line of good taste. At least that's how it felt in a large audience that contained a healthy number of female viewers - something we rarely had at the summer screenings.

Personally, I've never had a problem with these moments, but then again I have a sense of humor that could certainly qualify me for a seat next to Satan. I sensed that others in the audience were more a gasp as their sensitive eyes and minds had not encountered a film like Blood For Dracula. The act of rape certainly is not a funny thing and what happens afterwards is too much of a spoiler to share here, but when you consider that Dallesandro's farm boy forcefully has sex with this woman to save her from the fangs of a vampire there is an absurd twist of logic at play. Of course, the farm hand could have done a better job of explaining the situation to the daughter, thus giving her a choice, but that would be outside of his character, who is not the nicest guy in the world.

For those that felt shocked by Blood For Dracula, I almost felt the need to apologize, but then again, what do you expect? The point of the films we are showing is to drop a few jaws. If people don't leave scratching their heads then I've done a poor job of picking the films. These films push the boundaries of good taste. They blur the lines between good and bad. They call into question the reasons we go to the movies. From dark fantasies to warped personal visions to bungled moral statements the films championed by Underground Cinema are always going to leave audiences perplexed, bewildered, and slightly offended. If you try to analyze these films and what the hell was going through the heads of those that made them you'll just sprain your brain. Leave that kind of thinking for the classroom.

LINE

2005-10-06T05:10:00.000-05:00

Line
(Yvonne Rainer, 10 mins., b/w, 1968)

Yvonne Rainer is economical with her titles and Line is just what it proclaims to be. A thin grey line stretching diagonally from left to right slices the film frame in half. Later a girl enters the picture. With a pen she adds to the line. In a similar fashion her body adds to the film frame, giving it an illusion of depth. For an extended period of time she lingers on the screening. Lying on the her stomach, facing away from the camera she occasionally turns and smiles the filmmaker.

Of the five Rainer pieces I watched back to back this last one stretched my patience to the verge of snapping. Whether it was the culmination of all the work or this particular work is hard to say. Though the girl in the picture is pretty to the eye she overstayed her welcome and one quickly grows bored of her inactive presence.

TRIO FILM

2005-10-06T04:55:00.000-05:00

Trio Film
(Yvonne Rainer, 13 mins., b/w, 1968)

Inside a sparsely furnished space a naked couple and a large white ball dance. After the joy of Yvonne Rainer's actuality Rhode Island Red this disappoints. The couple reduces theirs movements to a rather mechanical level. They share space on a couch, in a room and with the ball. Passing the large white object back and forth the two create a relationship between one another. Neither looks happy or pleased to be with one another. Their actions feel like work.

At the very end of the picture, in a break from the rest of the movie, the man is seen bouncing on the couch, the ball in his hands, his genitals shaking at the top of the screen. The girl sits beside him. Her eyes on level with the ball. She can't help but laugh. The gesture is comical, especially at the end of a rather serious film.

Art such as this suffers from its outsider stance. With one foot clearly outside the norm, but with the other foot planted squarely in reality the negotiation between the two worlds makes for difficult readings. Are these humans sharing a space or just objects, perhaps symbols?

RHODE ISLAND RED

2005-10-06T04:40:00.000-05:00

Rhode Island Red
(Yvonne Rainer, 10 mins., b/w, 1968)

Of all the Yvonne Rainer films I've seen this may be my favorite, but the reasons for this are rather perverse. The films is long, colorless, and contains only two static shots of roosters. In both shots the roosters film the frame. Packed in so tightly that they can barely move, their heads protrude from their bodies, shifting from side to side.

Stare long enough and the image goes abstract. The roosters disappear and all you find our shapes and forms. Occasionally, due to an unheard sound, the shapes stop moving independently and turn in a uniform direction. Like a moment in free jazz when comes together these instances are magical, but short. Just as quickly as they conjoin the shapes separate moving in their own personal direction.

Of course, there is no sound. This is not jazz for the ears, it is jazz for the eyes. It's not even jazz. It's roosters, red roosters - shot in black and white.

It was early in the morning when I watched this, about the time one would expect a rooster to announce a new day. As I watched Rhode Island Red I pondered the reaction this film would receive had we shown this and not Hand Movie to a lecture hall full of first year students. How would those seekers of perpetual excitement and entertainment respond? Would their eyelids applause with blinks that eventually lead to slumber? Would they doze off, as they so often do? Would they know when to wake up without a cock-a-doodle-do?

The thought made me laugh. A long, boring (to use their terminology) film about nature's alarm clock. How wonderfully perverse!

VOLLEYBALL

2005-10-06T04:25:00.000-05:00

Volleyball
(Yvonne Rainer, 10 mins., b/w, 1967)

A performance piece filmed. On a wooden floor a volleyball rolls to a stop. A pair of legs march towards the ball stopping just behind the resting sphere. Repeat for ten minutes.

Switching between similar low angle camera shots that cut off everything above the knees, the film does contain multiple shots. That does not stop the movie from feeling like a performance on a stage. The limited viewing area is a mechanism of the movie camera, but the idea behind the film is something better left to a performance space. With the ball's movement dictating the choreography of the legs an element of chance enters the picture, but parameters of the film frame confine the movement and reduce the film to an exaggerated exercise.

That there is more life in the movement of the volleyball than the prescribed movement of the performer's legs is of some interested, but the interest is mild and fleeting at best.

HAND MOVIE

2005-10-06T04:15:00.000-05:00

HAND MOVIE
(Yvonne Rainer, 5 mins., b/w, 1966)

Watching this for the second time (see first viewing here) I started to detach the hand from its owner. The bottom of the film frame helps accomplishes this dismemberment. Though, it is easy to imagine an arm extending downward, outside of the film's frame. Midway through this second look a disconnect occurred. The hand was devoid of an arm. It were as if it were something out of a Bunuel film or The Addams Family. Yet, Yvonne Rainer's hand is more graceful. It is a dancer's hand and each finger itself a performer.

No one moves there fingers in this manner, deliberate and delicate and yet were we to take the time to marvel at movements we can generate with barely a thought we would astound ourselves. Still, Rainer's movements are not astonishing. They are not magical acts; slight of hand. For that, one should watch Bresson's Pickpocket.

EYE MUSIC IN RED MAJOR

2005-10-03T10:30:00.000-05:00

Eye Music in Red Major
(Marie Menken, 5.5 mins, color, 1961)

A field of lights, out of focus and abstract. The bulbs take on other forms. The colors streak. The piece is silent. The music is like jazz, free jazz, without a sense of order, but rather themes. Mostly, red.

I wonder if the heart is connected to the eyes in the same way it seems connected to the ears. There are certain images that tug on heart strings just as certain instruments carry a mood. The images here do not wholly resonate with me. They do not spark a particular emotion, but they do entertain. Perhaps this is more eye candy than eye music.

MOTHLIGHT

2005-10-03T10:25:00.000-05:00

Mothlight
(Stan Brakhage, 3 mins., color, 1963)

As far as innovation goes, I've got to hand it to Stan Brakhage. Recycling old moth wings, taping them to clear film leader, and printing the results is a pretty interesting idea. However, the method outweighs the results. Flickering past at a rapid speed it is nearly impossible to differentiate the scattered parts.

I recall listening to recorded notes made by Brakhage and included on DVD of his work. He said he wanted to immortalize these creatures drawn to a light that also drew them towards death. In some ways he feels connected to moths. Brakhage himself is drawn to the light of a film projector, but his steady workload and lack of income was killing him.

The fleeting visuals may resemble the short life span of the moth, but they do little to highlight the natural beauty found in the various patterns and designs of moth wings. Perhaps, a more fitting tribute would have been to slow down time and take more longer, focused looks at moth wings. But, that would be a different film.

LEMON

2005-10-03T10:15:00.000-05:00

Lemon
(Hollis Frampton, 7 mins., color, 1969)

A bright yellow lemon consumes the left half of the screen. The light shifts. The lemon remains still. The image changes. The simple act of moving the location of the light transforms the lemon. It's peel begins to look like a lunar landscape. It's silhouette forms the outline of an odd round figure - not unlike Hitchcock's body.

This is a rather simple film about light. The choice to use a lemon may help the matter, but mostly it is about light and the way it effects an object. Remembering an old physics lesson, the lemon is absorbing bands of light and refracting yellow wavelengths, thus creating the color of the lemon. Perhaps, knowing this, an orange would have been a better choice as orange is not only the name of a fruit, but the color indicative of that same fruit.

HAND MOVIE

2005-10-03T10:10:00.000-05:00

HAND MOVIE
(Yvonne Rainer, 5 mins., b/w, 1966)

Against a field of white a solitary hand, shown from the wrist up, dances. The notion that a hand can perform a dance number is explored beneath the lens of a film camera. Each finger serves as a member of a dance troupe. The digits separate and come together, gracefully touching each other in a most choreographed manner.

At five minutes in length the viewer is given enough time to contemplate the marvelous machine known as the human hand. With your imagination you can peel away the flesh and envision the muscles, nerves, and bones intricately working together to produce gestures we barely consider. Outside of flippin' the bird, a gesture I felt a few disgruntled souls in the audience producing, we rarely think about our hands. To open a door, to switch on a light, to grasp a coffee mug, to catch a book as it falls from a desk - these are actions with out thought. These are impulses.

The impulse behind Rainer's decision to film her dancing hand seems to come both from her heart and the mechanics of cinema. In an auditorium we would never be able to observe the delicate movements of a dancer's hand, but under the lens of a camera we can see them close up. That these movements are slow and deliberate helps lend the film to deep thoughts. The tapping of fingers or the twiddling of thumbs would merely make devilish playthings of idle hands.

BATMAN BEGINS (5 Random Thoughts)

2005-09-23T20:50:00.000-05:00

After a day of heavy thinking, mostly induced from a talk given by Victor Burgin, I thought it might be wise to relax my brain with a bargain theatre screening of Batman Begins. What a mistake that was. Though I had heard good things from many people, I failed to see much of merit in this unimaginative rebirth of the Batman legend. The film did not entertain me, nor did it relax me. If anything it put me on edge and here's just five reasons why.

1) The science of it all. Just one of the many, many storylines in this film involved the use of a stolen military device designed to emit substantial amounts of microwaves, so much so that it instantly evaporates a town's water supply. For reasons to convoluted to get into at this time, this weapon is deployed in the poorest part of Gotham City. Now, these folks must be really poor because unlike most human beings, they were obviously not made up of 70% water.

If a device can instantly evaporate puddles of water on the street and the water flowing through pipes what do you think it is going to do to the water in a human's body? If you are unclear of what might happen might I suggest putting your cat or dog in your microwave and turning it on for a while?*

2) The only person who can do the Batman legend justice is a classically trained Japanese director. This latest chapter in the Batman saga begins in the orient. Just where in the East is hard to tell as the mish-mash of Pan-Asian cultures looks more like a food court than a foreign country. Perhaps, its Tibet. Who can say. Still, this inclusion of martial arts training in a foreign land helps to develop the backstory of Batman and how he grew from a young boy to the Dark Knight, one of the few comic books heroes not empowered with super powers. Like so many samurai and martial artist, Batman had to train to be a superhuman. The story of Batman's birth is a classic story, near epic, but it needs the grace of more skilled laborer, someone in touch with the elements of myth, someone like Kurosawa or Mizoguchi.

Sadly, the style of filmmaking in Batman Begins is reminiscent of American action films and not swordplay or samurai films. Action sequences are sliced and diced to the point that it is impossible to tell what is happening. The frame is never well composed lending itself to iconic imagery, the stuff of legends. All the internal anguish is lost and the film suddenly becomes a picture about cool toys and criminals with calling cards. This is all fine an good for the era of Adam West's Batman, but with today's push towards darker, more mature material that lends itself to myth something new is needed. Presently, this new breed of Batman is nothing new, just more dimly lit, more violent, and moister...Because nothing says "hard times have arrived" quite like an abundance of moisture.

3) Katie Holmes can't act. Neither can Christian Bale. Wait, I've never seen Holmes give a credible performance, but Bale was good in Velvet Goldmine. So maybe it's Christopher Nolan who just can't direct. That's got to be it. Because for the most part it feels like he never bothered to consult his actors. Bale takes on this raspy voice every time he pulls on his Bathood. Why Batman must sound like an emphysema victim is beyond me. Did Nolan suggest this? If not, why didn't he correct it? Does he thinks its sounds tough? Bale isn't tough. He's a great socialite. He's a great Bruce Wayne, but he's a tough as silk handkerchief. Adding phlegm to Batman's voice isn't going to help Batman's image. Batman was always meant to sound cool, calm and composed, not like he's dying of throat cancer.

The rest of the cast, with the exception of Holmes, who should never have been tapped as Tom Cruises lover. Even Lauren Bacall couldn't have convinced the world that Tom Cruise doesn't love women. He loves himself. But Holmes aside, the rest of the cast is left to their own devices and all are rather brilliant. Michael Caine plays a wonderful, if not underused Alfred the Butler. Morgan Freeman takes the part of mythical negro, a role he was born to play, and not surprisingly he does it well. Liam Neeson and Cillian Murphy make good bad guys, though Cillian Murphy is less of a performer and more of freak. Those eyes and those cheekbone give me shivers. Then there is Gary Oldman. I never would have guessed it but he's the perfect person to play Lt. Gordon, Batman's one friend on the police force. Oldman is actually subdued, not chewing through scenery, and adding rather human moments to film that deserves far less. My only question for Oldman is, "When the hell are you going to use the paychecks from Harry Potter and Batman Begins to direct your next film? Do something good with your money Gary, before they suck all your time away with Batman sequels!"

4) That fuckin' Batmobile. I hated the damn thing from the instant I saw it in the trailers and I hate it even more now. Forget the fact that it looks like a squished Hummer. No, don't forget that. Instead ask yourself, when did looking militaristic become cool. What happened to the sleek look of old Batmobiles, with tailfins that mimiced the look of bat wings. This new car looks more like a cockroach than bat. Should we blame be blaming the king of American action filsm. Should we blame Arnold? He gave us the Hummer as a street vehicle. If you ask me that makes him worse than Hitler. Adolf at least gave us the VW Beetle.

Now, let's just talk mechanics. Can anyone please explain how this thing works? Why must Batman's chair fold downward, placing him stretched out on his stomach, in order to pull certain maneuvers? If your answer is "for safety reasons" then why doesn't the passenger seat do the same? Or does no one care if Katie Holmes dies? It just doesn't make sense unless you consider it to be cool. If this operational device looks cool to someone, even though it explains nothing, than I guess it has to be part of the film, right?

Next is the issue of driving on rooftops. Outside of a line or two, poorly delivered thus dwindling the limited laughs it might have received, why must Batman take his armored vehicle to the rooftops? Have chase scenes on the ground become so boring that we must now plow from building top to building top to make them watchable? Certainly this must be the case as driving across rooftops does not help Batman escape. As soon as he lands back on the ground two cop cars are seen directly behind him, less than 50 years away. All that destruction and for what, cheap thrills?

5) The politics of Batman are beyond reason. First off, the overall film projects a negative image of cities. In the world of Batman Begins cities are havens for crime and vice where the poor can only be saved by the kindness of rich families such as the Wayne Family. Of course little is ever mentioned on how the Wayne family acquired all that wealth or how Gotham grew to be so large.

Then there is the issue of Batman's personal politics. He won't kill a criminal because that would reduce him to their level. However, like the criminals he is willing to throw caution to the wind and give little thought to the countless numbers of lives he endangers with his reckless driving or his destruction of city structures. I'm not just talking about human life here. That's something that can't be replaced. But, what about the things that can be replaced? Who is going to pay for all the destruction? The taxpayers? Yes, he in all of his recklessness Batman saves the greater populace, but certainly someone else gets hurt in the process. Those victims get no screen time.

Finally, there is issue of Bruce Wayne's house. After the damn mansion burns to the ground he promises to rebuild it just as it was. While this job may create some employment for a few Gotham area contractors why must Wayne Manor be rebuilt in all its extravagant glory? Is it his reputation he must uphold and if so wouldn't he be setting an example to all the people he wants to help, the same people his rather wanted to help, if he proved that he could get by with less? Why does a bachelor need a mansion? Why can't Bruce Wayne lead by example? Does he not create his own problems by living so extravagantly? Doesn't he create greed that drives criminal behavior as people break laws to attain what they desire. Bruce Wayne, of course, broke no laws, but he's also never worked an honest day in his life. Perhaps this is an issue Batman should brood about while in his Batcave.

In conclusion, this stupid film ruined my evening. Is it too much to ask that Hollywood make a decent film, one where I don't have to think about such issues?

* If you are stupid enough to actually try this experiment with your own dog or cat you should not be allowed to have either. Not only that, but you should not have access to a microwave. Who might, however, really like Batman Begins.

THE JOURENY (Sancharam)

2005-09-22T07:30:00.000-05:00

The story of Kiran and Delilah and their impermissible relationship begins with the fluttering ascension of a butterfly and the slow descent of a leaf. The two young girls meet just after Kiran has arrived in Kerala. They take to each other instantly. Cutting forward many years the movie spends the majority of its time building tension as the two girls hesitate towards a sexual awakening.

Staring with the simple prick of a thorn to pierce Delilah’s ear, the film hits its symbolic stride. A symbolic act of deflowering quickly transforms a plutonic relationship into one of bashful flirting. As their affection for one another turns to passion Kiran and Delilah’s troubles unfurl tenfold when their scandalous relationship is exposed. Their dreams of romance are shattered by the cruel intolerance of both their families and their culture. More interestingly, their lives are affected by their divergent responses. Each girl chooses a different path, but both paths leading to despair.

The time-tested storyline of outlawed romance brought to demise by social boundaries serves the first time film director Ligy Pullappally well. It’s Romeo and Juliet with a pinch of Cyrano de Bergerac in India, with lesbian lovers. It’s nothing new, but nothing too tiresome. It is a classic tale waiting like a mannequin asking to be dressed by Pullappally. Using the charm and magic of the Pullappally’s fertile native land she decorates her film with a fairy tale touch that mimics the young girls’ idyllic notions of love; idyllic, but not ignorant. Kiran is not oblivious to the social constraints placed upon her love for another woman. Her reading of a particularly important poetry lesson expresses her knowledge of the “abject loneliness of being in love.” Sadly, this mature handling of love does not carry over to the film itself.

Originally a lawyer from Chicago, Pullappally says she was inspired to make this film after receiving an e-mail about the suicide of college-aged lesbian from her home of Kerala. Pullappally’s decision to return home and take up filmmaking is advantageous and allowed her the opportunity to address women and social issues in her homeland. Address them she does, but in an exaggerated manner. If Ligy Pullappally errors as a first time director then she faults on the side of over-punctuating her film with symbolism. Everything in The Journey reads like a signpost. Objects and dialog carry too much significance. With every item serving as a symbol or sign Pullappally’s story (or case) grows didactic. Most trying of all is a glass bangle, given from one girl to the other, only to be shattered by a disapproving parent. This one symbol is too strong for the film, but it should stand as a symbol for future filmmakers. Films should be delicate. Running overt symbolism through them is as dangerous as letting a bull loose in a china shop. Things will break. Pullappally has not learned this gentle touch, just yet, but The Journey shows great promise and risk.

COCKSUCKER BLUES

2005-09-14T22:50:00.000-05:00

For years I had wanted to see Cocksucker Blues. Scandalous, the film was rumored to show the wilder side of the rockstar life - the booze, the drugs, the sex. For reasons unknown, I never actively sought out the film. Though I pined to see it, something held me back from tracking down a copy of the film. Finally, a copy just sort of came my way and I could no longer put it off. Having now seen the film I wonder if it was worth the wait, if it was worth the hype?

Shot by photographer Robert Frank, a man who's still imagery I adore, Cocksucker Blues gives the cinema vertie look to life on the road with the Rolling Stones. Done around the time of Exile on Main Street, for which Robert Frank did the album design this so-called candid look at the myths of rockstardom feels much like so many behind-the-scenes documentaries that mix in energetic live footage with the rather slow paced off stage life of artists waiting for their next show.

The sex and drugs are certainly there, but they are neither excessive nor exciting. The band members themselves do not appear on camera overindulged in vice. Most of the illicit behavior falls to the road crew and the groupies. The fleas and ticks of rock 'n' roll. Frank himself admits in interviews done afterwards that he helped stage much of the in air antics that make up a bulk of the films most notorious imagery. Complaining that air travel was the most boring part of touring, Robert Frank used his dope connections to help spice up a rather routine airplane ride. The results are comical, not realistic.

Surely, rockstars do some rather outrageous things, but Frank's cameras don't catch much of it. They don't even catch much of the musical performances. As concert films go, this shows nothing electrifying or new. Where is does shine is in the rather dull moments out of the spot light, the long hours between shows, spent in hotels. It's here that Cocksucker Blues works best, but its here where it fails. For, this is not the stuff of legend and Cocksucker Blues is considered a legendary film, perhaps only because its supposed to be so hard to find and see. In reality, it isn't. Just like a cocksuck, if you want one you can find it, but most don't go looking. They wait until it happens and then they realize that maybe they made it out to be more than they expected. The whole experience can leave you asking "Is that all there is?" Just like Peggy Lee once sang. The emphasis in this film is not the cocksucking. It's the blues.

THE SINFUL DWARF

2005-09-08T00:20:00.000-05:00

Here's a nasty little number. Olaf, a diminutive dreg, and his aging mother, a caterwauling cabaret singer, run a boarding house with a disturbing little secret tucked away in the attic. The secret, and really it ruins no surprise, is white slavery. Yes, teenage girls, kidnapped, doped daily, and made available to paying business men - that's the secret and its just the sort of secret the family is looking to keep from the prying eyes of two newlyweds who have just rented a room with Olaf and his mother.

While the husband is out attempting to find work as a writer, the bored wife snoops about the house. The mother entertains her one drunken friend with poorly sung show tunes while Olaf plays the piano. When they aren't putting on a show, Olaf is obsessive over wind-up toys he buys from the same guy who supplies the heroin for the toys in the attic. That's right, a toy maker is dealing drugs, and he just happens to share the same name as another famous toy maker.

As one can expect in a sleazy little picture such as this, the wife does find out what all the moaning coming through the ceiling is about and its not long before she becomes an unwilling plaything herself. It's a simple case of curiosity killing the pussy cat. But, what do you expect from a simple and simply baseless film such as this?

Well, you can expect lots of dwarf close ups, with the little fellow drooling and licking his lips as he peeps in on the newlyweds or while he tortures the girls. Truly, its the thing of nightmares, but then again dwarves in nightmares is nothing new. It's just that this dwarf looks like a runt love child between Jack Black and Klaus Kinski. He's a son only a mother could love, but mother seems to be more in love with some delusion of being a singer. Oddly, its these moments when mom is singing that the film has something really disturbing to offer, that is if you are someone with a little more breadth in your film watching. I swear that the singing sequences in this film feel like something from a Cassavetes film. Much like the singing contest in Husbands, the scene in The Sinful Dwarf where the mother entertains her friend while the dwarf plinks away at the ivory keys is out of focus, out of tune, drunkenly shot, but almost picture perfect at capturing the intoxicated entertainment of drinking buddies. Of course, in The Sinful Dwarf these images are cross-cut with images of bound, naked woman. That you won't find in a Cassavetes film.

Most people aren't going to find much of reason to see a film like The Sinful Dwarf and had it not been so late and night and just happened to be one of these films that gets sent to me for unknown reasons, I probably never would have sought it out, but having seen it I'm surprised to say that it does have its moments, some that I never expected to find in such a nasty little flick.

WITH GOD ON OUR SIDE: GEORGE W. BUSH AND THE RISE OF THE RELIGIOUS RIGHT

2005-09-06T18:00:00.000-05:00

This BBC produced documentary broadcast on the eve of the 2004 United States Presidential election examines the rise of Christian interests groups inside the U.S. political arena. Starting right after the Eisenhower era, this non-partisan documentary, chronologically access the ups and downs of the religious right as they seek out a political candidate for them to throw their support behind. Arriving at G.W. Bush the documentary focuses on Bush's own conversion/salvation and his strong personal believes that are closely linked to the same fundamentalist groups that so rabidly seek a political voice to speak on their behalf.

Fair and balanced, the documentary sticks to the facts neither building a case for or against this rising influence of religious persuasion inside the Washington D.C. political circus. One could argue that the selection and use of rather foolish statements made by some of the Religious Right's most notable figures gives the documentary a left leaning stance. Its true that ridiculous quips made by the likes of Jerry Farwell and Pat Robertson paint a moronic portrait of a group of people of portrayed as zealots and buffoons in editorial cartoons. Though, one could easily argue that their own statements create ready made punchlines for such cartoons and that each clip only exemplifies the most memorable, outlandish statements made by each person. It's akin to only remembering Nixon for saying, "I am not a crook." Slightly true, slightly distorted.

The greater fault, but you will never hear those on the right ever addressing, is the documentary's refusal to show the effects of the Religious Right on American life and laws. So closely focused on the rise of this predominate lobbying group, the BBC fails to show the changes in the American legal system that have been brought about by such lobbying. Too ignorant of such information, myself, I cannot say if the religious right has made any changes. Surely, they have tried and the documentary addresses those key issues of abortion and school prayer that the Religious Right has carried a torch for, but these are big issues. Certainly smaller battles have been won, but they do not appear in the documentary.

This omission helps give the documentary a unbiased perspective, but it also leaves the entire experience open and flat. All documentaries do not need to take a political stance, but inherently they do. This one sits on the fence, pretending to be in neither party's camp, but all fences do fall on someone's property. Clearly, this is on the left.

THE ARISTOCRATS

2005-09-05T16:00:00.000-05:00

It's been compared to the Rolling Stone's tune, "The Singer Not The Song". A rather uncinematic documentary where a collection of comedians riff on one of the oldest backstage jokes known throughout the entertainment industry. The punchline itself is nothing much, barely worth a chuckle. The humor comes in the telling of the joke. Each comedian tries to out do the next, making the joke's set-up as perverse and disgusting as humanly possible. That is where the real art comes in, if there is really any art in this hilarious, though juvenile joke of movie.

Centered around an entertainer who is either clueless or malicious, the joke works more like a sales pitch with the comedian telling the joke stepping into the shoes of the man in the joke. Starting off slow, the joke builds upon the man's request that an entertainment agent book his act. When asked to describe his act the humor begins. Stretching out the joke to inane lengths is part of the joke, with the best comedians being able to put the listener in a trance as they describe the most foul and awful acts being performed by man's family (and sometimes their pets). Finally, the punchline comes when the agent asks what such an awful act could possibly be named. The punchline is always the same. It's the title to the film. Knowing this, of course, doesn't spoil the movie. It's not about punchlines. It's about performance.

The comedians in this film take the joke to some rather scary places, very deep dark disturbing places that trample all over taboos. Though, in today's climate those taboos seem less risky. Vomit, fecal matter, rape, incest...We've heard it all before. In a day of shock and awe, it's awful hard to shock. Still, many of the comedians do a frighteningly good job of pushing buttons. Most frightening of all is the fact that Gilbert Gottfried is the hero of a film. This normally funny comedian with the abnormally annoying voice not only delivers one of the funniest deliveries of the joke, but he is also the impetus for the film. During a post 9/11 Friar's roast when nothing seemed to spark a laugh, he brought this backstage staple to the spotlight. Gilbert let the cat out of the bag.

With the joke now public, over 100 comedians take their turn trying to make the joke their own while exploring the history of the joke and some of the variation that have popped up over the years. While some are better than others, the rapid fire pace of each segment helps the film as a whole. Martin Mull, Bob Saget, George Carlin are three of the better performers. After then there's a couple dozen really good performers who add a personal touch to the joke After them the field gets thin. Some clearly do not belong at the party. The Amazing Johnathan, Emo Philips, Eddie Izzard, Carrot Top, sadly the list goes on. Organized by comedian Paul Provenza and magician/comedian Penn Jillete The Aristocrats feels as if the two entertainers traveled to their friends' houses with mid-grade consumer digital video cameras. While its mostly men from the East Coast, there are some women who add some diversity, though sadly they aren't that funny. Was Jerry Lewis right? Are women just not funny? Probably not true, but Sarah Silverman has over stayed her fifteen minutes and Phyllis Diller is funnier than all the other women in the film combined. But that's not saying a ton.

More telling is who does not appear in the film. There are few black comedians. Outside of a Chris Rock, who looks like he got caught off guard at a bar, no black comedian, male or female tells the joke. I don't recall any Hispanic or Asian comedians either. There is a mime, who does the most unique telling of the joke, but for the most part its all white men. Where's Bernie Mac or Dave Chapelle or George Lopez? Okay, we could do without George Lopez. Geting of the race card, why not go find Gallagher. Over a dozen comedians mention this watermelon hating staple of the 80's, but he doesn't appear in the film. It's rather sad, but it also nice to see that all these comedians have one common enemy. But Gallagher would have been more entertaining than The Smothers Brothers. That or talk to Chevy Chase since he is mentioned in the beginning of the film as someone who used to have parties where comedy writers sat around and told this joke. Someone even mentions that Mike O'Donoghue once told the joke for over thirty minutes at one of these parties. Raise him from the dead. I'd love to hear his telling of it, more so than Howie Mandel - who has turned into a very, very scary man with an obsession for the word "cunt". That's not funny. That is unless you deliver it just right and he does not. Frankly, he's just one of many people sitting infront of a home movie camera trying to impress the world. I would have been more impressed if Provenza and Jillette did some more research and tracked down a more divergent talent pool.

By the end of the film the cast to The Artistocrats starts to look like a large but exclusive group of friends; a country club. Albeit, it's a country club for really sick people who can laugh at the most atrocious acts. Of course I laughed. But then again, I'm a sick white male born and raised on stand up comedy...And, I'll be here all week. Try the veal, and rememberif you are drinking don't drive and if you are driving don't drink. Thanks, you've been great, be sure to tip your waitress, peace out!

MAJOR DUNDEE

2005-09-04T18:00:00.000-05:00

Andy Milonakis gets a television show and a movie deal just because he bothered to pick up a guitar and sing a fruity little protest song about the Super Bowl. Certainly, I don't want the fifteen minutes of fame that Andy Milonakis is milking to death, but just like that precarious little porker, I'm starting to think that everything is gay.

Watching the re-issue of Sam Peckinpah's civil war epic, Major Dundee, my mind could do nothing but continually read gay subtext into just about everything that flashed upon the screen. Certainly, I'd never tell Sam Peckinpah, or the film's star, Charlton Heston, that there is something queer about Major Dundee. That still doesn't stop me from pointing out some rather queer things about the film.

The story is supposed to be about Major Dundee and his quest to track down an Apache chief who has been terrorizing southwestern military bases, but as the plot progresses the goals get lost. At the film's beginning, the Civil War is coming to a close and Major Amos Dundee of the Union Army is confined to guarding a federal prison. Restless, the Major puts together a ragtag group of military men, Confederate prisoners, and social outcasts and sets off to find children kidnapped during the latest Apache raid. But, it's not long before the men find the children, or rather that the children find them.

The bulk of the story really revolves around the strained relationship between Major Dundee and Capt. Benjamin Tyreen (Richard Harris). Tyreen is a transplant, originally from England, once a Union man, now a Confederate prisoner. Dundee sees Tyreen as a traitor and a man in need of reform.

Dundee doesn't like Tyreen, but he is stuck. He lacks the troops he needs to pursue the Apache throughout Mexico. It's only with Tyreen's help and Tyreen's ability to control the rebel Southern men that Dundee is allowed to go on his mission. Dundee might just as well have preferred to let Tyreen rot in a cell or die. To serve as a message to all other men Dundee threatens to hang Tyreen and his non-complicate men; the message is clear, act like Tyreen and you'll hang. However, Dundee knows he can't off the only help he's got. So, Dundee begins to see this opportunity as a chance for reformation. By bringing Tyreen with him Dundee hopes to win Tyreen back to "his team." By the film's end, Tyreen is clutching Old Glory and charging head long into danger.

Tension builds between the two men as Dundee leads his troop through Mexico, chasing the Apache, avoiding the French, liberating Mexican villas, and taking time out to romance exotic German women. It's not until that last one that the homosexual undertones creep in.

With the introduction of Teresa Santiago (Senta Berger), a German widow who came to Mexico thanks to her husband, Dundee and Tyreen having something other than each other's politics to quarrel over. At first, neither man seems that interested in Teresa. While the other men drink and party with villagers, Dundee and Tyreen sit on a wall, watching, their bodies facing one another as they take swigs from a rather large, phallic bottle, tossing it back and forth between one another. It is Teresa who approaches the men. After her and Tyreen dance. She tells Dundee that she likes Tyreen because he is sophisticated. She even calls his "fancy". That's right, she call his "fancy". With his foppish hat and his moustache, it's almost easy to see why, especially compared to the leather, bearded look of Dundee.

From a distance it first appears that Tyreen is a ladies man, his lingering accent, his grace and charm overshadow the grizzled bluntness of Major Dundee. But, Dundee makes it quite clear to Teresa that that Tyreen is corrupt, but that Dundee will save him. Of course he's speaking about the politics of war, not the bedroom, but its a vague line and could be read in a whole other light. Perhaps, Dundee says this just to knock Tyreen down a peg, to better his own chances with the girl. At the same time Dundee acts as if he was never threatened by Tyreen. Dundee ends up with Teresa, as if he knew he always would, never once feeling threatened by Tyreen or Teresa's instant attraction to Tyreen.

Dundee and Teresa take off to the woods, classically moving from an embrace, to a cut, to the two of them unabashedly bathing in a small lake. What happened during that cut is more than obvious. Dundee did what Tyreen was never going to do. But, Dundee also pays the price. Alone, the Major is ambushed, shot in the leg; the arrow sticking out from the leg in a rather Freudian fashion. Tyreen finds Dundee wounded, with Teresa at his side. Outside of the confines of the troop's camp Tyreen chastises Dundee for leaving his command to fool around with a woman. The shock and appal with which Tyreen denigrates Dundee extends well beyond that of a military officer scolding an insubordinate action. It extends into the realm of a lover crushed by the discovery that they have been cheated upon.

These rather small shards of evidence may not make the greatest case, but they do hint at some of the seething tension that broods between the two men. Of course, one could simply argue that this all ties into North and South, classic Civil War difference, but such a reading is as simple as saying that the War was fought over slavery. There is certainly more to the relationship of Dundee and Tyreen than meets the eye, but I do not think it was a conscious decision on the part of Sam Peckinpah to lace the film with homosexual undertones. From what I have read, Peckinpah was too out of it to even finish the film and it was Heston that took charge.

Whether these issues creep into the film due to Heston's hand is another issue. Like the Major himself, it is easier to conceive that Heston wanted to pump up the machoness of his character's persona or the whole film for that matter. With women pushed to the edges of the film the entire picture becomes a study of masculinity to such a degree that it overdoses, pushing its images of manliness into the realm of Marlboro ads and leather bars. It's hyped up machoness for men in love with manly images. It's almost to the point of 80's action films.

Dundee and Heston were both lost in Mexico unsure of what they were doing there. Heston thought he was finishing a film about the civil war. Dundee thought he was chasing an Apache. Heston helped fill the film full of tension by adding in love scenes that feel unlike anything Peckinpah would put on screen. They feel like the work of a man out to prove that he may spend his days surrounded by men, but his real heart lies with the ladies. Dundee, on the other hand, refuses to fly the American colors as he stampedes across Mexico. He knows he's in foreign territory. He knows he is not acting on behalf of America. He is on his own crusade, but deep down he believes he is acting justly and for the good of the Americans he has sworn to protect, but by the film's end there are no American's left to protect. The Apache has been killed. The children have been saved. The only American's left in Mexico are Dundee and his men and in order to get home safely they'll have to fight their way through the French. That's right, the French, those limp-wristed, culture lovers, that American's just love to hate. Could there be a greater challenge to an American man's sense of masculinity than the French?

Tell me that isn't something you can read into?

THE KILLER ELITE

2005-09-03T20:30:00.000-05:00

Mike Locken (James Caan) and George Hansen (Robert Duvall) are freelance intelligence agents, but one day Hansen turns on his partner. With a series of shots crippling shots Hansen retires his partner and goes into hiding. Locken refuses to find a new career. After and long painful rehabilitation he is given the opportunity for revenge. With his own hand picked team, Locken is given a new assignment and a chance to square things up with his former partner.

Far more than just serviceable fun, The Killer Elite is continues a Sam Peckinpah tradition of stories that explore masculinity and aging. Rising to a challenge the hero plows headlong into danger, prepared to face death in an instance. Peppered with short bursts of action and building to a grand finale the film contains the quintessential action sequences that have given Peckinpah a reputation of violence. However, the film overall is a psychological study of one man refusing to let his body beat him; one man refusing to let go of his career. Maybe it's not Brian's Song, but then again Brian's Song didn't have guns and ninjas. It's also the only PG rated film I know of that has someone getting their brains blown-out on camera.

Adding the experience of The Killer Elite to the lingering memory of Summer Camp X where we showed the wonderful, but forgotten Freebie and the Bean has me convinced that James Caan is one of America's most under-rated comedic actors. I recall a documentary I once saw, something to the affect of You'll Never Sleep In This Town Again where call girls and various hanger-ons told all about their sexual exploits with Hollywood celebrities. One woman freely divulged that James Caan was a man who loved to eat pussy, and I don't doubt it. I also don't doubt that he had no trouble getting into most women's pants during the 70's. He's handsome. He's charming. Most of all, he's funny.

That Caan would find an outlet for humor in a Sam Peckinpah film is not a huge surprise. Mostly known for his indulgence in ultraviolence, there has always been a sting of black humor in most Peckinpah films. It's an uneasy laugh, during uneasy times. Only grim jesters dare laugh when someone's dying, but it's not just Caan that provokes laughter. Bo Hopkins' half crazed character, Jerome Miller, is a pitch perfect nut job, with guns. Together, Caan and Hopkins turn action into action/comedy long before it was every a legitimate genre.

SUMMER CAMP 14: THE WORLD'S GREATEST SINNER & THE EXECUTIONER

2005-08-31T18:30:00.000-05:00

The summer has drawn to a close, but before we bid it farewell there is one more double feature to show. By some weird stroke of luck posing as well timed planning, this last summer screening was originally scheduled to be the first one. These two films were meant to kick off the series, but for technical reasons it didn't happen. Perhaps, it was for the best. Now, we can end with a bang.

It might be said that everyone has one great story to tell and that couldn't be more true than with the two films lined up for the last Summer Camp screening. Each film was made by an actor who decided to direct themselves in what would ultimately be the first and last film they ever completed. Giving all of themselves in front of and behind the camera Timothy Carey and Duke Mitchell left it all on film and left us before ever finishing another project. So, it can be said that this is their first film, their best film, and that we can only imagine what other wonders they might have gone on to make. Perhaps they'd be the next Orson Welles or at least the next Greydon Clark (see Summer Camp 11).

The World's Greatest Sinner
A burnt out insurance salesman throws off the shackles of a nine to five job and declares himself a super human being. Preaching and a singing, Clarence Hilliard (Carey) spreads a doctrine of life without death and man's own ability to be a god. Clarence changes his own name to God and with the help of his trusty gardener he sets out to change the world. Along the way the devil, symbolized by a large snake, whispers in Clarence 'God' Hilliard's ear takes and encourages Clarence to take his message to the masses, first through the awesome powers of rock 'n' roll and later by running for the Presidency. But, power comes with a price and Clarence begins to doubt himself. Needing to know if there if there is a power higher than man Clarence challenges the real God to give him a sign.

Better known as a character actor who often played eccentric tough guys, Timothy Carey is most fondly remembered for being the sniper assigned to shoot the racehorse in The Killing. His work with cinematic masters such as Stanley Kubrick, John Cassavetes, Elia Kazan, James Dean, and Marlon Brando, Carey certainly had the opportunity to learn from the best. However, The World's Greatest Sinner is a twisted tale of redemption and faith, told with a kickass rockabilly sound. The whole film comes across like an early movie made by John Waters and so its no wonder that Waters would call The World's Greatest Sinner one of the strangest films he'd ever seen.

A true labor of love, The World's Greatest Sinner consumed Carey. In front of the camera Carey's passion comes through in his spirited performance as Clarence Hilliard. Decked out in a gold suit, his greasy, floppy hair waving about as he drops to his knees, Carey performs a spirited Jerry Lee Lewis impersonation while screaming, "Please, please, please, please...Take my hand." Behind the scenes, Carey was so determined to complete this picture that he stole a flat-bed editing table from John Cassavetes. Later, after seeing the film, Cassavetes forgave Carey. Perhaps the film brought about the powers forgiveness, perhaps Carey was just the sort of nut Cassavetes was crazy about.

Carey has always played characters on the edge of madness, but most directors have pulled him back before he spills over. He has been like a tea kettle yanked from the stove before its whistle sounds. While directing himself in The World's Greatest Sinner he does not hold back. Unexpectedly he conveys a form of madness that is not hysterical, but brooding. Like a man possessed with inner demons, Clarence Hilliard hides away from the world only to make cathartic public appearances where his street preaching, hip shaking, guitar strumming, sermons allow him to exhibit a fleeting form of release. If you've seen Carey cutting a rug in Beach Blanket Bingo you've only seen have of the man's dancing skills. His epileptic wiggling is otherworldly and only adds to the illusion of possession, a man taken by the spirit - though this is man who is also declaring that the only god is man and that all men are their own gods.

There is a great sense of humor found in Clarence Hilliard's dancing, preaching, and existential political platform. As laughable as the film maybe, with its odd premise, its unpolished aesthetic, and Carey's boiling performance I find it really hard to laugh off The World's Greatest Sinner. By the end of the film an odd transformation takes place, not only in Clarence, but in the film itself. Things slow down and the world falls aside leaving only Clarence and God, if God even exists. Alone in a room Clarence makes ultimatums with God. He demands signs. He laughs when they do not come. He runs screaming when they finally arrive.

It's not the greatest redemption tale ever told. It is however the only one to feature great rockabilly music provided by Frank Zappa and it was partially shot by schlockmeister Ray Dennis Steckler - who's own films such as Rat Phink a Boo Boo and The Skidrow Slasher Meets the Hollywood Strangler set new lows for cinema. The true genius (mad genius) of the film lies in Carey's personal passion. Not only does his impassioned performance push the film to the outside of mainstream cinema, but his warped sense of purpose that suddenly turns an odd ball feature into a philosophical examination of faith and practice ultimately make The World's Greatest Sinner a religious film that is too wrong for the religious right. And, yet it is a story of a man who challenges God only to later see the light. Was Carey trying to make a hip film for Christian believers or a Christian redemption film for hipsters? Just what sort of revolution was Carey looking to spark?

The Executioner (1978)

Also known as Duke Mitchell's Massacre Mafia Style, this ninety minute, epic slice of deep dish self-important filmmaking is guaranteed to astound. Fresh off the boat and determined to make a name for himself, Mimi takes Los Angeles by storm. Using his love of violence as a mediation tactic and his complete disrespect for tradition Mimi challenges the local crime bosses of Los Angeles and sets out to make himself the new Godfather in town that his father once ruled over. With every cannoli ridden cliche in the book, this pasta packed film revels in Italian stereotypes and 70's sleaze.

Made by Duke Mitchell, who also stars under the name Dominico Miceli, this messed up garlic infused movie tramples all over the good name of American Italians while attempting to combining the plot points of both Godfather 1 and 2 into a single feature film. Yet, it is Duke Mitchell (a/k/a Dominico Minceli) himself that often brings the film to a complete a stand still as he delivers long-winded monologues about the death of Italian heritage and the poor depiction the Italians have been given thanks to movies and the media. "You see these hands? Know what they smell of? Oregano! Pasinigol! Beautiful herbs! They gave you mostaccioli, lasagna, pizza--some of the most appreciated foods in the world! But what did we give her, Chucky, eh? We gave her violence. We gave her death. We gave her dishonor!" cries Mimi as he holds the withered old hands of an Italian woman, but what does Duke Mitchell do as a director? You guessed it, he give this us extra large servings of the same crap he's complaining about.

Duke Mitchell got his start as a stand-up comedian where he worked with a partner in a Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin show. In fact, Mitchell's partner was so good at impersonating Lewis he got sued. Soon after this Mitchell gave up on comedy and turned to acting. He never made it big so he set out to make his own film. Not satisfied to make any run of the mill picture, Mitchell obviously stewed over his options and decided to follow his heart and film what he knows. In true exploitation style, Mitchell sells what he's damning, but dammit he makes one heck of a sales pitch.

What other film starts with a paraplegic being electrocuted with a desk lamp and an office urinal. What other film has a Mafia boss identified just by his finger, owing to the fact that another mobster has seen it "on him a million times"? What other film would nail a black pimp to a cross in the Hollywood Hills on Easter Sunday while the L.A. Philharmonic plays Handel's Messiah at the Hollywood Bowl?

The Executioner is a league of its own and that league is well beneath the bush league. But, it plays with heart and that heart bleeds marinara sauce. A psychiatrist could have made a killing analyzing Duke Mitchell and his love/hate relationship with his Sicilian background. Of course, after pouring his retirement fund into this film, Mitchell probably had no money for head shrinks and I doubt there is one out there tough enough to crack this nut. Duke Mitchell, much like his character Mimi, is just one of those guys who's going to do things his way. In that sense, he's like Frank Sinatra. That Mitchell didn't have real mob connection that could bolster his career, makes him less like Sinatra. So, Mitchell has to go things alone which give him the creative freedom to make a film like The Executioner, that is to say it gave Mitchell the opportunity to make mistakes.

Part of the great charm in The Executioner are the mistakes and the lack of restraint placed upon the picture. Starting with a massive shooting in an office building, where one shot actually shows the actors waiting to be called into action, the same scene is later reused, but with slightly different shots. Are these second takes of the same action? Did Mitchell realize this was the most action packed part of his film, thus giving himself the liberty to start the film with the sequence only to repeat it later? The earlier version of the scene, that starts the film, breaks the linear chronology of the film, but it establishes the badass attitude of the character's Mimi and his right hand man. Jolly. And, it's put to music, wonderful, heavily Italian music. And, the titles all appear in green, white, and red - just like the Italian flag. With in minutes everything is established. Mimi is an Italian mobster with no qualms about killing, but what about that one strange shot, the one where the actors spring into action? Is the decision to leave this extended version of the shot left long for some subconscious reason. Surely, the head of the shot could have been snipped, cutting into the action, but then we'd never get to see Duke Mitchell, the director, at work, calling the shots and his shoots up an office.

I do not mean to dwell on a shot that is in all honesty a mistake in editing and not some artistic or theoretical statement. Such things are not what one expects in a Duke Mitchell production. However, this blocking and framing of the two killers and they break from one killing to the next is oddly reminiscent of an image from a Tarantino film. No, this is not another cry of plagiarism or homage or Tarantino being a copy cat. The same action could probably be found in many films. Yet, it is very close, and I could careless if Tarantino borrowed or stole it, or whatever you want to call it. I'd just like to think that The Executioner is being seen by other film lovers and that perhaps knowledge of this piece of very personal filmmaking is spreading through world.

SIN CITY

2005-08-29T18:00:00.000-05:00

Sin City is graphic and novel and that's the best I can say.

Better stories have been told. Better actors have starred in them. Better directors have told them. Often, they did it with a low-key style and a subtle, sultry smartness that only winked towards the darker side of life. To keep the attention span of modern audiences and even the people who make the films, today's movies have to be in your face, loud, abrasive, and wear their smartness/coolness on their sleeve. Sin City's creators have done all this and more. Sin City has proven that today's films have become a pissing contest.

Looking past the visceral imagery of Frank Miller's comic books and the CGI effects Robert Rodriguez uses to animate these paper thin stories one finds little to champion. Tough guys, rotten criminals, and naked girls. Don't let the R rating fool you. This is not an adult film, at least not one meant for mature audience. Only once in the near two hour long film does a self-reflexive sense of humor pop into the picture. With an ancillary character being struck by an arrow and delivering a most comical reaction the film shows a crack in its stone faced facade. Through this crack one can see the heart of Sin City, a truly laughable picture that never takes them time to consider the senseless nature of its existence. Never once does it call into question its own obsession with violence and deviant behavior. Outside of a puffed chest promotion for bullheaded machismo what purposed does this film serve?

Those males suffering from arrested development, akin to those women who thumb romance novels looking for Mr. Right, may derive some sick pleasure from titillating tales of misogynistic violence and pre-teen fantasies. Sin City is the wet dream of children brought up on video games that glamorize criminal activity. No wonder it looks so much like noir version of Grand Theft Auto, with cliche noir dialog and performance so flat that they compete with the two dimensional, computer generated backgrounds.

I feel sorry for everyone that hailed this as an achievement. Perhaps, young folks should read more Raymond Carver and less comic books. These are the days of Shock and Awe and it appears you have to do harm to a man's most private parts just to get them to take notice. It certainly caught the attention of many people and that scare me. What I saw was a perfect film for thirteen year old boys wounded by life and overlooked by girls. It's something doodled in study hall on the back of a notebook, a dream of killing off all those pricks that ever pissed on you. If this passes for cinematic achievement we truly are devolving.

ONE ARMED SWORDSMAN (Dubei dao)

2005-08-25T21:45:00.000-05:00

The One Armed Swordsman (1967) is a film of conveniences, but like most conveniences it makes for a very pleasurable experience.

Starting off with both his limbs it doesn't take the audience long to figure out that somewhere along the way Fang Gang is bounded to lose one of them. Within minutes we learn all we need to know. Fang Gang is the son of a servant. His father died protecting a martial arts master. Fang Gang is now in the care of that master who has promised to teach him all he knows. The master's daughter and other students do not take kindly to the son of a servant. Fang Gang is a true underdog, but it will ultimately be he who saves the day. This is nothing new in the way of story telling. It's a simple matter of following plot point A to B to C. Everything clicks together neatly, conveniently.

No where in the film is the dependence on convenience more noticeable than when the film's protagonist Fang Gang (Yu Wang) falls into the care of a farm girl. Having recently had his right arm severed in an ugly confrontation between himself and his master's daughter, Fang Gang finds his sword arm missing and his life in the hands of a compassionate peasant. Of course, she is no mere country bumpkin. She just happens to be an orphan and her father just happens to have been a martial arts master who died in the line of duty. All he left his daughter was a training manual, that just happens to teach left-handed swordsmanship.

While Fang Gang recuperates and teaches himself to use his remaining arm, the villains Smiling Tiger and Long-Armed Devil plan to overthrow Fang's old master, Chi. They have developed a new weapon known as "The Sword Lock". Like a sword with a claw on the end of it, the Sword Lock renders the golden blades of Chi's students useless. As luck would have it, Fang Gang's unique sword, a shortened fragment of the weapon his father fought to the death with, is the one weapon that cannot fall prey to an insidious new device.

Though he promised the farm girl that he would not use his martial art skills unless harm was to come to the two of them, the one armed swordsman cannot sit by and watch as his former master is about to be killed. Confronted by the woman who has taken his arm from him, Fang Gang puts aside any anger he may have for his master's daughter and decides he must help his master Chi. Defying the pleas of the farm girl, who has already seen her father die thanks to the martial arts, Fang Gang runs off to save the day. Of course, he does, only to return to the peasant life...For now.

Predictable as it maybe, The One Armed Swordsman provides ample entertainment. Not bothering to complicate the plot with unnecessary tricks or twists allows more attention to be placed on matters of choreography, set design, and even acting. While this in not the penultimate sword play movie ever made by the Shaw Brothers, it is a very competent and exciting one. As usual the set design is well done, though this means that every piece looks like a set, but in this only adds to the fairy tale like nature of the film. In some way this is Cinderella meets Joseph and the Technicolor Dreamcoat, if only the glass slipper and the dream coat were a short blade sword. What's most interesting is the acting, a rather melancholy mixture of brooding anger and deep seeded honor. Fang Gang is conflicted. He is trained to fight and yet would like nothing more than to never fight again. He is embarrassed by his handicap and yet he'll fight to prove he is still a man. One could think deeper about this film, but to do so might make it academic and ruin the satisfaction it delivers.

LAST DAYS

2005-08-25T15:45:00.000-05:00

Sometimes you have to kill your idols and sometimes they kill themselves. Kurt Cobain immortalized himself by losing his head. Gus Van Sant lost his head while filming the last days of Kurt Cobain. What happened? I never idolized Van Sant, nor did I ever think he was a poor filmmaker, but Gerry and Elephant showed such promise. He’s something in between. That’s why I do believe his latest deserves more than a simple dismissal. I feel Last Days needs to be examined. An autopsy may revel just what killed this film.

Van Sant has talked about a Kurt Cobain project for over a decade. With a recent turn towards minimalism in films such as Gerry and Elephant, Gus Van Sant finally threw off the shackles of a normal biopic, but in returning to the same creative well he has proven that the well is dry and the third time is not always the charm. Rather than show the rocketing rise of a backwoods kid to superstar status that drives the boy to suicide, Van Sant chooses to longingly stare at the last days a fictitious junkie, rock star named Blake - an homage to the poet, a name that sounds much like "blank", and an obvious stand-in for Kurt Cobain. Not showing the degree of success achieved by Blake, nor the great divide between his humble beginnings and his present day domination of pop culture reduces Blake to a nobody. For all intents and purposes Blake is a filthy, mumbling, misanthrope who wanders about the confines of his lakeside castle. Blake is an empty vessel, dressed in grungy clothes, dragging about a shotgun. The end is always in sight and the journey there is just a series of stylistic exercises.

Why we should concern ourselves with such a mess such as Blake is never explained. It doesn't need to be. The image of a disheveled Michael Pitt, in tattered sweaters or a thin black dress, with his hair obstructing his face is a dead ringer for the dead front man of Nirvana. The facsimile is so calculated, down to particular sweaters and glasses worn by Kurt Cobain that the audience is unable to see Blake, instead they see Kurt. It is the audience more than Van Sant that creates the character of Blake, by throwing their own knowledge of Kurt Cobain upon the naked figure of Blake.

Finding it impossible to not see the entire film as the story of Kurt Cobain's last days and knowing the eventual outcome of the story, one is left to meditate on these final days, but how interesting these days are depends greatly on how much one knows about Cobain. Everything in Blake's life serves as a replacement for the life of Kurt Cobain and the more you know about Cobain's life, the more you look for similarities. A shrill female voice on a phone line soundly equals that of Courtney Love. Strange houseguests work as potential murderers, adding credence to conspiracy theories about Cobain's death. Even the last shot of the film, a spying glimpse through trees and glass doors, mimics newspaper images of the crime scene. It’s too much for someone with knowledge of Cobain’s life. Gus Van Sant might as well just have made a film about Cobain, but then why didn't he?

Not specifically making a film about the last days of Kurt Cobain's life is but one of the many artistic mis-steps Van Sant takes. Relying on a lot of the formal techniques he utilized in Gerry and Elephant, Van Sant's style feels less fresh this time around. He'd been borrowing heavily from Bela Tarr, but he's also been borrowing from others. Still, homage is nothing new, especially for a man who remade Psycho. It's not his greatest offense either. However, a retread is a retread.

Like Elephant, Van Sant utilizes musique concrete for a majority of the soundtrack. The sounds of cars, church bells, and phones get processed into a collage that greatly mimics the sounds of madness. While not so spot on as to be wholly inartistic or blatantly offensive, the sounds come across as cliché for multiple reasons. First, the do sound the incongruent noises one might associate with a slipping mental state. Secondly, they teeter between sublime and sedimentary. They are either angelic voices calling one upward or natural sounds rooting one to earth, but they are never so carefully crafted that one does not fell this struggle without giving it much afterthought. Finally, they are becoming expected; unanswered phones being the biggest cliché ever.

Like in Elephant, Van Sant uses Turen Der Wahrnehmung a/k/a Doors of Perception, but this time the piece is more foregrounded. Still, it does not resonate in the same way that Moonlight Sonata by Beethoven that served hauntingly as theme in Elephant. If anything the piece now feels like an unfunny inside joke. William Blake wrote the lines, "If the doors of perception were cleansed everything would appear to man as it is, infinite." The artist in Last Days is named Blake. Get it? One could even take the joke further and connect The Doors to this quote and the comparisons between Jim Morrison, Kurt Cobain, and Blake could begin to weave a web so large its not even worth comprehending. Flat out, the piece is not as strong. Not in this instance, it feels wrong footed, tacked on, and is there only to serve as some form of credibility. Perhaps, a Leadbelly song might have been more fitting, still an homage to Kurt Cobain, and less of a referential gag.

Outside of the soundtrack, there are various other questionable calls. For instance, the significance of a particular Boyz II Men music video escapes me. Why the video must drone on as the television screen commands the center of the film frame is confusing and feels like a flawed attempt at humor, much like an instructional karate video playing in another scene. If these are hip references I am not catching than my age is surely showing. Though, I was able to identify Kim Gordon, member of the band Sonic Youth, a group that helped discover Nirvana. My love for Sonic Youth was not enough to cloud the fact that Gordon just can't act. Nor can Harmony Korine, or at least he can't improvise. While making a cameo during a rock show, Harmony prattles on about the Grateful Dead, Dungeons and Dragons, and he even makes a sly reference to Gerry - a trend that has continued through Elephant. Thankfully, actors such as Lukas Haas and Asia Argento easily upstage the celebrities, though first timers like Thaddeus A. Thomas, Ryan Orion, and the Friberg twins, Adam and Andy, upstage both of them. Unknown faces help a film so full of familiarity.

Much of Last Days visual style, its long takes, roaming camera, and lack of close-ups, harks back to Elephant and Gerry. Cinematographer Harris Savides had exhibited great craftsmanship in Gerry and Elephant, but for the better part of Last Days, the film’s composition felt questionable. Odd objects blocked the foreground, blurry and out of focus. It was hard to tell if this was poor camera placement or some failed attempt aesthetic. Far too often the frame felt unbalanced, with characters being cropped off in odd ways, but never odd enough to be artistic choices. That these blemishes were so apparent comes from the duration of each shot, holding long enough to allow one to see the flaws, and the glaring fact that they are not aesthetically pleasing to the eye, nor make a great deal of sense in the context of the film. At times, the film does strike upon a visually arresting image - a dolly away from the house, a static image of a figure in the night. There is beauty in Last Days, but it’s not all thanks to Van Sant or his cinematographer. Again, the inspiredness of the images greatly depends on one's own viewing history. A long driving shot with trees reflecting off a windshield, obscuring the driver and passenger’s face is straight out of The Bed You Sleep In by Jon Jost or was it Sure-Fire or Last Chants For A Slow Dance? Whichever one, it is nothing new about the camera tracking behind Blake. It was in Elephant, the Van Sant and the Alan Clarke versions.

Then there is Bela Tarr, that Hungarian director who seems to have inspired Van Sant to stop making film like Finding Forrester, at least for a little while. The slow re-mapping of time that comes from Santatango is a trademark for Tarr and an obsession for Van Sant. But, by now it is becoming old hat. In Last Days no new perspective is given with each piece of time that is shown from different viewpoints. Taking just the worst case in point, as it is one so ham fisted it needs to be thought about some more, there is a scene late in the film when Blake retires to a practice room and picks up an acoustic guitar. Upstairs, his two male roommates disrobed and hop into be with one another. Until this point the question of their sexuality was never a question. They had been seen with women or so doped up that one never bothered to imagine anyone being interested in sex. For no clear reason, this scene is somehow important to the story of Blake. Grasping at straws I can imagine a few things. First, that Blake and his music have somehow opened these two men up sexually. It is known that Kurt Cobain has admitted to having homosexual thoughts while in high school and that he often thought he might be bisexual. Still, this is a stretch. Then there is the theory that these two many some how be the ones who caused Kurt's death. By either not looking after Kurt, hiding the fact that he was holed up with them, or by pulling the trigger for him, Van Sant leaves just enough room to let conspiracies flourish. Why they must be gay is still a mystery or why the beginnings of their lovemaking must be present to make this film work is confounding. Is it because Cobain once sang, "Everyone is gay"? This confused scene stands out like that of the two shooters in Elephant who take a shower together before going on a killing spree. They play like releases, letting people off the hook. "Oh they were gay." As if this somehow explains everything. In the case of Last Days it explains nothing. At it’s worst it feels like a homosexual filmmaker placing homosexuality in a film for no reason. It’s as gratuitous as tits and ass.

The only thing more unwarrented than the homosexual scene is the obvious exclusion of all drugs. Outside of a small box dug up from the backyard, but never opened on camera, there are no scenes of Blake or any of his housemates taking drugs. Van Sant has tackled drugs before with Drugstore Cowboy and it’s a well-known fact that Cobain was addicted to heroin. In fact, he had been in and out of rehab clinics just before he was found dead. Heroin played a big role in Kurt Cobain's life, but it does not even get screentime in the Last Days. While it is easily assumed that the cause of Blake’s wandering state of existence is drugs, they are never show, barely even referenced. There is more mention of touring, new records, new songs, and fame than there is of drugs, thus creating an uneven balance. Drugs played just as much of a part in the death of Kurt Cobain as did fame and fortune. Yet, Van Sant seems to have absolved his character, Blake, of this downfall. Sadly, the film could have had more to say about wasted talent, dead-end roads, and untimely deaths had Van Sant bothered to borrow from another Alan Clarke film.

In his BBC production Christine Clarke aimlessly follows the daily dealings of a suburban teenage junkie. Unlike most cinematic junkies, the girl is clean-cut to the point of being a boring wallflower. Her life is an unexciting serious of errands from one fix to the next. Using the same tag along style of cinematography that appears in both Clarke and Van Sant's Elephant this attached camera forced viewers to follow Christine and helped expose the boring existence caused by a steady drug habit. Van Sant follows a similar trajectory, except for three key differences. He displaces time, thus creating an illusion of a mystery about to unfold. He focuses on a celebrity. He, finally, forget to tie much of the dreariness into a deadly addiction to heroin. The last change is the most costly, as it makes Blake appear to be more misunderstood than miscreant. While, it would be just as awful for Van Sant to blame all of Blake's woes on drugs Van Sant does need to address key elements that he leaves in and out of his film as much as those that he chooses to leave in.

I have said little of the star, Michael Pitt. Serviceable at best, he is a model in Bressonian terms. More a dress-up doll of Kurt Cobain than an actor, he holds a believable body posture. With nearly a page full of understandable dialog his usual, inaudible mumblings often slip into expected grumbles. Here and there, a line rings out, but they are just what you'd predict a strung out rock star might say; everyone is out to get him, he’s misunderstood. They are there if you bother to listen. Warning signs, perhaps, another think Van Sant wants us to pick-up on, things Kurt’s friends and family didn’t pick up on? That’s what I expect they are. What I didn't expect is the mishandling of the star by Van Sant. Allowing Pitt to write and perform his own songs, in a style very reminiscent of Nirvana, is a bit grating. I had read that it was Pitt and not Van Sant who insisted upon mimicking Kurt Cobain as closely as possible. While Pitt certainly resembles the artist it’s a questionable call for a film that continually skirts around being a direct biographical picture. Would it be of greater service to have gone with brown hair, like Pitt had in The Dreamers? Would that distance be enough or would you still see Kurt and not Blake? Was that ever really the intent Van Sant had? I doubt it. As for placing Blake in a room with new born kittens and showing his sensitive side, that is totally Van Sant's fault and it's a huge blunder. Cobain may have been a gentle soul, but this is too fluffy for even the most emotional emo-band members. It also is too much of an extreme. If Cobain is that sensitive then where is the great pain and torture, even the anger and angst stands out in Smells Like Teen Spirit, the song that captured the heart of a teenage populace when it hit the airwaves, the song that brought Kurt Cobain to the attention of the world?

The lack of angst, that becomes more apparent as I listen to Nirvana albums hoping to find clues to what went wrong with Last Days, it is surely not the worst miscalculation on Van Sant's part. The biggest mis-step comes in crafting a story that is at odds with itself. Though he never constructs Blake as a rock legend, we do that by replacing him with Kurt, Van Sant wants us to make this connection otherwise the mystique of his story is wasted on a nobody. Starting with a premade rock icon, Van Sant reduces the rock legend to nothing in the hopes of finding the man behind the myth. At the same time he uses cinematic conventions to lift this blank figure to the level of deity. Chicago Reader film critic Jonathan Rosenbaum called it the, "grunge version of the Christ story." To some extent I'd have to agree, though the deifying of Blake/Kurt is greatly saved for the end of the film where it is either obvious or obviously mis-read. Choosing to show Blake's soul lifting up from his body and climbing out of frame, perhaps ascending a stairway to Heaven, comes across as so profoundly glorifying that snickers need to be suppressed. Instinctively, one sees this use of double exposure as a symbol for Blake's spirit returning to Heaven, the upward ascension of the body makes for this reading. However, I am apt to give Van Sant some slack after thinking about the film for sometime.

Blake is really nothing. He's Kurt Cobain only because we, the audience, have made him Kurt Cobain. This is not to confuse things and say that Kurt Cobain was someone else or had a different name. Kurt was always Kurt, but he was Kurt Cobain a kid from Aberdeen, Washington long before he was Kurt Cobain lead singer of Nirvana. Early in the film, Van Sant shows his creation, Blake, stripping down to his boxers and taking a swim in a cold body of water. At this moment of near nakedness Blake is most alive. For the rest of the film he is donning and doffing various costumes. It is only after he takes his own life that we see him naked, a spirit free from the identity that has grown up around the musician.

Perhaps, this is what Van Sant was attempting to convey and perhaps this is why he felt inclined to change the name of his protagonist. Yet, in changing the name he does confuse matters. People may have mocked him for making a film about Kurt Cobain that ends with the singer's spirit climbing to the heavens, but it's no less ridiculous to have the spirit of a stand-in do the same thing. After all, they are both just rock musicians, not gods. However, rock'n'roll has a power to transform normal people into deities and grunge was the second coming of punk. Kurt was the messiah and that's a lot of pressure for a young, confused kid.

Van Sant was one of Cobain’s followers. The two had met. Kurt had wanted to act in one of Van Sant’s films. Van Sant had written films for Kurt. The two never collaborated, but nearly a decade later, Van Sant seems to have found his chance to work with Cobain, even if it just the myth of Cobain. I give the filmmaker credit for attempting to slow down the pace, focus on the individual, and to not even try to place many words, especially profound ones, into the mouth of someone he loved and appreciated. Yet, there is a tinge of exploitation in the air. Would Kurt have wanted this? Why disturb the dead?

SUMMER CAMP 13: FREEBIE AND THE BEAN & NIGHT PATROL

2005-08-24T18:30:00.000-05:00

Summer Camp 13: A Pig Roast

Summer is drawing to a close and with only two more Wednesday night screenings left to go, I had some hard decisions to make. Hoping that the series would continue into the fall, in one form or another, I held off from showing some Jim Van Bebber films. Those will be saved for the chilly fall months. Instead, I thought I would once again attempt to take things easy and give folks a break before the final screening, knowing that the two films planned for that last summer event were sure-fire mind-melters. However, this time I made sure that the films were in fact easily digestible. We didn’t need a repeat of Turkish Star War.

Having long since wanted to show Freebie and The Bean because I feel it is one of those amazing films that two few people know about, I forced myself to find another film to match up with this 1970’s buddy-cop action comedy. At first I toyed with the notion of playing The In-Laws and Freebie and The Bean, both showing the comedic genius of Alan Arkin, but I ultimately decided against that. In some ways they were just too similar. So, I played the police angle and when I think of police films, at least comedies, Night Patrol is the first one that comes to mind. I think of it not because it’s a great film, but because it is like a festering wound in my cinematic psyche. One watching will scar you for life.

Freebie and the Bean

There are buddy films and then there is Freebie and the Bean. The titular figures are two bickering cops arguing night and day, but together they are determined to tack down Red Meyers, a local hijacking boss. Just when they think they have caught Red Meyers red handed the tables get turned on them. Suddenly Freebie and the Bean have to protect Red Meyers from a Detroit hitman as they wait for their key witness to return to San Francisco. Set during a Super Bowl weekend, Freebie and the Bean nearly demolish San Francisco in an effort to keep Red Meyers alive and win the promotions they covet.

With James Caan and Alan Arkin playing Freebie and The Bean, respectively, director Richard Rush (The Stuntman) has taken two overlooked comedic geniuses and smashed them into a buddy cop film. Arkin and Caan’s comedic timing is near perfect and comes wholly unexpected. The two men argue like an odd couple, with The Bean criticizing Freebie’s grifting and Freebie ridiculing The Bean’s Hispanic heritage. Still, both men truly do respect and love one another. Like the film’s tagline puts it “Above all, it’s a love story.”

Outside of the combative relationship between Freebie and the Bean the film contains a wonderful side plot revolving around the relationship between the Bean and his wife (Valerie Harper). Thinking that his wife may be cheating on him with his neighbor who has two large white dogs the Bean puts his detective skills to work hoping to catch his wife in her own lies. Being the wife of a cop she's smart and has a solid answer for all of the Bean's questions. The scenes between Arkin and Harper are comic gold and nearly steal the film from its focus of catching Red Meyers.

For anyone who loves crash chases that leave miles of wrecked cars, fast lines of witty dialog, and a 70’s sensibility towards politically incorrect humor Freebie and The Bean is a gem waiting to be unearthed. Unlike the buddy-cop films of the 80’s that often paired muscle bound badges hell-bent on action, but incapable of delivering lines you laugh with and not at, Freebie and the Bean starts off by utilizing two actors who understand comedy. Still, it does not skimp on action. Freebie and The Bean can’t do anything with out leaving a trail of wreckage. Car chases end with blocks of smashed cars, interrogations go from split lips to humiliating torture, and a simple foot chase weaves its way through fancy restaurants and kitchens leaving no plate unsmashed. Less audacious and more comical the action is intense and compliments the on edge personas of Freebie and The Bean.

Made in 1974, Freebie and The Bean was never gangbusters at the box office. In 1980 someone tried to revive the characters for a television program. Arkin and Caan did not return and the show flopped. Now, Freebie and the Bean is one of those titles that has mysteriously not found its way to DVD. Long out of print, videocassette copies of the film can occasionally be found in the odd video store or on Ebay. The film comes in one of those classic large boxes indicative of Warner Brother videos of the 80’s. Logically, this film should be playing on TNT, TBS, or SPIKE TV. It’s a perfect film to be categorized as a “movie for men who love movies”. It’s just too unknown, to compete with Lethal Weapon or Red Heat or Tango and Cash, I guess. Hopefully, more people will discover this film and save it from the dustbin of history.

Night Patrol

Night Patrol doesn’t punch below the belt. It punches below the show laces. Dragging its knuckles on the pavement, the humor in this film is capable of making middle school boys groan. However, it also makes it a perfect, light fare for Summer Camp as we prepare for next week’s double bill.

Designed as vehicle for The Unknown Comic, this Police Academy rip-off swings low. For those not raised on the Gong Show, the Unknown Comic may look a lot like a poor comedian with a paper bag on his head. That’s pretty much what he was. That was his shtick. You have to remember, that in the 80’s stand-up comedy was huge, so huge that it reached out to some rather unfunny places.

Though buried beneath a junk pile of pisspoor gags, the plot of Night Patrol is relatively simple. Melvin (Murray Langston), a rather naïve beat cop, gets moved to the night patrol. The problem is Melvin moonlights as the Unknown Comic. To make matters worse a man has perpetrated a recent crime spree with a brown paper bag over his head. The criminal holds up bars with a pistol and a load of bad jokes. Melvin must solve the case if he ever hopes to save his stand-up career and his good name.

The film bounces from one gag to the next with Melvin and his new partner Kent Lane (Pat Paulson) reporting to various crime scenes. A pervert speaks in French, demanding to be beaten for pleasure. Lesbians play billiards without balls. Pat Morita, dressed in drag, gets raped repeatedly. Linda Blair works down at the station as a dispatcher. Police Chief Billy Barty has flatulence problem and accuses everyone of calling him a liar. Andrew Dice Clay shows up as Tony Baroni and he nearly steals the show. The name of the hour, the Unknown Comic, delivers painfully awful jokes and somehow this all constitutes good humor, I think.

It’s hard to tell just what director Jackie Kong’s motivation was with this film. Night Patrol is the sort of film that fucks your brains out and in fact that's a joke in the film, with a dizzy girl walking into walls because she's had her brains fucked out. One viewing of Night Patrol can you doing the same. Most jokes play like bad puns, rejects from a Zucker brothers film. All of the jokes go for foul humor. They are like bad jokes made by dirty uncles or humor you’d expect to find in a junior varsity football locker room. They are rejected cartoons from Playboy brought to life. With ample nudity,some being provided by Russ Meyers veteran Kitten Natividad, mixed in with the sex jokes it’s quite obvious whom Night Patrol is targeted towards. This is certainly not a film you’d take a date to see, unless you never wanted to see your date again.

Night Patrol does have its moments where it does strike some comic gold, but this is the sort of film that swings at every pitch, so that it connects every so often is not surprising. Sure it hits a few home runs, but its batting average is way low. Still, for mindless fare you can’t get much more mindless than Night Patrol. Its incessant use of a horrid song, that repeatedly proclaims the L.A.P.D. to be out of control, will quickly fill your head, making you wish the L.A.P.D. would come along and beat you Rodney King style, just to get the damn song out of your head.

It’s hard to believe that a failed show such as The Gong Show would produce a person like the Unknown Comic and that this person could go on to write and star in a film such as Night Patrol. If anything this unfortunate turn of events gives us reason to be thankful Gallagher never made a feature film. On a more modern note, I wish the producers of From Justin To Kelly had taken note of Night Patrol before they ran one foot of film through the camera. Then again, they probably thought they were making something good.

Sadly, the turn out for our second to last summer screening was less than desired. There were the handful of familiar faces who often show up to these events. We even had two strangers show up halfway into Freebie and the Bean. They laughed their heads off at every off color joke and did not seem to mind that they missed half of the feature. However, the left before Night Patrol. In some ways, I can't blame them. But where were the others? Perhaps they just decided to stay home and take the real easy way out. If they did, I hope they rested up, because they are going to wish they had come next Wednesday.

Summer Camp is a weekly screening that provides University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee film students the chance to relax, unwind, and take in some of the oddest films in cinematic history. Each week a program of two films connected in some thematic or factual way are shown back to back. The results are often mind blowing, jaw dropping, and life shattering, but after a week of hard work and intellectual exercise they are a necessary and laughable break from the norm.

ISHTAR

2005-08-24T02:05:00.000-05:00

If you ever need proof that film reviewers have too much power and too little intelligence find Ishtar. This film got massacred by the media, it was the butt of every late night comedians monologue. It was at one time considered the biggest flop ever produced. Ishtar was not the worst film ever produced, that title went to Leonard Part 6, until Pluto Nash came along. Ishtar was just considered a flop, a really big flop. Then came Waterworld, which got referred to as 'Fishtar' and thankfully, that allowed Ishtar off the hook and now it appears there is a cult of Ishtar that is steadily growing and proving just how blind critics can be.

Wanting to pounce on Dustin Hoffman and Warren Beatty, who each received sizeable paychecks for this Hope and Crosby road movie send-up, critics came at the film with teeth out. Refusing to accept the two stars as untalented, tin-eared, singers movie critics got left out on one of the better comedies of the 80's. Had the film been made today with Will Ferrell and Chris Katten or Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn or would have cleaned house at the box office and might have even received critical praise. People expect these guys to be characters blind to their own foolishness. No one was expecting actors such as Hoffman and Beatty to be such schlubs, not only because they were once considered strong, talented leading men, but because the 80's was not a time when grown men (outside of standard comedic actors) were often portrayed in such a light. Recent films such as American Beauty and Sideways have helped to show that Ishtar may have been a film well ahead of its time.

The director of Ishtar, Elaine May, had tackled male behavior before in flicks such as The Heartbreak Kid and Mikey and Nicky. In Ishtar she continues her exploration of the middle-aged male psyche, but she places this experiment inside a Middle Eastern setting, similar to that of a film like Road to Morocco. Lyle Roger (Beatty) and Chuck Clarke (Hoffman) are two desperate song writers who agree to take a gig overseas. In route to their engagement at the Ishtar Hilton the lousy lounge singers find themselves suddenly entangled in a web of espionage and volatile Middle Eastern politics.

The plot itself is rather flimsy and was possibly weakened during the editing process. The need to find a sacred map and help rebels overthrow the Emir of Ishtar are secondary to the story of Lyle and Clark's attempts to deal with their lack of success. Just as she uses a Mafia backdrop in Mikey and Nicky, Elaine May uses the desert politics of Ishtar as a canvas for her characters to sort through their personal issues. When Lyle and Clark are working on their songs, attempting to banter on stage, or giving each other a shoulder to cry upon the film is at its best. These are two grown men unable to fess up to their failings, both attempting to pull themselves together and pursue their dreams. A gag involving a blind camel do and the straight faced wit of Charles Grodin, playing a CIA operative, add to the humor, but when the film focuses on the sub-plot of Ishtarian politics things get messy. Not only is the storyline convoluted, but it can be somewhat complicated. Even if the film is named after the bogus country it is set in, the story of Ishtar, as a nation, is not nearly as interesting as the story of Lyle and Clark.

Elaine May may have been the best female director to ever grace Hollywood. Sadly, Ishtar drove her away from directing. A lot of critics have a lot of blood on their hands and its sad to think of all the great cinema May might have gone on to direct. She continues to write screenplays and Ishtar just helps to prove that the woman really knows how to write funny, but she may have been even more talented at direction. Not just anyone can convince two leading men of Hoffman and Beatty's stature to play such dreadfully awful hacks. To do this takes great talent on both the actors' and the director's part. In many ways the dark humor that is often missed in a film like Mikey and Nicky were you have Peter Falk and John Cassavetes playing to very unlikable friends out to harm one another is also in Ishtar, but the humor is up front and the action is set back. Though towards the end of Ishtar things flop, a pointless gun battle erupts and suddenly the film feels mixed-up. It's here that the influence of the studio shows its ugly head. Is this desert gun fight, full of heavily artillery, and large explosions there just to add machismo to Hoffman and Beatty's characters? Is it there to simply satisfy an supposed need for action?

Ishtar would have worked much better had it never shipped itself off to foreign lands. Had this just been about two down and out song writers, late in life and still looking for a break critics may have gone easier on it. By also making this a send-up of Hope and Crosby road movies May bites off more than she can chew, but then again on paper such a story might have been more marketable. Though, like many films that try to revive and older genre such as western, musical, or silent film Ishtar suffers greatly from being "not-of-its-time". Thinking back to 1987 its easy to understand why critics balked and audiences joined in. Three Men and a Baby was the highest grossing comedy that year, beating out other comedies such as Beverly Hills Cop II, Moonstruck, and Lethal Weapon. People still thought of Hoffman as the guy from The Graduate or Kramer vs. Kramer. Beatty was still reeling from Reds.

Of course, I still hadn't seen any of those films when I first saw Ishtar. I didn't know that these two stars were not supposed to play losers. The songs they say wrote and sang were hysterically bad, but I knew they were designed to be bad. The jokes worked for me and the real joke was on all those folks who gave Ishtar a bad rap just because critics and comedians beat it up. Such can happen you get when you follow the party line.

THE WORLD IS WATCHING

2005-08-22T17:00:00.000-05:00

A rather uninspired documentary about the 2004 Republican National Convention as told by two college students working street level and covering the various protests mounted against the RNC. If anything this video proves that an interesting topic is only half of a good documentary. You also need to be able to present the subject matter in an interesting or enlightening fashion.

The World is Watchingg starts with a van load of Midwestern students in route to New York City to protest the convention. Arriving in New York the students and their efforts are quickly lost to a cast of eccentric characters each representing a different interest or protest march. Almost everyone in the film is concerned with the way they will be portrayed by the corporate media and they speak with the documentary crew as if somehow they will depict the protestors in a more truthful light. Sadly, just like the corporate media to which the film crew sees itself opposed, this documentary focuses on the most outlandish characters who's arguments and costumes come across as expected and comical. Facts and figures, such as date, time, location, and size of each protest reduce the actions in the films to blotter material, with most of the issues being given little more lip service than one might expect on the evening news. In essence, the film is more of the same, just drawn out.

I shall assume that the filmmakers did not finish editing this picture until after Bush won his re-election. Most of the people heard through out this picture speak with an air of defeatism. On the ride home, the students complain about the treatment they received at the hands of the police. While I am sure their arguments are valid they are so poorly spoken, like sore losers, that one prays for them to stop whining. Additional stories of abuse and fears of being poorly represented by the media come across like sour grapes. Little is said about the positive things that may have come from these protests, most disturbing of all is the complete lack of introspection, something to balance out the picture. One commentator, a comedian/newsman for Comedy Central's The Daily Show points out that a problem with such protests is that people in middle America see heavily costumed, divergent protestors and often do not see themselves amongst the crowd. Its a concern that lingered in the back of my mind and something the filmmakers failed to address. So much of politics is convincing your populace that you are just like them. Would thousands of similarly dressed protestors been more effective? Would that be too high a cost in terms of diversity or would it have showed a unified front against the RNC? I guess we'll never know.

On a side note, this documentary was followed by a short film called Like Being Pursued By a Boulder. I was there as a guest of the filmmaker so I shall try not to let personal bias influence me, but his six minute collage of protest and police imagery did a far better job of presenting a faceless crowd unified against a highly organized police state.

CAT CHASER

2005-08-20T10:15:00.000-05:00

Peter Weller - forever known as the guy that played Robocop - plays an American veteran who quietly runs a small beachside hotel in Miami. Try as he might, George Moran (Weller) cannot put his involvement in a Dominican Republic intervention behind him. Haunted at night by his dreams and haunted during the day by a cast of seedy characters Moran complicates matters by getting romantically involved with the wife of a former general of the Dominican Republic. Those around Moran attempt to use his relationship as leverage in the hopes that he can help them rip-off the general for a couple of million dollars that the old war dog has stashed away.

Cat Chaser is an unnecessarily complicated adaptation of an Elmore Leonard novel. Taken from the hands of madcat director, Abel Ferrara (Bad Lieutenant, King of New York) the film got butchered in the editing room. A bankrupt Vestron Pictures hacked the film to pieces leaving the plot in pieces. Still, what remains shows some true promise. Ferrara does a wonderful job of capturing the sun soaked sleaze of Miami and the Dominican Republic. Down and out barflies and crooked southerners add to the underworld ambiance, especially the portly, marble-mouthed, Jiggs Scully who is wonderfully played by Charles Durning (The Hudsucker Proxy). With her boney jaw and her masculine gruffness Kelly McGillis (Top Gun) brings little sex appeal as the general's cheating wife. Perhaps this sort was pretty in the 80's when even Grace Jones could be mistaken for alluring, but in retrospect she's nothing to get shot over.

It's sad that Abel Ferrara wasn't given final cut on this film and he has now written it off. There are moments that truly shine and a few that speak strongly of Ferrara's inclination for disturbing scenes. The opening of the film are quite engaging, with grainy, high contrast, black and white images of a military operation playing under the credits, while a collage of sounds adds to the nightmare. However, as promising as this sequence is the rest of the film looks nothing like it. For the remainder of the film the imagery captures a purely 80's decor further dated by a overly calculated lighting scheme that is also rooted in the glossy 80's. In particular, it is fun to watch how often actors stand in shadow with only their eyes unobstructed by darkness.

To further help the audience understand the story and to smooth over some plot points a narrator's voice pushes along the story. Whether the addition of a narrator was the director or the film company's choice is not obvious. At times the voice of the narrator reads like a book on tape, divulging back story and internal motivation that might not come across through imagery. While not a total success, the narration does directly connect the film to its roots as a novel and serves to show that there are many ways to tell a story cinematically.

Cat Chaser is nothing to rush out and find. It's not great lost collaboration between two great artists. It's more like a failed experiment that yields some interesting results. With its tropical locations and its lazy pacing, that mimics the booze and sun soaked characters of the film, Cat Chaser is viewed on a cold or rainy afternoon when you have plenty of time to kill.

SUPER FUZZ

2005-08-18T22:30:00.000-05:00

With great regret I submit this post. For some time now the other half, the more prolific half, of this journal, record...blog (fine I said it), has been raving to me about a film called Super Fuzz. He had grown up with this film. He also grew up with cable television. Whereas, I grew up with farms. He had HBO - Home Box Office. I had HBO - Huge Barn Outside. When cable finally came to our corner of the cornfield I did my best to make up for as much lost time as possible, but I never once saw Super Fuzz. Now, thanks to a new mode of movie watching - mainly NetFlix, which does deliver to children of the corn - I have seen it and sadly I must say, I am less than impressed.

Super Fuzz tells the unlikely story of rookie police officer Dave Speed (Terrence Hill) who gets exposed to a radioactive red powder that gives him super human powers. Dave's partner (Ernest Borgnine) cannot understand how Dave can suddenly see through walls, withstand ten story falls, and catch bullets in his teeth. Counterfeiters in the South Florida area can't understand how this one cop can cause them so much grief. A plan is devised to frame Officer Speed, making it look like he killed his own partner. Sentenced to death, neither bullet, nor noose, nor gas chamber, nor electric chair can kill off this super trooper. Breaking free from prison Dave sets out to prove that his partner is not dead and that he is an innocent man.

An imported Italian production also know as Super Snooper, a title that connects the film with is cheesy theme song, this comic book crime story got a theatrical release, but found its legs on television as Super Fuzz. On-line, the film garners great reviews from its many fans who grew up during those budding moments of cable when channels were scrapping for material. Their love for the film exceeds the many obvious short comings the film possesses. The sound smacks of overdubbing, an effect that always distances the audience to the same degree that actor's image always feels distanced from their voices. Such a simple technical element is not enough to tank an entire film and to a certain degree it creates reason for embrace. It's lovable flaw in a film full of pleasingly bad moments. Borgnine knows the film to be a slapstick superhero parody and he plays up every scene with facial mugging and over the top reactions. Hill on the other hand holds a coodemeanorrr. He is the straightman of the comedic duo. The jokes themselves are cartoonish, goofy, physical, and often sped-up for comedic effect. They provide for memorable moments, but at my age they register a mere chuckle at best.

Not surprisingly, most of the folks who champion this film, like my colleague, remember it from their youth. They grew up with this film and have a strong, nearly inexplicable attachment to it. More than nostalgia, their love feels like that of a parent able to overlook numerous blemishes. At it's heart Super Fuzz does not try to posture itself as anything more than a wacky, comic book come to life and in this fact the film is wholly admirable, serviceable, and charming. Sadly, it's a charm that had to grow on you and it helps if the seed was planted early. Never having seen this film as a child I feel some what cheated. I will never possess the same loving fascination that so many others now hold towards Super Fuzz. Regretfully, this is just how it goes sometimes. We grow up with personal, enigmatic experiences not shared by everyone we meet. Thinking back there is certainly something from my youth that I cherish, but unless experienced by others at the same time or the same age would fly soundly over their heads. Maybe it's my love of Klondike Kat cartoons, something I do not rightfully understand myself nor expect others to understand. Whatever it is, there will always be personal artifacts from our past that we hold dear, but others cannot appreciate to the same degree, if even tolerate. In Super Fuzz, I see the appeal. I only wish I had seen it sooner. Perhaps, should I ever have kids, I'll sit them down on a rainy day and let them watch Super Fuzz. It's always nice to give your kids opportunities you never had and there is a good chance it will be better than the crap they'll want to watch.

SUMMER CAMP 12: THE BABY & WHERE'S POPPA?

2005-08-17T18:30:00.000-05:00

Summer Camp 12: Momma's Boys

Admittedly, I make mistakes. This week, I screwed up. I knew these two features were just made to play together. There have been many films with mad mothers, but something about the overbearing mothers and the kowtowed sons in these two films makes them logical playmates. So where does the mistakes come in?

I honestly thought that Where's Poppa? was the stronger film and thus it should play second. Traditionally, that's how films have played during this summer series. We warm things up with the lighter fare and then we go for the jugular with the second act. Now, there have been nights when both films could have held there own as a headlining act. Class of 1984 & The New Kids both have the power to massacre brain cells. There have been nights when the more accomplished picture played first. God Told Me To is an expertly crafted flick, while The Visitor is something no expert could calculate. Its genius is purely fucked. One night we had a close call. The topsy-turvy screening of Turkish Star Wars and Star Crash could easily have opened with Star Crash. Only, I feared letting people get behind the wheel after watching Turkish Star Wars. The choice of second film was designed to sober the audience. But, with The Baby and Where's Poppa? I loused things up. While Where's Poppa? is a far superior film, with absurd comic moments the outright improbability of The Baby and its surprise ending that strikes like a death blow against sanity really should have made The Baby the obvious choice for a show closing feature.

The Baby

Like any caring mother Mrs. Wadsworth would never let anything get between her and her baby. She doesn't mind that she has to spend her waking hours feeding, pampering, and protecting her baby boy, even if he's twenty years old. Fully grown, but challenged, Baby has remained in an infantile state while his body has matured to the size of a grown man. He still sleeps in a crib, wears diapers, and drinks from bottles. He can't speak, can't walk, and can't live without his mother.

Ann Gentry is a social worker who takes a peculiar shine to the Wadsworth case. With her husband no longer in the picture, due to an mysterious accident, Ann pours her soul into her new case. After meeting Baby and his demented family Ann believes that perhaps Baby is capable of learning, maturing, and leading a semi-normal life. Though Mrs. Wadsworth needs the states support she does not like Ann invading her life. With the help of her two wicked Barbie doll daughters, Germain and Alba, Mrs. Wadsworth looks to remove Ann from the case - by any means necessary. As demented and nefarious as the Wadsworth's may seem it turns out that Ann Gentry may be even crazier than the three Wadsworth women combined.

The Baby serves as a prime example of what is missing from the movies today. Namely, guts. Here's a film that doesn't bother to consider the sensitive subjects it railroads over. The mentally retarded, the physically handicapped, the social welfare system, the love of mothers, and even the honorable profession of baby sitting all get slaughtered like sacred cows. You know this is nothing to laugh about, but you laugh anyways. The freedom to laugh comes from the fact that the film was made years ago before a politically correct mindset dissolved humor to a level of manchild bathroom humor. You smile because you know that you are getting a rare treat, but then you cry because films like this can't be made today. Though, this may be a good thing. Irony would destroy any modern effort to craft a film as twisted as The Baby.

Director Ted Post never set out to make a "bad" film. That cursed term confuses modern audiences. The Baby is not bad. Yes, the idea is from another dimension, but it's not a "bad" idea. The plot is well developed, the characters all have depth. The acting is a bit over the top and yes it is the 70's, but every decade looks foolish in retrospect. Look back ten years from now and you'll laugh, guaranteed. The misconception that The Baby is a "bad" movies stems from it's lack of ironic winking towards the audience. Ted Post takes his job seriously, feeling no need to acknowledge the blatant absurdity of the film's premise. He delivers the same competent direction he exhibits in the Dirty Harry sequel Magnum Force or the countless television series he directed (i.e. Combat, Peyton Place, Columbo, etc.). There was never a lick of intent to make a bad movie. Post simply delivers a warped storyline that pulls you in and he makes it more compelling by doing it with a straight face. That right there, is the key to why 70's films, even the so-called "bad" ones, are so great. No one smugly tries to make a poor film, allowing their self-knowledge to serve as an ironic, hipster crutch.

Where's Poppa?

Another final example of a film that just could not play today, a film that probably wouldn't even make it past the script reading stage, Where's Poppa? easily rivals The Jerk as Carl Reiner's greatest cinematic achievement. With it's staggered pace and it's taboo jokes Where's Poppa? tells a similar story of a man trapped with his off-kilter mother, but in this film the laughs come by design.

The film starts from a slow boil. Lingering on the sleepy-eyed morning routine of Gordon Hocheiser (George Segal) the lackadaisical build-up culminates in Gordon dressing up in a gorilla suit and attempting to scare Momma (Ruth Gordon) to death. The gag does not work and Gordon's mother lives to see another day. But, the mood has been set.

For the duration of the film we learn what sort of conditions could drive a grown man to try and kill his own mother. Genuinely sweet, but as batty as they come, Gordon's mother has been ruining his life. Sworn to take care of her until the day she dies, Gordon desperately searches for a nurse who can tolerate his mother, give him some rest and allow him to save his fledging law career. When nurse Louis (Trish Van Devere) comes walking through his office doors Gordon not only thinks he's found the perfect person to take care of Momma, but also the perfect woman to fall in love with. Now, all Gordon has to do is make sure that Momma doesn't drive Louis from his life.

From the first glimpse of the gorilla suit to the alternate ending that hadn't been seen for years the humor is obviously anarchic, but unlike the humor of say the Marx brothers, the humor in Where's Poppa? paces itself. Not feeling the need to smack the audience over the head with line after line of chuckle inducing humor, the film let's the pressure build until a joke finally erupts with great power. One or two simple lines can cause side splitting burst of laughter. Where's Poppa? greatly proves that quality is greater than quantity, but it is never for lack of humor.

Having seen the film multiple times I can boastfully say that each time around I pick up on something new. A small gag here, a particular expression there, the humor is multi-layered and allows for repeated viewing long after one knows the outcome of the story. This time around I picked up on a floor creak. A small sound gag, in Gordon's law office, this creak appears whenever a character stepped on particular part of the floor. Small and subtle, the jokes provided a new laugh. This creaking floorboard is probably one of the tamest bits in the film. Most of the humor is off-beat, dark, and taboo. Making light of things such as murder, parental murder at that, muggings, and even rape makes Where's Poppa? sound like a rather vial film.

On paper, computer screen, or where ever you may read a mere description of Where's Poppa? the affect is lost. The humor has to be delivered by the craftsmen that helped make the film. Author Robert Klane who wrote the book and the screenplay can be held accountable for most of the absurd premises tossed about, but without the timing of director Carl Reiner and the cast the film would fall hollow and flat, something desperately attempting to shock. Besides the restraint of Geroge Segal's humor and the nuttiness of Ruth Gordon the film boasts the comedic talents of Ron Liebman (Zorro - The Gay Blade, Garden State), Garrett Morris (Saturday Night Live, The Stuff ), Paul Sorvino (Goodfellas, Cruising), and the director's son Rob Reiner. Many of the characters play into stereotypes - Jewish, Afro-American, Italian, even radical war protestor. The decision to have characters knowingly play towards stereotypes can come as a jolt for those more used to seeing politically correct comedies that do their best to dilute such portrayals. I can wholly understand why the humor may smack some in the face and leave them a bit bewildered. Still, most folks I have ever shown this film to end up laughing. It's a guilty laugh, one knows you probably shouldn't laugh at certain things, but when the delivery of the jokes is this good, it's hard not to laugh.

Due to its absurd nature Where's Poppa? takes everything to an extreme. Going in such a direction frees it from some criticism. It's hard to take the film seriously when it does not take itself that seriously. Never is the film attempting to offend or harm anyone, but rather examine the taboos we have placed on our humor and see what happens when you run right over them. Today, no sane studio would ever green-light a project like this, but in retrospect Where's Poppa? looks back to a time when a daring director could use comedy to explore the social pulse, without grandstanding or waving about an idealistic message. Where's Poppa? is a screwed up film, but its also the product of a screwed up world.

As for the alternate ending, which can now be seen thanks to the DVD extras, it is still so disturbing, though almost expected, that one doesn't know if you should get mad at the filmmakers for shooting it or mad at yourself for thinking that the film would go there.

Summer Camp is a weekly screening that provides University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee film students the chance to relax, unwind, and take in some of the oddest films in cinematic history. Each week a program of two films connected in some thematic or factual way are shown back to back. The results are often mind blowing, jaw dropping, and life shattering, but after a week of hard work and intellectual exercise they are a necessary and laughable break from the norm.

SUMMER CAMP 11 - THE DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION & THE DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION PART 2: THE METAL YEARS

2005-08-10T18:30:00.001-05:00

Summer Camp 11: Civilization in Decline

What ever happened to Summer Camp 10? Well, I wasn't around for that one. The campers went on with out me. I heard they showed some ninja flicks. Sadly, I had to miss all the fun, but another week brings another chance to expand the definitions of good cinema. The intent of the Summer Camp series was never to show only "bad" films. The idea was to show films that people probably haven't seen, films that don't take a lot of thought, but always deliver a unique experience. With that in mind, I thought maybe it was time to show something other than films that leave your brain in a pile of mush.

The Decline of Western Civilization and The Decline of Western Civilization Part 2: The Metal Years are the first documentaries to grace the Summer Camp series. This is also the first time that a film and its sequel have played together. It's also the first case where both the films are excellently made and could each qualify as being "good". All sorts of new ground is being broken with this week's screening.

Decline of Western Civilization

The Decline of Western Civilization documents the early 80's punk rock movement in Los Angeles. Penelope Spheeris spends most of her time documenting many of the bands that made the movement legendary and a few bands that never made the grade. Peppered in amongst the footage of the bands are interviews with members of the band and a scant handful of young fans who listen to these groups.

Groups such as X, Black Flag, The Germs, The Circle Jerks, and Fear add legitimacy and credibility to the documentary, but at the same time someone not familiar with such legends of punk rock may have a hard time appreciating or even understanding what made these bands so legendary. While X, Black Flag, and The Circle Jerks all deliver kinetic performances that capture the raw power of the music, off stage the bands all feel like foolish adolescents. Fear and The Germs don't leave that image backstage. They bring the jester like personas of their lead man to the stage. Darby Crash (of the Germs) is a total wreck. He's unable to sing into the mic and when he does its impossible to classify what he does as singing. Yet, it's utterly fascinating to watch this human wreck thrash about, howl, and scream. Off stage, in his kitchen he's vacant, but charming. You can't say the same thing for Lee Ving (of Fear). Though he is never seen off stage one has to assume that he's just as big of an ass off stage as he is on stage. Provocation is the preferred performance of Lee Ving. Antagonizing his audience with a taunting one would expect to find in a middle school gym class and the singing of songs such as Beef Bologna* makes Ving and his band more of a comedy act than a musical group.

That Fear's ends The Decline of Western Civilization marks a noticeable change from the beginning of the picture where punk rock music is being compared to sped-up folk music, its message being yelled rather than sung. The first few bands presented in the film do appear to have a message to deliver, but as the film plays on the message gets lost, especially on the fans of this music. Stark black and white interviews with young fans of punk rock show a culture of kids disillusioned, confused, and angry. With no real outlet for their anger they attend concerts, jump about wildly, slam into one another and occasionally fight each other. This odd behavior is deemed a new form of dance, but neither club owners, bands, or fans can quite explain the riotous behavior.

Those people who do attempt to use punk rock as a soap box for social ailments come across even worse than the rather bands or fans that take no effort in disguising their juvenile antics. Rock critics and lesser known bands such as The Alice Bag Band and Catholic Discipline try in vain to put a political face on punk rock, but the mask is not big enough to cover up the depraved fun that most of the other bands in the documentary are engaging in. Perhaps, it is in their overeagerly effort to say something that causes most a band like Catholic Discipline to say nothing and sound foolish doing it. Rather than just be desperate, like the others, Catholic Discipline is desperately trying to act punk.

Penelope Spheeris, who had gotten her start working with Albert Brooks on Saturday Night Live has a strong understanding of the music she is documenting and she has an uncanny knack for getting her subjects to drop their facades in front of the camera. If she has a fault it may be her overindulgence in the music. Though she provides subtitles for those who do not already know the songs by heart, she does linger to long on the musical performances. While interesting, they serve more as time capsules for fans of punk rock. The real entertainment is off stage.

Decline of Western Civilization Part 2: The Metal Years

As if taking a cue from her first documentary, Penelope Spheeris focuses less on musical performances and more on the musicians and fans that make up The Decline of Western Civilization Part 2: The Metal Years. Returning to Los Angeles at the height of the hair metal movement Spheeris explores the wildly self-indulgent, sexist, shameless music that rocked cocks all over America. Featuring performances from Poison, Lizzie Borden, Deuce, Faster Pussycat, London, Odin, and Megadeth, The Metal Years does not boast legendary names in the way that it's predecessor does. However, many notable hard rockers, such as Aerosmith, K.I.S.S., Alice Cooper, Lemy, and Ozzy are interviewed and attempt to add legitimacy to this new variation of rock 'n' roll. But, the real treat in this sequel is the wealth of fan/future rock star interviews that Spheeris conducts.

Gene Simmons of K.I.S.S. says it best, metal fans are the most devoted. They prove it by spilling their gut on camera. These kids, boys and girls, mostly boys, not only love the music, but they each look to make it big themselves. Unabashedly they see their interviews as a chance to promote their music. Of course time is on our side and we know that none of these clowns will ever make it. Still, their adamant devotion to their music, completely blind from reality, makes for the greatest sort of humor. This is Spinal Tap, for real.

The fact that hair metal was always a bit foolish, with grown men in make-up all singing about sex, fast cars, and even faster women helps add to the comedy. Unlike their punk counterparts their are few illusions in hair metal world. Most are in it for the money, the girls, or the love of rock 'n' roll. All of them see this film as a way to get their name out their, even the biggest most well known bands use the opportunity to promote themselves. What they don't realize is just how dependent the all are on analogies. Metal musicians can't communicate without making analogies and most stretch their to an absurd point, of course this is the one time they don't realize the comic nature of their existence. This is when they think they are being serious.

The one man in the entire film who has to be taken seriously is Chris Holmes of W.A.S.P.. Floating about in his pool, the guitar player for one of the more legitimate bands of the metal genre drinks himself into a sloshed state while his mother sits poolside watching, unamused. Downing liters of vodka, degrading himself, and explaining the hardships of life on the road, Holmes visually depicts everything that can go wrong with the overindulgent lifestyle that so many fans and bands are striving to achieve. While the entire ordeal is comical from a distance, upon close inspection the interview is entirely depressing.

I suspect that at times Penelope Spheeris plays up comedic moments. Much of The Metal Years mimics the original Decline of Western Civilization. Rather than visit with Darby Crash in his kitchen while he makes breakfast, we have Ozzy Osborne attempting to make his own breakfast. Rather frazzled from years of drugs and alcohol, Ozzy fumbles with the orange juice, spilling it all over the table. The action itself is so hilarious that it is only upon second viewing that one is able to catch that this is actually an insert shot. Whether or not Ozzy spilled his juice is subject to debate. Perhaps he did and the cameras just missed it. Perhaps they simply reshot a missed opportunity. Whether or not this undermines the authenticity of the documentary or if it simply captures the effects of this music and this lifestyle is another debate, but it's not worth having. There really is no denying that The Metal Years is a dead-on document of one of the more laughable music genres to ever gain popularity.

Of course today there is nostalgia for those years of metal music. Those, like me, who lived through them look back on them as a pre-terrorism time when life seemed simpler. Those too young to know better mistake many of these bands as being good, even classic. Thankfully, The Decline of Western Civilization Part 2: The Metal Years exists to remind everyone just how foolish it all was and still is. Hopefully, this will come out on DVD before VH1 lobotomizes everyone with cheap nostalgic programming.

* Beef Bologna also appeared in the Summer Camp Nightmare shown during Summer Camp 2.

Summer Camp is a weekly screening that provides University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee film students the chance to relax, unwind, and take in some of the oddest films in cinematic history. Each week a program of two films connected in some thematic or factual way are shown back to back. The results are often mind blowing, jaw dropping, and life shattering, but after a week of hard work and intellectual exercise they are a necessary and laughable break from the norm.

CUTTER'S WAY

2005-08-09T23:05:00.000-05:00

Honesty time. I miss a lot of films, most of them are the big movies everyone talks about, the one's you rush out to see on Friday night and forget you saw only weeks later. Movies come and movies go, but these days I don't go to the movies. So, it's no surprise to me when someone mentions a recent film and I haven't seen it, but usually I've heard of it. Yes, sometimes generic titles make every film sound similar, like faux movie titles from Seinfeld. I can't keep two word titles straight to save my life. Was Intolerable Crueltyy the comedy or was that Cruel Intentions?

Cutter's Way was made years before I refined my taste or before my budget refined it for me. How I never saw this film or barely recall its title ever being mentioned is beyond me. This booze soaked modern noir delivers one of the greatest crime stories of the 80's. Based on a novel called Cutter and Bone, John Heard and Jeff Bridges star in the titular roles, respectively. Though Bone gets dropped from the film's title, it is in essence his story that is being told. After his car breaks down and a discarded body is found near his abandoned ride Bone is suspected of murder. However, crippled, one-eyed, Vietnam vet Alex Cutter has another theory. He suspects that the real killer is a local industrialist. Knowing that no one will believe their wild accusations, Cutter decides to take the case into his own hands, piecing together clues and spinning a wild whiskey soaked web of paranoia. Bone gets caught up in Cutter's schemes.

Heard delivers an on edge performance, teetering between comical and scary. There is a sense of true inebriation in Cutter, with scatter shot lines sounding like buckshot firing from a loose canon. Credit certainly needs to be given to screenwriter, Jeffery Allen Fiskin, for providing Cutter with memorable non-sequiturs. Due credit need also be given to Heard for being able to transform such lines into gold. Acting is tough, acting drunk without making it seem like you are acting drunk is very tough. That he succeeds is something of a miracle. I do not mean to discredit Heard's acting ability, but truly he takes his character down a road that could lead to genius or foolishness. Bridges on the other hand has a less difficult role. Wisely, he takes a back seat to Heard's show stealing, but Bridges' low-key performance is a personal best, with smirks and body gesture delivering true sentiment. I'm hesitant to give credit to Ivan Passer, the director, for particular acting choices. Having never seen another Passer directed picture nor recognizing a single title in his filmography, I am apt to believe he lucked into the good graces of two performers who just happened to be on the mark.

As for the look and feel of the picture Passer may deserve more credit, or perhaps credit should go to Jordan Cronenweth, the film's cinematographer. Looking more like Rolling Thunder and less like Blade Runner - two other substantial titles to Cronenweth's credit, Cutter's Way has a very interesting visual style composed of long takes that use the full scope of the widescreen space with characters moving in and out of warm pockets of natural lighting. It's a rather odd choice for a film that gets referred to as a modern noir, to be so rooted in sunny waterside locations such as country clubs and marinas. The glamorous locations do hide the shadowy underworld of perversion and corruption that is so often thought of in black and white noir films. If anything, the bright, colorful scenery play against Cutter's paranoid theories, making it hard to believe or want to believe that a place that looks like paradise could be shadow and corrupt.

Still, it is not hard to imagine that those in power commit crimes and get away with it. That's a thought that has been around since the beginning of time. In this respect Cutter's Way is nothing illuminating. The fact that the hope for justice lies in the head and one hand of whacked out Vietnam Vet who can't be totally trusted is something new and it's what make Cutter's Way so unique and so entertaining. You have to become as paranoid as Cutter to go along with the film, at the same time Cutter is the last guy whom you'd want to go along with. Cutter's way of doing things is anything but normal. It's down right frightening because Cutter is at rope's end and for the most part, we all like to think we aren't that far down. We side with Bone. We understand his hesitancy to go along with Cutter's plans. But, to do so let's the bad guy get away.

It's amazing that I missed this film, never even heard of it. Perhaps, I mistook it for Cannery Row. I certainly know better now. Still, you'd think I would have caught it on cable, had someone whispering in my ear telling me to see it, but for nearly 25 years I just plumb overlooked this gem and now I am feeling a little bit sorry. Cutter's Way doesn't top a lot of critical lists, nor does it exactly fall into the field of "cult classic". It's one of those oh-so rare cases when a Hollywood production produces the unexpected. It seemed to happen a lot more often in the 70's, but this film proves that even up into the early 80's and possibly today there are great films hidden in the cracks of Sunset Boulevard. It's not enough to make me rush out to the theatres and make sure I don't miss something, but it does give me pause to think of what other lesser known titles I may have passed on by.

SUMMER CAMP 9: SKINHEADS - THE SECOND COMING OF HATE & THE BAD BUNCH

2005-07-26T18:30:00.002-05:00

Summer Camp 9: The Black and White Worlds of Greydon Clark

With my Turkish Star Wars' headache well behind me, I plunged forward with a film combo that I almost feared showing. Summer Camp 9 would either make lifelong devotees of those that showed up or get me lynched. So many people say they love bad films, but usually what they love about bad films is the fact that so many of the canonized bad films only offend your sense of good cinema. That is not the case with either of the films on this double bill.

Not as well known as he should be, Greydon Clark is a versatile actor turned director. Getting his start in Z-grade Al Adamson flicks like Satan's Sadists and Dracula vs. Frakenstein Greydon Clark learned his chops from one of the master's of drive-in exploitation flicks. When it came time for Greydon to helm his own projects he quickly seized upon topical subjects and new trends to give him inspiration. Starting with blaxploitation influenced films like The Bad Bunch and Black Shampoo Greydon rode a wave of ever changing fads that lead him to direct films about satanic cheerleaders, bikers, videogame addicts, skinheads, and forbidden dances from Latin America. Greydon Clark knows how to strike while the iron is hot. Most of the times that's also how his films feel - like a hot iron to the face.

Skinheads: The Second Coming of Hate

The night's first feature takes full advantage of a simple talk show truth. Skinheads make for good entertainment. Phil Donahue knew it. Jerry Springer knew it. Greydon Clarke knew it. The only problem is that giving these clowns air time gives them a chance to spread their vile message. Greydon Clark doesn't help the matter by making a film that makes both the skinheads and those they antagonize into laughable stereotypes.

Starting in a Jewish deli the Skinheads terror spree explodes into streets where they must confront a chain wielding gang of African-Americans. Deciding that they've left too many dead bodies in their wake the bald baddies head for the hills. Along the way they stop at roadside diner where an ethnically diverse pack of college students send the skinheads into a rage. Taking their bigotry out back the skinheads pit one of their own against one of the college students. Not willing to fight the fair fight guns are drawn, shirts are torn, and the skin heads continue to embark on an exploitive rampage that allows for violence, bloodshed, and nudity. These three staples of the exploitation genre are all delivered thanks to the horrible actions of the villains and the only ones who can stop them are two of the college students (Jason Culp and Liz Sagal) that manage to escape. With the skinheads in hot pursuit the woodland chase takes the two students to a small cabin in the woods. Enter Chuck Conners. That's right, the Rifleman comes to save the day and lend his name to Greydon's film. Sadly, Conners only has a small bit of screen time, but his choice lines make every moment a gem.

In the end, good does triumph over evil, as it must. Not withstanding poor Barbara Bain (Mission Impossible) who got pulled into this project while her career was in a tailspin the so-called heroes of Skinheads: The Second Coming of Hate deliver horribly half-hearted performances. Jason Culp, a soap actor by trade, can't act to save his life, but Greydon Clark does give his character some humorous ways to off each of the hatemongers. Liz Sagal, who also appears in Howard the Duck and the sit-com Double Trouble, is a magnet for bad projects and her acting shows that she knows it. Then there is Brian Brophy who simply revels in his chance to play Damon, the crazed leader of the skinheads. It's almost scary how much Brophy and many of the other actors playing skinheads appear to enjoy this opportunity. Only the oafish skinhead played by Frank Noon comes off as comical and in this respect his performance is much more like that of Jason Culp and Liza Sagal. In essence, Greydon Clark, gives you a social justice film where you have the best acting in the film, at least the most passionate and believable, coming from the villians. Now, one has to be of a rather delusional mind to side with real skinheads, but from an entertainment standpoint the skinheads in Greydon Clark's film are certainly the less foolish of the folks in the film. I am certain that Clark did not intend for his film to be a promotional tool for future skinheads, but on watching the film one cannot help but feel that along the way Clark's anti-skinhead message got muddled. It's in this confusion that Skinheads: The Second Coming of Hate becomes wonderfully confused. While attempting to exploit the skinheads, Clark also attempts to condone their behavior, but it doesn't fully work because the skinheads are allowed to have too much fun and enjoy their roles a little too much.

The Bad Bunch

For the second feature we have a film I fear showing only because it's the epitome of misguided, socially conscious films. Not only does Greydon Clark decide to make a film about mid 70's racial tensions but he casts himself as the man that is going to bring together the races. At least that is part of his intentions.

Starting off in Vietnam, that looks much like a backyard in Southern California, the army fatigue wearing Clark approaches an African American soldier. Clark offers the man a walnut. Whether this is from a care package or one of those native Vietnamese walnuts is not explained. The conversation quickly turns heavy. Clark's character, Jim, wants to know if his compatriot thinks things will be better between the races when they get back home. Before the fellow soldier is able to tell Jim what he thinks a gun shot fires out. Recoiling backwards the soldier goes down and the real movie begins.

Now, it's not automatically misguided for a white director to want to comment on the racial tensions between the black and white races, but when the opening theme music begins to play questions of intent and approach do arise. With images of Jim making his way off a bus and strutting his body decked out 70's civilian clothes through an all black Watt's a funky tune plays over top as the credits flash on the screen. If you don't credit line that gives the name of the song you can surely guess the title - Nigger Lover. That's right, Nigger Lover the song actually says "Honkey Mother, Nigger Lover....Don't want you in our town." And, Nigger Lover was to be the title of the film. So already one can see that maybe Greydon Clark's heart and mind were not in the right place at the same time.

Where The Bad Bunch goes from there is a truly astonishing. Jim attempts to delivery the dying soldier's last letter to his father only to be confronted by the soldier's brother and his gang of friends. They are a mix between the Black Panthers and Fat Albert's gang. At the head of this gang is Tom, or as he'd prefer to be called Makimba. As you can expect, Makimba doesn't take a liking to Jim. His gang follow Jim to the local carnival and harass him. Two crooked cops come just in time to save Jim's life, but neither the cops nor Makimba can believe it when Jim doesn't press charges.

Jim attempts to go on with his life, picking up the pieces he'd left behind. Before getting back together with his girlfriend Jim stops at the local strip bar, bitches about his soon to be in-laws, and then blows off his girlfriend for a fling with a stripper. Remember Jim's a vet, his head's messed up. Finally, Jim comes to his senses and rekindles his romance with Nancy. While Makimba and his old lady fight, Jim and his frolic on the beach. While Makimba is getting worked over by the cops, Jim is shopping for records. Life sucks for Makimba because Makimba is black, but Jim's got problems too. One of his problems is the fact that Nancy is a prude. She doesn't want to live together until Jim and her get married. Poor Jim.

While Jim tells Nancy to "crap on" her father and just move in with him Makimba is hellbent on finding Jim and getting some retribution Makimba sends his gang out to canvas Los Angeles looking for Jim. Specifically he tells his gang to "look where whitey hangs out." It doesn't take long for them to find Jim or to hassle him. Though the entire middle of the film does fall into a weird nexus of exploitation scenes. Bouncing from Jim's one-night stands to buck-wild, buck-naked pool parties, Greydon Clark often gets down from his soap box to give audience scene after memorable scene full of quotable dialog, poor performances, and over indulgent self-importance. Jim's drunken ramblings in his favorite no-tell motel should go down in cinematic history as one of the greatest scenes ever committed to celluloid. His line, "What are you a goddam doctor with all these questions?" needs to be a staple part of our every day vocabulary. The level of misogyny in this one scene is enough to last a person a life time. It's bad enough that Clark attempts to tackle issues of race, but the way he handles issues between the sexes is probably even more astonishing and it's a shame he never set out to conquer those social issues the way he did with the racial ones.

Thankfully, the world has Greydon Clark, social activist filmmaker, to help us through our tougher times. His attempts at bridging the divide between the races only set back the same cause by a decade or two. That is if anyone ever saw this film when it first came out. Those that did may still be scratching their heads over the film's ending. Nothing said here or in the course of the film can prepare anyone for the end of the film, when Clark gets back on his soap box and delivers a finale that pretty much forces your jaw to the floor.

Everyone I've ever showed The Bad Bunch to has been blown away by the film. It's Clark's desire to make a socially relevant film inside the confines of your typical exploitation film that gets everyone. Daring stunts such as this push The Bad Bunch well past your typical pisspoor film. I am sure Greydon Clark never intended for his film to be a comedy, though he has done many comedies, but rarely do his comedies contain social criticism. It's when he decides to speak out at the same time he's speaking in exploitive terms that you get comic gold. This is the sort of humor that comes from watching Ms. America contestants tell you how they'd fix the world's problems. Even if what they want to say makes some sense it gets garbled in the delivery.

Thankfully, no one takes Ms. America that seriously and the same can be said for Greydon Clark. Deep down we understand that their intentions are good-hearted. We also know that Ms. American and the films of Greydon Clark don't make for the highest quality of entertainment, but we just can't help tuning into see what they'll say and do. I think that's pretty much how everyone in the audience felt after Skinheads and The Bad Bunch. It was hard to get a real response out of anyone, just a lot of headshaking and muttering.

Summer Camp is a weekly screening that provides University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee film students the chance to relax, unwind, and take in some of the oddest films in cinematic history. Each week a program of two films connected in some thematic or factual way are shown back to back. The results are often mind blowing, jaw dropping, and life shattering, but after a week of hard work and intellectual exercise they are a necessary and laughable break from the norm.

FADE TO BLACK

2005-07-22T21:45:00.000-05:00

Fade To Black is an interesting idea for a horror movie and it provides a little lesson about the art of juggling. Eric Binford (Dennis Christopher) is obsessed with movies. They consume his life, but his life is nothing like the movies. His wheelchair bound aunt continually belittles him, the guys at work - one of them being Mikey Rourke (Barfly, Johnny Handsome) - pick on his mercilessly, and Eric has troubles with the ladies. To escape the horrors of reality Eric recedes into a fantasy world where he's James Cagney playing the role of Cody Jarret in the film White Heat. Hung up on the iconic image of Marilyn Monroe, to the point that he has to spank his monkey on screen to illustrate the point, Eric fanatically stalks a look Norma Jean look-a-like played by Linda Kerrige (Surf 2, Mixed Blood). When life does not go as Eric has scripted it he goes a little batty. After "accidentally" killing his Aunt, Eric dresses up as Dracula and other beloved silver screen legends and he starts to make some creative cuts, ridding his life of those who spurned him. Still carrying a torch for that "candle in the wind" Eric's obsessions with classic cinema ultimately lead the police to him. A showdown at Mann's Chinese Theatre finally puts Eric's life in the spotlight.

While the idea of a killer obsessed with cinema, at ends with the real world, and personifying his big screen heroes to commit vengeful acts of murder is a rather interesting idea it just one of many ideas being tossed about in Fade To Black. Besides the homicidal delusions of a cinema junkie, there is an on-again off-again subplot about some bleeding heart criminal psychologist (Tim Thomerson) trying to prove that Eric is not a killer at heart, but a product of society, poorly influenced by all the films he's watched. This tangential element plays a minor part later in the film, but when first established the character enters the film, argues with the police chief, snorts coke in the basement of the police station, and fucks a female cop*. Then he disappears, not to reappear until fifty minutes into the picture. Immediately as he returns he leaves only to show up thirty minutes later for the finale. In his absence there is no indication of the police's attempts to solve Eric's various murders or to bring Eric to justice.

There is also the matter of Eric's obsession with Marilyn Monroe. While it too plays a key element in both the beginning and the ending of the film, Eric's obsession with Marilyn comes and goes. One minute it appears that he is wholly enamored with the glamour icon and that this devotion to a dead icon is a key factor in his downward spiral, the next moment he's more infatuated with being Cody Jarrett, dressing up in stage make-up, and settling grudges. Only in the end moments do his interest in Marilyn and Cody unite, but even then it has become wholly unclear if Eric is in love with a girl who looks like Marilyn or if in his mind this is the real deal. The girl herself is mentally questionable as she willingly goes along with many of Eric's delusions. Perhaps this another comment by the director. Perhaps Eric is not the only one willing to let the dream of Hollywood warp their fragile mind.

It is here that the question of juggling comes into question. It was not long after the invention of motion pictures that directors began to experiment with parallel storylines, making it capable for them to communicate to an audience that multiple levels of action maybe occurring at the same time. Vernon Zimmerman, the director of Fade to Black, does not quite have a grasp on this concept. His attempt to juggle different story ideas defies simple rules of juggling. Technically speaking, you are only juggling if you are using three or more objects and all of this objects must be in play - meaning in hand or in the air. Vernon Zimmerman, sets down whole storylines to pursue his next plot development. Something rather unthinkable for a person who is obviously a movie fanatic himself as most of his references are spot on and well researched. Why he can't keep all three ideas going at once is something of a mystery.

As a character piece, Fade To Black, is a nice look at a life subverted by cinema. Lacking nay supernatural elements it is not a horror film, nor is it spinetingling enough to qualify as a terror film. If anything it is a dark drama better viewed by those who have a love of older cinema. Dennis Chrisotpher does an admirable job, while Tim Thomerson lights up the screen with woefully silly moments that I am certain were not scripted as comedy. As for Mikey Rourke, he does a nice job channeling the spirit of Vinnie Barbarino, but this isn't the classic Rourke we've known to love. Sadly, the decent performances maybe what holds this back from being a great cult classic and the story issues prevent it from being a great classic. Fade to Black will remain a little known film shared by cinema fiends. Due to it's spotty storytelling this is not the sort of film that is going to appeal to those not interested in the subject matter or capable of going along for a bumpy ride.

* I use the vulgarity here only because Tim Thomerson's character can be quoted as saying, "I've never fucked a cop before." I can make no comment on why he and the female officer had a box of Ritz crackers beneath the sheets with them.

DAWN OF THE DEAD -Theatrical Cut (5 Random Thoughts)

2005-07-21T23:20:00.000-05:00

In a late night effort to fall asleep I popped in Dawn of the Dead. Of course, I didn't go to sleep. Instead, I pondered about zombies. I've always enjoyed a good zombie movie, but my definition of good zombie various slightly from most horror fans. I never got into gore. I just don't have the guts to watch flesh being ripped and blood spraying about. I do enjoy the visceral shock that such atrocities can have upon a viewer, but something in my sympathizes with the pain and agony of the victims. I guess this classifies me as a grade-A puss, but the gross-out factor of a film means little to me. Still, I do enjoy a good story and one that makes me think. Though sometimes, I think I think too much. Maybe I should learn to just go enjoy the films or to just shut my eyes and count sheep...brain hungry zombie sheep.

The Random Thoughts:

1) What sort of pathogen causes the spread of the zombie disease? In Romero's films you have to be bitten by a zombie to contract the disease, then you have to die, and then you are reborn as a flesh eating ghoul. But what makes the bite so deadly? Is it the saliva or the transfusion of blood? Can you become a zombie from having their blood spray into your mouth or an open wound? Can you get it from sharing a toothbrush with a zombie? Can you get it from drinking from the same glass as a zombie? Can you get it from sitting on the same toilet seat as a zombie? This needs to be explained as I have seen many cinematic cases where it is quite plausible that a hero or heroine could have been contaminated even though they were not bit.

2) If there were a Siamese twin zombie would you have to shoot off both of its heads? What if the twin were conjoined at the cranium?

3) Exactly where do Pro-life people stand on the living dead? If an unborn fetus has a right to life and if a woman in a vegetative state has a right to life, what about the undead? What about people who die for a moment, but are than revived? Are they not the living dead, are they not undead? Or do would the pro-life community justify killing zombies because zombies endanger the lives of the living? Can all of these be answered by simply asking: WWJD?

4) What's with pie fights? Is this the pinnacle of inexplicable, cinematic hilarity? I don't hate or love the pie fight in Dawn of the Dead. I just accept it. However, I know that Dr. Strangelove was supposed to end with a pie fight in the War Room. When did the custard pie become the symbol for comedic anarchy? Do starving people in third world countries cry when they hear that we fling pies in each others face just for laughs?

5) Are there bulimiac zombies? In Dawn of the Dead a character suggests that the zombies come to the mall out of instinct. If that is the case, do teenage zombie cheerleaders instinctually head to the lavatory after making a meal out of the junior varsity football team?

All these questions need to be answered thus giving me hope that someone will make new zombie films to keep me up at night and keep me wondering. If you steal one of my ideas let me know. I'll sick my pack of birefcase wielding zombies on you.

SUMMER CAMP 8: TURKISH STAR WARS & STAR CRASH

2005-07-20T18:30:00.001-05:00

Summer Camp 8: When Other Countries Use The Force

After last week's screening of Dungeonmaster and Night Train To Terror and in preparation for next week's double bill of Skindheads: The Second Coming of Hate and The Bad Bunch I thought I'd better ease off a little and show a more subdued set of feature films this week. Why I thought Turkish Star Wars and Star Crash were subdued is beyond me. By night's end my brain was throbbing. It wasn't just me. Others had the same cranium crushing headache. Who knew Turkish Star Wars was this lethal?

Turkish Star Wars (aka Dunyayi Kurtaran Adam)

More commonly known as Turkish Star Wars due to its blatant theft of footage from George Lucas' original Star Wars, the film is actually titled Dunyayi Kurtaran Adam, something that translates loosely to The Man Who Saved Earth. Conceivably this is what Dunyayi Kurtaran Adam could be about. The film is heavy on narration, but wholly lacking in clarity.

Starting with rapid fire narration about nuclear war, the destruction of Earth, powers of evil, and the mental ability of humans the fast-paced history lesson fails to make a lick of sense and one's eyes are continually drawn away from the subtitles to a hodgepodge of stock footage from Nasa interspliced with battle scenes from Star Wars. The only footage not stolen appears to be that of the film's heroes. Their heads are shown in close up while a poor rear projection screen plays clips from Star Wars space battles behind them. The characters poorly interact with the appropriated images from George Lucas' film re-edited in such a fashion that it is hard to tell if Star Wars fell into the hands up a Turkish cut-up artist or a chipper shredder.

Following the opening sequence of Star Wars footage in a blender, the story cuts to our two heroes, Cuneyt Arkin and Aytekin Akkaya who have crash landed on a desert planet - possibly a part of Earth that broke free from the planet during one of the "crazy" nuclear wars that the narrator mentions in the opening minutes. To clue us in that this might planet a part of ancient Earth, we see the two men peering off into the distance at stock footage of Egypt. Added to these grainy, washed out images of pyramids and hieroglyphics is more confusing narration that seemingly rewrite history as we know it, saying that Egypt had powers comparable to nuclear weapons. In a way it is nice to see the Turkish stealing freely from anyone and just making any sort of story as they go along. It's obvious that they had no budget for the film or much guidance. When the men first awake from their crash landing nearly three minutes of film time are dedicated to psychedelic images, lens flares, and shots of the sun that appear to come from the reel of a Turkish experimental filmmaker or possibly the crew smoked some serious hash that day. Yet, it's these low-budget magical moments that keep you scratching your head and only days later you realize that the two men are seen alone, absent of any space ship or wreckage. It's yet another obvious sign of just how low the budget for this film must have been.

After recovering from their crash our two heroes wander off looking for civilization Along the way, through endless images of rocky, desert terrain, the two ugly as sin stars banter moronically about women, making one only hope this is bad subtitling and not actual dialogue. When one of the men begins to whistle in the hopes of attracting women he ends up attracting skeleton warriors on horse back. My description being more artistic than their actual costumes. From this point forward the film is all out terrestrial action, with the heroes battling all forms of low budget monster. There's toilet paper mummies, men in bad Halloween masks, large red furry muppets, and a Rubbermaid robot. From time to time the heroes get captured and must fight their way to freedom or they find themselves saving the lives of a young blonde woman who looks the least bit Turkish and a young boy. Over and over the action sequences repeat with the heroes leaping about - obviously a trampoline was in the budget - and striking down their opponents. The kicks and punches of Turkish marital arts reach a level of new hilarity when we are presented with a classic "training" montage that has the two men toughening up by chopping away at large boulders. The reach a level of skill so impressive that they can kick rocks into other rocks and make them explode. One quickly learns that in Turkish cinema everything is capable of exploding. Not wanting to ruin some of the best surprises all I can say is don't be shocked when things you never could have guessed were explosive start to explode.

Unfortunately, action is not all that is going on. The filmmakers complicate matters by insisting on having some form of story to move the film forward. Though the stroy really just pushes the film in all sorts of directions, until your head is spinning from trying to attach a sensible plot to a film devoid of common sense. The crux of the whatever tension there is comes from an evil wizard, a combination of Ming and Vader, who wants nothing more than to get his hands on some human brains. Though he continually decries that his powers are limitless, the Wizard also says he's unable to defeat Earth without human brains. If that's not confusing enough, it's hard to tell if he's speaking literally or figuratively as their is also some mystical, though very miniature golden brain held inside a magic box. Later in the film this brain is given to one of our heroes along with a wooden sword painted gold. We are supposed to believe it's real metal as they sword does make clangy metallic noises when dropped on dirt.

To add yet another layer of confusion to all this silliness there is some religious message buried deep in the film. Two or three times the action stops to let the narrator talk about the power of Islam or how Jesus went into hiding under the Earth and put together an army. I wish I were making this up, that or I wish I was drunk enough to understand what the filmmaker's were making up. It's as if someone saw Star Wars and said, "I really like all the outer space battles, but where's the message about Allah?" Again, one can only hope this is poor translation and not a serious message being delivered. Yet, I'd bet this film's production budget that I'm wrong. People strive to make this film a Turkish reworking of Star Wars, but don't let the stolen footage confuse you. This film has one or two small comparable connections to Lucas' space odyssey, but Dunyayi Kurtaran Adam is more of a religious, fantasy, epic designed to embolden Turkish youth. They just didn't have the money for high priced, Industrial, Light, and Magic special effects. Lucas may have had his own hybrid mysticism, but the man was somewhat competent. Turkish Star Wars is less mystical and more religious and like so many religious films it is horribly produced. Then again, most Christian filmmakers head that little commandment that declares, "Thou shall not steal." Obviously that doesn't apply in Turkey.

Now, take a moment to breathe. Take in everything I've just said. Imagine all of this in one film and imagine this film was being made by someone who seemingly never made a film in their entire life. That may not be the actual case, but the level of cinematic art present in Turkish Star Wars is so rudimentary you'd wonder if they had ever seen a film before in their entire lives. Though they must have seen Star Wars, not to mention Raiders of the Lost Ark, Flash Gordon, Black Hole and a few other films from which Turkish Star Wars steals its soundtrack. No matter if they did see all these films or hundreds others the lack of understanding towards basic film form bewilders any mind that has grown up watching moving images. Perhaps this one Turkish director is just the Ed Wood or Al Adamson of Turkey. By this point in his carrier Cetin Inanc had made over twenty films. Did he learn nothing in the process?

Everything from the overdrawn length, the muddled story, the lack of rhythm, and the use of other people's footage makes Turkish Star Wars look like a first year film student attempting to make a feature length film. Now, I know that all Turkish filmmakers are not this goddamn awful, and I don't mind that they stole from Lucas, or that they are trying to fuse Star Wars with Islam, what caused my head to collapse was the slapdash way that the film was put together. If this were a student of mine I'd fail them, but since it's the work of another nation and since if we are currently waging a war on terror we should prevent Turkish film directors from making weapons of mass destruction like Dunyayi Kurtaran Adam.

Star Crash

Asking Star Crash to play after Turkish Star Wars is like asking KISS to go on after G.W.A.R. Actually G.W.A.R. is too tame, try G.G. Allen or maybe your younger brother's death metal band. Star Crash may be cheesy, but it's more passable as a real movie than Turkish Star Wars. Maybe that's why I put it second, maybe that's why I thought this double bill would ease the crowd into next week's screening.

Star Crash is an obvious Star Wars rip-off, designed to spend as little money as possible while cashing in on the space opera craze of the late 70's. However, being a good Italian knock-off this pasta production doesn't focus on the destiny of some blonde haired farm boy. Instead, Star Crash's story revolves around adventures of Stella Star (Caroline Munro). She's a sexy, star fighter on the run. Joined by her faithful navigator Akton, played by former child evangelist Marjoe Gortner, Stella Starr cruises the galaxy out running interstellar police for no apparent reason. My gues is that she's wanted for wearing skimpy space bikinis or for her poor acting abilities. If asked what makes Stella a rebel, I imagine that director Luigi Cozzi would explain it by saying, "Forget about it, just watch her jiggle."

Watching flesh shake in zero-G's is not enough entertainment for a full feature length film, so like all good space adventures you need a force of evil to reckon with. Star Crash is in lucky because they have Joe Spinell (Maniac) on set to chew through scenery. Playing the part of the evil and rather flamboyant Count Zartharn, Joe Spinell quickly realizes just what sort of picture Star Crash is destined to be and he lets loose with a one of a kind over the top performance. Sadly, no one told the slumming Christopher Plummer (Sound of Music) that Star Crash was going to be a stellar dud and the man pours heart and soul into his performance. Playing the part of The Emperor, Plummer tackles the role as if it were King Lear or MacBeth, which only adds to the hilarity. But as long as David Hasslehoff has the part of the Emperor's only son and sole survivor of a brutal attack by Count Zartharn's ultimate weapon, no one has to worry about delivering the worst performance in the film. Hasslehoff wins that award before he even opens his mouth. He also wins the award for most eyeliner worn by an actor, beating out both Marjoe Gortner and Caroline Munro.

And what sort of space adventure would be complete without robots? You've got to have robots. You need funny robots, you need evil robots, and you need...Well, that's about it. Star Crash has both, but it also has a robot with metal breasts, robots made from spare Erector set parts, and a robot with a Southern drawl. It's the last robot that really makes the film. A robot masculine robot with the feminine name, Elle appears to be a menacing figure, but his tall, dark looks are quickly undercut my his nervous, moronic lines of dialog. Each line a choice invitation to shoot beer through your noise. But one must put down their beer when Christopher Plummer trumps all of Elle's dialog by commanding his Imperial Battleship to halt the flow of time. That's the sort of dialog only a true actor like Plummer could deliver without cracking up.

While the dialog alone is enough to make you thank your patron saint that Roger Corman released this hunk of space junk, Star Crash wouldn't be Star Crash if it weren't for the kind of special effects that place a heavy emphasis on the word "special". Just like some Olympics are special, the effects in Star Crash all deserve a medal and a hug. Where else but in the wacky universe of Star Crash can you find a strand of multi-colored Christmas lights used as a starfield? Where else can you find Revell model kits poorly reworked into oddly shaped starships, one that has the name Murray Leinster stenciled on its engine? Where else are you going to find torpedoes that...Well, I don't want to ruin that surprise. Just put down that beer once again when you see space torpedoes.

Of course, I'm making this sound like Star Crash is all silly fun and games, but like Turkish Star Wars there is a message. And, while it is a message dubbed into English it is no easier to understand than that of Turkish Stars Wars, but for prosperity's sake I include that special message here, for all to study and share - though I could never deliver it with all the conviction and grace that Christopher Plummer pours into each work:

Well, it's done...It's happened...The stars are clear...The planets shine...We've won...Oh, some dark force no doubt will show its face once more...The wheel will always...turn. But, for now it's calm. And, for a little time...at least...we can rest

Truer words have never been spoken. After a night of Turkish Star Wars and Star Crash a little rest is just what I need. For no doubt next week two dark forces will be shown.

Summer Camp is a weekly screening that provides University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee film students the chance to relax, unwind, and take in some of the oddest films in cinematic history. Each week a program of two films connected in some thematic or factual way are shown back to back. The results are often mind blowing, jaw dropping, and life shattering, but after a week of hard work and intellectual exercise they are a necessary and laughable break from the norm.

BROTHER FROM ANOTHER PLANET

2005-07-19T07:00:00.000-05:00

John Sayles is a director I feel I should champion, but when I see one of his films I usually think otherwise. It is not for lack of originality, creativity, or heart that I want to shy away from this independent film stalwart. My problem with Sayles is his rather mundane movie skills. The man just cannot speak through cinema. In many ways he is the independent version of Woody Allen, a smart funny man with a lot of things to say, but unless he's got a good cinematographer and a good editor behind him Sayles' message gets delivered in a less than appealing fashion.

In Brother Than Another Planet Sayles takes a fish out of water look at early 80's Harlem. Being white and in Harlem, Sayles himself if a fish out of water. For his film, Sayles decides to crash land an alien right in the heart of Harlem. Joe Morton plays the three toed mute visitor. Besides his mutant feet, the alien looks just like an young Afro-American male and it is not long before he becomes part of the local community. Thanks to group of humorous, but prideful barflies, a bartender, and a social worker, Morton's alien integrates himself into society. Using his extra terrestrial powers to fix machinery, the alien is even able to make a small living.

To add some action to the film Sayles has his alien being chased by two white, men in black, bounty hunters from space. Sayles himself plays on of these roles and while most of the action is played up for laughs, Sayles cannot help but draw comparisons between Joe Morton's fugitive alien and runaway slaves who fled to New York. Rather than let this comparison hang in the background forcing observant viewers to make the connection, Sayles slams the allegory to the foreground by having the alien visit an museum exhibit on the subject of the Underground Railroad. If this weren't heavy handed enough, Sayles also feels the need to tackle the drug issue.

Instead of being content to just have his interstellar fish out of water provide various observations about our society John Sayles decides that his alien should take a proactive approach to the drug problem. After stumbling upon an overdosed junkie the alien takes it upon himself to track down the drug dealers that supplied the young victim. Of course, the trail not only leads to low level street dealers, but to white collar drug smugglers who make backroom deals from their Manhattan skyscrapers. It is at this point in the film that Sayles social crusading becomes so ridiculous that you'd think he had been contracted by Nancy Reagan. It is at this point in the film that a rather ingenious independent picture falls to the level of so many 80's films where one man decides to clean up the streets.

Brother From Another Planet has all the potential of being a very smart and entertaining film, but the writing gets too ambitious. If Sayles is anything he's a good director. He can get decent performances out of actors, but he does then little justice when he squanders their performances on a film that tries to hard to be political and tries to little in regards to the cinematopgraphy, editing, and above all the musical score. The visuals are placid. The editing is competent, but uninspired. The musical score hammers away with a faux urban reggae fusion that is twice as unlistenable to now as it must have been upon its release.

With a recent fascination for the 1980's being all the rage, I'd strongly encourage nostalgic children of the 80's and those too young to remember the 80's to watch a work like Brother From Another Planet. Sayles does not play down his aspirations to make a Hollywood like film. Rather than play up his independent status and make a film unlike anything Hollywood might shoot, Sayles tries to turn thousands into millions and it shows. What Brother From Another Planet shows best is what the 80's were really like, not the best of the manufactured 80's, but the real deal. Here the fashion is not hip, the music is not good, the video games are lame, and the war on drugs is very active. This is not a time you really want to be nostalgic for - if anything it's a time kind of like right now.

ALPHAVILLE

2005-07-18T22:00:00.000-05:00

There is a lot to love and a lot to champion in Godard's 1965 sci-fi, film noir mash-up Alphaville. Taking Lemmy Caution, the well known French gumshoe so often played by Eddie Constantine, and rocketing him to the future, via a Ford Galaxy, Godard adds a futuristic spin to his Dr. Frankenstein approach to cinema. Mixing together Greek myth, comic books, poetry, and an Orwellian vision of the world Godard's film exhibits the same playful tongue-in-cheek touch that has always allowed him to play loosely with the expectations of cinema and genre.

Eddie Constantine does a wonderful job of reprising one his most famous role, but going along with Godard's new wave mischievousness. Traveling from the outer regions, Nueva York to be exact, Lemmy Caution has been sent to find Dr. Von Braun, the evil scientist that created Alpha 60. This city controlling super computer has placed logic at the forefront of society. Love has been banned. Lemmy Caution has come to change things. Caution battles with Alpha 60, the computer trying to make the detective see that logic is the true road to happiness. Caution won't succumb, in part this is due to a naive young resident of Alphaville. Natasha Vonbraun, played by Anna Karina, knows nothing of love. She's not even familiar with the word. His love for her gives him reason to resist.

While Lemmy Caution fights futuristic machinery with poetry, Godard fights against conventions. Godard deconstructs sci-fi films, detective dramas, and love stories then he takes bits and pieces from 1984, Orpheus and Eurydice, and a slew of modern - meaning 1960's - pop culture and he reconstructs his own futuristic vision of a sterile society that has repressed it's emotions. With the help of cinematographer, Raoul Coutard, 1960's Paris is transformed into a cold, angular, de-humanized city bathed it fluorescent light. Tipping his hat to older Caution tales Godard hired Paul Misraki to score the picture with jazz pieces that punch of the flippancy that runs beneath the entire picture.

Many people cite this work as one of Godard's most entertaining features, due in fact to the semi-serious overtones, undercut with a playful sense of humor. The combination of futuristic society mixed with private dick predictability make Alphaville a gratifying Godard film. In Alphaville, there are no heavy handed politics, no grand allusions, and most of what is being presented can be written off as a playful exercise in genre bending. Perhaps this is why I enjoy Alphaville, but still feel it to be one of Godard's least important films. His transformation of contemporary Paris into a future world is a grand fete of minimalist cinema and his ability to patch together assorted ideas and influence is always impressive, but at its root Alphaville feels like an assignment undertaken by Godard. It feels like he is wearing someone else's clothes. Yes, he wears them well, but for all its "Godardian" nuances Alphaville comes up a bit short. Still, the film shows innovation and is full of fresh ideas. So, while this may not be prime Godard, it still could stand as an inspiring alternative to sci-fi films that so often place technological wizardry and complicated matters of astrophyics in the foreground. Here, such elements are irrevernt. After all, Lemmy Caution does pilot a spaceship that is nothing more than a Ford Galaxy.

ABBOTT AND COSTELLO MEET FRANKENSTEIN

2005-07-18T18:00:00.000-05:00

Whatever happened to great comedy teams? Did they go the way of the dinosaur? Do we have to re-evaluate the comedic duo? Do we now count the likes of Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn as being a comedic duo? Or do we accept the demise of the comedic duo and look back with fondness?

I sat down with this mix-up monster comedy due to good things I had heard about its cross genre combination of Universal horror film with classic Abbott and Costello comedy. That's exactly what I got. For ninety minutes Bud Abbott and Lou Costello play their routine roles, taking breaks from being chased by monsters to spout off some rather dated bits of humor that still muster a chuckle even if they tend to drag on. Playing the parts of Chick and Wilbur two bickering freight handlers Costello and Abbott fall right into their classic identities - one short, fat, a little slow, but loved by the ladies, the other tall, domineering, and perplexed by the other's good fortune. As luck would have it, they are asked to transport two crates to a house of horrors. The confines of those crates are none other than Dracula and Frankenstein's Monster. Bela Lugosi returns to his role as the Count with a taste for blood, but Boris Karloff chose to turn down the part of Frankenstein's monster. Lon Chaney plays the part of the Wolfman, who mysteriously calls from London trying to warn Wilbur and Chick about the mysterious packages. Lenore Aubert as some estrogen to the cast playing the two-faced Dr. Sandra Mornay. Wilbur is the only one to see the monsters escape their crated confines, but Chick thinks Wilbur's being foolish, as he insists their no such monster roaming about. The Wolfman shows up, but Chick won't be leave him either. One thing leads to another, all heck breaks loose as Dracula and the doctor team up in an effort to find a new brain for Frankenstein's monster. The dim witted Wilbur makes for the perfect candidate, but by the time they get ready to operate, Chick comes around and attempts to save his friend.

Perhaps Karloff was wise to step aside. Costello did not want to do the project either. The whole plot is rather silly, constructed more as a simple "What if" exercise in imagination, but lacking any real inspiration. The film is held together with jokes from Abbott and Costello's routines and the Universal monsters trade in terror for humor. This maybe one of Abbot and Costello's best films, but it is not a high point for horror. Still, neither genre really replaces the other. If anything, the horror factors are as dated as the humor. Seen from modern eyes the film is neither as scary or as funny as today's films, but this is not as much a fault of the film as it is of modern expectations. The jokes are oldies, but goodies and the shocks are not shocking, but expected. In essence, we've seen it all before. However, having never seen this film until now I had to wonder when I'd ever see another comedy team square off against such classic monsters. Today one could round up Jason, Freddy, Michael Meyers, et al. but who would you cast opposite them? No, there just aren't any real comedy teams left. We have long passed by the days of two people honing and crafting their comedic skills together, working out bits and routines, practicing them on a stage, and then taking them to film. Knowing this, Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein -or rather Frankenstein's monster - is a nice look back at a bygone era.

SUMMER CAMP 7: DUNGEONMASTER & NIGH TRAIN TO TERROR

2005-07-13T18:30:00.001-05:00

Summer Camp 7 - Pieces of Bull Shit

Who'd have thunkit? Two horror agglomerations that both star Richard Moll (Bull the Bald Baiiff from TV's Night Court). The wonders of cheap cinema never cease, thankfully. When first devising the Summer Camp screening I never would have imagined this double bill, but thankfully my pal Terry reminded me of a film I suppressed like a memory of childhood abuse. Thanks a lot pal! His mention of Dungeonmaster ignited a bulb over my head as I quickly had the perfect companion film for Night Train to Terror. Suddenly, we had a lethal double bill with a most humorous title.

Dungeonmaster

Dungeonmaster can boast that it purposefully adopted a segmented style to accommodate the multiple directors that helped contribute to this episodic horror/sci-fi rat's nest. The premise of the film involves a basic battle between good and evil with Paul Bradford (Jeffrey Byron), a computer obsessed geek, fighting Mestema (Richard Moll) for possession of Paul's neglected girlfriend, Gwen (Leslie Wing). Early in the film it is established that Paul and his computer, a female version of HAL, have a very special relationship. Paul even has a pair of super-computerized spectacles that allow him to communicate with his computer at home, tap into ATM machines, and change stop lights at his will. It's pure computer nerd fantasy, but the relationship is just a little too much for Gwen. That night while Gwen and Paul sleep the two of them our whisked off to an alternate dimension/low budget version of hell. Mestema has summoned Paul as Mestema is continually searching for a challenging opponent. Taking the name Excalibrate, Paul unwillingly accepts Mestema's challenge as it is the only way he can save Gwen.

From here the film breaks down into a series of challenges, each one being directed by a different director. In total, the film had seven directors, Charles Band being one of the most formidable names in the bunch. Each director runs Excalibrate through a rather mediocre challenge that is often solved with a laser blast from Excalibrate's nifty computerized wristband. Facing cave beasts, stone giants, and even the heavy metal band W.A.S.P. Upon completing an obstacle Excalibrate always returns to Mestema. Before zapping Excalibrate off to his next challenge Mestema and Excalibrate share words. While every episode is highly laughable the film really sparkles when Excalibrate and Mestema debate good and evil. Each character continually upstages the other with unbelievable lines of dialog. My personal favorite gets delivered by Excalibrate who declares, "I reject your reality and create my own." In a way that sums up Dungeonmaster, but this one line can hardly over shadow the multitude of quotable lines being delivered in Dungeonmaster. Then there is the non-verbal dialog, the body language. Moll's mugging and theatrics are near criminal and the bargain-basement effects that accompany Mestema's swollen-headed ramblings only add to the hilarity. It's all a bit much for one film and it makes Dungeonmaster the sort of film you have to watch a few times, just to take it all in.

Most would have been happy rewinding Dungeonmaster, that's right it's not on DVD yet, and watching Mestema and Excalibrate duke it out all over again. However, we had a Night Train to Terror to catch. The general feeling in the room was that nothing could top Dungeonmaster and I admit that I too was a little skeptical about Night Train to Terror's ability to deliver. I guess I just hadn't seen the film in a while because without failure Night Train to Terror delivered.

Night Train to Terror

Unlike the first film, Night Train To Terror was probably never meant to be made up of multiple parts. A salvage job at best, Night Train To Terror takes three failed features chops them down to the equivalent of three very, very long trailers and the glues each of these segments together by God and the Devil, together on a train ride. Again, we've got forces of good and evil, this time each debates over whether or not the characters in each film should go to heaven or hell. While this debate goes on a horrific "rock" band plays in the adjacent car. Their 80's style, complete with pathetic breakdancing, can bring an audience to tears and I can't imagine it being cool back in 1985 when the film was first released. I suspect the band is somehow related to someone who worked on the film or friends to a producer. Their existence in the film is completely narcissistic and their song, with it's chorus of "Everybody's got something to do, everybody but you" appear to mock the audience who bother to sit through this trainwreck. Knowing that God and the Devil are arguing over the fate of the band, one cannot help but vote that they become possessions of the Devil.

The filler that connects the film is gastly. The film segments watched by God and the Devil are no chopped liver...actually their cut-up nature makes them a lot like chopped liver, and much like chopped liver few have a taste for it. Yet, for those with odd tastes Night Train to Terror is a pate of pathetic filmmaking.

The first film segment features Richard Moll as a sadistic orderly in murderous madhouse. Told through narration indicative of a coming features trailer the story revolves around a new patient who is sent out to find young, sexy victims that will be tortured, killed, and have their body parts sold to medical schools. Whole chunks of narrative are dropped, leaving the barebones of a story strung together by the most tantalizing moments. It's as if they condensed a feature into twenty minutes and in fact that is what they did.

The second segment continues in a similar fashion with the story revolving around two young lovers caught up in a deadly love triangle. The third wheel in this mad menage a trois partakes in a murderous club the revels in tempting death. Through elaborate games of chance the club members subject themselves to hazardous scenarios. Unwittingly the two lovers get forced into this sick game. Bouncing from one dare to another the second story works much like the first one, sounding and looking more like an elongated preview with the key plot points and the most interesting moments of the film being presented. However, there is no Richard Moll in this piece.

Moll returns once again for the final chapter. This time he's got a full head of hair and a new book that proclaims god is dead. In fact god never existed. The only problem with this theory is the fact that the devil does exist. He's young and wicked and a real young, handsome devil. He's ageless and the source of evil. But only a former concentration camp victim, a defrocked monk, and a police lieutenant played by Cameron Mitchell seem to realize this. Moll's wife suspects that something is wrong, especially when her closet floor gives way to hell and hordes of demons. What she doesn't realize is that she's the only one who can stop the devil. Using her skills as a surgeon she must cut the heart from the devil and place it in a special wooden box if she ever hopes to save herself.

The idea of the third segment is not that bad and its surprising that it couldn't make a stand alone feature, but the devil is always in the details and when you get down to the nuts and bolts of this third segment you see that the picture is full of flaws. As it is with each segment, the time crunch adds to the madness as the film ping-pongs from one scene to another. Bad dialog and scenery chewing come standard. Yet, there is something in this last bit that tops anything before it and anything seen in Dungeonmaster. The unpredictable use of lame stop motion creates great cause for knee slapping. The claymation demons are not bad for something with a hot lunch budget. It's the strange decision to replace human characters with miniature claymation figures that even a fifth grade shatters the sensible mind. Even Ed Wood had higher standards. Mixing this low-budget insanity with Nazi nightmares and shocking images of the devil incarnate help to produce the heavy psychedelic feel that permeates the last third of the picture.

Leaving the last segment of film we return to the Devil and God and their fateful train voyage. This need to mix religious and philosophical debate with crummy horror films helps drop the hammer and delivers a final blow. Of course, knowing that the train is about to wreck, the film is about to end, and the shitty band is about to die is great cause for celebration. Still, much like Dungeonmaster, Night Train to Terror is a ride one quickly wants to ride again...in a few months, after you are done picking up the shards of your brain.

Summer Camp is a weekly screening that provides University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee film students the chance to relax, unwind, and take in some of the oddest films in cinematic history. Each week a program of two films connected in some thematic or factual way are shown back to back. The results are often mind blowing, jaw dropping, and life shattering, but after a week of hard work and intellectual exercise they are a necessary and laughable break from the norm.

LAND OF THE DEAD

2005-07-02T13:40:00.000-05:00

When people ask me about Land of the Dead I reply, "It's a good action film with zombies." The other three Romero zombie films, affectionately known as 'the trilogy' all felt like zombie movies with action, but this new film puts the action before the zombies and with such a move comes good and bad results.

After crafting his own niche of zombie films like Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, and Day of the Dead - Romero returned this summer with a film called Land of the Dead. Originally, the picture was to be titled Dead Reckoning a name that happens to be shared by a key piece of equipment, heavily sought after by the key human characters of this new 'Dead' film. While the name change helps connect the film to Romero's other three zombie films it cannot hide the fact that Land of the Dead strains to make any connection. Neither progressive enough to warrant another chapter in Romero's zombie franchise, nor memorable enough to get by with its original title, Land of the Dead floats about like an adopted child, loved but somehow different.

I do not fault Romero's talents for causing Land of the Dead to come up short. Many older directors have a hard time staying fresh in today's volatile market and Romero, cult icon that he is, comes into the arena as an outsider. Having traditionally worked out of his hometown Pittsburgh, Romero returns once again to the three rivers area. Using the old industrial town and its isolation as a key factor in the story. Add this with zombies and Romero returns to familiar turf. His last horror film, Bruiser, took him to Toronto, but when it opened in the States it went unnoticed by the mainstream. This film looks like it's shot in Pittsburgh, but it's really Canada. So Romeroe is sort of back home and this is sort of a zombie film in the spirit of his other three. For the record, Romero has always been more than a zombie director. As with so many of his films Romero's interest in not in the dead, but the living. His cast for Land of the Dead is not the sort that lights up marquees, but they deliver more than pretty faces and marketable names.

Other than Dennis Hopper and John Leguizamo - two character actors that could hardly hold a float a summer blockbuster - Romero patches together a strong assemble of familiar faces with less than noteworthy names. Fronting the Land of the Dead 's small band of survivors is Simon Baker, a man who should be rightly familiar with the Pittsburgh area after having spent sometime there while on the television series The Guardian. Hellbent on escaping the small enclave created by Hopper's tycoon character, Baker looks to the north as a place of freedom from the high priced, security that is afforded to the small band of survivors huddled in and around a luxury apartment building known as Fiddler's Green. Hopper rules from a top of Fiddler's Green a rather savvy business slimeball that has his fingers in just about everything that goes on in and around the Green. Romero holds Hopper back and this maybe something he wishes he hadn't done. You should only cast Hopper if you want someone to chew your scenery - fuckin' devour it. A scenery chewing Hopper makes a film memorable. A toned down Hopper makes you wonder what the hell is going on inside a director's mind. Crazy or not, everyone in this film would be happier without Hopper. I'd have been happier if he got more than two moments to let loose and shine. The rest of the cast gives better than expected performances to rather unimaginative characters. Baker's character dreams of escaping to the Great White North. Leguizamo's dreams of the buying his way into the luxury of a Fiddler's Green penthouse. Of course they don't let pests into plush play palaces. That, of course, gets Leguizamo's blood boiling. For the most part Leguizamo is Leguizamo. He's got a sense of humor, attitude, and a dirty Spanish nickname. Robert Joy turns in the best performance as a dim-witted, one-eyed sharpshooter who's saved Baker's neck countless times and is the only person Baker even considers taking with him. Their is a brotherly bond between the two something very Steinbeckian, if only sweeter. Finally, there is Asia Argento who gets her first decent role as a tough and spunky hooker looking to free herself from Hopper's reign. Overall, the performances outshine the special effects, the action sequences, and even the political commentary that comes with all Romero zombie films. Even Eugene Clark gives some humanism to the lead zombie role, though the film itself spends precious little time on these creatures especially in the latter part of the film.

For ninety minutes the cast of characters moves about from one predicament to another, each attempting to achieve their own goals without getting bit by zombies or screwed over by other humans. By the sixty minute mark all the seams start to show and Romero stumbles headlong into action adventure. With clocks ticking and many loose ends flapping in the wind the last third of the film rolls by at an upsetting pace, leaving you to wonder what's the big rush? Along the way Romero delivers a few scares, lots of gore, a couple laughs, and some present day political commentary. There is no mistaking Hopper's "We won't deal with terrorists" line for anything but a jab at President Bush. Nor does it take a wide stretch of the imagination to see the cut off Pittsburgh as an analogy for America, nearly surrounded by water, heavily protected by a high powered military, but still afraid of invasion. Simon Baker's refusal to do Hopper's dirty work, to flee north smells like a burning draft card. Though much of this can tie into present day politics the more shocking conclusion is that little has changed since Romero presented the commercialism of Dawn of the Dead or the militarism of Day of the Dead. If anything they now exist happily together in the Land of the Dead.

But what of hope? Were Land of the Dead to be more than just grim reminder that little has changed or that things have gotten worse why the need for Dead Reckoning? Dead Reckoning is not a new hope, it is an old weapon. It does not symbolize the turning of a page towards a new lifestyle, but a continuation of older, more brutal ways. Even though the smartest and most noble of heroes ride off into the sunset, they look not for solutions, but for escape - a return to life B.Z. - Before Zombies. Yes, they must return to simplier time, but I cannot help but see these post-apocalyptic wanna-be Thoreaus as anything more than an extension of self-centered values that plague all of Romero's characters - except maybe the zombies. Here is where Romero's commentary falters. Though he pegs Hopper, Leguizamo, and a gaggle of others as being the ills of society he cannot find it in himself to comment on the way that Baker and his band of golden hearted heroes are just looking out for themselves.

By attempting to tie this film into the trilogy Romero - or more likely his influential producers who I suspect were behind many decisions - Romero essentially admits that we/he is treading water. Perhaps, were this film to be an honest extension of his earlier zombie films Romero might give more thought to progressing the story, continuing the use of temporal terms such as Night, Dawn, Day and write something along the lines of Dusk or Twilight of the Dead. Though it should be noted that Twilight of the Dead was a title once attached to this film. However, both dusk and twilight symbolize the coming of a change usually into darkness, but for a series born at night such a change may only be fitting. Here, Romero could have taken the time to show that there is still hope for understanding, knowledge, science, and ultimately a cure to the problems that have ravaged his filmic landscape. Alas, this is not the coming of a new day. No matter what the name, a name is not enough. The film needs to live up to the name. As it presently sits - and there have been no cries of a director's cut - Land of the Dead feels more like Dead Reckoning, a film based around action and the need for weaponry to blast one's way to a safer future. Sadly, this is not the reading I would expect from a Romero film, but in a muddled way this is how one has to see things.

As stated before, I get the sense that this is the work of producers, people hoping to cash in on the Romero name and a legion of zombie fans. I do not fault Romero for taking them up on any offer they floated by him. Land of the Dead is one of the better action films I'll see this year and it has more brains than any I've seen in a while. However, it does not deserve to be lifted up their with the original Dead trilogy. Even the re-make of Dawn of the Dead felt more worthy than this action film laced with zombies. In a worst case scenario, I could see this film becoming a forgotten part of Romero's filmography like Bruiser or Knightriders. However, with it's title and its use of zombies it may stick around a while or it become like the Puppetmaster or the Leprechaun or the Nightmare on Elm Street series. Romero is already crafting a zombie rock opera. That one is slated to be called Diamond Dead, but how long before it gets changed to George A Romero's Rock of the Dead? This trend could go on for ever, but the debate should end right here. There was one Dead trilogy and unless Romero comes forth and explicitly says otherwise he is now a genre filmmaker who sometimes casts zombies.

TEAM AMERICA

2005-07-01T21:50:00.000-05:00

Fuck ya! Comedies like this should be beneath me. Do they tap into some primordial or pre-teen part of my brain or do I have a serious condition in need of psychological examination?

Trey Parker and Matt Stone, the brainchildren behind South Park, move away from their potty-mouthed animated school kids to take on the current war on terror, celebrities with causes, and action movies. Team America utilizes marionette puppets to tell the story of a band of all-American heroes who serve as the world'’s police. While protecting America and its allies from Weapons of Mass Destruction, they often leave a wake of rubble behind then, but the ends always justifying the means. Team America always gets their terrorist, but as of late they have also been getting flack from the global community and worst of all from famous Hollywood celebrities. Fronted by Alec Baldwin, the celebrities of the Film Actors Guild (F.A.G. for those scoring at home) are pushing for the end of Team America. But, that's not the biggest concern of Team America. They've got international terrorists to worry about and they need to replace a beloved team member who died while on their most recent mission in Paris.

This is where comes in Gary Johnston comes in. No secret agent or military man, Gary Johnston is a Broadway actor currently starring in "Lease". Parker and Stone take a break from the action film send-up long enough to jab fun at the music Rent, with an off-color, but instantly catchy number about AIDS, of all things. It is from this early moment in the film that Stone and Parker make it clear that everything is subject to ridicule. For the next eighty minutes the two politically uncorrect pranksters take the piss out of everything from Michael Bay action films (Pearl Harbor, The Rock) to Korean Dictator Kim Jong Il. Attempting to be unbiased the creators take an bi-partisan approach to their comedy. There is just as much belittling of crusading celebrities as there is of Rambo chest thumping. Staying true to the most cliche moments of every action film Parker and Stone know that they best way to send something up the creek is to ride along with it. Their satire of an action film actually produces a very action packed film, but rather than take their subject matter seriously they take every opportunity to skewer their subject. Yet, the whole film is not without purpose. Just as one of their trash-mouthed South Park school children finds a moral in every weeks adventure, there is a moral to the destruction and mayhem encircling Team America. Sure, the moral involves dicks, pussies, and assholes, but it's poignant, funny, and something even a middle school student could appreciate.

Of course, the low brow laughs that Parker and Stone are known for can also turn off many people and I can easily see why this brand of gutter humor gets criticized. Dirty words and dirty jokes told just for the sake of being garnering attention donÃ’t mean much. It's all a matter of knowing when and where to swear. Take the Team America theme song with its repeated chorus of "Team America, Fuck Ya!" Vulgar as the line may sound, this "Yo, Joe!" battle cry cuts right to the heart of so many American war and action movies. It's spot on and says what so many other films try to say through explosions and flag waving. But, Team America has those too. What it doesn't have is Undoubtedly, the absence of the present day President is not a mere oversight. Had Bush and Company been a part of this film the balance may have shifted, creating a liberal, right-wing bashing film. Or that's how some critics and red state fans may perceive it. As the film presently stands, fans unable to spot jingoistic tendecies in all other Hollywood action films may have the irony and satire of Team America fly over their heads like the Blue Angels. One could easily accept this as a right-wing film, or that is to say your standard run-of-the-mill over militarized action film. From a wider perspective, it makes a great deal of sense to exclude George W. Bush from the picture. Team America is not about George W. Bush’s America. It’s about America in general. It's about a consistent American attitude towards foreign policy. It has nothing to do with post-9/11 changes, the same attitude existed during the cold war. Putting George W. Bush in the picture would warp things, throwing blame in the wrong direction. This mistake was often made in the 80’s. Most noteably, the television show Spitting Image, something long overdue for a rediscovery and rebirth on DVD, satirized the same political and entertainment crossroads as Team America. Not much has changed in the near twenty years between the two comedies; new face, new names, new threats, but the problems seem to be the same. The world has gone mad, politicians via for celebrity while celebrities dig their way into politics. Both Spitting Image and Team America tackled rather serious subjects - mainly world destruction at the hands of WMD – but they did so in a very non-serious way, thusly confusing many critics. It'’s hard to take a puppet’s message seriously after you’ve watched it have hedonistic sex, puke all over itself, and then compare everyone in the world to dicks, pussies, or assholes. Still, maybe we should lighten up and laugh at a few vulgarities. Sticks and stones only break bones and all. We'd probably be better off spend more time on cleaning up our attitudes, not our language.

SUMMER CAMP 6: GAS-S-S-S & DARKTOWN STRUTTERS

2005-06-29T18:30:00.000-05:00

Summer Camp 6 - The Wacky World's of George Armitage

This week's double feature comes from the wild imagination of screenwriter George Armitage. I hate to speculate, but if pressured I'd be willing to wager that sometime during the 60's and 70's Mr. Armitage got caught up in drugs. I am not saying he ever did them, there is surely evidence to argue for or against the case, but his work positively reeks of groovy times. Attributing his weirdness to chemical influence either robs Armitage of his inventiveness or serves as an alibi for the mixed up follies that are Gas-s-s-s and Darktown Strutters.

Gas-s-s-s

Fully known as Gas-s-s-s, or It May Become Necessary to Destroy the World in Order to Save It this free spirited counter culture comedy stands as Roger Corman's second to last picture as a director. The times were a changin' and Corman's brand of low-budget horror was no longer as marketable. He had ventured into psychedelia with The Trip, but that wasn't satire. Gas-s-s-s was targeted at the same tuned-out minds, but with a sense of humor. The only trouble is the jokes don't connect. If the answer to Corman's troubles was floating in the wind, it floated right on by. What he delivers instead is a faux flower child day dream where everyone over 25 is quickly killed off by a chemical gas accidentally released by the Pentagon.

The freaks have inherited the Earth, but an adultless world is no utopia as divergent factions of left-behind youth for control of the future. A band of hippies lead by Coel (Robert Corff) decide to make their way to see "The Oracle" who lives near a commune in New Mexico. Along the way Coel and his band of merrymen and women - who include Bud Cort, Taila Shire, Ben Vereen, and Cindy Williams - run into cowboys to rustle used cars, militaristic football squads, and even God himself. God has a very Jewish accent, which sort of makes sense. The troupes travels finally lead them to their new Garden of Eden where a final show down between the new aged peacelovers and the shoulder padded warmongers breaks down into a dumbfound finale that delivers no clear ending.

That the film is so scatter shot, bouncing from one gag to the next, is partially due to the loss of editorial control that Corman suffered in post-production. Even so, it's hard to imagine this film making much sense if Corman had been given final cut. The troubles start with the script. Armitage wobbles between two or three worlds. First, you have the world of youth culture films. Whether or not Armitage understood what kids of 1971 really wanted is highly questionable. His overt hipness feels extremely dated by today's standards and it's a good guess that the jive attitude, drug induced visuals, and au courant lingo would have felt forced even in 1971. Armitage's hippies are as related to real hippies as Maynard G. Krebs was related to the Beat authors. Armitage also oversteps his own limits by attempting to infuse Gas-s-s-s with a wild Godardian blend of pop-culture and politics. The aftermath of Gas-s-s-s is eerily similar to the wrecked world of Godard's 1967 picture Weekend, but with none of the intellectual weight.
Finally, Armitage tries to use gags, not plot point to push the story along. This turns a quest story into an elongated episode of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In. Most of the gags now feel dated or disastrous. At best one has to hope that original audiences were so stoned that they would have laughed anyways, as it is nearly implausible to think of anyone not under the influence to find much amusement in this picture.

So, what is good about Gas-s-s-s? Well, it's a real head scratcher, that's what. From today's perspective one can either be thankful for Nancy Reagan's war on drugs or you can start to ask yourself, "Thirty years from now are films how will we feel about today's comedic films?" Few, if any of today's mainstream comedies are as unconstrained as this film. Whether this is a good or bad, I am not sure. Comedies today are run-of-the-mill, fish out of water stories or capitalistic salvation stories pitting the wealthy against the weird. New Hollywood's addiction to drug altered lives has been replaced with an addiction for money. No one is willing to make a film as wild as this, for fear of a loss at the box office. Sadly, that means Gas-s-s-s maybe your only chance to see hippies and cowboys sling the names of western actors at one another rather than brandish weapons. That's right, Lee Van Cleef can wing you, but John Wayne will rip right through your heart. Other nonsense you won't see today - a country club over run by bikers in golf carts, a chase scene on heavy construction machinery, fascists football players in dune buggies, and Country Joe and the Fish. Honestly, Country Joe's appearance as A.M. Radio is rather good, compared to the rest of the film. And, I normally hate hippie rock. Perhaps my hatred stems from ignorance or misunderstand, but Gas-s-s-s is just one of those films that makes you wonder what the fuck passed for entertainment during the Age of Aquarius.

Darktown Strutters

Also known as Get Down and Boogie, this funked up female biker comedy continues to boogle the mind. When the a beautifully badassss biker gang roll into town they find that their leader's mother has disappeared. She's not the only person missing. Many prominent Afro-Americans have vanished and its up to Syreena and her gang of sequin spangled, motorcycle mammas to solve the case. In order to get to the bottom of disappearances Syreena and crew must deal with racist, bungling cops, dirt bike riding klansmen, and a Colonel Sanders clone who runs the local rib joint.

George Armitage tackles blaxploitation in this second feature, sort of. It's hard to qualify this female biker flick as blaxploitation. It certainly exploiting black culture, but it feels so very different than the films that made the genre infamous. Less violent and more comical, Darktown Strutters appears to be a very misguided social satire that looks to send-up every stereotype in the book. Some how this is supposed to make things better. Perhaps George Armitage and the film's director, William Witney, feel that laughter is the best form of medicine. Remember this was years before Patch Adams proved it wasn't.

For those film fans who like sterile films that don't push certain buttons, Darktown Strutters is the wrong film. Hamfisted, Darktown Strutters, smashes away at every politically uncorrect topic in the book. Yet, there is a plausible sense of forward thinking present in the film. The protagonists are all black women, fully in charge of their own bodies. Black males are seen as horny, wimpish, fools and white males are portrayed even worse - racist, sexist fools. As great as this sounds that does not prevent the film from some rather questionable calls. Lines like, "It's rape, you have to go asking for it," are so shocking that you aren't sure if you should laugh or cry, not because it's Syreena, the heroine of the film making this foolish statement, but because Armitage and Witney felt the film was better for having the line.

If you don't laugh at the misguided moments in Darktown Strutters, if you try to deny the lunacy of the film, and or if you place yourself above it all you will likely give yourself a heartattack. The brutual attack brought on by this cranium crusher is just too much to brush aside. Trying to rationalize the film will only lead to an aneurysm. Laughter is just a healthy release. And, at every turn this film's outlandish attempts to generate laughter through very off-color jokes is astounding. Mixed into the mess of tasteless humor are visual gags straight out of Benny Hill. Sped-up motion, food fights, and outrageous costumes bombard the senses. Each scene feels like a sketch, with the action building to a grand finale. Along the way, jokes are tossed about, few connecting, many generating groans. The general attack plan seems to be - throw in everything and the kitchen sink and see what works. No idea appears to be too outlandish to not commit to film. When the film's villain finally appears in a bright pink pig costume, with a flowing white cap the gloves are off, but by this point in the film one has almost come to expect anything...Almost. There are still more surprises before the film's end that are sure to surprise even the most perceptive viewer.

Darktown Strutters is comedic anarchy. This term often gets applied to work by folks such as the Marx Brothers, but their humor was always well planned and rehearsed. The humor in Darktown Strutters feels like true anarchy, as if no one was in control of the production, as if everyone on the crew was free to toss of a suggestion. By films end the entire production feels much like a story told by passing around a piece of paper and letting each student write a sentence or two. Trying to guess what will happen next isn't even worth the effort. It's best to just sit back in awe and try not to choke on your popcorn or guess what sort of damage a person has to do to their mind to come with with insanity like Darktown Strutters.

Summer Camp is a weekly screening that provides University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee film students the chance to relax, unwind, and take in some of the oddest films in cinematic history. Each week a program of two films connected in some thematic or factual way are shown back to back. The results are often mind blowing, jaw dropping, and life shattering, but after a week of hard work and intellectual exercise they are a necessary and laughable break from the norm.

WOMAN OF TOKYO (Tokyo no onna)

2005-06-08T16:00:00.000-05:00

Quite possibly it is with this film that Ozu finds his footing. Low camera angles, across-the-axis cuts, and duration based editing serve this story of honor, shame, and suicide. Whereas Ozu most often focused on parent/child relationships Woman of Tokyo focuses on sibling relations, but still it calls into question many Japanese traditions and the proper role of males in Japanese culture.

When a young student finds out that his older sister, Chikako, has been moonlighting at a geisha house to help pay for his education he first accuses her of bringing shame to the family. In an act of rare defiance by a female, the sister defends herself and her actions. Confused and angered the brother departs into the night, not to be seen again. Complicating the matters is the intertwined lives of the a young girl her brother - a police inspector. Originally, it the film was intended to have a subplot where the police inspector questions Chikako and accuses her of giving money not only to her brother, but to the communist party. This sub-plot only marginally exists in the film, but the inspectors sister still serves as the connection between the two sets of siblings. Her love for the student adds further weight to the story, but Ozu plays it subtle, making the interconnectedness of everyone's lives feel more natural than staged for dramatic purposes.

While technically strong film, with all the trademark Ozu camera workings, Woman of Tokyo feels short of greatness. Partially due to its irregular run time of forty-seven minutes, this featurette film plays more like a theatrical exercise with cameras than a proper film, but still it is highly worth the three quarters of an hour that click by rapidly, without a mis-step.

SIDEWAYS (5 Random Thoughts)

2005-06-07T19:50:00.000-05:00

I finally broke down and watched this much beloved, much ballyhooed Spirit Award winning film Sideways. My question - Do I ask too much of cinema?

1) This is independent? Of what?
Okay, the budget was less than a 100 million dollars and the actors are not household names, but does that make a film independent or just minor league? The director is decent, a little flash at times with some split screens and some questionable edits, but this is nothing I couldn't find on a television commercial. The plot, while at times carrying great potential to break free from expected formulaic devices, often loses track of itself and its intent. The subject matter of wine, could you get more trendy? The spirit of this film is not that independent. It's triple A, slugging Hollywood box office stats at best. And by the way, the Spirit Awards are just Oscar night dressed down. Nothing in competition doesn't come with a million dollar deal. Independent Film - R.I.P.

2) Whatever happened to Steve McQueen?
When did men stop being men and when did they star being schlubs or overgrown adolescents? Paul Giamatti has played great schlubs before, especially in American Splendor, but this softer, cuddlier version of a modern, depression dwelling, pill-popping divorcee is pathetic. Sensitive, cultured, and introspective to the point of despair is no way to go through life, yet it seems to be a very common path these days. The alternate road is no gold highway. Thomas Haden Church at least does an admirable job of capturing the goofy arrested development that now constitutes manhood. The Maxim magazine lifestyle is about one degree different than the fantasy life of most 13 year old boys. Mix fascination for cars, girls, and irresponsibility with a metrosexual desire to appear as if you've only broken a sweat in a gym and you have the supposed modern man, but it's a far cry from the gruff Steve McQueen allure that attracted women and made men envious of his coolness.

3) NPR needs some new cliches.
In some ways the wine-tasting, Bela Fleck listening, David Sedaris reading lifestyle is a leg up on PBR swigging, Skynard rockin', Hustler reading lifestyle, but the NPR lifestyle has become a parody itself. Desperately, trying to remain hip to adult fads and trends is no better than making sure you listened to the same music and shopped at the same stores as all your high school friends did. I don't mean to ridicule the news elements of NPR, but culturally speaking it as painted itself into a corner. Without realizing it, all these free thinkers have now found it hard to have free thought unless they get it from Morning Edition or Fresh Air. It's no wonder that this movie got most of its world of mouth thanks to the NPR. It's a great wonder that none of these educated listeners were able to see the cliches that filled this film. Then again it's easier to go with a declared winner than to find one on your own.

4) On and Off Again
There were many times I nearly threw in the towel. There were many times I thought this film would save itself. It fluctuated between great and bad like few recent films I have seen, but the biggest problem came in the director's lack of focus. For a while it's about the two male friends. Then it's about their relationships with the females they meet. Then it's about wine. Then it's about something else. The film falls to pieces more than once, dropping sub-plots left and right, only to pick them up later when another idea runs its course. Add to this the director's decision to spice up the film with some visual bursts that make no cinematic sense and do not help the story or his occasional lapse into over-the-top tough posturing, you know "guy talk" that sounds totally phony coming from his two main characters. As a whole this film was never fully "on". Yet, it seemed to keep most people engaged, even garnering a ton of praise. In my eyes it was sloppy. Perhaps, sloppy equals different than Hollywood, equals independent, equals good.

5) That damn analogy
Spoiler here: but since I was the last person in America to see this film, what am I spoiling? The middle school worthy analogy that the main character makes between himself a type of whine is one of the worst "deep" moments I've seen in ages. In verbose terms the character pussyfoots around the obvious. In describing his favorite variety of wine he describes himself - difficult, hard to appreciate, in need of someone with great taste. Gag! I know this film was adopted from a book so I don't know if the beatings should begin with the authors of the book, the director of the films, or the film critics who did not call this out as being purely cornball.

I know I'm the dissenting voice speaking out against a Goliath of a film. But like wine, let this one age. Years from now it will seem like a silly time capsule, a love note to the new millennium schlub and that wine fad of '04.

STAR WARS - EPISODE 3 - REVENGE OF THE SITH

2005-05-28T18:30:00.000-05:00

How is it that we were all able to agree that New Coke was a bad idea, but we can't all agree that New Star Wars has been just as bad? Is it because Lucas won't listen to his fans, because he has shelved away the original films and forced us to drink his new brand of digital swill or go thirsty, that we have to put up with this tidal wave of modern day mis-steps? Does Lucas care one bit or does he secretly hate Star Wars fans, as I am starting to believe he does? Did he complete the series - though stopping at six and not doing the once promised nine films - to simply shut up mouth-breathing, basement-dwelling fanboys?

Before I even pressed one finger to one key I cringed at the responses I may never get. Speaking out against Star Wars on an internite site makes me feel like a pacifist at the Republican National Convention. I feel like a Pro-lifer at a NOW meeting. I feel like a man about to piss off hundreds of Star Wars fans who want nothing more than a flame war to spice up their lives. Yet, before I do give them cause to get their XXL boxers in bunch I also feel compelled to scream, not just state but literally scream, "I Loved Star Wars".

The problem is that I loved Star Wars when I was a kid. I even loved it through the early 90's before Lucas arose from his long hibernation with a digital desire to dick with something classic. I still embraced the classic trilogy. I watched it everyday. I knew all the trivia. I wanted to wear a Stormtrooper helmet for my senior portrait. Admittedly, I was a geek. So, I take it personally when today's Star Wars fans - those who have just come to embrace the films and those who have held a torch since the late 70's - treat me as if I never knew their passion and therefore could never understand their love for these films. In a way, I am like a military vet speaking out against war - though comparing those who have put their life on the line to those who Star Wars fans in desperate need of a life does great disservice to those men and woman who fought in real wars.

All this said, I don't want any flack from present day fanboys when I say one simple sentence that sums up this latest and final chapter in the Star Wars franchise.

IT'S SILLY.

That's right, the film is silly. The whole damn story is silly. It's so silly it made me lose respect for original trilogy.

Yes, I gave this new film the benefit of the doubt. I wanted it to be good. I really wanted it to erase the sour Jar-Jar-rific taste of Episode 1 and the not so horrible taste of Episode 2. Like all Star Wars fans I wanted it to tie up the loose ends and bind the two trilogies in a logical fashion. But, no matter how much benefit of the doubt I gave the film, no matter how greatly I tried to suspend my disbelief I still found the whole thing to be...you guessed it...SILLY.

Now, I could argue point by point the reasons why Lucas failed with this second trilogy and why Revenge of the Sith disappoints me - a die hard original trilogy fan. But, why should I? What difference would it make? Star Wars zealots can't be reasoned with. They are blind to even the biggest problems in their beloved series. There's just no arguing with them. It's like talking to brick walls.

Though, I suspect that if they took the wise words of their adored Jedi masters and they looked in their hearts they would see the truth, they would know that Lucas failed them, that this film is silly. Buth then they'd look you straight in the face and lie to you. Because it's better to fool yourself into thinking that Revenge of the Sith is the second coming than to admit that you've wasted your life waiting for hogwash. Silly, silly hogwash.

THE NATURE OF TECHNOLOGY: WORKS BY CHRIS WELSBY

2005-05-27T18:00:00.000-05:00

A five film program of work done by Canadian-based artist Chris Welsby.

Having no prior knowledge of Welsby's work I went in carte blanc, but left the screening with a sliver of appreciation and a hell of headache.

Tree - A distant tree is slowly approached. The camera work is not stable and there is nothing of great interest occurring in the frame. The work is the sort that needs to be explained to me, but no explanation is going to save this film and the fact that it needs an explanation serves as a knock against it.

Colour Separation - A rather static camera capture boats in a harbor. The film itself undergoes a color separation process with the primary and secondary colors drifting in different directions as the boats sway in the water. In a way this looks like a living impressionistic painting, but it does not hold much interest and the colors are too bright.

Seven Days - The title says it all. Shot over seven days the film appears to be an image taken every few seconds from sunrise to sunset. The camera is focused on a nature setting, creek, brush, rocks, etc. The shadow of the camera and its operator are often in view other than this the film drags on. After one day one gets the gist.

Stream Line - Perhaps it would be more impressive to see the camera rig that what the camera captured as this short film that drags on too long is shot from a camera suspended over a stream and then tracks a good distance up the stream bed. While the changing of the topography mixed with the running waters makes for a nice image the film itself suffers from little drama or magic.

Sky Light Saving the best for last, sort of, the beginning to Sky Light is one of the more impressive pieces of film work I've seen in ages. A series of reflections and ripples dissolve into one another. In many of the images you are able to see both the golden autumn leaves reflected in the water's surface and the polished stones that lie beneath. Unfortunately this short meditative moment is rudely interrupted by wonderful white clouds on the bluest of sky. Left to their own devices these images would make a nice companion to the early part of the film, but the artist dicks around with the images, creating a retina fucking flicker film that induces such a headache you would swear the artist hates not only nature but any potential audience. I have seen flicker films before and have never had that much of a problem with them, but for some reason this one drove spikes through my pupils. Perhaps it's the material he is butchering.

Taking away a few moments of interest the rest of the evening felt like a complete bust and I'm sure my head will still be reeling tomorrow.

LATE SPRING (Banshun)

2005-05-08T18:05:00.000-05:00

In the hopes of getting his unconventional daughter to agree to an arranged marriage a widowed father (Chishu Ryu) convinces his daughter that he is thinking of remarrying. Late Spring approaches a changing Japan as Ozu often approached it - through the use of the arranged marriage as a symbol of the old guard giving way to more modern attitudes. Being neither for nor against these changes Ozu takes a rather unbiased attitude leaving the daughter and her father open to criticism.

With his daughter Noriko (Setsuko Hara) refusing many marriage proposals the actions of the father are not meant to reaffirm an old tradition, but rather they express the father's desire to see his daughter embark on a life of her own. Constantly saying that she does not want to marry and that she needs to remain single so she might take care of her father, Noriko must consider marriage when she gets whiff of her father's plans to remarry. Most of this is played for laughs with the audience fully aware of the father's dirty little trick. However, Ozu does leave room for some seriousness.

While it may seem that the daughter's refusal to marry is the more modern attitude and that her stern father is the one operating with a dated mindset, the flipside to such an argument would be that the daughter is being traditionalistic by agreeing to stay and care for her father, thus putting her elders above herself. The father and his thoughts of remarrying - though they are not sincere - could easily be seen as being modern. In this way each character shares a bit of the past and a bit of the present attitude towards life and marriage. Pushing his daughter towards marriage means pushing himself towards a lonely old age. At the same time, the father's insistence that she marry comes from his desire to not watch as she grows old and lonely, a point that is made through another character who has waited too long and now has difficulty finding a mate. In a very tender way the father sacrifices his own happiness in the hopes of securing a happy life for his daughter.

As with all of Ozu's work the social commentary comes through the characters. They exist not because of a point he wishes to make, but rather a pointed is made because of the people Ozu has created. Late Spring is first an foremost a human film, than one of technical rigor, and finally one that allows its audience to consider the social changes affecting postwar Japan.

THAT NIGHT'S WIFE (Sono yo no tsuma)

2005-05-08T16:55:00.000-05:00

A rather odd Ozu picture, this film feels like an exercise. Breaking from his idiosyncratic style, Ozu tips his hat towards European directors like Fritz Lang and Jospef von Sternberg. Claustrophobic and atmospheric, this one night drama follows a poor artist as he flees from the police. Having robbed a bank in the hopes of buying medicine for his sick daughter the artist returns to his home only to find that the local detective is one step ahead of him. The artist's wife holds the detective at gunpoint while the family wait to see if their daughter will survive the night.

With a majority of the film taking place in a small, rather un-Japanese apartment, That Night's Wife is certainly Ozu's least typical film. Gone are the linear constructs of Japanese homes that have helped crop and alter Ozu's film frame. Gone are the kimonos and tea ceremonies that help locate so many of Ozu's domestic dramas. Still, there is something very Ozu about this picture. The close quarters drama contains the same tangible drama that flow through a many of Ozu's films. Shifting the focus back and forth from the father's escape to the daughter's health Ozu intertwines the two events. Either the girl dies or she lives and loses her father. When the father is given the chance to escape his guilt gets the best of him. Honor overpowers him as he decides that he would rather serve his time and see his daughter than have to live life on the lam.

Not the greatest Ozu film, this little' exercise outside of his standard fare still stands strong on its own. In some ways it is nice to see a director stretch their legs and try something new, especially when it works. However, this is not typical Ozu and not the sort of film you would want to use as an introduction to Ozu. Just because it feels more like a European silent film does not mean it would help the Ozu ignorant embrace this wonderful director. If anything it might make it more difficult for them to appreciate his more personal work.

AN INN IN TOKYO (Tokyo no yado)

2005-05-07T20:30:00.000-05:00

Out of fourteen Ozu films being screened in a matter of eight days, An Inn In Tokyo was the only one I had never seen. I had read about the film, but the difference between seeing a film and reading about it is the same as reading romance novels and actually falling in love. There is just no substitute for the real thing. And, even writing about it after the fact feels like a false memory. Good writing can never replace the actual act of experience, at best it only embelishesthe experience. It's a sales pitch for the real experience.

This 1935 silent film, came with some great optimism. Often compared to Italian neo-realist films such as The Bicycle Thief, I was trying my best not too build up my expectations. So often, I imagine a film and my imagination exceeds the abilities of the filmmaker, but An Inn In Tokyo is one case where I was proved wrong.

Though it was made years before the Italian's got realistic and years after others had converted to sound Ozu was creating his own cinematic world where life is a double-edged sword. Set across three hot days An Inn In Tokyo centers its attention around an out-of-work father and his two tagalong sons. They ramble about in an industrial wasteland, chasing dogs for cash, and constantly worrying about their next meal and a place board. When money does come it goes and in one case it disappears rapidly as one of the boys squanders the money on a hat. While the family debates about whether to forgo food or shelter for the night the hat serves as a painful reminder of the son's wasteful spending. Still, they have it better than others.

Along their journey the man and his two sons befriend a woman and her sick daughter. The father finally finds employment. The money brings some happiness, but if the young girl is to live money is needed right away. Not having the money to save the girl the father asks an old friend for a loan. Denied, he steals the money. Knowing that he will not get away he sends his sons to the hospital, with the money. The girl is saved, but the father is caught. A life is saved, another is lost.

With An Inn In Tokyo Ozu delivers a tragic tale that revolves back and forth between elation and desperation. The troubles of the father and his two sons are highly temporal. The causality of their problem cannot be wholly blamed on society as often they make their own roadblocks. As with the hat and the father's over indulgence in sake, the characters presented in An Inn In Tokyo are some of the most human creature s to grace cinema and yet for Ozu they are standard procedure. The so-called realism discovered by the Italians in the wake of World War II was something Ozu, had already claimed as his own as early as 1930. He, the master is at his peak, but like so many explorers he has had his discovery overshadowed by some Italian.

EARLY SPRING (Soshun)

2005-05-07T18:00:00.000-05:00

If there is a key to Ozu's mastery it is balance. Early Spring is one of Ozu's most devastatingly depressing films and yet it is not an entirely unhappy affair. Ozu understands that life is a mixture of emotions and he deftly fluctuates between a wide array of feelings and commentary.

Returning to a form of film knick-named 'salaryman', Ozu reconsiders the hard-working Japanese business ethic. Ozu had gotten his start making 'salaryman' films; often humorous films specifically targeted at the white collar working class. Now, Ozu takes a more mature approach, something contemplative and cautionary. Contrasting work life with family life, Ozu tells the story of Shoji, a recently graduated salaryman trapped in both his job and his marriage. His only release comes from flirting with a young typist he calls 'Goldfish'. Shoji and Goldfish's youthful romance shakes up the monotony of Shoji's daily routine, but it also cracks the foundation upon which all of Shoji's life rests. Ozu attempts to show that business relationships are not what matters most. It is family that should come first.

In Early Spring, Ozu's pace is more restrained than normal as he attempts to mimic the banal word-a-day exist that has ground down his protagonist. The white-collar work day is reduced to morning commutes, long hours at the office, and the fleeting excitement of after-work drinks before finally retiring to home. Reunions with old army friends rekindle a fondness for war-filled, but youthful days. It is during this nostalgic drinking parties that Ozu lets humor seep into a sorrowful tale, but it is not for long. Shoji uses his wartime buddies as a cover, allowing him to spend the night with Goldfish. Still, no cover is enough to hide the distance that Shoji draws between himself and his wife. The tryst with Goldfish leads to a separation and a sudden transfer that relocates Shoji to a far-off rural post.

Much like the sudden appearance of a television crate in Ozu's Ohayo brings about a fit of joy, the single image of a suitcase near the end of Early Spring collapses my heart. As always, it is a well composed image with the suitcase sitting low in the frame, neatly placed. Still, it is just an inanimate object, but through Ozu's careful construction this one image sparks a revolutionary moment in the film. Just as it feels as if Shoji has worked himself into a corner, the suitcase appears. It is not a false moment, but something extraordinary, something promising and real. Shoji's wife has come to stay with him. Somehow, she has forgiven him. It is not due to any form of weakness that she travels to this barren location. No, it is something else, something very human, something that speaks to the amazing power of the human heart. Their reunion is not one of exuberant joy, but one stumbling to find a reason to proceed. Each party cautiously feels their way around the other. Each wonder what the future holds for them. However, with that single image of the suitcase there is a sensation of hope.

I FLUNKED BUT... (Rakudai wa shita keredo...)

2005-05-07T16:30:00.000-05:00

This 1930 featurette by Ozu connects Ozu with his most beloved actor Chishu Ryu. Thought Ryu only plays a lesser role, his inclusion in this early silent film marks the beginning of a long career. Ozu would work with Ryu throughout the course of his career, his last feature over 30 years later would team him with the actor one last time. It is often said that Ryu was a stand in for Ozu and as Ozu matured so did the characters played by Ryu.

In I Flunked But... the story takes place at a college during "exam hell". The young male students quake in fear of their final exams that will determine if they get to graduate and enter the real world. A young student Tatsuo Saito spends more time goofing and clowning around with his chums than studying and learning. While his roommates all cram the night before the final exams, Saito's character flirts with a young girl and scribbles crib notes on his white school uniform. Early the next morning, the cheating student awakes to find that his landlady has had his school uniform sent to the cleaners. Saito's chances of passing go down the drain. However, there is an upside to his failure. Though his roommates beg and plead with the school master to pass Saito, they soon find out that life outside of school is not that great. The economy is poor and there are no jobs to be had. Suddenly flunking and getting held back seems like a smart solution.

Though mostly played out as a comedy, there are some real depressing moments sprinkled throughout this sixty-four minute film. The student's shame of having to tell his girlfriend that he did not pass and that he has no need for the business suit she bought him is an especially heartbreaking moment. Yet it is not all gloom and it is a film obviously influenced by American silent star Harold Lloyd. When the students are together there is a wonderful sense of playfulness and camaraderie as the boys run through cheerleading drills or attempt to cheat on their tests. Again Ozu displays his knack for stringing along a lovely series of gags, that culminate in one larger gag that completes a nice ellipse back at the start of a new semester and it gives the film a bittersweet ending.

A STARIGHTFORWARD BOY (Tokkan kozo)

2005-05-07T16:00:00.000-05:00

The title, A Straightforward Boy, comes literally from the main character, a hyperactive brat who charges straight into people. A predecessor of sorts to Dennis the Menace, the young child actor - one of Ozu's favorite who played the title character actually changed his name to Tokkan Kozo to help his film career and Ozu did in fact use him in later films.

All that remains of this earliest of Ozu silent films is the first and last reel, but even with only these two reels we are able to get the gist of Ozu's gag filled comedy. A young boy is lured by a stranger with candy and toys. Once kidnapped, the abductors find out they got more than they bargained for. The young brat is constantly pestering his captors for more sweets and more toys. Finally, unwilling to endure the child any longer the kidnappers release the child only to have the young boy tell other children how great the men are for giving him candy and toys. In the end the boys loud mouth about his wondrous captors tips of a nearby cop and the criminals are apprehended.

From what is left of the film A Straightforward Boy feels like Ozu's most straightforward comedy. Designed to move from gag to gag the overall premise leaves little room for greater depth as the jokes come at lightening fast speed. A known fan of early silent comedians like Keaton and Chaplin and most of all Harold Lloyd this particular comedy owes a little to all of those masterful clowns, but perhaps it owes more to one time Our Gang gag writer Frank Capra.

GOOD MORNING (Ohayo)

2005-05-06T20:00:00.000-05:00

Most critics deem Tokyo Story to be Ozu's greatest film, but with each subsequent viewing I grow more impressed with Good Morning. As great as Good Morning is, the film is cut from cloth that could never be considered classic. In one corner you have a contemplative black and white, heart-wrenching drama about life and death. In the other corner you have a colorful film about two boys holding a protest in the hopes of getting there parents to buy them a television set. You also have a film that realizes on flatulence as a running gag. It's not a tough call, the first film will always win hands down, but for my money I am willing to say that Good Morning might be the better Ozu film at least for one reason - teachability.

The story is simple enough. Two young boys living in a very tight community beg their parents for a television set. Of course, the father rebukes their demands saying television will lead to a nation of idiots. The children persist. When the father scolds them for talking too much the boys agree to be quiet, indefinitely. Stating that all adults ever do is make idle chatter, greasing each other up with phrases like good morning or talk about the weather the boys decide to take a vow of silence. The parents still refuse to cave in, but the boys do make a point. All the adults do is make idle chatter. The house wives gossip and spread rumors. The fathers get drunk and reminisce. Young lovers can't even share their feelings, they simply make pleasant conversation. It is through the mouths of children or rather through their silence that Ozu is able to make some rather interesting comments on the adult world.

In many ways, Good Morning is a reworking of I Was Born But... However, this is not a simple redo with color and sound. Ozu is very careful to not tread over the same ground twice and in this film he finds more time to comment on more than just the worlds of the fathers and the sons. Here, the changing worlds of housewives and young, modern couples get examined. Ozu also takes more care in his camera work and his use of color. By this point in his career Ozu has developed his bold sense of color, his low-angle perspective, and his cross axis cutting. Using these characteristics to great effect Ozu constructs a small, cramped community of homes that appear to be interconnected just like the lives of their inhabitants. This even becomes a joke in Good Morning as a drunk husband stumbles into the wrong house by accident. Yet, there is very little sense of confusion as Ozu masterfully crafts his landscape within each frame, returning time and time again to these familiar spaces and particular objects such as clothes on a clothesline, a white fence or electrical towers that mark the landscape.

If given half the chance, I'd teach a semester long course on film form and for the
first half of the semester all we would watch is Good Morning. For the second half of the class we'd watch Vertigo or something else, but for at least half of the class we'd watch Good Morning. Not because it is the greatest film ever made, but because it is so enjoyable and yet with each viewing one could spot something new. So often film professors decide upon a particular aspect of film form, be it editing or framing or whatever, and they show some classic film that exemplifies this chosen film form, but I fear that often the student hasn't seen the film or they have but not with very critical eyes. Students just watch the film like any other film. First they need to know what is happening and how things will turn out. The film form, unless very flashy takes a backseat to the narrative. I am sure that would happen even with Good Morning, but with each week the story would grow more familiar and soon the student could focus more squarely on how the film form is helping to create the film at hand. Oh, I'm sure some know-it-all students might think they've "gotten" it all by the second or third viewing, but I have seen this film over a dozen times and every time I see it I learn something new or notice one more detail. I always walk away thinking Good Morning has to be Ozu's most well thought out film. Perhaps I am a slow learner or perhaps Good Morning is not just an empty greeting.

I WAS BORN BUT... (Umarete wa mita keredo)

2005-05-06T18:00:00.000-05:00

The assumption is that Yasujiro Ozu made slow paced, domestic dramas focused on the growing generational gap in post-war Japan. This assumption comes squarely from his later works, the sound pieces. However, Ozu was made many silent films before he found his trademark style and often these early silent films present a less rigid Ozu, who tips his hat to many other film legends as he creates lively, more youthful works of cinema that still attempt to capture the same human spirit that his later films masterfully depict.

I Was Born But... is one of a few children films Ozu directed. Somehow, Ozu seems at best when he has children on set. Their ever changing attitudes, their sense of humor, and their boundless energy appeal to Ozu. Often he makes children foils to the adult world they inhabit. In the case of I Was Born But... two brothers finally stand up to a bully only to get knocked down when they see their father being passive and flat out goofy in front of his boss. Unable to understand why their father does not stand up to his boss the two boys stage a hunger strike. Through the contrasting worlds of the children and the adults Ozu makes poignant commentary about the social hierarchies and unspoken powers that await us all in the "real world".

What is most impressive about Ozu's silent work is his ability to mimic other directors and still retain his own distinct touch. Here, his gags feel like something drawn from an Our Gang sketch. Gangs of young boys roaming the alley ways play fighting with one another, taunting one another, even performing strange resurrection rituals that show signs of power and control held by the gang leaders. The gags come and go and Ozu is a master at running a gag through the course of a film. Here, a long running gag comes in the voracious appetites of the two brothers. Throughout the first half of the film the two are constantly eating anything and everything in sight, a set-up that delivers amusement when the two boys finally decide to hold their hunger strike. It's a funny moment in a funny film and yet, the film itself is not just a set up for one gag nor is it just straight forward comedy. There are many life lessons to be learned and they are learned the hard way, with the young boys actually having to witness their father being humiliated before they can begin to understand the ways of the adult world. Ending on an up-note the boys do hear their father out as he explains to them why he acted as he did. It is here that Ozu puts one of his signature touches on the film and starts a tradition he will carry with him into his sound films. The father and his two sons all eat rice balls at exactly the same time, a matching action that is partly humorous, but also very cosmically connected - as if everything has fallen back into balance, for the moment.

I Was Born But... ranks up there with the best of silent cinema. It's a film that only a jaded, stubborn fool could not find amusing, even if it is silent, in black and white, and about someone other than Americans. It's too bad this is one of the few silent Ozu films (if only one) that is presently out on video. It deserves more attention and it deserves a proper re-release on DVD. Even so, the film itself might be a hard sell, but I am sure that if you can get someone to sit down and watch it they won't want it to end.

EQUINOX FLOWERS (Higan-Ban)

2005-05-05T18:00:00.000-05:00

If there is a dominant theme in Ozu’s work it is that of change and with a change from black and white to color film Ozu remains consistent in his use of arranged marriages and the attitudes towards than as an example of the cultural changes in post-war Japan. In Equinox Flowers a tyrannical father wonderfully played by Shin Saburi, must deal with his liberated daughter who refuses to endure a practice she feels to be outdated and unromantic. Wrought with humor that pokes fun at both sides of the generational divide, the tension between the father and daughter develops into a touching reflection on tradition and passing of traditions.

Utilizing the same rigorous camerawork that has become Ozu’s trademark style, the Japanese director transitions to color film stock by continuing to carefully construct and compose the film frame, now splashing it with bright instances of the color red. Like a visual game, Ozu moves from shot to shot with a hint of red – be it a teapot, a lantern, or a bouquet of flowers repositioning its self in each image. Against the rather flat, linear constructs of Japanese interiors these blots of red jump forth from the screen. They are bright spots in what might be considered a rather staunch color palette. These flashes of color are like the winning smiles that grace the faces of Ozu’s most impassive characters; those hardliners clung to old ways. The use of such dotting of color, especially the color red is a theme that continues throughout the duration of Ozu’s film career, much as the image of laundry on clotheslines populates his entire filmography.

THE FLAVOR OF GREEN TEA OVER RICE (Ochazuke no aji)

2005-05-04T18:00:00.000-05:00

There is nothing like a pleasant surprise. Jump out from behind the furniture and yell, “Happy Birthday” and I’ll probably deck you one, but something unexpected like The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice suits me just well.

Centered around an arranged marriage that has not exactly fallen into place, this social satire from director Yasujiro Ozu focuses on Taeko, a snobby wife, and Mokichi, her unsophisticated husband. While he slaves away at work she spends time with the girls going to spas and finding excuses to sneak away for the weekend. Mokichi is not totally ignorant of her schemes or the fact that their marriage is a mismatch. When a younger cousin says that she objects to the practice of arranged marriages Mokichi sympathizes with the young girl while he attempts to make his own marriage work.

More moving than Ozu’s other films, in the sense that camera is not so rigidly locked down and because Ozu takes his camera to active environments such as the bicycle races and baseball games, The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice seems atypical for the rather frugal director. However, at heart – where Ozu’s films work best- The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice is yet another shining example of what makes Ozu a master of cinema. Never flashy or ostentatious Ozu’s lively camera work never overpowers the emotional pangs that turn this light-hearted comedy into a contemplative drama.

Towards the end of the picture Ozu stops the storyline to dwell on a kitchen scene where Maeko and Mokichi stumble into their kitchen to make themselves a late night snack. With the house help turned in or sent home for the evening, the two clumsily search about for a bite to eat. Shot in real time, their domestic actions serve, as a new starting point for a couple that must begin their relationship anew if they hope to resolve their marital conflicts. Like two people meeting one another for the first time there is a quiet air of uneasiness that falls between their every move. The scene is highly reminiscent of the a scene from John Cassavetes’s Love Streams or final images in A Woman Under The Influence, two pictures shot many years after Ozu’s Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice, but a scene that is much fresher in my memory. Whether it is something personal or universal about a couple in a kitchen attempting to rebuild their relationship I am not sure, but for some mysterious reason a particular chemistry happens to occur late at night in cinematic kitchens.

Though I remembered seeing The Flavor of Green Tea Over Rice many years ago, my memory was foggy and only the storyline remained. Tonight, I am surprised at how overwhelming the film is. To say it has instantly become my favorite Ozu feature may be a hasty call, but there is something in the air tonight that leaves me feeling as if I will never see a finer film. It is a pleasant surprise, for sure.

THE MANSON FAMILY

2005-05-04T14:05:00.000-05:00

You know you're a hardcore independent filmmaker when you use own money and take over a dozen years to create a film. You're even more independent when that film has no viable reason to be made. So much of today's filmmaking is really marketing. You learn to strike while the iron is hot and before the blood dries. Stories of missing white women, ecological disasters, and epic battles seem to be the cinema du jour. The Charles Mason murders are dated and to reflect upon this is not marketable, even from a nostalgic viewpoint. Perhaps this is why it takes some one from Dayton, Ohio, not Hollywood, California to breathe some new life into one of history's most iconic criminals.

Jim Van Bebber is born to make film. Some folks are born to sing, some folks are born dance, some folks are born to sell used cars. Folks like Van Bebber make films, not because they think its fun or easy or cool, on the contrary they'd tell you its hard fuckin' work. Guys like Van Bebber make films because it's in their blood. In fact, Van Bebber sold his own plasma to complete the film and while that's a piece of folklore any good independent film director tries to attach themselves with it doesn't feel quite as honest as it does when Jim Van Bebber rekindles that myth.

Blood or no blood, The Manson Family is a wonderful piece of old school filmmaking. Minus a troubled side-story that I'll get to later, watch The Manson Family is like taking a trip back in time to a point when drive-in's still existed, when grindhouses lined 42nd Street, and when every young independent filmmaker didn't dream of making it to the big leagues. Here's a film that knows its role, knows its limitations, and knows its audience. The Manson Family is not Van Bebber's attempt to cash in on a ready-made market. Neither a fan of Manson's lore or the hype that surrounds the cult of Manson, Van Bebber's film asks more questions and provides little answers about one of America's most notorious crimes. Thought the title was changed to draw a stronger immediate connection between the film's subject matter and its famous namesake the emphasis should fall more on family than Manson. This is not an attempt to understand the warped logic of a truly madman, but rather a look back at a screwed up group of followers, full of drugs, looking for love, and gullible enough to believe the crazed whims of a father figure that was more manipulator than messiah.

The Manson Family utilizes a buckshot approach that combines old footage, doctored new footage, and the audience's preconceived notions of film style to create a decopage design that mimics recent crime shows. Reminiscent of the less than noble Natural Born Killers Van Bebber's film integrates his oldest footage, shot over a decade ago, that depicts life at Spahn Ranch as a halcyon daze of drugs and debauchery with manipulated modern day interviews of the various members of Manson's murderous family. Their patchwork of stories creates a larger picture that is more cubist than correct. Since no one knows exactly what happened out at the ranch, in the desert, or at various murder scenes the conflicting stories create a palpable sense of chaos, confusion, and consciousness laced with remorse or righteousness, depending on who's account you believe.

For the most part the actors are believable. Most notable of all is probably Marc Pitman who plays Tex. Less admirable are his moments of drug fueled hysteria before and during the murders, but only when compared to his stoic and sane retelling of past events during video interviews after the fact. Due to lack of trust worthy record Van Bebber's fictional re-telling of the Manson murders are given lengthy leadway in their portrayal of persona, but each of his actors convey a mixture of lost, doped, crazed, and homicidal traits that create convincing impression of just the sort of people lured to Manson's side. Leslie Orr and Maureen Allisse both turn in wonderfully on edge performances as Pattie and Sadie, respectfully and Van Bebber himself is capable of stepping in front of the camera to take on the role of Bobby - the first family member to slip from follower to murderer. Interestingly enough, Van Bebber's performance shows the most growth, not just from his earlier film Deadbeat At Dawn to The Manson Family, but within The Manson Family itself. There is a noticeable difference between the early footage of young Bobby at Spahn Ranch and present day Bobby, serving a life sentence with a rather obvious fake moustache, but a chillingly real performance, real in the sense that it is believable, even if it may not accurately represent the real criminal. I suspect that the most ardent Manson historians would dissect each performance as only the sickest of fanboys seem capable of doing. I for one know very little about the actual accounts of the Manson murder trials even though I have read more books on the matter than I have read on our nation's civil war. Still, if one is willing to suspend their disbelief enough to look past Van Bebber's phony moustache, a few throw away lines, and the obvious physical differences between actors and subjects than one can truly appreciate the crazed portrayals that each actor delivers.

Necessary to the length of his shoot, the patchwork of film pieces he was left with and the disappearance of Marcelo Game, who plays Manson - in a suitable, but not stellar fashion, which probably helps Van Bebber's objective - Jim Van Bebber is forced to construct a piecemeal portrait of a family that so many have tried to understand. In Van Bebber's telling there is no hope of understanding the madness and manipulation that lay at the base of the Charles Manson phenomenon. Utilizing a tactic pulled straight from crime television and the likes of Geraldo Rivera, Van Bebber cast Dayton newsman Carl Day as a modern day crime reporter, covering the anniversary of the infamous Manson murders. It is here that the film's purpose enters the foreground of film with Day openly stating that he is not interested in Manson as much as he's interested in the folks who actually committed the crimes. This too is the purpose of Van Bebber's film, less interested in Manson himself, in fact by about two-thirds of the way through the picture Manson is all but removed from the film.

If the use of Carl Day as an investigative reporter helps tie together the multitude of film clips and video interviews that make up the bulk of The Manson Family than the inclusion of a group of modern day Manson followers is more problematic. The idea that an overtly weird group of individuals would lash out at reporters or individuals looking to defame Manson's legacy is rather interesting especially when Van Bebber makes joking references to modern youth who see Manson as an icon, but know little of the reality behind his rise to iconic status. Still, the freakish depiction of these modern Mansonites, mixed with gothic overtones and a transition from pot and acid to heavier drugs comes across as muddled and misguided, even desperate. I truly think that such a side story would work if it were not for the hyper kinetic camera style that Van Bebber chooses to shoot these most modern sequences in. Speed up footage that plays more like Our Gang antics than gritty digital realism undercut the sheer terror of possible modern day Manson disciples. When so much of Van Bebber's footage seems straight from a different, dated era, this newest footage seems forced and out of place. Why he did not choose to shoot these sequences on a consumer level one-chip digital cameras, the sort of store bought or stolen equipment that these punks could easily access make little or no sense for a film that seems so sure-footed in its scratched up archival film style.

Rumor has it that the Manson family filmed much of their exploits and that somewhere in Death Valley those films sit buried. Van Bebber appears to have found them or at least created what he imagines to be captured on those rolls of film. The Manson Family depicts the violent and infamous murders in a shockingly brutal fashion. Though there will always be those who say that any depiction of such violent acts is really a form of exploitation or celebration. Van Bebber's film surely shows enough skin and debaucher to fall prey to such accusations, but he also bothers to show the horrific consequences of such deadly acts and in a way he attempts to warn the world that just because Manson is now safely behind bars that does not mean that there is less evil in the world.

After countless attempts and over a decade since he shot his first roll of film Van Bebber finally delivers a film that is not perfect, but perfectly suited to its subject. Besides one mis-step Van Bebber does something that Jean-Luc Godard once proclaimed to have done with his endtimes social critique - Weekend - he pulls a film from the scrapheap. Most filmmakers would have given up on a project such as this a long time ago. Van Bebber is no saint for providing the world with another retelling of the Charles Manson story, but he should be a patron saint of independent cinema.

TOKYO STORY (Tokyo Monogatari)

2005-05-03T18:00:00.000-05:00

There is a scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom where the whip-cracking archeologist watches as a Thuggee cult leader rips a still beating heart from the chest of a human sacrifice. While such a scene may have very little to do with the Tokyo Story it does a wonderful job of showing the emotional divide that spans between a director such as Steven Spielberg and Yasujiro Ozu.

Today’s theme park approach to cinema has been the bread and butter of Steven Spielberg’s career and when it comes to pulse raising entertainment no one can quicken the pace of your heart quite like the golden boy from the Gold Coast. Even when he attempts to create more dramatic works the clock is continually competing with the protagonists. Whether alien, monster, or Nazi soldier the threat of some evil force continually breathes down the necks of his heroes and only time will tell if the heroes will live to fight another day. The tension is one of comic book; action-adventure story proportions removed from the everyday, place its own time and its own world. Without a doubt the distance does not impede the film’s ability to exhilarate the audience. However, Spielberg is only capable of showing his audiences what it looks like to have your heart ripped out before your bare eyes. Yasujiro Ozu and his family melodramas actually deliver the sensation of having your heart ripped out. In a most emotional way, Ozu performs open-heart surgery, and Tokyo Story is his most memorable operation.

Tokyo Story tells the story of a disintegrating family. It is a tale Ozu will tell many time throughout his career, with the changing family structure being a favorite analogy for the post-WWII changes in Japan’s culture. Here, a mother (Chieko Higashiyama) and father (Chishu Ryu) decide to visit their children only to find that their children have no time to spend with their parents. Consumed with their jobs each of the offspring complains about their burdensome parents. Only their widowed daughter-in-law shows the slightest interest in entertaining the elderly couple and the busy offspring are more than happy to let her. When the mother and father finally decide to return to their home it becomes apparent that the mother has fallen ill. As the children rush to be by her side their personally pettiness continues to show as their father prepares himself for the loneliness of old age.

With a static camera and his trademark low camera angles, Yasujiro Ozu constructs a somber chamber piece that moves from room to room and scene to scene in an effortless and delicate fashion. Held together by wonderfully composed images of Tokyo, the film takes on a meditative quality that gives the viewer ample time to contemplate life, death, and what we are to make of each. Quietly the film creeps up on you waiting until the near end of the picture for it to lower the boom. When the family’s youngest daughter openly asks, “Isn’t life disappoint” the response she is given enough to rip your heart.

For those who have lived a little, laughed a little, and contimplated death a little Ozu is the greatest of film directors and Tokyo Story is the shining gem in his catalog of over fifty films. However, because he works against expectation he is forever doomed to live in the shadow of others. His stories are too ordinary, plucked straight from real-life they do not possess the epic, wide screen, historical drama of Kurosawa. Ozu's films do not work as allegories, nor do they work through symbols. He is Kubrick, creating codes waiting to be cracked. His visuals are carefully constructed still life images designed to downplay their natural grace. They do not bask in the sun-soaked splendor of Terrence Malik’s postcard perfect world. They do not revel in the extraordinary, but rather they illuminate the ordinary. As a melodrama is work is subdued, steering far from the constant strum and drang of Douglas Sirk, Ozu waits for just the right moment to tug on the heartstrings. When he does pull, it’s enough to crush your heart.

While there is nothing stopping Kurosawa, Kubrick, Malik, Sirk or even Spielberg from also being called the world’s greatest film directors, there is something about Ozu that makes his films feel as if they have come from a world the audience can inhabit. There is something earthly, tangible, and memorable about Ozu’s work. One does not have to be Japanese to understand or, better yet, “to feel” Ozu’s work. His films are films of transcendence. They connect to anyone and everyone that has lived long enough to consider death, not a heroic death, but simply death itself. Yet, what makes Tokyo Story so surprising is how simply they seem. Family tales told in a slow, static manner – not the expected ingredients for a film so powerful that it feels as if it has ripped your heart out.

WILD ZERO

2005-05-01T20:20:00.000-05:00

Wild Zero is a sci-fi, zombie, rock 'n' roll, love story that comes packaged with its own drinking game. Normally, a film that tries for instant cult classic status dies under its own weight. This one is the exception.

Ace is in love with garage/punk/rock 'n' roll and his favorite band is Guitar Wolf - an actual Japanese trio consisting of Drum Wolf, Bass Wolf, and the eponymous Guitar Wolf. More poser than rocker Ace watches as Guitar Wolf put on a killer show that includes guitars that sling bolts of electricity and microphones that shoot flames. After the show Ace watches as his heroes deal bluntly with a crooked and vile concert promoter that has a disturbing propensity for short-shorts. Gun shots fill the air and when the smoke clears Guitar Wolf is howling "Rock 'n' Roll" and kick starting his motorcycle - off to he next gig.

Ace cruises on his scooter to catch Guitar Wolf's next performance but along the way he stumbles upon a damsel in distress. This cute little dish named Tobio - is being held hostage by a trio of nimrod criminals, until Ace accidentally upsets their plans. After playing the role of unwitting hero, Ace sets love at first sit aside, just to catch the next Guitar Wolf show. It's not until he's half way to their concert when a horde of flesh thirst zombies create one hell of a road block. Ace returns to the gas station to save Tobio from the zombie attack. But zombies aren't the only problem. The evil concert promoter is in hot pursuit of Guitar Wolf and a gold hungry gun runner is blasting her way through the zombies. Above, a fleet of UFO's filling the sky possibly causing all of this undead madness. Not only that, but Tobio has a few surprises of her own. Unable to go it alone Ace calls for the help of Guitar Wolf.

With Guitar Wolf's blown-out sounds setting the pace this music laden action flick explodes with coolness. Held together with a high production value and music video slickness Wild Zero is one part Plan 9 From Outer Space, one part Night of the Living Dead, and the rest is purely original. Add to his the optional drinking game that comes with the Synapse DVD version of Wild Zero and you have the perfect makings for cult classic.

REPO MAN

2005-05-01T18:30:00.000-05:00

I am not one for top ten lists, but when pressed to compile a list of my ten favorite films one film always appears. Times change and so do tastes. A few films that once ruled the roost have found themselves on the chopping block – (i.e. Empire Strikes Back, 2001, Miller’s Crossing). There fate came about not because they are bad films, but simply because they lost favor. They marked more of a moment in time, a lack of experience, and a general ignorance of other films. Every film I see brings new choices and the process of selection is one that is constantly in flux. However, one film has continually remained a staple on such an unstable list. That film is Repo Man.

I saw the last ten minutes of this film when I was twelve years old. It played on the A&E channel back when the A&E channel didn’t just play crime and detective shows. This was back when Evening at the Improv was the cornerstone of their programming and al the comedians were nobodies standing in front of that famous brick wall. Waiting for the jokes to start I saw an iridescent car floating high above the Los Angeles cityscape. The city lights zoomed by in a psychedelic blur as Emilo Estevez peered out from the car window and Bob the Goon from Batman flew this glowing vehicle into the stratosphere while a haunting score escorted them on their way.

That night I watched all of Evening at the Improv and I stayed up extra late to see the second showing of this mysterious movie. Up to this point in time I had little idea of anything outside of the mainstream. Most of the jokes in Repo Man flew way over my head, but there was a vibe, a late night vibe, that flowed through the film creating otherworldliness. Alex Cox had crafted a film that felt like it came from an alternate universe, a dream world that contained many similarities to our own world, but a logic that wholly escaped our world.

Though the story of Repo Man is a rather convoluted scenario that starts with car on its way from Los Alamos to Los Angeles is carrying stolen alien carcasses, the film itself feels effortless. Never laboring to intertwine the lives of gun-totting punks, UFO conspiracy theorists, secret government task forces, undercover agents, and a very hot Chevy Malibu – Repo Man is a quilt work without visible seams. The film focuses mainly on young punk, Otto (Estevez), and his introduction to the to the wild world of car repossession. Brought into the racket by Bud (Harry Dean Stanton) it doesn’t take long before Otto is addicted to the intense life of the repo man. On the road he’s looking for the next big score or tangling with the Rodriguez’s Brothers. At the impound yard he is given the life philosophies of various repo men and the yard’s most out-there resident, Miller. Played by veteran character actor Tracey Walter (Batman, Conan the Destroyer) Miller professes a theory of connectedness that runs throughout Alex Cox’s lil’ masterpiece.

What makes Repo Man so special and a film that continues to entertain are all the subtle details that lie buried in the film. Small visual gags, audible clues, and double meaning abound. With each subsequent viewing another connection can be found. Nothing in the film is only referenced one, everything comes back, drawing a line between two points, connecting two dots. Just as Miller tries to explain to Otto that there are unseen forces at work in the world it begins to feel as if Alex Cox is that unseen force working in the shadows. Planting references here and there, Cox creates a film that does not hammer home its smartness, but lets the viewer discover it. Like Miller’s mentioning of how someone may mention a platter of shrimp only moments after you were just thinking about a platter of shrimp, Alex Cox does not force such a platter of shrimp into the film later on in the film, just to prove his character’s point. Instead, the platter of shrimp is hidden on a sign, in the background, easily overlooked. But it is there. The connections abound, but only if you look for them. Otherwise, they work like those unseen forces, a stitching that goes unseen, but holds together a crazy quilt of ideas.

Repo Man first introduced me to a whole new form of cinema, something I never had seen before and while I have seen many films like Repo Man since that one life changing night I always come back to Repo Man with fresh eyes. There is something at work in this film that is not at play in so many other offbeat, non-mainstream films. Repo Man is smart without showing off. It’s the difference between a braggart, know-it-all, and a wise sage. Keeping his smartness and his coolness quiet is the key to Cox’s success. So many filmmakers today make movies to stay one-step ahead of their audiences and to be toasted for their cleverness. Cox doesn’t push for this sort of praise and that is why he deserves roaring applause.

THE WORLD'S GREATEST SINNER

2005-05-01T16:20:00.000-05:00

The cult of Tim Carey is growing. The religion that has grown around this actor is miraculous. Like all good religious figures, it wasn't until he passed from this mortal plain that they believers started to believe. Now, just about anyone who witnesses this man's power is an automatic convert.

Through out the 50's, 60's and 70's Carey worked with the greatest of film directors - Kubrick, Kazin, Cassavetes, Wilder. He's even worked with one of the worst - Bert I. Gordon. He mouthed off to Brando in The Wild One and then he acted for him in One Eyed Jacks. He's co-stared with the Monkees and acted in the same film as Francis the talking mule. He turned down being in The Godfather and The Conversation. He's worked with Columbo, Mr. T., and Chesty Anderson USM. Mannix, Rawhide, Airwolf, Baretta, McCloud, CHiPs, Kung Fu, Gunsmoke, Charlie's Angles, and The Greatest American Hero - he's played them all.

Timothy Carey is god's gift to character acting. His unforgettable face, his fiery performances, his on edge personality just waiting to snap have set the standard by which all other character actors must be judged. But for all his bit parts, that continually steal scenes and outshine star players, nothing can overshadow the one completed film that Timothy Carey made. The World's Greatest Sinner is Timothy Carey's true gift to cinema.

Working both behind the camera and in the lead role Timothy Carey delivers a tale of tested faith that John Waters one craziest films he's ever seen. The World's Greatest Sinner starts with Clarence Hilliard (Timothy Carey), a feed-up insurance salesman calling it quits. With the help of his gardener friend, Alanzo (Gil Barreto) Clarence sets out to add meaning to other people's lives. After seeing a rock'n'roll concert Clarence becomes convinced that he must pick up a guitar and preach his new philosophy of every man and woman being their own god or "super human beings" as he loves to profess. Taking to the streets Clarence strums and preaches. Crowds gather and very quickly he's got a following. That's when the devil enters the picture. In the form of a large snake, Satan whispers in the ear of Clarence, convinces him to change his name to God, to preach through music, to insight the masses. Finally, when Clarence or God as he know calls himself is able to whip up a maelstrom of existential followers the devil suggest he put down the guitar and aim for high positions of power, like the presidency. Convinced that he truly is a super human being, a god no less, Clarence pushes his family aside. He lets fame go to his head, abusing his power to score supporters - young and old - in the sack. Soon, a crises of faith arises and Clarence demands to know if there is a real god or not. The answer is just as shocking as the entire premise of this truly one-of-a-kind film.

Made with the most extreme personal passion The World's Greatest Sinner is a those flawed, but precious films. Struggling for years to complete his opus, Timothy Carey is reported to have stolen a flat-bed editor from John Cassavetes just to complete his vision. This sort of dedication but Carey at odds with the Cassavetes camp. Everyone, but John Cassavetes himself refused to speak with Carey. John, on the other hand, loved Carey so much he not only looked the other way, but he professed his love for The World's Greatest Sinner, and he hired Carey to be in many of his own pictures. A true independent and a certifiable nut, Carey's film is actually a rather religious experience that makes instant converts of those who see it. At the same time that it brings new members to the Cult of Timothy Carey, the film's story does an interesting job of examining nature of faith. It's a message that can get easily lost inside the insanity of the film.

The World's Greatest Sinner stands as a true cult classic that deserves a larger audience. Today, Timothy Carey's son, Romeo, is out their spreading his father's gospel. If you want to be witness to this religious experience you can find out more about Timothy Carey, The World's Greatest Sinner, and other projects he did by going to http://www.absolutefilms.net/. While there buy a few copies of the film, give them to friends, give them to strangers, or leave them in bus stations - spread the good word!

INTIMACIES OF THE SMALL (A Cozy Screening of Small Gauge Films)

2005-04-29T18:00:00.000-05:00

One night of 8mm and Super 8mm films where nothing was super, my interest was small, and the word "intimacy" got confused with mastubatory.

S-8 Diaries 1987/1988 Gary Adlestein
Film Notebook Part 1 Marjoe Keller
Whole Note Saul Levine
Runner Bill Creston
Celluloid Memory Kenji Onishi

Each film had its moments, more like shots, but as a whole just about every film felt personal and out of place. Like notebooks found on the side of the road I approached each of these films with the hope that they might deliver some unsuspecting gem, rough around the edges but glowing with an inner brilliance. Instead I saw a series of poorly shot, mashed up images that we more maddening than magical. If things may flow in one ear and out the other, these films flowed in one eye and out the other. Not wholly forgettable, but entirely disposable I will be lucky if I am able to remember but one or two images from this night's program.

RULES OF THE GAME

2005-04-28T10:05:00.000-05:00

A famous aviator pines for the wife of a rich aristocrat, who just happens to be having an affair with another women. Invited to the aristocrats country home by a mutual friend the love triangle grows tighter, tensions flare, and chaos runs rampant through the countryside. The buffonish antics of the upper class guests are mirrored in the equally messy relationships of the lower class servants. The foreground and background are constantly bustling with hysterical parties in search of one another, professing their love or threatening other's lives. Were it not shot my one of the masters of French cinema - or all cinema for that matter - this premise could easily dwindle down to the one of a series of harebrained soap opera plots or mad-capped comedy clunkers. In the hands of Jean Renior Rules of the Game becomes a part of the cinematic canon, a classic that continually appears on critic's top ten lists. This classic French drama/comedy about social classes was once considered all but lost. Hated by the French government when it first played, burned by Nazi's during the occupation, and bombed accidentally by the allies Rules of the Game was rediscovered in the 1950's, reconstructed, and in time accepted as one of the great works of cinema.

Without meaning to sound insulting, Rules of the Game is nothing but a blotted soap opera. Masterfully constructed by one of France's greatest cinematic director's, Jean Renoir's comedy of social manners sends up the upper and lower classes showing that their is little difference between their lives. Money does not make the lives of the aristocrats anymore meaningful, deeper, or richer. Their lives are just as shallow and complicated as the servants that serve them, but in all cases it is not social status, but human desire that has created all the confusion that surrounds this summer hunting party.

Today, the critical and scholarly references to Rules of the Game recite the legends behind the film or Renoir's use of deep focus, that pre-dates Citizen Kane. Needlessly, the socio-political message of the film becomes a key topic of discussion, though it is wholly unnecessary for a modern audience to catch the scathing attacks on pre-WWII French culture to enjoy the comedy of manners gone sour that truly makes Rules of the Game a memorable piece of cinema. Unlike other, more political pieces of Renoir's, Rules of the Game is an over-the-top send-up that sparkles with life. If their are deeper meanings and stunning camera work they take a back seat to the lively performances and the zig-zagging storylines that run amok in the mansion. Perhaps, it is the discussion of such deeper meanings, pumped up by critics and scholars that makes Rules of the Game sound more like vegetables than dessert, thus leaving wider audiences a bad taste, before they even sample the film. To hear it presented as an important work of cinema, that uses long takes, deep focus, and comments heavily on the social strife of pre-WWII France tantamount to saying, Brussle sprouts are being served for dinner. Of course, this is wholly not the case. Once given a chance even the most jaded audiences can overcome the few hang-ups that hold back many old foreign films - subtitles, black'n'white, etc. Rules of the Game goes to show that class struggle, love triangles, and good, rapid fire humor are things that know no national or temporal bounds.

KUNG-FU HUSTLE (5 Random Thoughts)

2005-04-27T15:45:00.000-05:00

Since my colleague wrote so well and so much about this heavily talked about import from China I do not feel the need to go down that path. It is not for lack of enthusiasm that I take a different approach. I am certain that I enjoyed the film every bit as much as he did, but as I was watching the film I had a few tangential points bouncing about in my head.

1) This is not a Kung-Fu film as much as it is a cartoon. The use of the word "Kung-Fu" in the title is a bit of a misnomer. Yes, martial arts play a key role in the picture, but through the use of CGI, the chopsocky stretches itself well past normal human limitations and well into the realm of cartoons - in particular, Warner Brothers cartoons; early Looney Tunes. Selling this film to fans of Daffy Duck and Bugs Bunny might be easier than selling it to fans of Bruce Lee and Sonny Chiba.

2) CGI effects work best when they adhere to the logic of cartoons. Since the introduction of these revolutionary special effects directors have battled with using them in a realistic fashion. Often, they are used to create impossible scenarios in a realistic fashion - a building blows up, a spaceship hurtles through the cosmos, etc. The goal of CGI has primarily been to make the unreal feel real. In Kung-Fu Hustle there are moments of subtle CGI manipulation that smack of its fraudulent, unrealistic tinkering with reality. However, the far superior and far more predominant use of CGI comes when director, Stephen Chow uses this digital tool to create extremely cartoonish effects. Characters run so fast that their legs appear to be small tornados. A character takes a nasty snake bite to the mouth and a scene later his lips have swollen to an impossibly huge size. These over-the-top, sight gags push Kung-Fu Hustle into the world of cartoons and just as any viewer of a cartoon knows that a cat's face does not conform to the shape of a frying pan when it is smacked in the face with one, viewers of Kung-Fu Hustle are equally forgiving and accepting of Chow's cartoonish use of CGI to manipulate his character's physical appearance well past the point of reality.

3) American audiences might be getting more open-minded. Kung-Fu Hustle was the top grossing film in China. Due to the release of the final Star Wars film this summer, I'm willing to wager that Kung-Fu Hustle will not repeat its box office domination stateside. However, with the small success of this picture and that of Sin City there holds promise that America maybe willing to go along with a filmmaker, with little need for a single protagonist who is introduced during the opening moments of the film and who's every action we seem to follow doggedly. There have been many films before these two (i.e. Lord of the Rings and Star Wars) that host a cast of characters, but even in those tales there is one pivotal character with whom the audience sides and cheers on. It takes many, many scenes before a clear lead character can be identified in Kung-Fu Hustle and yet Chow takes the time to make all the side characters so endearing that their stories are just as relevant and consuming as the small character arch of the lead hero that blossoms ever so late in this picture.

4) Cartoons were a lot better back in the day. I'm sounding old and I'm unable to pinpoint exactly when cartoons went from being funny to just be commercials for toys. Maybe that's exactly when things started going down hill, when every cartoon was used to sell toys and kill time between blocks of toy commercials. There was a time when grown men who grew up watching silent slapstick artists and vaudeville comedians used to pen and pencil cartoons. They made their humor broad and deep. They were not just trying to reach children sitting in front of a television while their parents worked. These older cartoons - the early Warner Brothers, Hanna-Barbara, and Disney's shorts were meant for everyone. Today, cartoons seem to be made for target markets. You have your kiddy cartoons, your young boys anime inspired toons, your glamour cartoons for young girls, and you even have your smart, ironic, foul-mouthed cartoons for adults. What you don't have anymore is the one cartoon that speaks to all these target markets, that can combine a witty piece of dialog that kids can't understand, but adults roar over with a crashing flower pot to the head that gets everyone to chuckle. In Kung-Fu Hustle you find a pseudo-live action version of these old cartoons and a reminder of just what made those early cartoons so classic.

5)Why does this film feel so forgettable? This could be more opinion than hypothesis, but I see this film getting swept under the rug and waiting to be rediscovered a few years from now. As canonical films go, this is a comedy that won't find itself in the great pantheon of comedies. For one, it's foreign. It also is more spectacle than memorable. Like so many old cartoons, so full of gags I left Kung-Fu Hustle laughing, but already forgetting all the reasons why I was laughing. With there being nothing to quote and few things to re-enact, unlike Napoleon Dynamite which seems to thrive on these aspects, I predict that here in America Kung-Fu Hustle will have a special place in the hearts of film nerds who already love the Kung-Fu genre, but I don't think it'll play in heavy rotation on AMC, Comedy Central, or TBS. After it's initial arrival on Blockbuster's wall of new releases one copy will get moved to the standard stacks. In some stores it will be placed in comedy. In other stores the acne faced manager will decide it's a foreign film. Either way it will collect dust awaiting some adventurous soul, some lonely teenager looking for a laugh and a way to kill a night and I wish I was there to see the smile on that kid's face when he finds it.

THE EMPEROR'S NAKED ARMY MARCHES ON (Yuki Yukite Shingun)

2005-04-26T06:00:00.000-05:00

Hara Kazuo is a Japanese documentary filmmaker who works closely with his subjects to create works of cinema that our a collaborative power struggle between the filmmaker and the subject. You are never quite sure who possesses the upper hand in The Emperor's Naked Army Marches On. With his camera clearly focused on its subjects, Okauzaki Kenzo a survivor of World War II and a crusader against the Emperor of Japan, Kenzo was once arrested in 1969 for firing pachinko balls from a slingshot at the Emperor of Japan. Through probing investigations Kenso hopes to unravel war crimes that occurred while he and other Japanese troops served in New Guinea. Taking an approach that would today be familiar to anyone who has seen a Michael Moore spectacle, Kenzo confronts former members of his regiment, combatively asking them questions, attempting to tap into recessed feelings of guilt, and when that fails physically attacking them. With the family members of two soldiers who were supposedly executed for desertion, well after the war was over, Kenzo peels back layers of lies and self-denial to find horrible tales of cannibalism and murder. No one wants to take responsibility for their actions, most have blocked it from their memory, all chalk it up to the horrors of war. For Kenzo, that is not good enough, he will not rest until the Emperor is held culpable for creating situations that lead to such dehumanizing acts of aggression.

Hara Kazuo tags along, his camera ready to capture Kenzo next wild act, each one bursting forth from this aging man with such spontaneity that he seems capable of erupting at any given moment. For most of the film it is clearly Kazuo who is in charge, his actions giving cause to Kazuo's camera. It is only late in the film that Kazuo detaches himself from Kenzo's quest. It is through newspaper articles that we find out that Kenzo has been arrested for attempting to kill the son of a former army officer, saying that if he cannot kill the officer responsible for war crimes than killing his son is good enough. The film wraps up with Kenzo in prison serving his sentence while his wife passes on as she awaits his release. At this point Kazuo completely departs from Kenzo's life leaving the viewer to wonder if Kenzo ever gets released.

This confrontational style of filmmaking has been reborn in today's polarized world of politics and aggressive journalism. Though, in such modern cases the filmmaker and the subject in front of the camera are one in the same. Here, in The Emperor's Naked Army Marches On the case is different. Kenzo did want Kazuo to keep filming him and even documenting his attempted murder on camera. For the filmmaker this was going too far. Kenzo is now out of prison and in his eighties. It is rumored that he is working in the Japanese porn industry. There is no palpable truth to such rumors and no speculation as to the role Kenzo might be playing in such an industry, but for a man who was once arrested for distributing leaflets depicting the Emperor in a pornographic fashion anything seems plausible.

WILD NIGHT IN EL RENO

2005-04-25T12:00:00.002-05:00

This short film by George Kuchar may be the best thing I've seen by the master of madcapped melodrama. Rather than camping it up, Kuchar takes a more experimental, artistic approach to document one of his many yearly trips to Oklahoma. While there Kuchar camps out in a cut-rate motel, explores the landscape, and waits for the storms to roll in. Using carefully composed shot images of the weather outside his window, the layout of his hotel room, and some chuckle inducing stills of vulgar graffiti, Kuchar creates a personal cinematic scrapbook. Layered overtop of these images are snippets of sounds taken from Hollywood melodramas and news reports.

Kuchar has always had a good ear for catchy, but telling sounds. In Wild Night In El Reno Kuchar lets the images and found sounds tell the story of tornado season. It should also be noted that while many people associate underground films, especially ones that play up camp qualities, as being poorly shot, this particular film along with key moments from other shorts by Kuchar exhibit a calculating eye. This is a truly wondrous little film and for anyone who may not have the sense of humor to stomach the early films Kuchar made with his brother, this particular piece of work plays nicely to those in need of something tamer. While I see art in all that he does, Wild Night in El Reno is more aesthetically pleasing in a classic sense. At 6 minutes long it wastes nobodies time, that is if you can find a copy of the film.

THE THURSDAY PEOPLE

2005-04-25T12:00:00.001-05:00

Working as a semi-sequel to the George Kuchar Video Diary Number 5 this short homemade video documents a weekly gathering amongst a group of friends who are meeting for the first time since the death of their dear friend Curt McDowell. Here Kuchar wanders the confines, his camera probing into conversations. Kuchar himself attempts to liven the spirits of those in the house, making jokes, asking questions, and spreading his continually upbeat personality. For all his attempts it is impossible to not notice the somber mood that dwells amongst the patrons at this wake.

Again, Kuchar's style of shooting, his use of low-end, consumer technology, and his first person narration may be offsetting to some. There is always a sense of, "Well, I could have done that," lingering about. However, Kuchar has done it and he has done it without restraint. Where others would find it tasteless to bring a camera to such an event, Kuchar has find reason and never once does his intent fell exploitive of a situation ripe with emotion.

VIDEO DIARY NUMBER 5

2005-04-25T12:00:00.000-05:00

Video Diary Number 5 is an hour long video diary shot by George Kuchar while he teaches a course in San Francisco, puts on a retrospective with his brother, and grapples with the slow death of his friend and fellow filmmaker Curt McDowell (Thundercrack). Like its title states, this is a directs video made on a consumer level video camcorder with the entire production being edited in camera. For those you demand slick veneer or those abhor navel gazing films George Kuchar gives little reason for you to embrace his video diaries. Fans of Kuchar and fans of lo-fi, do-it-yourself productions may feel just the opposite. There is no middle ground for this sort of work.

While the camera work and the editing may be as crude as Kuchar himself there is a homemade charm that flows through his video, just as it once flowed through the 8mm films he and his brother shot. Rife with self-defacing humor and a candid openness that allows him to display the most disgusting of body functions on camera Kuchar's work exhibits an antidote to cleaned-up, self-censored Hollywood image or even the image of most independent productions. If Kuchar is presenting a slice of life it is certainly not the sort most would document nor present to the greater world. In a way his life is just as boring, uneventful, and drab as the lives we all inhabit. Even with the drama of Curt McDowell's death, a tragic lose brought on by the AIDS virus, the emotion is rather subdued and not the expected melodrama that plays so heavily in Kuchar's campy 8mm films. Curt tries to look his best. He attempts to die with dignity and Kuchar refuses to exploit his pain or making him a posterchild for some cause. Kuchar gives McDowell the dignity he deserves and though Kuchar is happiest when he is telling others how the annual film festival will be in Curt's honor, his sense of lost is rather apparent. But here, the pain is internal, a place the camcorder cannot fully document.

Unless one is a fan of autobiographical work or a fan of George Kuchar there is little reason to check out this gem. However, when watching a piece that could easily be dismissed as the lackadaisical daily recordings of an underground film legend it is important to remember that few people could leave themselves so exposed. Kuchar is not afraid to sound foolish or even look foolish and in this there is a sense of liberation for the viewer - a reminder that we all hide behind something and that we all censor ourselves in a crowd. Kuchar may not be presenting the typical view of a hero, but in a way this image of his life and the death of Curt McDowell is very heroic.