A Prescient and Well-Sustained (hence, NOT premature) Moment of Silence...

For those who were wondering why the Pylon had gone completely silent for the past two weeks, I was preparing for this..

Marcel Marceau, famed French mime, dies at 84.

Don't ask me how I knew. I can just sense these things sometimes (maybe I am a remote viewer...)

And maybe NOW they will put William Castle's Shanks out on video...

Psychotronic Ketchup: Tomorrow's Children (1934)

Tomorrow's Children
Director: Crane Wilbur // 1934 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 4

Eugenics is such an ugly philosophy, even for a person like me who is constantly exasperated with much of the human race. I don't have a problem with most people until I start to survey the idiotic choices they have made, but because I believe freedom of choice is an inherent right of all men and women, I am basically forced to swallow this feeling as I watch the world insert ever more feet into an already swirling toilet of stupidity. However, whenever I do start physically retching over the ploddings of mankind, I step back and examine my own choices -- some that have done me much harm, some that turned out fortunate by some degree, most of little serious impact -- and know that while I might get riled up over the nascent idiocy surrounding me, I really do not have a lot of room to speak. We all have choices to make, and not all of them work out, and some of them are not even choices at all.

Meet Mr. Mason. Mr. Mason chooses to drink himself into unconsciousness, and will even go so far as to steal from his own daughter to support this habit. Or has he chosen this lifestyle? In Tomorrow's Children, a low-budget roadshow potboiler from 1934, it is mentioned that Mr. Mason comes from several generations of idiots, drunkards and thiefs. And in keeping with this long-standing tradition, his middle-aged wife (who is also a drunkard) is pregnant and about to drop another baby on the floor, where it will take up residence with the rest of their brood, including one son who is already well on his way to being a reprobate, and another son who believes that the empty whiskey bottles strewn about their hovel are his only friends, and just drools away as he plays with them night and day. The only bright spot for this family is their daughter Alice, who is smart and hard-working, keeping the family afloat as much as she can with what little pay she receives, and who is looking forward to marrying her longtime beau in just a short while.

That is, until the baby dies coming out of the womb. Well-meaning Doctor Brooks sees the squalor in which the family lives, and tries to get them help from the state. Unfortunately, the state is one of the 27 that practiced forced sterilization through a large portion of the twentieth century, and once the social workers examine the case, they will only offer to help the family out of their situation if every single member goes under the knife. The way I see it, it's not castration, so in Mr. Mason's case, that could mean more action without the distraction. But for Alice, it means a fate worse than death, because she has dreams of her own in which she and her boyfriend have their own children. Even worse, while the state is strapping her down to the table, we find out Alice is adopted, and not even legally...

It's astonishing to learn that our country practiced such methods to a major degree, forcing sterilization upon many thousands of citizens -- deformed, crippled, "feeble-minded," criminal -- all in the name of a "science" which at that point had any real science behind it. Much of it was about allowing the "right kind" of people to produce large families, and for those deemed as "outcasts" to no longer be allowed to spread their genes throughout our society. If it sounds remarkably similar to some of the Nazi practices, you are right. It is close, and even Nazis on trial at Nuremberg pointed to the U.S. as the very model for these programs in Germany. Whether they were just trying to save their necks by shifting blame, I will leave it to others to debate. The question is whether the state has a right to interfere in our personal lives to such a degree, whether conditions of hereditary degeneration are on display or not.

The filmmakers of Tomorrow's Children, including writer-director Crane Wilbur (who would direct a couple of films in the '50s starring Vincent Price, such as The Bat, and cameos as a priest here), are clearly against the state with this one, and paint all of the state's actions as severely "feeble-minded" in their own right, tied to an inconsiderate bureaucracy, or downright criminal, such as when one judge takes a bribe from one potential sterilization victim, letting him off simply because he is a rich senator's son. That the guy is a raving lunatic (complete with what appears to be Conrad Veidt's black-eyed makeup job from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari), who is barely held in check by his handlers, becomes apparent when he takes his first spare moment to attack and rip the top off a nearby nurse. The scene itself though is a pleasant reminder of just what one could get away with when one's film was released as an "educational" film in the 1930s, and there is much talk of "seminal" this and "fallopian" that, and medical charts of reproductive regions. It is also no surprise that it was banned in much of the country for numerous years because of this portrayal.

Thanks to the opening scene of the destitute family of louts, this one has a little Freaks-residue at hand (even featuring one of that film's "pinhead" stars, Schlitze -- the inspiration for Zippy -- in a short scene), and becomes instantly fascinating from the start. It doesn't quite work overall, but, unlike the anti-drug films of its era like Reefer Madness, which are mainly enjoyable as ironic and quite silly relics, this one actually builds up a little suspense as Alice inches ever nearer to getting her tubes tied. Will her boyfriend get to the priest who will get to the judge who will make the phone call in time to save tomorrow's children? Will Sterling Holloway survive the film's inept comic relief scenes in time to become the future Winnie-the-Pooh? Will irresponsible nitwits stop having broods of kids when they have no possible way of supporting them, even with the most lax welfare laws at hand?

Maybe, yes and no, but I learned long ago that the only way to balance this out in society is to not have any of my own, and I do it through my own self-imposed eugenics program. No knives, no fuss... so far, I figure there are trillions of babies I haven't had, so society is safe for the moment. (You do the math...)

Recently Rated Movies #56: Amerigo the Boredomful?

Bloody Mallory
Director: Julien Magnat // French, 2002 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6

Down in the Valley
Director: David Jacobson // 2005 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6

Yes, I have my devised own system for rating movies, but it doesn't mean that 1) it works perfectly, and 2) that I am completely satisfied with it. (Am I ever completely happy with anything?) The problem with ratings systems is that they are, by state of being, merely numbered lists, and cold and swift in their doling out of opinion. There is no allowance in their efficient little stabs of icy preference over finely hewn lines of art, distinction or purpose between films of decidedly different ilk, nor is one able to discern within such ratings the notion of a film that is, in the parlance, "so bad it's good" as opposed to a film that is simply "good" or "bad." The number "6" is just a "6," and what that number means to the reviewer still requires further dissemination from that reviewer publicly for it to make true sense to the outside eye; to the reader, unless they are distinctly attuned already to the scale the reviewer has set as a pattern for judgment, they will have to read numerous reviews before being able to trust (or mistrust) such ratings at a mere glance.

I am not in this world to merely be placated with "average" fare. I want the sublime, whether it means extremely good or bad by definition, and it is with the hope of reaching this state that I continue to watch movie after movie. But these incredibly great or spectacularly horrendous films that make up the ends of the ratings spectrum only represent a relatively minor portion of the films produced over the last 100 years or so. As it is with most things, there exists a more expansive middle section that forms the generic core of everything created, where the most maddeningly ponderous entertainment ever committed to film will sleep soundly in their lumpen cocoons woven out of strands of unrefined blandness until poked at by unwary film-goers. Sadly, a large percentage of the unwary will end up believing that these dull sacs have sprouted wings of gossamer, and become convinced that they are worthwhile entertainment. But, I alone, despite my practically sandwich-boarded warnings of cinematic doom, cannot prevent this from happening. It is the way of things: the rabble will always flock to that which they are commanded, and most films released comprise both the general consumer market and this witless mass of quietly bubbling boredom.

On my scale, I have chosen "5" to represent this Grand Canyon of Averageness. For the most part, once I have seen a film befitting this rating, I no longer wish to see its like again. For many reasons, I wished to name this region "Columbia" after Chris Columbus -- the crappy director, not the explorer -- but I am afraid that an equally monotonous director named Vespucci will come along, and everyone will insist that it is obvious I must name the middle region after him instead. While the region may then truly represent by name the people who generally support the dullness of the films contained within, I just can't handle the controversy, and thus, I shall just keep it as "5" or "average."

On either side of this divide, there are two types of film: at "4" are the films that failed to be even good enough to be considered generic fare, but which have some saving grace of interest in them, that if the filmmakers had only focused a little more on certain aspects, they might have pulled off their effort, at the very least in an entertainment sense. I like to think of them as "noble failures." I have chosen "6" on my scale of "9" to serve as my marker for a film that is merely "good," a notch above "average," and they are for the most part the type of film where I leave a theatre going, "Well, that was a bit of alright." (But only with a period; an exclamation point would mean that I enjoyed it even further, and that would move us into a more exalted realm.) And this is where the different ratings sections get tricky, because any film rated is also just a notch below the next highest level, or a notch above the next lowest, and for very different reasons, of either slight success or minor failure, two very different films can end up getting the same rating.

Merely "good" is where Bloody Mallory and Down in the Valley meet for me. Mallory is a slapdash, madcap French horror-comedy seemingly inspired by equal parts Buffy the Vampire Slayer, X-Men and papal mistrust, while Valley is a moody San Fernando-set slice of existential angst featuring an oddly beguiling turn by Edward Norton as a 30ish would-be cowboy who gets his freak on (understandably) with an easily influenced teen played by Evan Rachel Wood. How two such disparate examples could end up with the same rating points out exactly why I have such trouble with ratings systems, for truly, the only way to accurately gauge these films is by comparing them to others of their own ilk. And yet, I have only one system built by which to rate, and rate I must.

Mallory makes it to "good" simply by overcoming its own tremendous weaknesses -- script, special effects, not particularly strong acting, and obvious slices from (and possible nods to) far superior sources (though never in the manner which could be construed as "tribute") -- and somehow coming out as mindlessly enjoyable. Thankfully, because it is French, and though it is a film so primarily built on a not-very-subtle nihilism (or not-very-subtle anything), I am able to openly use the term joie de vivre to describe its overall and ultimate attitude, despite all the devilishly red splashes of blood. As Mallory the Bloody, Olivia Bonamy has an appealing spunkiness, even if she is never fully believable in the part. But, she grits her teeth well and fires a pistol convincingly enough to plow her way through legions of demons as she and her three counterparts -- including a immensely precocious psychokinetic child and an extremely tall drag queen/demolition expert -- try to rescue the Pope in a remarkably silly plot line. The jokes fly as fast as the body parts, and while it never escapes fully formed from its own self-imposed ghetto (nor does it ever reach that Jacksonian moment, such as in the lawnmower scene in Brain Dead/Dead Alive, where it gets SO over-the-top it becomes astonishingly lovable), there is a charming layer of frosted cheesiness that at least feels intentional. It really is a film where, when I finished it, I breathed lightly, grinned and said "Well, that was a bit of alright." (And after watching the remake of Pulse, I needed it...)

Down in the Valley, there exists an entirely different breed of cat, one that could have been a contender for top gun in the county (at least, for me), but just misses out by never having enough ammo in the pistols it openly flaunts on its hips. I get why Wood would fall for Norton (and vice-versa, for she is scrumptious), and I get why her little brother Rory Culkin (who already is a far better actor than old bro' Mac) would also fall (in a mentor-like spell) for Eddie, too. What I don't buy into are his actions at the end of the film, especially given that the kids' stepfather (as played by David Morse) is basically a decent guy (so he drinks and whores around -- who doesn't?), and I really don't understand Culkin's compulsion to continue to follow Norton blindly (apart from pistol fear) even when it has become apparent that Norton is batshit crazy. (Yes, Norton fills him full of lies about Morse, but even in my daddy-hating teenage stage, where I was looking for any excuse to go off, I would have seen through Norton in ten seconds flat.)

If it is just so director/writer Jacobson can build up to his big "wild horse trapped and kicking in a suburban garage" metaphor, then it is all for naught. In what should be the most thrilling part of the film -- the chase through the hills of the valley following a shooting -- the film actually runs out of energy, both in story and character interest. I think the resolution only occurs because Jacobson's ideas have run dry, and possibly because Culkin has simply been hit with a mild case of teenage ennui. Also, Norton's character always remains too much of a cypher, and my chief wish while watching was that I knew just a tad more about his past, which is hinted at incessantly, but is never really made all that clear. This, however, is balanced out by Wood's surprisingly strong performance, and it is refreshing to see some fake nudity from her here, especially given that once Marilyn Manson is done perving out with her on film, we're going to be sick to death of the girl.

So, I only ended up merely liking the film, when it had a lot of potential to resonate far more than it eventually did. And somehow, this film with high-minded and noble intentions ends up sitting on the same shelf with another film with a serious case of lowbrow giggles, and both end up there for wholly different reasons. Which goes to show that ratings systems can only get you so far in judging a movie's worth. It's good for a spot check only, and it is why one should always delve deeper and find those with movie opinions whom they can trust. It won't be me, but never go by just a "thumbs up" or "down," especially on a movie poster. Read...

By Way of Introduction (For Some, A Recap...)

As one of my major interests in film criticism is in the influence life experience plays on personal opinion and how knowledge of that experience by others further influences their opinion of your opinion, and as I have recently plunged headlong into the network of movie fanatics on Spout without so much as a "howdy-do," and as it is too frickin' hot to really write today, I have decided to do just that: introduce myself in a somewhat formal fashion. In the interests of my personal national security, it shall be first and middle name only, no rank, no serial number, and will consist of only the truths I feel comfortable divulging. Those of you who have read The Cinema 4 Pylon, or the Cinema 4: Cel Bloc or have known me for a quarter century may feel free to wander about and peruse the literature bins while I forge through this. Others, if we have not met, in much the same way that we should get to know people before forming friendships, I will inform you that I consider this to be an important point in my own process, and if you are interested in why this is, there are a number of posts on the Pylon wherein I elaborate on that "why." Perhaps someday I will post them on Spout, but for now, seek them out if you wish.

So, "Hello." The first name, obviously, is Rik; the middle, Tod. Lived in Anchorage, Alaska for the first four decades of my existence, and moved to So Cal three years ago. Have put on 25 pounds since I moved, but am now ensconced in an exercise regimen that should get me back down to my preferred fightin' weight of 180 in a couple of months (already partway there). Outside of being a marketing coordinator, I also write and edit for a soccer publication, despite having very little interest in soccer. (I am a baseball guy, after all -- Reds and Mariners -- for life) I have been with my girlfriend Jen for seven years, and while we both do things that drive each other a little crazy, we seem to have done away with the petty jealousies and flareups that destroy other relationships left and right, and which served to do in my own past marriage of eight years practically from Day Negative-One.

I refuse to define myself by a religious or political tag (as if those were the most important aspects of life), but those who insist on these matters generally consider me to be an atheist, and on the "yammering, yammering, getting nothing really done" front (which I suppose might apply to religion, too, now that I think of it), many people have called me a social liberal, though one pal recently hit me with the label of "libertarian socialist." I'm not so sure about it, but at the very least, it appeals to me metronomically for the nonce. Nobody really knows what they are in life until their plane is going down anyway.

But, we are here because of the movies, and that information I am more than willing to share. My two earliest memories both involve steps: the first is stepping on a bee in Duluth, Minnesota (the only time I am aware of being stung in my life) at the age of two; the other is standing on the garishly carpeted steps leading up to the balcony of the Fourth Avenue Theatre, a grand old lady of a moviehouse that has since been raped and pillaged by Anchorage's ruling class to be turned into nothing more than a tourism center and a place where the elite can occasionally clink glasses together when patting themselves on the backs for their "good" works. Never mind that I saw The Jungle Book there at that tender age; never mind that it is also where I would later see Stop Making Sense, Ghostbusters and Escape From New York, amongst many others. Not too much later, my parents took me to Pinocchio, and while it shall remain in my Top Ten Films list forever, I was certainly far too young to see it, and it scarred (and scared) me immeasurably. Many of my earliest nightmares were brought about by that film, not least of which was my rising fear of water, thanks to Monstro the Whale. After that, an afternoon TV matinee of The Beast of Hollow Mountain at the age of six kick-started my love of, simultaneously, dinosaurs, special-effects films, monsters, horror and science-fiction. A trip to the Polar Theatre when I was 12 also got me going on a life-long obsession: we saw a double feature of Animal Crackers and a Ma and Pa Kettle movie, and I and my brothers have been steadfast Marxists ever since.

Growing up without cable or video (didn't know what either was until I was 15) didn't slow me down. From that point on, I devoured any film in any genre that was shown on television. With only four channels to choose from, pickings were slim, but I frighteningly good at locating an amazing array of films to study, jumping on Christmas showings of Buster Keaton and Charlie Chaplin shorts, Errol Flynn films on Saturday afternoons, and Jerry Lewis films whenever I could get them. And then, on a breakthrough night in 1976, after coercing my father to drive me 40 miles there and back just to get baseball cards in Wasilla, I saw in a row the Sasquatch "documentary" The Mysterious Monsters on NBC, and then Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? on the local ABC affiliate (probably the most adult-themed movie I had seen at the point in my life; it stunned me...) and then saw my first Harryhausen film, The Valley of Gwangi at midnight. If there was a moment that truly turned me into a movie fan, it was that night. The following Saturday night, I saw The Birds for the first time, my first Hitchcock. I start keeping copious notes on the films I was seeing, as movie resources were almost nil back then, and then I dove into several local matinee and late-night horror and sci-fi packages, getting introduced to the "classics" at just the right time.

Speaking of "the right time," was it fate, divine providence or sheer luck that found me at the age of 14-15 when the first VCRs came out and cable hit town? I didn't know it then, but those were the Wild West days of home video, and I thrilled with every rental, even striking up friendships with the clerks and finding myself getting handed "private stock" material -- odd films, such as Evil Roy Slade and the like, most of them unavailable legally, but I refuse to call it the "black market," as I never once had to pay dime one for the use of these films. They were merely tapes that were handed back and forth between the video clerks throughout town, and I felt privileged to be considered one of their number, at least as a movie fan.

For those who are on Spout and see the Ruthian numbers racked up on my page -- 15,120 movies listed, 6,478 movies seen, etc. -- rest assured, those numbers will go up much higher, and yes, I have seen all those 6,478 movies and then some. The lists do not reflect this yet, but when I left Alaska, I had almost 5,000 movies in my collection (I traded most of the generic videos for credit before my move), and I have yet to update this aspect on Spout to its full compliment. Most amazing, I have had two whole years of my life where I purposefully set out to see 1,000 films over 365 days (averaging just under 3 films a day) and succeeded each time -- one year while I was married, and one year out of it. I also spent a seven month period seeing every single film released in Alaskan theatres in 1996, and only stopped because my involvement in a play made it impossible to continue the effort. I spend (or try to spend) every New Year's Day completely at a movie theatre, seeing four or five movies in a row; and try about once a month to spend a Saturday in this pursuit as well (such as I am doing tomorrow). To say at this point that I am truly movie mad would be pointless...

And yet, something changed since I moved. While I have always written quite a lot, it is only since hitting California that I have purposefully concentrated on writing as more than a hobby, but also as mental exercise and vocational possibility. And part of this exercise and purpose naturally had to involve writing about the movies -- they always say to write what you know -- but for those of you who have slogged through some of my "reviews" and said, "When is he actually going to review the movie?," here's the kicker: I am really not concerned about "thumbs up" or "thumbs down". Whether I liked the film or not is never the point; the question is why I did or didn't like the film, and what internal or external circumstances led me to each absolutely arguable conclusion. Yes, it's nice to get comments, and especially constructive criticism, but unless we are longtime BFFs, I am really not concerned with whether you agree with me. I write to discover and flesh out my own feelings about each film, and every post is a chronicle of my struggle to discern this feeling. I include very personal details sometimes for even the most superficial subjects; it would not be out of place for a Roger Corman badly-suited monster flick to reveal some deeply buried nugget regarding my ill-advised teenage struggle against my well-meaning father. It is personal journal disguised as film criticism, and some might find it outside of what they will accept as a film critique, and again, I really don't give a shit. I'm not in it to review movies; I'm in it to review myself.

So, Spouters and doubters, that's a start on me. How about the rest of you?