I've heard a lot of grousing over the years about how ball breaking it is to get a
feature off the ground. So, for everyone who thinks they've seen and heard it all,
this anecdote's for you.
Not too long ago, I sold a script to a commercial company looking to make their
first feature, a pull-out-the-stops horror film. A low budget combo of the river thriller Deliverance and the popular gore fest Evil Dead.
[LINKS: Deliverance http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0068473/ and Evil Dead http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0083907/ ]
The following took place at a Manhattan bistro between myself and Mel, a
producer who graciously invited me to lunch to discuss the project.
MEL: Sorry I'm late, I just had lunch. I hope you didn't order anything.
CFS: Just coffee.
MEL: I love it. Lots of horror, some really gross scenes, it's great. But my investors want a few changes. You gotta add a haunted house. Haunted houses are good.
CFS: The story takes place on a river. Where do we put a haunted house?
MEL: Kids love haunted houses, so just put it anywhere. You know, they're going
down a river, they see a haunted house.
CFS: Okay, we'll put a haunted house on an island, in the middle of the river.
MEL: That's good, great. And we need space ships. Space ships are good.
CFS: What do you mean, space ships? You're joking, right?
MEL: Go ahead, have some more coffee. I'm paying. You want a diet soda?
CFS: I want to hear about the space ships.
MEL: Space ships are good, kids love space ships. Or maybe just one, we can
only afford one. It lands on the haunted house.
CFS: Space ship lands on a haunted house?
MEL: Yeah, and that's what turns everybody into zombies! Nobody's ever done
that before. I got a director says he loves it. Actually, he wants to put the whole
thing on an oil rig. The kids find laser guns some place underwater, and they blow
up the zombies.
CFS: What happened to the river?
MEL: Don't worry about the river, just write around it. And throw in a few more girls while we're at it. Girls in tin foil bikinis out of the space ship with big tits. Write that down. Make sure they have big tits.
CFS: Mel, this isn’t the same film any more.
MEL: Don't worry, you'll get paid. I'm just afraid about all this horror stuff. Science
fiction's the big thing, that's what kids wanna see. Forget zombies. We need
monsters. We need a real good monster, scare the piss out of everybody.
CFS: What kind of monster?
MEL: Make it blow out of a guy's stomach, like E.T. Just make it a monster. Get back to work, ok? Check’s in the mail.
He paid for the coffee, but I had to leave the tip.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
06 PECOS BILL
Screenplay Paramedic: More TRUE escapades in the land of enchantment.
It is a very cold December night. A first time director (we'll call him "Fran" because he's constantly misquoting Francois Truffaut) and a "veteran" producer (alias "Pecos Bill") are presiding over a location set for an upcoming horror-fantasy.
Governor's Island, New York: inside an old Coast Guard barracks, lavishly redesigned to look like a Shakespearean witch cave. There is no native power; everything has to run on generators. All the juice goes to the lighting and sound equipment. Unless you're directly under the lights it is freezing. [LINK: http://www.govisland.com/ ]
There's a half-naked woman on a stone slab, enduring a full body makeup session. Problem: it's so cold the latex won't cure, not even with a hair drier. Nobody knows what to do. And nobody can find the director or the male lead.
Enter Pecos Bill, stage left. He'd been fired off another production for unscrupulous behavior. He swaggers around the set as if he'd lost a pillow fight with Mike Tyson. Clinging to his pinky is a gallon jug of cheap whisky, dangling between his legs like a great glass udder.
"Where is that Fran-swa Troofoa? Somebody find him! Find him and take that FDR butt stick out of his mouth, he looks like a fuckin' dick."
True, Fran did look like a dick, puffing a menthol weed through a plastic cigarette holder, muttering odd quotes and telling people who didn't agree that they "just didn't understand cinema." I think they're both missing the train.
Just last week we'd had another "executive script session" in Fran's apartment. It's the umpteenth revision, and I'm numb as a rock. Fran toddles around in a bathrobe the color of indoor-outdoor carpeting, clenching yellow papers in his fist. He plops down on the vinyl sofa, spilling coffee all over himself. Beside him is a plate of old spaghetti, caked with red clay. What gets my attention is not the script, nor what he's saying, but that hideous plate of dried worms on the sofa . . . Christ, that same plate had been sitting there for three weeks. I see an image of Jesus, possibly Elvis. Not for the life of me can I picture the real Truffaut.
Pecos Bill staggers up to the camera, lifting his shirt with one hand. "Tits, we need tits. This show needs tits! First rule of entertainment. More tits." Bill offers me a swing from the jar, but it's empty.
He pops a cigar in his mouth, reminiscing about his days in the porno business. "Most of your porn stars are gay. They need somebody to get it up for 'em before they go on. They got professionals for that, what you call your fluff.
Okay, I'll bite. What's a fluff?
He grins knowingly. "A fluff is an off stage guy who screws the boy star up the ass, gets him real excited when the cameras roll. A first class fluff can give the star a boner the size of Detroit. Pay’s unbelievable. Get you boys a job any time. Call me, babe." He reaches into a day-old Dunkin Donuts box. "Who the fuck took that last cream donut?"
Exit Pecos Bill. Fran-swa Troofa still nowhere to be found. An angry voice splits the air. It's our star! (we'll call him Sam). Sam explodes like a pack of Chinese firecrackers. "That fucking Pecos Bill stole my whisky! You tell these fuckheads I'm not doing another shot until they get my whisky! I want two bottles of Walker Red and Black!"
The lights flicker and die. Someone lights a kerosene heater. Mr. Troofoa appears in the glow. "Everybody go home. It's a wrap."
I went outside, totally confused until I saw the source of his chagrin. The utility truck had snapped a brake cable, rolled down a hill and overturned in a ditch. It lay on its side like a dead cow.
I wonder if this film will ever see daylight, if anyone here will ever work again. I think of Pecos Bill, his sweat-stained business card in my wallet, and take heart. Like the man says, there's an opening for everyone in show biz. You just have to reach down low enough to find it.
It is a very cold December night. A first time director (we'll call him "Fran" because he's constantly misquoting Francois Truffaut) and a "veteran" producer (alias "Pecos Bill") are presiding over a location set for an upcoming horror-fantasy.
Governor's Island, New York: inside an old Coast Guard barracks, lavishly redesigned to look like a Shakespearean witch cave. There is no native power; everything has to run on generators. All the juice goes to the lighting and sound equipment. Unless you're directly under the lights it is freezing. [LINK: http://www.govisland.com/ ]
There's a half-naked woman on a stone slab, enduring a full body makeup session. Problem: it's so cold the latex won't cure, not even with a hair drier. Nobody knows what to do. And nobody can find the director or the male lead.
Enter Pecos Bill, stage left. He'd been fired off another production for unscrupulous behavior. He swaggers around the set as if he'd lost a pillow fight with Mike Tyson. Clinging to his pinky is a gallon jug of cheap whisky, dangling between his legs like a great glass udder.
"Where is that Fran-swa Troofoa? Somebody find him! Find him and take that FDR butt stick out of his mouth, he looks like a fuckin' dick."
True, Fran did look like a dick, puffing a menthol weed through a plastic cigarette holder, muttering odd quotes and telling people who didn't agree that they "just didn't understand cinema." I think they're both missing the train.
Just last week we'd had another "executive script session" in Fran's apartment. It's the umpteenth revision, and I'm numb as a rock. Fran toddles around in a bathrobe the color of indoor-outdoor carpeting, clenching yellow papers in his fist. He plops down on the vinyl sofa, spilling coffee all over himself. Beside him is a plate of old spaghetti, caked with red clay. What gets my attention is not the script, nor what he's saying, but that hideous plate of dried worms on the sofa . . . Christ, that same plate had been sitting there for three weeks. I see an image of Jesus, possibly Elvis. Not for the life of me can I picture the real Truffaut.
Pecos Bill staggers up to the camera, lifting his shirt with one hand. "Tits, we need tits. This show needs tits! First rule of entertainment. More tits." Bill offers me a swing from the jar, but it's empty.
He pops a cigar in his mouth, reminiscing about his days in the porno business. "Most of your porn stars are gay. They need somebody to get it up for 'em before they go on. They got professionals for that, what you call your fluff.
Okay, I'll bite. What's a fluff?
He grins knowingly. "A fluff is an off stage guy who screws the boy star up the ass, gets him real excited when the cameras roll. A first class fluff can give the star a boner the size of Detroit. Pay’s unbelievable. Get you boys a job any time. Call me, babe." He reaches into a day-old Dunkin Donuts box. "Who the fuck took that last cream donut?"
Exit Pecos Bill. Fran-swa Troofa still nowhere to be found. An angry voice splits the air. It's our star! (we'll call him Sam). Sam explodes like a pack of Chinese firecrackers. "That fucking Pecos Bill stole my whisky! You tell these fuckheads I'm not doing another shot until they get my whisky! I want two bottles of Walker Red and Black!"
The lights flicker and die. Someone lights a kerosene heater. Mr. Troofoa appears in the glow. "Everybody go home. It's a wrap."
I went outside, totally confused until I saw the source of his chagrin. The utility truck had snapped a brake cable, rolled down a hill and overturned in a ditch. It lay on its side like a dead cow.
I wonder if this film will ever see daylight, if anyone here will ever work again. I think of Pecos Bill, his sweat-stained business card in my wallet, and take heart. Like the man says, there's an opening for everyone in show biz. You just have to reach down low enough to find it.
05 GOOD THINGS COME IN THREES
Robert Mitchum, Jimmy Stewart; two of the all time greats passed within days of each other. Heath Ledger dies of an overdose at the peak of his career. Burned to a cinder.
Leading me not to romance their careers (I'll leave that to others), but to a superstition that celebrity deaths always come in threes.
Nobody wants to see anyone of merit join the Great Beyond before his or her time; and we don't need third-rate celebrities achieving undue fame by jumping off buildings, drinking to implosion or otherwise. But some people will do anything for fame.
Anyone remember Brian Keith? [LINK: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001417/ ]
Was he the first of three (making the triad Keith, Mitchum, Stewart)? Jacques Cousteau also departed (no, he did not drown in the bathtub), A celebrity yes, but not an actor (making a triad Keith, Cousteau, Mitchum somewhat dubious).
I've got Babylon in my blood; maybe we all do. Untimely death is fascinating. Admit it, folks! Decapitated blondes, directors buried under hot tubs, coke-blown rockers wearing .38 caliber carnations. Celebrity deaths level the playing field. Grab the bone, suck out the marrow.
I convinced a lady friend (for a while, anyway) that Rex Harrison was pecked to death by super-intelligent Rhode Island Reds in a secret experimental chicken coop. [LINK: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001322/ ]
I invented grisly details of brain hormones injected in the feed, radiation treatments, ESP. Harrison was doing 'method research' for a sequel to Doctor Dolittle, but that damn theme song kept ringing in his head, driving the super-intelligent mind-reading chickens into a murderous frenzy. Friend and benefactor of the animal world expires in a flurry of feathers.
Anyone who's ever had that song in his head will understand (I had to play Dr. Dolittle and sing that stupid song in fourth grade with a black cardboard tophat three sizes too big, so believe me, I know). It also ties in with Roswell (Dolittle's demise, not my fourth grade histrionics) - but we'll save that for another time.
Leading me not to romance their careers (I'll leave that to others), but to a superstition that celebrity deaths always come in threes.
Nobody wants to see anyone of merit join the Great Beyond before his or her time; and we don't need third-rate celebrities achieving undue fame by jumping off buildings, drinking to implosion or otherwise. But some people will do anything for fame.
Anyone remember Brian Keith? [LINK: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001417/ ]
Was he the first of three (making the triad Keith, Mitchum, Stewart)? Jacques Cousteau also departed (no, he did not drown in the bathtub), A celebrity yes, but not an actor (making a triad Keith, Cousteau, Mitchum somewhat dubious).
I've got Babylon in my blood; maybe we all do. Untimely death is fascinating. Admit it, folks! Decapitated blondes, directors buried under hot tubs, coke-blown rockers wearing .38 caliber carnations. Celebrity deaths level the playing field. Grab the bone, suck out the marrow.
I convinced a lady friend (for a while, anyway) that Rex Harrison was pecked to death by super-intelligent Rhode Island Reds in a secret experimental chicken coop. [LINK: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001322/ ]
I invented grisly details of brain hormones injected in the feed, radiation treatments, ESP. Harrison was doing 'method research' for a sequel to Doctor Dolittle, but that damn theme song kept ringing in his head, driving the super-intelligent mind-reading chickens into a murderous frenzy. Friend and benefactor of the animal world expires in a flurry of feathers.
Anyone who's ever had that song in his head will understand (I had to play Dr. Dolittle and sing that stupid song in fourth grade with a black cardboard tophat three sizes too big, so believe me, I know). It also ties in with Roswell (Dolittle's demise, not my fourth grade histrionics) - but we'll save that for another time.
04 Another Bad Dream
I awoke this morning feeling slightly soiled, wondering why I had subjected myself to last night's entertainment - a crushingly dull PRC production called The Mad Monster. I guess I'm just a sucker for anything with George Zucco. Or maybe I just like sideshows. [LINK TO MAD MONSTER: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0035009/ ]
Most critics hate movies like The Mad Monster. Such films are not "important," and critics are forever searching for "meaning" to justify their own positions. But the B-movie is enjoying a long overdue resurgence under the safe umbrella of "nostalgia."
B-movies remind me of carnival sideshows; they scream for attention without pretension, existing for the sole purpose of entertaining us, no matter how pure or puerile. Fassbinder, Herzog, Wenders, et al getting you down? How about a shot of Dolemite, Motor Psycho, or Terror of Tiny Town ? They're shameless fun, and a lot more flavorful than the bland, recycled stuff you're likely to get at your local gigaplex.
[LINK TO DOLEMITE: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0072895/ ]
[LINK TO MOTOR PSYCHO: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0059474/ ]
[LINK TO TERROR OF TINY TOWN: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0030845/ ]
Some people, however, are utterly hopeless.
The following took place at my former Alma Mater, after a screening of Arthur Penn's Alice's Restaurant. I recount this not to embarrass Mr. Penn, who is a fine director, a gentleman, and like most of us, all too human. This can't be said for those who actually get paid to promulgate flat-earth theories on the Nature of Film. Consider this classroom discourse:
CFS: Why are there so many microphones visible in this film? They're in almost every shot, and in some scenes you can see a half-ton of two-by-four. I can't believe a film would be released in this condition.
Whereupon Yours Truly was given a smirk of unusual disdain, as if the teacher had stepped in a fresh turd with open-toed sandals:
TEACHER: You obviously don't understand cinema, Mr. Shelton. The director is trying to show us, through symbolism and metaphor, the intrusion of the media on our everyday lives. Mr. Penn is deliberately using the tools of the cinematic medium to make an ironic commentary on the displacement between man and his senses . . .
Yeesh. That one left me scratching my head, wondering if that philosophy might also apply to Plan 9 From Outer Space or Robot Monster. But I quickly recovered and replied:
CFS: Like Wexler's Medium Cool ?
Which earned me a condescending nod, and the privilege of hearing the rest of a rambling, masturbatory diatribe. O Lucky Man!
And as luck would have it, Penn made an appearance at the school for a guest lecture. The academic firewall went up immediately upon his arrival, shielding Mr. Penn from all but the most groveling graduate toadies. But I could not let my opportunity escape. When the Q&A session began I leaped out of hiding, pulled the pin and lobbed a pineapple:
CFS: Mr. Penn, why are there so many microphones visible in Alice's Restaurant ?
To Mr. Penn's eternal credit, he simply shook his head and said:
PENN: Son, I'd rather fall on my sword than answer that one. The truth is we screwed it up completely. We shot it and cut it in the wrong aspect ratio, and when the release prints came out you could see the whole set. It was too bad, really, I kind of liked that film.
And after that, I did too.
Most critics hate movies like The Mad Monster. Such films are not "important," and critics are forever searching for "meaning" to justify their own positions. But the B-movie is enjoying a long overdue resurgence under the safe umbrella of "nostalgia."
B-movies remind me of carnival sideshows; they scream for attention without pretension, existing for the sole purpose of entertaining us, no matter how pure or puerile. Fassbinder, Herzog, Wenders, et al getting you down? How about a shot of Dolemite, Motor Psycho, or Terror of Tiny Town ? They're shameless fun, and a lot more flavorful than the bland, recycled stuff you're likely to get at your local gigaplex.
[LINK TO DOLEMITE: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0072895/ ]
[LINK TO MOTOR PSYCHO: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0059474/ ]
[LINK TO TERROR OF TINY TOWN: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0030845/ ]
Some people, however, are utterly hopeless.
The following took place at my former Alma Mater, after a screening of Arthur Penn's Alice's Restaurant. I recount this not to embarrass Mr. Penn, who is a fine director, a gentleman, and like most of us, all too human. This can't be said for those who actually get paid to promulgate flat-earth theories on the Nature of Film. Consider this classroom discourse:
CFS: Why are there so many microphones visible in this film? They're in almost every shot, and in some scenes you can see a half-ton of two-by-four. I can't believe a film would be released in this condition.
Whereupon Yours Truly was given a smirk of unusual disdain, as if the teacher had stepped in a fresh turd with open-toed sandals:
TEACHER: You obviously don't understand cinema, Mr. Shelton. The director is trying to show us, through symbolism and metaphor, the intrusion of the media on our everyday lives. Mr. Penn is deliberately using the tools of the cinematic medium to make an ironic commentary on the displacement between man and his senses . . .
Yeesh. That one left me scratching my head, wondering if that philosophy might also apply to Plan 9 From Outer Space or Robot Monster. But I quickly recovered and replied:
CFS: Like Wexler's Medium Cool ?
Which earned me a condescending nod, and the privilege of hearing the rest of a rambling, masturbatory diatribe. O Lucky Man!
And as luck would have it, Penn made an appearance at the school for a guest lecture. The academic firewall went up immediately upon his arrival, shielding Mr. Penn from all but the most groveling graduate toadies. But I could not let my opportunity escape. When the Q&A session began I leaped out of hiding, pulled the pin and lobbed a pineapple:
CFS: Mr. Penn, why are there so many microphones visible in Alice's Restaurant ?
To Mr. Penn's eternal credit, he simply shook his head and said:
PENN: Son, I'd rather fall on my sword than answer that one. The truth is we screwed it up completely. We shot it and cut it in the wrong aspect ratio, and when the release prints came out you could see the whole set. It was too bad, really, I kind of liked that film.
And after that, I did too.
03 McMOVIES
Most Hollywood films (with few exceptions) are created by committees & focus groups, rather than individuals; the resulting awfulness becomes predictably banal. A bad remake is a bad remake; the recipe & ingredients are the same. McMovies. [ LINK: http://www.electricvenom.com/food-bites/want-a-mcmovie-with-your-mcnuggets/ ]
Hype is more important than the product, sizzle more than the steak. It's now typical to spend more on hype & advertising than the movie itself, often twice as much if the film is a dog. It's called "icing the turd" - and judging by the proclivity of dogs, most studio execs are convinced that the public likes turds.
The McMovie strategy is safe: why vary the menu when the public, essentially apathetic to everything but their immediate needs - wants burgers? If Jerry Springer or Masterpiece Theater were stocks, which would you invest in? Barnum's Law is undeniable: nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.
More insidious is the relentless emphasis on "special effects" and the subsequent deconstruction of the medium as a magical, alchemical synthesis. Specials, promos, articles and the like emphatically show technical tricks & techniques behind the scenes, effectively demystifying the essential sense of wonder. If your audience sits back and says "hey, great special effect" - you've lost them. They are outside the experience.
Imagine if The Wizard of Oz had been launched with concurrent shows & specials explicitly deconstructing its elements. Would it have become the classic it is?
If David Copperfield, Blackstone or Houdini used deconstruction to promote their shows, could the audience ever be mystified?
This is not, and never should have been, the point of "audience involvement." What other industry would perform vivisection on itself for short term sales?
The shift from writer-based movies to CGI-based movies began in the 80s with the advent of MTV. Markets for short & independent film evaporated; music videos became the rage, evolving into a clever combination of sales & advertising, all at the viewers expense.
Worst of all - it works.
Want a $7.00 popcorn with that?
Hype is more important than the product, sizzle more than the steak. It's now typical to spend more on hype & advertising than the movie itself, often twice as much if the film is a dog. It's called "icing the turd" - and judging by the proclivity of dogs, most studio execs are convinced that the public likes turds.
The McMovie strategy is safe: why vary the menu when the public, essentially apathetic to everything but their immediate needs - wants burgers? If Jerry Springer or Masterpiece Theater were stocks, which would you invest in? Barnum's Law is undeniable: nobody ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.
More insidious is the relentless emphasis on "special effects" and the subsequent deconstruction of the medium as a magical, alchemical synthesis. Specials, promos, articles and the like emphatically show technical tricks & techniques behind the scenes, effectively demystifying the essential sense of wonder. If your audience sits back and says "hey, great special effect" - you've lost them. They are outside the experience.
Imagine if The Wizard of Oz had been launched with concurrent shows & specials explicitly deconstructing its elements. Would it have become the classic it is?
If David Copperfield, Blackstone or Houdini used deconstruction to promote their shows, could the audience ever be mystified?
This is not, and never should have been, the point of "audience involvement." What other industry would perform vivisection on itself for short term sales?
The shift from writer-based movies to CGI-based movies began in the 80s with the advent of MTV. Markets for short & independent film evaporated; music videos became the rage, evolving into a clever combination of sales & advertising, all at the viewers expense.
Worst of all - it works.
Want a $7.00 popcorn with that?
02 NIGHTMARES AT 3:00AM
"No amount of mourning will revive the vanished rituals of the darkened theater. The reduction of cinema to assaultive images... to make them more attention-grabbing, has produced a disincarnated, lightweight cinema that doesn't demand anyone's full attention." Susan Sontag, The Decay of Cinema.
[LINK: http://partners.nytimes.com/books/00/03/12/specials/sontag-cinema.html ]
Indeed. The flickering image is so ubiquitous there's hardly anything special about it anymore. Years of casual TV viewing have eroded the ritual; sequels and remakes have lowered our expectations so badly that you can leave the lights on, gab with your friends, take phone calls, put the kids to bed and not miss much. You've seen it already, no matter how many channels are added; there's almost nothing left to recycle. The movie theater is just an extended living room, an elbow-to-elbow nightmare in a multiplexed cellblock. No altar, no ritual.
The ritual should be immersion in darkness, surrendering personal control to overwhelming sensory forces. To give yourself up to a greater, wilder, darker, stranger world than this pitiful one. Disappear for a short while inside a mirage.
I blame Roger Corman and Forry Ackerman for my lurid development. Otherwise I'd never have wasted so much of my life at the drive-in, or squaring my eyeballs at the crack of dawn. I wouldn't be in this crazy business; I'd be doing something nice and safe, like selling hot dogs, tennis shoes, or twisting the icing tube at the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen.
If you were lucky you might catch Mad Doctor of Blood Island or The Crawling Eye at 3:00 a.m. on Channel 9 (WOR-TV, NY). You had to set your alarm for 2:55, sneak past the parents' room, and huddle up to the flickering tube in a dark and nearly silent den. No pause, no fast forward, no rewind; they came at you relentlessly. Black and white shadow-plays. And they were scary as hell.
Well, not all of them. I doubt anyone lost sleep over The Giant Claw or The Killer Shrews. But crude as these films are, they have a spontaneity you won't find in so many commercial products. Sure, you can see the string on the rubber spider, and the two-by-four under the giant carrot. But heck, you just gotta believe. You're safe and sound on the couch, immune from the terrors out there - or are you?
Then something truly repellant comes out of nowhere - a commercial. One moment the Monster From Piedras Blancas is lurching toward you, clutching a severed head and then flick - Tom Carvel and Cookie Puss pop on the screen. What the hell is this? I don't care about Crazy Eddie, Dianetics or Hair Club for Men. What's happening to our heroes while this nonsense is going on?
That was the ritual, the immersion in darkness, the invitation to believe.
Try this tonight: watch a film with the lights out, the phone off the hook. Sneak past your own room if you have to, shun the remote and sit up close, radiation be damned. Immerse - and don't wake mommy.
[LINK: http://partners.nytimes.com/books/00/03/12/specials/sontag-cinema.html ]
Indeed. The flickering image is so ubiquitous there's hardly anything special about it anymore. Years of casual TV viewing have eroded the ritual; sequels and remakes have lowered our expectations so badly that you can leave the lights on, gab with your friends, take phone calls, put the kids to bed and not miss much. You've seen it already, no matter how many channels are added; there's almost nothing left to recycle. The movie theater is just an extended living room, an elbow-to-elbow nightmare in a multiplexed cellblock. No altar, no ritual.
The ritual should be immersion in darkness, surrendering personal control to overwhelming sensory forces. To give yourself up to a greater, wilder, darker, stranger world than this pitiful one. Disappear for a short while inside a mirage.
I blame Roger Corman and Forry Ackerman for my lurid development. Otherwise I'd never have wasted so much of my life at the drive-in, or squaring my eyeballs at the crack of dawn. I wouldn't be in this crazy business; I'd be doing something nice and safe, like selling hot dogs, tennis shoes, or twisting the icing tube at the Utility Muffin Research Kitchen.
If you were lucky you might catch Mad Doctor of Blood Island or The Crawling Eye at 3:00 a.m. on Channel 9 (WOR-TV, NY). You had to set your alarm for 2:55, sneak past the parents' room, and huddle up to the flickering tube in a dark and nearly silent den. No pause, no fast forward, no rewind; they came at you relentlessly. Black and white shadow-plays. And they were scary as hell.
Well, not all of them. I doubt anyone lost sleep over The Giant Claw or The Killer Shrews. But crude as these films are, they have a spontaneity you won't find in so many commercial products. Sure, you can see the string on the rubber spider, and the two-by-four under the giant carrot. But heck, you just gotta believe. You're safe and sound on the couch, immune from the terrors out there - or are you?
Then something truly repellant comes out of nowhere - a commercial. One moment the Monster From Piedras Blancas is lurching toward you, clutching a severed head and then flick - Tom Carvel and Cookie Puss pop on the screen. What the hell is this? I don't care about Crazy Eddie, Dianetics or Hair Club for Men. What's happening to our heroes while this nonsense is going on?
That was the ritual, the immersion in darkness, the invitation to believe.
Try this tonight: watch a film with the lights out, the phone off the hook. Sneak past your own room if you have to, shun the remote and sit up close, radiation be damned. Immerse - and don't wake mommy.
01 THE GROUSE
grouse (grous) v. To grumble: complain. Various plump game birds of the family Tetraonidae with brownish plumage. [ LINK: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/grouse ]
There are movies we love to hate, and movies we despise.
I'm a bad film buff, and for me there's nothing more relaxing than having another good laugh over director Ed Wood’s Bride of the Monster. [LINK: BRIDE OF THE MONSTER: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0047898/ ]
So much to enjoy: Bela Lugosi wrestling with an obviously rubber octopus. A befuddled police inspector scratching his head with a loaded gun. Cardboard space ships dancing oh-so unconvincingly on puppet strings. By any and all measures the worst film ever made.
Ed Wood made Bride of the Monster for about 25 cents, and he put all 5 nickels on the screen. It looks cheap and tawdry because it is cheap and tawdry. Bride doesn’t just strain credulity; it grinds credulity into the ground. Graveyards don’t have Astroturf; tombstones aren’t supposed to wobble. Superior Beings bent on world domination do not throw tantrums and scream “Your stupid minds! Stupid, stupid!” But in Ed’s flickering world, they do. Especially in his most delirious opus Plan 9 From Outer Space. [LINK: PLAN 9: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0052077/ ]
But I've yet to meet anyone who's said "I know Sylvester Stallone’s Rhinestone is dumb, that's why I love it. I've seen it fourteen times already."
Mariah Carey in Glitter. Ben Affleck’s case of the Gigli’s. Madonna gets Swept Away. Ready to wretch? Cutthroat Island and other turkeys cost more than the GNP of most third world countries. Who has that much money to waste?
Joe Multiplex plunks down 10 smackers per ticket (plus another 15 for Goobers and Jujubes) under the misguided notion that he's in for some dandy entertainment. No. He's about to get rear-ended.
Two hours later, Joe trundles out with his pants are on fire. He wonders about company downsizing - maybe he's next. And he just gave his money away to people who don't need it. He's mad as hell, and he's not gonna take it anymore. But he will anyway. He’ll spend it again on the next Jackass.
[LINK: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0493430/ ]
There are movies we love to hate, and movies we despise.
I'm a bad film buff, and for me there's nothing more relaxing than having another good laugh over director Ed Wood’s Bride of the Monster. [LINK: BRIDE OF THE MONSTER: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0047898/ ]
So much to enjoy: Bela Lugosi wrestling with an obviously rubber octopus. A befuddled police inspector scratching his head with a loaded gun. Cardboard space ships dancing oh-so unconvincingly on puppet strings. By any and all measures the worst film ever made.
Ed Wood made Bride of the Monster for about 25 cents, and he put all 5 nickels on the screen. It looks cheap and tawdry because it is cheap and tawdry. Bride doesn’t just strain credulity; it grinds credulity into the ground. Graveyards don’t have Astroturf; tombstones aren’t supposed to wobble. Superior Beings bent on world domination do not throw tantrums and scream “Your stupid minds! Stupid, stupid!” But in Ed’s flickering world, they do. Especially in his most delirious opus Plan 9 From Outer Space. [LINK: PLAN 9: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0052077/ ]
But I've yet to meet anyone who's said "I know Sylvester Stallone’s Rhinestone is dumb, that's why I love it. I've seen it fourteen times already."
Mariah Carey in Glitter. Ben Affleck’s case of the Gigli’s. Madonna gets Swept Away. Ready to wretch? Cutthroat Island and other turkeys cost more than the GNP of most third world countries. Who has that much money to waste?
Joe Multiplex plunks down 10 smackers per ticket (plus another 15 for Goobers and Jujubes) under the misguided notion that he's in for some dandy entertainment. No. He's about to get rear-ended.
Two hours later, Joe trundles out with his pants are on fire. He wonders about company downsizing - maybe he's next. And he just gave his money away to people who don't need it. He's mad as hell, and he's not gonna take it anymore. But he will anyway. He’ll spend it again on the next Jackass.
[LINK: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0493430/ ]
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