About two days after I was halfway through my third, frustrating viewing of 13 Tzameti, I started having nightmares. Not the type of nightmares that leave you waking up -- cold sweat -- shaking -- whizzin' the bed, but the type where you wake up going, "What the fuck was that?" And the dreams had nothing to do with the ratcheted up gun violence in the center section of the film, where a high stakes daisy chain of pistol-packing morons blasting holes in each other's heads makes Hollywood positively cream over the thought of reaping even bigger profits than the illegal cash the winners in the film land by remaking 13 Tzameti in a country where professional football players can earn a little extra bling green via underground dogfighting, even if they occasionally have to kill an unlucky puppy by smashing its body into a wall. The dream actually involved a couple of incidental characters in the film: 1) a gangster named Jean-François Godon who overdoses early in the film in a bathtub, and whose death propels the main character into the game within the film, and 2) a toadie at the event named José who acts as both a source of enlightenment during the match for the main character, and eventually will also pose a minor threat to him later. (None of this gives away anything, and it doesn't matter anyway.)
The bathtub gangster appeared in my dream earliest, rising from his tub and telling me to fix the roof. Apparently, he thought I was the main character of the film, even though I was hanging out by a pool with my friends (and for those who know of my dislike of chlorine, they will know this is highly unlikely itself), his bathtub sat beside the pool, his naked, needle-jabbed gangster arm pointing at a sky which suddenly had a roof appear wherever he pointed, and always with a hole in need of repair in it. 'There... and there... and there..." For reasons only the dream makers understand, he disappeared, and suddenly my friends and I were climbing the outside of a skyrise to reach a mall on the top floor where we were to perform our Renaissance Fair puppet show -- and why we didn't simply take the elevator was never asked once as I can recall. The dead gangster in the bathtub never showed up again, and I will leave his strident call for roof-fixing to those who really give a shit about dream interpretation. I do not.
José, however, is another matter. He showed up the next night, though I believe he was not really José, but actually the Brazilian horror film legend Coffin Joe, whom I have been watching off and on in a series of films over the past couple of weeks, and with whom José shares a roughly similar beard and dark eyes. Not incidentally, Coffin Joe (and José) also reminded me a tad bit, via various features, of my little brother, the Eel. But it looked like José, including the sweater he wears in 13 Tzameti, and he was definitely not wearing a top hat or crazily long fingernails. José made a point of following me about for much of the dream, constantly trying to take things from my grasp and warning me to tip him, which would be a minute detail from 13 Tzameti. This night, though, instead of waking up and actually going, "What the fuck?," I merely resolved to not finish watching 13 Tzameti for the third time, and cease trying to determine what all the hubbub was about, Bub.
If I were to match up my opinion following 2-1/2 viewings of 13 Tzameti with that of my dreaded cover-judging curse that I inevitably fall into time and again, I would have to say that my feelings are just about at the same point as I expected them to be when the disc arrived in the mail at my abode. I am not one to shy away from gun violence in films: I watch an awful lot of westerns (Peckinpah, Leone and Mann are favorites) and my world would be nothing without Woo's The Killer and Hard Boiled and Tarantino's flicks, amongst others. I despise guns in real life, but I realize their practical purposes, and do not disparage those who wield them sensibly and by the laws of the land. Nor do I disdain hunting for food (though I do despise those who go trophy seeking). What I do tend to shy away from is this bullet-headed, pumped-up, Ultra-Xtreme world in which we increasingly find ourselves mired, where war and carnage are the only answer, diplomacy and understanding are tied to the tracks, attitude talks, and bullshit... well, it's what we are fed inside our fatburgers. And the cover of this disc, with its artfully arranged splatter effect and a shaved head bearing the title of the film, just shoved more of that crappy world in my face. To say I was reticent from the start is the mildest way that I can put it.
The pleasant surprise is that the film itself has far more in common with Melville or Dassin for large portions than it does with modern mega-mega-mega action. It's a black-and-white mood piece being sold with a UFC poster. Others have written here on Spout of the plot in detail, and while I don't normally care about spoilers nor worry enough to point them out to people when they are around the corner, with this film I feel that if one is to enjoy the story in any sense (outside of those who have boners for bullets smashing through a person's cranium), then the machinations of the characters surrounding of the game (as slim as they are) should be left to the viewer to discover, and not spilled carelessly about in a review. I don't often feel this way about a film all the way through, but this one depends on these minute revelations, even if none of them strike the viewer in any major way that one expects when told of the "twist" factor. That factor does not surface here; rather, the film is merely embellished by small, subtle strokes that add immeasurably to the flinty narrative. And I did get caught up in the story, such as it is, despite never really caring about the participants; that this film needs serious fleshing out will be readily apparent following the conclusion of the game, as the story loses its impetus quite swiftly afterwards.
But, story is not why people want to see this film, is it? They hear what is at the center of the film, and from there, it is equal parts morbid curiosity and primal bloodlust, which should be quelled for most once they find out that, while there is blood in the movie, it is in black and white. Sorry, red red krowy fans. You will find your color sense dulled. Roll your tongues back up until it rests against all of those cavities once again (and I don't mean the body ones, though I am sure there are some out there who won't have a problem with that...) It's all about the propulsive destructiveness of that massive cadre of guns, pointed at circle after circle of recidivist noggins (I assume, for the most part, except for our innocent main boy, that they are of the ilk). Some will feed off of the freak show quality of these scenes, and if you are the type, by all means, feel free to play along with the home version of our game. The world will be better off without you, and there are no consolation prizes.
Look, I love Halloween, but I have no urgent need to see butcher knives being thrust into people's chests; likewise, Reservoir Dogs is a great, gory time, but I never once went through a day thinking, "You know, there just aren't enough films with people getting their ears cut off these days!" With the Carpenter flick, the appeal was a genuinely creepy atmosphere, teenage characters that talked like people I went to school with (possibly the first time I had seen that in a film at that age), and just enough cheesy acting to give it a sense of heightened reality, all directed by a guy who, once upon a time, really knew how build suspense. The Tarantino flick also had that heightened sense, though far less cheesy, some great dialogue, and some quite interesting characterizations. Both films, though I loved them, never got close to the real world. Even in the most frightening or shocking moments, my feet were still on the theatre floor, no matter how lost in their worlds I got. And no matter if the film is drowning in import, heavy-going drama -- in most cases, I am fully aware that everything is fine off the set, and that I am watching actors. They are still entertainments -- still just movies.
With 13 Tzameti, it's different. The world outside of the game, before and after, unfolds like the real world: dull, monotonous, a man climbing up and down a ladder or two and then back up again and then back down again. Despite the fact I don't know personally know or knowingly consort with gangsters or criminals, the world they inhabit feels like ours. Where the reality would seem to get heightened is at the game, but though its filming is bravura as a short segment and there is a considerable amount of suspense that builds around the shooting cycles, all I feel is that this could happen down the street in any neighborhood in the world, given the right circumstances. I'm watching heads taking bullets, bodies hitting floors, survivors shaking themselves out of stupors to sludge towards their dressing rooms to prepare for the next possibly fatal round, loading up on morphine to get them through what must be a severe mental pounding... and I can't handle it. I don't want to know it anymore. If I want reality, I will watch the local news and feel this bad. I'm certain things like this go on, perhaps even down my street, but I do not want to think about it. To me, the film eventually starts to feel like snuff... it's not snuff, but it feels like it. I start to worry about the actors, and whether they are actors after all. I think "Who is this director? I've never heard of him -- perhaps he really had these guys killed!" I become certain that Videodrome is real... I will have to admit the game sequence is fascinating to me, but it's nauseating at the same time, in a way that even the worst torture porn never makes me feel. And the surrounding storyline is not strong enough to remind me that this small portion of the film (though the selling point of it, perhaps tellingly) is just a movie. I get stuck inside the dreadful game.
After 2-1/2 viewings, I'm sorry, but that's how I feel. I will not be finishing it for the third time. And hopefully, I won't start dreaming about the fat guy who bends over all the time...
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Recently Rated Movies #55: Definitely in the Eye of the Beholder...
Eye of the Beholder Director: Stephan Elliott // 1999 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
This movie, most likely? Merely another example of the now-standard studio reflex to rewrite and/or remake everything (both, in this case), whether it is needed or not, and muck it up to an insane level in the process. Ewan McGregor's secret agent (code-named Eye, which helps towards explaining the title, which is more than most movies do; you don't see Alex Trebek making a cameo in Double Jeopardy) spies on a femme fatale/serial killer played in a variety of wigs by a most bewitching Ashley Judd, for once doing the slicing instead of the co-investigating (even if the cover looks like another one of her James Peterson-style cookie cutter flicks). McGregor, who premiered as Obi-Wan Kenobi this same year, has lost his wife and daughter in a divorce, becomes entranced by Judd to the point where he begins to protect her as he follows her devilish exploits through a variety of cities, collecting souvenir snowglobes of each stop along the way. To make things worse for the addled agent, his daughter's memory haunts him to the point where he holds entire conversations with him and interjects herself into his investigation, even though he is only somewhat certain that the mental image he has gotten of her from a school photograph is actually the right girl. Then, both Judd and McGregor refer to Judd's character as a "lost little girl", and if you think that isn't creepy when coupled with McGregor's obsession and voyeurism, then let me introduce you to Chris Hansen...
Ridiculous, shallow, empty... McGregor's agent (I mean, his character, though maybe his real-life agent applies here as well) and his methods make no sense in the real world; Judd, for supposedly being such a frightfully deranged killer that investigations are launched over her by multiple agencies, still ends up as a woman in peril who must be rescued; and everything in this movie seems to occur in a world totally shut off from the increasingly outrageous actions of the two or three main characters. It seems that Judd's character would be exceedingly easy to capture and bring to justice, at least as portrayed in this film. Not being a serial killer, I don't know how they perceive the world around them, but it would not be a far-reaching conclusion to think that they would have a little more prescience regarding the world around them when they go out -- Judd's Joanna seems to have more than a small amount of perception regarding the men upon whom she preys -- so why does she never take a look around when she goes out, and see (more than the one time she does) this often klutzy and not particularly well-obscured agent who chases her about for several years?
So, why is Eye of the Beholder so goddamned compelling? Why do I give it a break, when logic would seem to preclude the fact I would like this movie? Easy -- despite its cavalcade of ceaselessly faults, Beholder is immensely watchable. Part of this might be better acting than the film deserves, even if McGregor himself seems to sleepwalk through much of the movie. (Patrick Bergin and Geneviève Bujold do fine small turns here; k.d. lang, however, does not. Love the vocalist, hate the actress.) Judd's habit of flouncing about in her various residences in either lingerie or absolutely nothing doesn't hurt either, and certainly helps the film direct our own voyeurism as a parallel towards that of the nosy McGregor, who constantly sets up cameras and voice sensors everywhere he goes, collecting endless data on his subject. And director Elliott, who also made the outright enjoyable The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert a number of years ago, goes crazy with the artiness, making this film look and feel far more than the sum of its parts. This would be fine if there were more here -- most of the plotlines end up getting muddled, especially the one involving the "ghost" of his daughter, which makes little sense being included here (in the original book by thriller specialist Marc Behm and the first film by French director Claude Miller, Mortelle Randonnée, the protagonist is much older than the killer, to the point where he believes she may be his missing child). Instead, we get a grand hodgepodge of splashy scene changes and fabulous set design, and we also get an insanely pretentious closing line in place of decent resolution of any sort.
If Elliott weren't also the screenwriter, I would say that he just decided, "The hell with it! If this thing refuses to make any sense as written, then I am really going to burn down the town!" and just ran crazy with it. But, he did write the screenplay, so clearly he is as completely lost in the story (with its nonsensical changes) as the field agent is within it. And yet, I am still willing to make concessions to plausibility if the movie genuinely entertains me for its entire running time, and I will say that despite everything that was running counter to this possibility occurring, I was unable to stop watching it. Not in the Plan 9 sort of way. That is a fun film by a very bad director who nonetheless instilled it with his own personal passion, and it's gumption shows in every frame, like a beghouled updating of attitude from Babes in Arms. Beholder is simply a bad film perpetrated, for some odd reason, by a director who can be good and from source material which is proven and good itself, and that makes it almost as fascinating.
Perhaps it is like the clichéd trainwreck from which one cannot turn away. Perhaps voyeurism is transmittable, from director to film protagonist to viewer, until all three find themselves trapped via the seducement of guilt-laden mindlessness. Or perhaps more cinematic trainwrecks need Ashley Judd flouncing about in lingerie to make them watchable. Whatever it is, as often as this film pops up late night on Showtime, I'm fairly certain I will become even better acquainted with it over time. And probably to the point where I feel that I can save it. Just like Joanna...
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Spout Mavens Disc #3: Clean (2004)
CleanDirector: Olivier Assayas // 2004 [Palm Pictures Promo Screener DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 7
At a certain point in Olivier Assayas' addiction meditation Clean, we are asked to accept the fact that not only would Maggie Cheung's breathy meander of a voice warrant the attention of a record producer, but that someone would ask her to fly all the way from Paris to San Francisco to record it. It's not that there isn't a sort of intriguing dreariness to the music on her demo tape; it's just hard to imagine the commercial possibilities for it. One reason it could hold such possibilities is that her character, Emily Wang, is a minor celebrity (video jockeys are all minor celebrities, no matter how famous they actually got) whose life partner just ended up on the fatal side of a heroin overdose. So, certainly there is commercial potential in that not necessarily blessed combination. Hearing her music in a movie tangentially about rock music but lacking any real fire musically, I was as lost in context regarding her music as Cheung's character is emotionally wayward within her screen life. But the moment where I go, "Ah, of course he would be interested..." is when they mention the producer in question is David Roback, the fellow from Mazzy Star. Once we hear of that particular band, everything -- the music, Emily's possible appeal to the industry, Cheung's mild voice -- is no longer to be questioned, and neither is the notion that she might indeed believe herself to have some potential. Although I don't particularly care for the music in the film (especially for the horrendous act that opens the film), the Mazzy-style music (actually written and produced by Roback for the film) chosen for the character is perfect for Cheung, and thus the scoffing attitude I had towards Emily's belief in her rumored talent was turned into mute assent; I knew it was more than just another lie Emily was telling herself.
No one lies to Emily Wang but Emily Wang. Everyone calls her an addict, which she is. Everyone, including her estranged six-year old son, says she killed his father, and, yes, she technically did. Heroin that she provided him did him in, but she purchased it, even if she maintains to everyone within earshot that she didn't. Because of her son -- currently being raised by her late partner's parents -- Emily has to struggle with more than just her own drug addiction. She has to move on; she has to regain more than just physical possession of her son, but also his love; most of all, she has to clean up her act. To do this, she has to stop lying to herself. The mad scramble to find money to purchase drugs, stabbing a needle into her veins, and losing the trust of everyone in her life seems an easier pursuit for her than simply facing up to life and its consequences. After a jail stint for possession, she trades heroin for methadone, and brings her remaining friends in on the quest for fulfillment of that curse. And when her "addicted" lifestyle keeps a hold on her -- party friends, record producers, jail companions -- even when one wishes deeply to clean up, how does one do so?
My struggle going in to Clean would be my fear that I would merely be watching The Beautiful Side of Addiction. I have been immensely taken -- physically -- with Maggie Cheung since Police Story in the mid-'80s, considering her to be one of the most lovely things on the planet, and I would be hard-pressed to accede my own denial that the thought of her as a heroin addict doesn't exactly jibe with my Idealized Version of Angelic Loveliness. Taking Ms. Cheung off the pedestal on which I have clearly seated due to her physical appearance alone -- owning up to my own inherent American Male Misogynistic Streak -- I will have to admit that her beauty actually makes the role even more difficult to pull off, and thus, makes her achievement here even more impressive. It's one thing to play the role of addict if you already look like Courtney Love run through a washing mangle -- if you always look like you are trashed, it's easier to persuade an audience that you are; it's another thing altogether if you look like you just stepped off a modeling runway (even though we know full well by this point that most models are addicts of one form or another, as a society, we remain blithely tied to the concept of outward beauty as inner perfection).
Cheung is a fireball of barely contained nervousness here -- the success comes in not showing how lost she has become, but in how normal she can seem. Her every emotion is sorrowfully conflicted: when she should stay, she wants to run; where she should immediately get away, she lingers far too long. She shrieks and practically growls and pisses away relationships and locales which can no longer serve her any purpose. She can no longer judge which people are really her friends, who is merely around because of her reputation and who is around for the chance to burn her (don't even ask about her family members in Paris; they have become convinced that she is ashamed of her Chinese heritage). She reaches out in every direction she can, hungry to find a foothold on which she may begin to lift herself out of the hole she has dug for herself, but everything ends up a cruel and ironic dead end. Cheung's outward mask may seem too strangely placid to some, given her circumstance; what I see is an ocean rife with turmoil. What we have here is an actress whose character is clearly and desperately thinking her way through her character's state of unthinking blindness to her own situation.
And yet, the key to success for this movie, and in keeping my interest in it, lies not with Cheung, but with a man who in recent years has had his own struggles with addictions of various stripes, Nick Nolte. As Albrecht Hauser, the stoic grandfather, and a man who is likely going to soon be losing his own life partner, Nolte holds the keys to Emily's future relationship with her son. He knows that she has a right to see him, and even regain custody of him, but unlike his dying wife, who sincerely believes Emily is a murderer and is blinded by this hatred, Albrecht wants to ensure that when, not if, Emily takes the rein as a parent, that she is ready to do so. He is always fair-handed with her, and even when she disappoints him, he is not a man prone to snap judgments.
There is a scene where we see Emily's son commit a robbery on the grandfather, stealing money from his coat to sneak out and buy comic books. We later see, in an extremely underplayed sequence, that Albrecht is fully aware of these small strikes of rebellion and thievery, finding them amusing with a "kids will be kids" sort of attitude, and preferring to absorb the small betrayal to keep peace in the household. He uses the same tactic on Emily, whom I assume he sees as something of a daughter herself, and instead of reprimanding her for a small indiscretion, he gives her a pair of well-weighed options, letting her figure out the path to reconciliation her way. A way that she needs to work things out. Others may not lie to Emily, but Albrecht is the only one willing to give her what she really needs: enough trust to get her to the next step, which is faith in herself. It's a trust that many of us could do with more in our lives, and Nolte plays it so naturally and warmly, but not cloyingly (this film is certainly never cloying in the least), it's a wonder the man hasn't collected a shelf full of Oscars. Whatever his own struggles are, on screen in Clean, Nolte is perfection.
Too bad the music isn't. It works within the context of Cheung's character, and helps to serve as her grace note, but for a film based around music, it's a sorry state of affairs. Luckily, director Assayas (Cheung's ex-husband) knows full well it is the weakest part of the film, and lets the actors carry the day, an end to which Nolte and Cheung rise wonderfully.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
The Curse of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7
It seems that there was no corner I could turn within Spout that I wasn't reminded of one very important fact: despite the massive amounts of films and videos I have seen in my lifetime, none of it meant anything unless I took in a viewing of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7. A collection of three silent era short film masterpieces (they are coming from "comedy masters," after all) starring the likes of the great Harry Langdon (of Tramp, Tramp, Tramp fame), Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 exists only on VHS and is long out of print, and yet, this seemingly innocuous tape seems to be the cornerstone upon which all of film history is set. At least, according to Spout. Until very recently, nothing could be looked up on Spout without Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 boxing me about the ears and telling me how woefully uneducated I was as regards this subject. Or any subject, really...
The chief problem, though, was finding a copy of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7, but luckily that is exactly the purpose for which sites like eBay expressly exist. Apparently, there is no dearth of copies of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 to be had. A cursory search of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 found a smattering of unfortunate owners, around 4,632 of them to be somewhat exact, and each of them practically begging to not only send a copy of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 my way, but amazingly, a special program had been written for just Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 alone, where a misguided seeker of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 could solicit bids from the various owners, and not only procure Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 for his own personal collection, but actually get paid for taking Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 off their hands. As a result, following the close of the bidding period (truncated to three hours for easier dispersal of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 from the owner's possession), I not only received a copy of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 by same-day Federal Express shipping (paid for by the tape owner), but I made $42.77 as well.
But, why was Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 so ever-present on Spout? Reviewing the tape, I was astonished to discover that whilst playing it, my VCR was shaking ever so slightly, and a swirling, almost hypnotic whirlpool pattern formed on my TV screen. I had yet to actually switch over to AV, and the cable was still running, and it was as I tried to flip away from the effect that I discovered Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 is a cursed tape, operating almost like a wormhole, sending any item that comes close to get captured for a ride through time to face existence inside an alternate dimension. Flipping stations as fast as I could in an attempt to stop the mayhem, I saw numerous celebrities from each station, and even ordinary people on news channels, being sucked into and down the frenzied, flushing maw of the whirlpool! Finding no way to cease the carnage, I hit the AV button to see if this had any effect directly on the tape itself.
Balding, slow-burn artiste Edgar Kennedy starred in 1931's Help Wanted, Female as a burglar named Gunner who busts into a doctor's office with the aide of a none-too-brainy accomplice. I expected Kennedy to be in the film, but what took me by surprise was the fact that the accomplice was now played by a looming Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, who not only slammed "The People's Elbow" through Kennedy's chest cartilage, but then preceded to use "The People's Eyebrow" to woo a surprised but happy Mrs. Hemingway, now played by Chaka Khan, sucked into the story from a VH1 Classics revival of the video for I Feel For You, which she then tests out on The Rock by feeling for him everywhere. Kennedy manages to revive himself in time to view the disgusting outcome, and slowly slaps his burly hand over and down his astonished face in frustration.
Harry Langdon's exemplary sound short from 1933, Knight Duty, finds the wide-eyed and hapless Langdon as a security guard encountering wax figures running amok in a museum. Where once the figures were played by common extras of the day, thanks to the curse plaguing Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7, they are now played by the likes of Martin Sheen, Mamie van Doren, the Blind Boys of Alabama, Carol Wayne, Mort Sahl, Casey Kasem, Casey Stengel, K.C. from the Sunshine Band but not with the band, and that guy with the cheesy mustache that sells ass-blasting colonic-flushing products on late-night paid programming. If you though Langdon could run before...
The extent of the power of the curse of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 doesn't become fully apparent until one views in 1932's The Toreador, feature Elmer Fudd-progenitor Joe Penner in the title role. The stands of the bullfighting ring are crammed full with every celebrity possible from nearly every era of entertainment history: Louise Brooks rubs elbows with Joe Franklin, who drops names like crazy into the ears of H.L. Mencken and a coked-up Amy Winehouse; Shirley Temple, resplendent in miniature flamenco dress and castanets, sits cheerily upon the shoulders of The Toxic Avenger as he mops the floors of the stands with his trademark grimace; and tortillas are sold to the crowd by a sombrero-bedecked Ethan Hawke, who mumbles passages from his latest unread novel while everyone ignores him. While Burt Bacharach leads the band in a mariachi version of I Say A Little Prayer manages to puff out his trademark cry of "You nasty man!" before passing out. Rove then cruelly gores , the bull enters the ring, now portrayed not by a bull, but by Karl Rove. Some would say, it's still a lot of bull, and you wouldn't be far off the mark. Penner attempts to subdue the bull with his dated clowning, but Rove sends functionaries out to capture the script and rewrites it to create the misleading impression that Penner is a terrorist threat, and as the bullring is not to be found within the borders of the U.S., Rove and his cronies eagerly submit Penner to a torturous water-boarding. Gasping between quickly captured breaths, the now-drowning PennerPenner with his fake bullhorns to cover up his heinous act.
My theory regarding Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 is that, whatever curse was laid upon the tape, it was done just before the duping process, and hence, every copy of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 sucked in and captured onto the films within completely different characters and figures. Once these tapes were sent out and reviewed by various movie sites, each one reported different stars, and logged these names accordingly. This would include AllMovie.com, which gathered their information from numerous sources, and stands as the prime source for Spout's information. So, don't blame Spout if each and every one of their searches, until recently (I assume they have now corrected the problem), pulled up Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 for even the most obscure references. Blame the curse.
Of course, you could say, "It's still a lot of bull," and you wouldn't be far off the mark...
The chief problem, though, was finding a copy of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7, but luckily that is exactly the purpose for which sites like eBay expressly exist. Apparently, there is no dearth of copies of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 to be had. A cursory search of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 found a smattering of unfortunate owners, around 4,632 of them to be somewhat exact, and each of them practically begging to not only send a copy of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 my way, but amazingly, a special program had been written for just Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 alone, where a misguided seeker of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 could solicit bids from the various owners, and not only procure Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 for his own personal collection, but actually get paid for taking Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 off their hands. As a result, following the close of the bidding period (truncated to three hours for easier dispersal of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 from the owner's possession), I not only received a copy of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 by same-day Federal Express shipping (paid for by the tape owner), but I made $42.77 as well.
But, why was Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 so ever-present on Spout? Reviewing the tape, I was astonished to discover that whilst playing it, my VCR was shaking ever so slightly, and a swirling, almost hypnotic whirlpool pattern formed on my TV screen. I had yet to actually switch over to AV, and the cable was still running, and it was as I tried to flip away from the effect that I discovered Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 is a cursed tape, operating almost like a wormhole, sending any item that comes close to get captured for a ride through time to face existence inside an alternate dimension. Flipping stations as fast as I could in an attempt to stop the mayhem, I saw numerous celebrities from each station, and even ordinary people on news channels, being sucked into and down the frenzied, flushing maw of the whirlpool! Finding no way to cease the carnage, I hit the AV button to see if this had any effect directly on the tape itself.
Balding, slow-burn artiste Edgar Kennedy starred in 1931's Help Wanted, Female as a burglar named Gunner who busts into a doctor's office with the aide of a none-too-brainy accomplice. I expected Kennedy to be in the film, but what took me by surprise was the fact that the accomplice was now played by a looming Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, who not only slammed "The People's Elbow" through Kennedy's chest cartilage, but then preceded to use "The People's Eyebrow" to woo a surprised but happy Mrs. Hemingway, now played by Chaka Khan, sucked into the story from a VH1 Classics revival of the video for I Feel For You, which she then tests out on The Rock by feeling for him everywhere. Kennedy manages to revive himself in time to view the disgusting outcome, and slowly slaps his burly hand over and down his astonished face in frustration.
Harry Langdon's exemplary sound short from 1933, Knight Duty, finds the wide-eyed and hapless Langdon as a security guard encountering wax figures running amok in a museum. Where once the figures were played by common extras of the day, thanks to the curse plaguing Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7, they are now played by the likes of Martin Sheen, Mamie van Doren, the Blind Boys of Alabama, Carol Wayne, Mort Sahl, Casey Kasem, Casey Stengel, K.C. from the Sunshine Band but not with the band, and that guy with the cheesy mustache that sells ass-blasting colonic-flushing products on late-night paid programming. If you though Langdon could run before...
The extent of the power of the curse of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 doesn't become fully apparent until one views in 1932's The Toreador, feature Elmer Fudd-progenitor Joe Penner in the title role. The stands of the bullfighting ring are crammed full with every celebrity possible from nearly every era of entertainment history: Louise Brooks rubs elbows with Joe Franklin, who drops names like crazy into the ears of H.L. Mencken and a coked-up Amy Winehouse; Shirley Temple, resplendent in miniature flamenco dress and castanets, sits cheerily upon the shoulders of The Toxic Avenger as he mops the floors of the stands with his trademark grimace; and tortillas are sold to the crowd by a sombrero-bedecked Ethan Hawke, who mumbles passages from his latest unread novel while everyone ignores him. While Burt Bacharach leads the band in a mariachi version of I Say A Little Prayer manages to puff out his trademark cry of "You nasty man!" before passing out. Rove then cruelly gores , the bull enters the ring, now portrayed not by a bull, but by Karl Rove. Some would say, it's still a lot of bull, and you wouldn't be far off the mark. Penner attempts to subdue the bull with his dated clowning, but Rove sends functionaries out to capture the script and rewrites it to create the misleading impression that Penner is a terrorist threat, and as the bullring is not to be found within the borders of the U.S., Rove and his cronies eagerly submit Penner to a torturous water-boarding. Gasping between quickly captured breaths, the now-drowning PennerPenner with his fake bullhorns to cover up his heinous act.
My theory regarding Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 is that, whatever curse was laid upon the tape, it was done just before the duping process, and hence, every copy of Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 sucked in and captured onto the films within completely different characters and figures. Once these tapes were sent out and reviewed by various movie sites, each one reported different stars, and logged these names accordingly. This would include AllMovie.com, which gathered their information from numerous sources, and stands as the prime source for Spout's information. So, don't blame Spout if each and every one of their searches, until recently (I assume they have now corrected the problem), pulled up Comedy Masters of Yesteryear, Vol. 7 for even the most obscure references. Blame the curse.
Of course, you could say, "It's still a lot of bull," and you wouldn't be far off the mark...
Saturday, August 18, 2007
I Guess Mozart Just Isn't All That Interesting...
John Nesbitt's Passing Parade: The Fabulous Fraud
Director: Edward L. Cahn // 1948 [TCM]
Cinema 4 Rating: 4
I will grant you this: I do not know much more about Franz Anton Mesmer, the Austrian doctor who pretty much put the claim to the term "animal magnetism" in the late 18th century, than I have read on the Internet. I certainly, like many people might, recognize the surname, as his methods helped provide or influence the basis upon which hypnotism was laid, and which also has become known in some circles as "mesmerism." His experiments certainly came to the attention of Poe, who elaborated upon such matters by name in his classic The Facts of M. Valdemar's Case, and thus, this is where I first learned the term as a child, though it is likely I know the name from an altogether far removed source: that of the "true" creator of the famous cartoon figure Felix the Cat, Otto Messmer. The spelling is slightly different, and I am not aware of any genetic relation between the doctor and the cartoonist, but the names are filed in the same overstuffed drawer within my brain.
In recent years, though, I have had occasion to view part of a short subject series produced by MGM in the 1930s and '40s called John Nesbitt's Passing Parade. Episode 67 of this series is a well-produced 11-minute piece of "mumbo-jumbo" known as The Fabulous Fraud, portraying itself ostensibly as a cautionary tale of the life of Franz Anton Mesmer. While one must always realize that Hollywood will never tell a true story if they can pay someone to puff it up with unnecessary details, and while I am not going to defend Mesmer's in the least, believing much of his "science" as pure chicanery, I call the film "mumbo-jumbo" because that is exactly how the narrator refers to Mesmer's supposed fraudulent posturing, while the filmmakers spare every moment of their time in doing much of the same with the facts of a real man's life before the audience.
Amongst the "tens of thousands" of patients Mesmer sees in his practice, where the narrator makes clear the script's intentions to paint Mesmer as one who is getting rich and famous off of his "mumbo-jumbo" involving "glass rods and magnets," they make a point of telling us, "Strangely, though, he treated the poor free," trying hard to lend a sense of "fabulousness" to the "fraud" they have already denigrated through their introduction. This suggestion of poverty leads immediately into his dealings with "this tragic case, the case of a blind girl from Flanders," whom Mesmer cures of her malady, if only temporarily. In fact, the blind girl was Maria Theresa von Paradis, the daughter of Austria's Imperial Secretary of Commerce under Empress Maria Theresa. Hardly poor, hardly from Flanders (in fact, quite a ways from Flanders) and named after her father's royal boss, in effect. To rub salt in MGM's self-inflicted wounds, she would go on to become one of history's most notable female composers and vocalists, writing operas, and also havng works commissioned for her by Haydn, Salieri (under whom she studied) and Mozart (whose family was remarkably close to hers). In fact, MGM glosses over the Mozart-Mesmer connection twice, since Mesmer actually patronized Mozart's talents at one point, and Mozart saw fit to mockingly insert mesmerism into his opera Cosi fan tutte.
But, why use the facts, John Nesbitt? Not when character assassination seems to be the point. Oddly, the film makes short work of the eventual scientific investigation into Mesmer's methods, but there comes this moment in the film: a white cross is painted on the outside of a door, and the narrator intones, "But, at the climax of success, a stranger entered your career. That stranger was death. For, as tens of thousands were helped by mesmerism, tens of thousands also died, murdered by ignorance." I don't know about you, but I've looked all over for any sign that Franz Anton Mesmer "murdered" "tens of thousands" of patients, and even in the most unflattering portrayals, I am not seeing it. Surely, there were accidents along the way, or misdiagnoses, but if he indeed had killed that many people, he would not have been in practice as long as he was, or else he would be remembered along the lines of a Bathory or a Hitler. The film then uses this low blow to throw an even lower one: "And even your celebrated cure of blindness... failed at last... when you ceased the treatments." Ceased the treatments; Mlle. Paradis was wrested from his care without explanation, so don't give the poor doctor the blame. If you are given medication, and it fails to cure you because you stopped taking it, don't blame the friggin' doctor!
One more thing: the film opens with the shot of a creepy Universal-style forest, through which we are led upon the wisps of eerie music to a decrepit grave, with a hastily sewn cloth draped over it bearing this poem (in English):
The gravesite is given as being in Switzerland, and while Mesmer did indeed die there at the age of 81, disgraced and outcast from his former profession, having at the time being declared a fraud, his gravesite is actually in Meersburg, Germany, in the Swabian region where he was born. He has since, due to the gradual development of his early experiments into what we now know as hypnotism, become regarded as a hero, and not long after his death his gravestone was marked with a incredible three-sided monument, with a triple layer of steps leading up to the marker. None of the three sides bears a poem, and especially not the one trumpeted in MGM's passing parade of fraudulent missteps.
A fabulous fraud? The man? To a certain degree, yes... but he also did much good, and he was, by all accounts, genuine in his intentions. The film? Not so much. A fraud, yes... but there is nothing in the least bit fabulous about it, unless you take "fabulous" to mean "laden with the artifices of fable." It seems that sometimes more epic films go to great lengths to cram just about any historical figure into their story, just to make the trip through it seem more interesting. One doesn't expect Hollywood to get anything totally right, or even slightly, but why mess with a true story that already is bursting with interesting details if they just told it straight? Especially in a series that is supposed to exist to tell true stories? It is something that I will never understand.
Director: Edward L. Cahn // 1948 [TCM]
Cinema 4 Rating: 4
I will grant you this: I do not know much more about Franz Anton Mesmer, the Austrian doctor who pretty much put the claim to the term "animal magnetism" in the late 18th century, than I have read on the Internet. I certainly, like many people might, recognize the surname, as his methods helped provide or influence the basis upon which hypnotism was laid, and which also has become known in some circles as "mesmerism." His experiments certainly came to the attention of Poe, who elaborated upon such matters by name in his classic The Facts of M. Valdemar's Case, and thus, this is where I first learned the term as a child, though it is likely I know the name from an altogether far removed source: that of the "true" creator of the famous cartoon figure Felix the Cat, Otto Messmer. The spelling is slightly different, and I am not aware of any genetic relation between the doctor and the cartoonist, but the names are filed in the same overstuffed drawer within my brain.
In recent years, though, I have had occasion to view part of a short subject series produced by MGM in the 1930s and '40s called John Nesbitt's Passing Parade. Episode 67 of this series is a well-produced 11-minute piece of "mumbo-jumbo" known as The Fabulous Fraud, portraying itself ostensibly as a cautionary tale of the life of Franz Anton Mesmer. While one must always realize that Hollywood will never tell a true story if they can pay someone to puff it up with unnecessary details, and while I am not going to defend Mesmer's in the least, believing much of his "science" as pure chicanery, I call the film "mumbo-jumbo" because that is exactly how the narrator refers to Mesmer's supposed fraudulent posturing, while the filmmakers spare every moment of their time in doing much of the same with the facts of a real man's life before the audience.
Amongst the "tens of thousands" of patients Mesmer sees in his practice, where the narrator makes clear the script's intentions to paint Mesmer as one who is getting rich and famous off of his "mumbo-jumbo" involving "glass rods and magnets," they make a point of telling us, "Strangely, though, he treated the poor free," trying hard to lend a sense of "fabulousness" to the "fraud" they have already denigrated through their introduction. This suggestion of poverty leads immediately into his dealings with "this tragic case, the case of a blind girl from Flanders," whom Mesmer cures of her malady, if only temporarily. In fact, the blind girl was Maria Theresa von Paradis, the daughter of Austria's Imperial Secretary of Commerce under Empress Maria Theresa. Hardly poor, hardly from Flanders (in fact, quite a ways from Flanders) and named after her father's royal boss, in effect. To rub salt in MGM's self-inflicted wounds, she would go on to become one of history's most notable female composers and vocalists, writing operas, and also havng works commissioned for her by Haydn, Salieri (under whom she studied) and Mozart (whose family was remarkably close to hers). In fact, MGM glosses over the Mozart-Mesmer connection twice, since Mesmer actually patronized Mozart's talents at one point, and Mozart saw fit to mockingly insert mesmerism into his opera Cosi fan tutte.
But, why use the facts, John Nesbitt? Not when character assassination seems to be the point. Oddly, the film makes short work of the eventual scientific investigation into Mesmer's methods, but there comes this moment in the film: a white cross is painted on the outside of a door, and the narrator intones, "But, at the climax of success, a stranger entered your career. That stranger was death. For, as tens of thousands were helped by mesmerism, tens of thousands also died, murdered by ignorance." I don't know about you, but I've looked all over for any sign that Franz Anton Mesmer "murdered" "tens of thousands" of patients, and even in the most unflattering portrayals, I am not seeing it. Surely, there were accidents along the way, or misdiagnoses, but if he indeed had killed that many people, he would not have been in practice as long as he was, or else he would be remembered along the lines of a Bathory or a Hitler. The film then uses this low blow to throw an even lower one: "And even your celebrated cure of blindness... failed at last... when you ceased the treatments." Ceased the treatments; Mlle. Paradis was wrested from his care without explanation, so don't give the poor doctor the blame. If you are given medication, and it fails to cure you because you stopped taking it, don't blame the friggin' doctor!
One more thing: the film opens with the shot of a creepy Universal-style forest, through which we are led upon the wisps of eerie music to a decrepit grave, with a hastily sewn cloth draped over it bearing this poem (in English):
Lived in glory,
Died in shame.
Forgotten, his story
Defiled his name.
Died in shame.
Forgotten, his story
Defiled his name.
The gravesite is given as being in Switzerland, and while Mesmer did indeed die there at the age of 81, disgraced and outcast from his former profession, having at the time being declared a fraud, his gravesite is actually in Meersburg, Germany, in the Swabian region where he was born. He has since, due to the gradual development of his early experiments into what we now know as hypnotism, become regarded as a hero, and not long after his death his gravestone was marked with a incredible three-sided monument, with a triple layer of steps leading up to the marker. None of the three sides bears a poem, and especially not the one trumpeted in MGM's passing parade of fraudulent missteps.
A fabulous fraud? The man? To a certain degree, yes... but he also did much good, and he was, by all accounts, genuine in his intentions. The film? Not so much. A fraud, yes... but there is nothing in the least bit fabulous about it, unless you take "fabulous" to mean "laden with the artifices of fable." It seems that sometimes more epic films go to great lengths to cram just about any historical figure into their story, just to make the trip through it seem more interesting. One doesn't expect Hollywood to get anything totally right, or even slightly, but why mess with a true story that already is bursting with interesting details if they just told it straight? Especially in a series that is supposed to exist to tell true stories? It is something that I will never understand.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Psychotronic Ketchup: The Fearmakers (1958)
The Fearmakers Director: Jacques Tourneur // 1958 [TCM]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
"There are millions of people being lied to, taken for suckers! You know, it's a funny thing... they have pure food and drug laws to keep people from buying poison to put in their stomachs. And you're peddling poison to put in their minds!" - Alan Eaton (Dana Andrews)
Oh, how I wanted to make this one of my entries for my Slipped Discs column! I have always just missed watching The Fearmakers through the years, Knowing it was made not long after one of my favorite horror movies, Curse [Night] of the Demon, by that movie's same combination of director and star nonetheless, I was hoping that when I dove into it over the weekend (I recorded it off TCM on a day devoted to Dana Andrews), I would be looking at a lost classic. I would, at least, get a look at a Tourneur film I had not seen, and my hopes were, as usual after years of personal neglect, high for it. And for a stunning first few minutes, where the credits flash by rudely while Andrews is beaten to a bloody pulp as the Chinese attempt to brainwash him in a Korean prison camp, there was an earnestness and savage energy upon the screen, and it seemed as if I had indeed found a lost classic.
But, as with box office receipts, one cannot judge on a movie's opening alone. With Tourneaur's name bringing up the rear, there is a wipe that renders the screen black, and we find Andrews on a plane heading back to his home in Washington. What he is leaving behind in the east, apparently, is the slightest notion of dramatic plausibility, which is not really a necessity in a noirish thriller, but which would help bring things down a little bit when the lead character is speechifyin' at the drop of a hat about fifth columnists and fellow travelers. Andrews plays the former head of a public relations firm, who, after the aforementioned torture, returns to find his agency has been stolen mysteriously out from under him, via a very fishy, fatal "car accident" involving his former partner, and a signing over of the company assets has occurred, none of which he has been informed about until his return.
The agency is now run by Dick Foran, playing the most suspicious head of anything in the history of mankind. There might as well be punctuating organ blasts with each lie he spits back at Andrews' accusations, and since the devious Foran should also be shown wrapped in a flag bearing a hammer and sickle, he hires Andrews back, chiefly so he can get a crack at a senatorial friend of Andrews' who left the agency under the new regime. The senator gets Andrews to check deeper into the files at the agency, helped by a frying-pan-faced but voluptuous secretary played by Marilee Earle, where Andrews gets confirmation that the firm is backing up a series of false front groups. The film is shot so aridly and placid in most scenes, that when it gets to the big moments, such as one of the awesomely campy speeches to which Andrews is prone (and built for, with his self-righteous air) to deliver, it seems as if someone has switched on a light signaling the end of a mere dress rehearsal and the start of the real filming:
"Yes, I can see alright! I can see what you and your phony front groups are manufacturing. You're manufacturing FEAR, in order to sell your "Peace at Any Price" campaign! And it's not going to be very difficult for the senator to find out just WHO is paying the bills! I'm beginning to see how big the puppet is growing, and who is pulling the strings!"
These immensely pulp-ridden scenes, when coupled with Andrews' richly hammy habit of clutching his face every time he gets one of his brainwashing flashbacks, are just simply too much for the rest of the movie to play catch-up. Mel Torme, in a surprising supporting role as Foran's weaselly underling, is merely OK and even out of his league in a movie where one doesn't have to try all that hard to seem a decent actor. Perhaps intentionally, Foran lacks any sense of subtlety that might help us suspend our disbelief for even a second, and Miss Earle, whose head looks like Ann Miller swallowed two of her chorus girls, is quite possibly the blandest actress to ever grace a B-picture. Yet, she does say the key line that helps us realize in a modern sense that, despite how disappointing the film is overall, The Fearmakers might still be a movie that sports major relevance to today's world.
In response to one of Andrews' suppositions, Earle asks, "But, doesn't that give a few people a frightening amount of power?" While this movie spouts off, in the predictable way that filmmakers often had to in that McCarthy-stricken era, about commies and pinkos and everything scary and Red, the chief antagonists, led by Foran's McGinnis, are all recognizable carriers of a disease, while anyone in the world may partake of it, at which Americans, especially politicians, excel: greed. Not exactly the modus operandi of a socialist seeking to subvert citizens to their side; certainly the toxic by-product, though not exclusively, of capitalism. Here, in The Fearmakers, they have taken a stock character -- the greedy, power-hungry industrialist, politician, scientist, cop, businessman -- which could be used in any potboiler situation, tacked the word "communist" onto him without changing his actions in the least, and thrust it out to the audience in the hopes that a) the audience would be too dulled by the repetitions of common movies to even care they were being fed a bunch of pabulum yet again; or b) the real audience they were trying to reach would realize that the film is nothing but a lark, a cheesy con job shat out to appease a con job government breathing down Hollywood's neck.
It could likely be neither, but however they achieved the final product, it plays today for a reason quite apparent in Earle's line above. I will refrain, though you might expect me to, to take another crack at the now-crumbling Bush coup d'état. Earle's line certainly could describe the Trinity of Terror in the White House, especially when coupled with the concept of spreading massive fear to attain "peace at any price." But the film itself, far ahead of it's time and almost definitely completely by accident, is more accurately describing the general way in which business is done nowadays in the Age of Spin. There has been what we now popularly call "spin" since time began, but no time in history has ever been so consumed with the concept as right now. (My own company just recently hired a PR firm, and I would be highly disgusted by the notion if it didn't mean that I never have to crank out a soul-crushing, maudlin, block-of-falsehoods press release ever again.) It might have seemed novel in a B-thriller in 1958, but in 2007, every politician uses it, fake polls and leading questions are de rigueur, and if there is a politician that doesn't employ these methods, Republican or Democrat, then they are simply not going to get very far in today's system. Andrews points at the Lincoln Memorial at one point late in the film and muses: "You know, he was right. You can't fool all of the people all of the time, but nowadays, you don't have to fool ALL the people, just enough to swing it for the Fletchers and the Jessups."
I would suggest that perhaps the time is ripe for a remake of this film, but what would be the point? Everyone knows the game; know one wants to dare change it for being left out in the cold. The light has switched on, people, and dress rehearsal is over. This is the real world now. We might as well give in. No movie is going to save us from the truth we have to face: We are, all of us, bought and paid for, and most of what we do has been predetermined by the corporations we refuse to say "No" to... Ow! Crap! I think I'm getting one of Andrews' headaches!
It looks like the brainwashing worked...
Monday, August 13, 2007
Spout Mavens Disc #2: You're Gonna Miss Me (2005)
You're Gonna Miss Me Director: Keven McAlester // 2005 [Palm Pictures DVD Screener]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Why is it the traits that we would find repulsive in an everyday, common person if we passed them by or ran them over in the street -- lack of hygiene, shabby clothes, drug addiction, alcoholism, mad ravings, abusive language, foul temperament, outright insanity -- are perfectly fine if they are contained -- in any combination of column A or B -- in the body of a rock star? Behavior that most would find deplorable or from which most would at least attempt to shield the eyes of their children in public has now turned into a cottage industry on film and television, propping up any number -- hell, half the lineup -- on many stations like MTV, VH1 or their short attention-spanned and money-grubbing ilk. Sure, it makes a nice human interest story if Johnny Bollocks cleans up his act and goes back on the road for the first time in twenty years with the Sex Pickles, but it would be even more fun if he were to flame out halfway through the tour and rape a teenybopper groupie, wouldn't it, MTV? Certainly you would be among the first to wag your finger at the rotter -- he's been a baaaad boy, Abbott! -- but you'd never turn the camera off of him, would you? It's not the media's fault, really... after all, we, the doting audience, are lapping up this crap, absolutely unable to stop watching the bad behavior. Because we know, given the opportunity and given free license to act like a juvenile dickweed, we'd jump on it. We'd smoke that; we'd inhale this; we'd inject whatever you threw at us. And we would have hit that groupie, as well. We're all rock stars in our secret hearts these days, and if we happen to discover that Mr. Raving Lunatic in the park used to Mr. Somebody, well, then suddenly it's OK if he craps on the lawn. After all, he's a rock star.
In 2005, I saw a documentary about a mentally fragile individual who had achieved, by almost sheer force of underground celebrity, a legendary status as a sort of musical idiot savant. A man almost wholly trapped inside a childlike world known only to his inner eye, and he would occasionally grace the world with tender and none-too-revealing slices of his mad vision. Damaged, almost babyish, longing, crystalline pop, as delicate as the animals in the glass menagerie. The film was called The Devil and Daniel Johnston, and the film dealt with attempts to get Daniel to perform again after a long hiatus, and attempts by his family, friends, hangers on and fans to try and capture even a sliver of understanding regarding his vision of the world. There is a payoff of sorts in that film, however small, where it seems like something of a catharsis for the subject, his supporters and the viewers as well.
Take that film, replace the artist with a different cult hero living in his own drug-and-asylum wrought inner hell, take away the relatively feel good ending, and you have You're Gonna Miss Me. The difference in my preference between the two films, for me, is based on the fact that while I have been privy to Mr. Johnston's development and eventual regression as an artist since the mid-'80s in any number of rock magazines on which I have thrived since that time, Roky Erickson, the wildman subject of You're Gonna Miss Me, has been known to me since I was 16. I found a copy of Roky Erickson and the Aliens at my old haunt, Budget Tapes and Records, when I was 19, and at that time, I had already bought the seminal collection of psychedelic rock called Nuggets, which featured this film's titular song by his original band, the 13th Floor Elevators. Unlike Johnston -- a minimalist recluse who re-recorded his album material by himself over and over each time he wanted to give somebody a copy -- Erickson was actually a full-blown rock star, with a rough but soaring voice, an edgy way with rhythm on a guitar, a major record deal, a hit single, and a real band that toured and went on American Bandstand. Erickson was the shit. And his music -- jagged shards of Erickson's blues howl spitting out paranoid tales of vampirism, aliens and the walking haunted of the world -- appealed to me immensely in that latest of my teen years. It approached the same spot in my keening soul as when I found Here Are the Sonics! at a garage sale a couple of years later. It was the music I had been looking for; the music I needed to shoot me out of the Top 40 ghetto in which my ears were raised. Subsequently, I spent years, in the era before the internet made it simple to find anything, fruitlessly trying to locate more of his material.
Through the '80s, the happy purchase of Don't Slander Me and Gremlins Have Pictures on cassette kept the Erickson train moving for me, but through reviews in Rolling Stone and other magazines, I was starting to hear tales about Erickson that went far beyond what I knew about him through the songs alone. Tales of madness, tales of woe; his wild appearance and his life of relative squalor; that he was another Syd Barrett, another tragic figure of the drug-fueled rock industry, barely hanging onto whatever sanity electroshock therapy hadn't buzzed out of him. Then, Where the Pyramid Meets the Eye, an Erickson tribute album featuring R.E.M. (amongst others), came out, and since I was an adherent of that band as well, it was a must buy for me. I remember reading about Erickson's proclivity for turning on every appliance in the house to the loudest level possible to create a wall of white noise to which he might fall asleep, and I adapted it into an only-slightly effective means by which to write for a handful of months in the mid-'90s. There I was, a slightly well-adjusted job-holding member of society, and I was seeking to duplicate in my own home the ravings of a man whom I only knew through a couple record covers and a handful of photos in a magazine, of a man whom I would cross the street to avoid based on his appearance alone. And how was I to know whether all of this reportage on Roky was bullshit or not?
Hence the film. The most ironic thing in You're Gonna Miss Me is the title, because truly, how can you miss someone that you don't really know at all? I certainly knew little about the man directly through those albums, record reviews and scant photographic evidence. And much of the film merely corroborates what I knew before, hitting all of the usual touchstones upon his road to paranoid schizophrenia: his old band, the LSD, the electroshock, the marijuana bust that sent him eventually to a maximum-security insane asylum, his release and eventual solo career, and then his virtual seclusion alongside his tree-mother, from which apple-Erickson clearly fell in relatively close proximity. And through the entire film, outside of too-little footage of the man in his true element - the stage - Erickson is practically a cipher, lost deep within his head, blankly staring at everything with a slight smirk, watching far too much television at sound levels that the Who never approached, or merely mumbling a few non-sequiturs to his mother or brother. The brief sound and film clips of his previous life do nothing to convey to us who he really is. We only know what he was at one time, and where he ended up. Unlike Johnston, who may be as trapped in his illness as much as Erickson but who nonetheless still conveys a certain sense of creative activity underneath it all, Roky is all but unknowable.
We are given glimpses of a possible opening up, though, and after he is, via court action, given over to his brother for caretaking, Roky starts attending therapy. It gives us (and his family) hope, but the film leaves us dangling, unlike the Johnston film. Perhaps, in the cliche, it's more like life that way, but for someone who has never had enough of Erickson, the film's ambiguous finish is not enough for me. Maybe the film came out just a little too soon. Erickson is currently performing once more, on his first tour in two decades and even playing at huge festivals like Bumbershoot, but the film gives us no mention of this, not even in a postscript. Perhaps the DVD has some extra mention of his successful therapeutic sessions, but on the screener I saw, we are only left with the possibility that some good may come out of them, even if in the last session they show, he cannot remember what he was told in the previous session. Am I to derive some sense of change from this? Because that is not what I get from it. And the saddest part, for the video company, is that they have lost some money by my receiving this screener. This film was a no-brainer purchase for me -- I am the target audience for this doc -- but now, after seeing it, even if I had to give the screener back, I still wouldn't buy the film for my collection. There is not enough performance in it for me to return (I know the full DVD has a series of them on it, but why couldn't they be in the regular film?). It's just Roky on the rocks, and no real sense that anything has been lost by his absence.
This is the real crime, because the best moments in the film are two instances where he is persuaded -- actually, goaded -- to pick up a guitar and sing. Stunningly, this shambling recluse somehow has it in him to start strumming again like he had never stopped, and then out of his dilapidated three-toothed maw comes that weathered but oddly beautiful voice. And the songs really sting, because we then see the artist inside the wreckage. The man we would otherwise never allow near us. The man we're gonna really miss...
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Shakin' All Over...
HairsprayDirector: Adam Shankman // 2007 [Century Promenade 25, Anaheim]
Cinema 4 Rating: 8
I will not lie, and say outright that I was wholly unprepared for how much I shook while watching Hairspray the other night. I don't mean with fear or anger, but from outright dancing in my seat. I don't friggin' dance... and I spent nearly two full hours wiggling in my seat... in a movie theatre... with Jen next to me, who was enjoying the film equally as much as I was, but whose cool resolve hardly allowed her to move while she did so. Going home, with snippets of numerous songs bouncing about the interior of my skull, I continued to tap my feet and fingers. Falling asleep, I was still shaking from the music, rocking myself into slumber. And then, waking up at 3 a.m. to cease the aching of a full bladder, my stumble-bum journey to our room of rest found the blessed wail of Elijah Kelly continuing to resound in my ears.
This does not happen often, even with films that I enjoy greatly, but when the film's credits finished that evening, as we stood up, I told Jen that, "I wouldn't mind one bit if we watched it again RIGHT NOW!" She agreed, saying she just did not want to leave that mood she was feeling: that sincerely buoyant joyousness that one finds so rarely in films these days, or really, ever. It is an elusive thing, this craving to crawl into a movie screen to join the party; so many scenes of this nature seem like, well, so much acting -- they seem to be what they actually are: a put-on. Purely business. In Hairspray, you have a film that actually feels like it is as much of a release for the actors as it is for the characters whom they are portraying. This feeling doesn't come purely from the music. It's about mood and its entirely viral passing from screen to participant.
Yes, I had heard the Broadway cast recording for Hairspray a couple of times, so I knew most of the songs as passing acquaintances, but while the music then seemed fun and some of the lyrics struck me as archly humorous, there is something to be said for actually seeing the show from whence the music came. As much as I love Monty Python, I know that listening to Spam-A-Lot is an entirely different experience from actually taking it in via all of one's senses. Half of the fun is in seeing it performed. Owning the soundtrack to Rocky Horror as a teenager may have prepared me lyrically for when I would eventually first see it onscreen, but it was only part of the experience. Unless you are actually involved in theatre, I imagine it's kind of hard to be a fan of the genre, given that these shows tend to hang out in places like London and Broadway (and now, Vegas) before hitting the road in slightly inferior but usually still worthwhile productions. Until that opportunity presents itself, one has no choice but to take in these shows purely aurally, and often, that is simply not enough to get me to commit to a show. Jen is different from me in that aspect, but she is actually an actress, and like my friends Leif and Ali, she will often memorize entire scores long before she even gets near the show. Of course, they are often doing this with the hopes that eventually they will get the chance to audition for a local production of said show, but there is also flat-out admiration for the music at play here as well. (They ain't memorizin' crap for a show they don't love...) I don't have that need. I have thousands of regular albums to which I may listen; I don't need Broadway as a musical outlet.
Besides, with Hairspray, I was still somewhat skeptical, due to my love for the original earthy John Waters film from 1988. You know, the one that made Ricki Lake a star and turned out to be Divine's last starring role with Waters before his/her death? Yeah, sometimes people forget this stuff. So, here it is, 20 years later, and I am watching Hairspray in a theatre again. But while the earlier film shared this film's yearning soul and earnestness, the 2007 model, outfitted with the shiny girl-group strut of Marc Shaiman's remarkable score, does something that Waters' first try didn't. We have had a couple of graphic designers at my job who both hated it when our boss would tell them that their work "popped." (Apparently, graphic designers hate popping...) Well, to be true to the point and for lack of a better term, this one truly POPS! For all of our advancements in special effects and filmmaking techniques over the years, who would have thought that the way to truly suck an audience into a scene would be to properly stage and film a dance sequence so that the screen rocked with all of the passion of the performers within it.
It was at the tail end of the film that I saw the name Adam Shankman leap onto the screen, first as Director of Choreography and then as the actual director of the film itself. Since then, not really knowing who he was, I have read much in the way of online rips upon Mr. Shankman's personage. As it turns out, he has a rather undistinguished career as a Hollywood helmer, making the likes of The Pacifier, Bringing Down the House, The Wedding Planner, A Walk to Remember and Cheaper By the Dozen 2, none of which I have even come close to seeing. Not being able to comment on his past work, I will ask this: Is it possible, Shankman haters of the internet, that perhaps, as a filmmaker, he simply had not found his niche yet, or had yet to get the chance to direct a film in which he used his chief professional strength: that of a dance choreographer? Not that being a choreographer who directs is always a good thing for a movie musical (though in the cases of Bob Fosse and Stanley Donen, it paid off overall), but I am going to have to admit that Shankman's eye and background in stage dance is probably the chief cause for the success of this film, outside of the already present lyrics and score.
But what about the cast? Strangely, for a film in which there is such a large amount (no pun intended) of publicity over the drag casting of John Travolta, and even though most of the "name" performers acquit themselves admirably in their roles, with the roll of the credits unspooling before me at the film's close, I found these performances figured into my sense of immense pleasure only tangentially. For the most part, this film belongs to the young, and the aforementioned Mr. Kelly, Zac Efron and Nikki Blonsky ruled the school for me. Their pure joy at just being alive within the film was all that I needed to win me over. The film makes me feel, through the haze of satiric nostalgia, that for two hours, this cynically optimistic pessimist is actually in league with the generally culturally misguided youth of this country.
I will point out one exception, and it is purely because numerous reviewers have wringly sought to single him out as a possible miscasting, and that is Christopher Walken. It seems to be felt that because he have grown inured to Mr. Walken's "odd" inflections and line readings, that perhaps he is a detriment to the role. I say that the opposite is the case: I will state that Walken's role of Mr. Turnblad actually becomes the soulful center of the film, and it is partially due to Walken's mannered eccentricities that the role strikes one to be as moving as it is. Walken seems to have grown into this crazy-haired tumbleweed of verbal tics in the collective movie-going consciousness (and some of this is his own fault), but Hairspray is sweet revenge indeed for those who remember how effective he can be in the right role. (Please don't dismiss the fact that he has a background as a dancer, too. Much of the current audience is probably too young to have seen him in the Steve Martin version of Pennies from Heaven, where he did a hilariously threatening striptease.) This is the right role for him.
And this is, for now, the right movie for me. Yes, it has a weak middle section, but so did the original film, and if there was something Waters' first take was missing, it was even more musical sequences, which this version happily supplies. And, yes, its politics are fairly empty and predictable when thrown under a too-closely focused instrument, but for a musical filled with horny teenagers, its remarkable that the show has any deeper thoughts than "Will she get together with him?" Take it as a good time, and be thankful it tries to say anything at all. No one is going to The Sound of Music for an accurate portrayal of life under the Nazi regime. Sing along with the token songs of protest, hit the streets to march with the kids, and then make sure to get to the studio in time for the big dance show. I made it, and I am still shakin' all over...
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Recently Rated Movies #54: A Truly Mind-Boggling Capacity for Dreck...
Is that what I have, O' Friend of Mine, who accuses me of such? A capacity for dreck that is truly mind-boggling? By what standard are we gauging the level of artfulness here? Is it by a merely standard James Garner comedy from the '60s or do you have a secret stash of Truffaut, Godard and Melville hidden somewhere, and thus, all other movies are instantly cursed to become suffused and laid low by the unearthly glow emanating from this golden treasure of cinematic holiness?
I ask because you have looked over my posts from the past year and somehow determined that I am trapped within a hell of my own making, watching an endless array of terrible films, and having no way out of the situation. You have said you wish to come here and "slap some class back into" me, but who is making the determination of class? And if there is a word that truly offends me in the English language, and a word and variety of definitions that I find to be the source of much of mankind's woes, it is "class." Or perhaps the definition of the word that is truly meant is "taste," and again, I would remind you that it is a purely subjective thing.
You are also forgetting (and you should know this well through regular perusals of this blog) that when I do choose to watch crap (and also don't forget that I do recognize most of this "crap" as exactly that), I do so with purpose. The Psychotronic project is as important to me as breathing, and even the worst piece of, er, dreck, can still have major importance to me research-wise. I will also point out that the one thing I do not do is determine a film's worth before I have seen it. It is only through watching the fucking thing that one can decide whether it is good or not, and oftentimes, one can truly be surprised. It's the only reason I watch films at all: the hope that I will be surprised by something I haven't seen or didn't expect to be any good.
Lastly, if you really look at the lists of the films I have watched over the past two years of this blog, one thing should be abundantly clear: I actually am one of the more well-rounded film viewers out here in the blogosphere. The films I catalog are from everywhere on earth, from every decade in film history, from every genre known to exist, and of many varied lengths, from shorts to features to silents to animation to film noir to... well, everything. I am only watching dreck if EVERYTHING is dreck. And if everything outside of a shortly defined period of time is dreck, well then, I say, let your mind be boggled! Because I am not going to stop...
The List:
Let's Go to Prison
Dir: Bob Odenkirk // 2006 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Les Anges Exterminateurs [Exterminating Angels]
Dir: Jean-Claude Brisseau // France, 2006 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 7
Accepted
Dir: Steve Pink // 2006 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Zodiac
Dir: David Fincher // 2007 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 8
Neptune's Daughter
Dir: Edward Buzzell // 1949 [TCM]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Fast Food Nation
Dir: Richard Linklater // 2006 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 7
I ask because you have looked over my posts from the past year and somehow determined that I am trapped within a hell of my own making, watching an endless array of terrible films, and having no way out of the situation. You have said you wish to come here and "slap some class back into" me, but who is making the determination of class? And if there is a word that truly offends me in the English language, and a word and variety of definitions that I find to be the source of much of mankind's woes, it is "class." Or perhaps the definition of the word that is truly meant is "taste," and again, I would remind you that it is a purely subjective thing.
You are also forgetting (and you should know this well through regular perusals of this blog) that when I do choose to watch crap (and also don't forget that I do recognize most of this "crap" as exactly that), I do so with purpose. The Psychotronic project is as important to me as breathing, and even the worst piece of, er, dreck, can still have major importance to me research-wise. I will also point out that the one thing I do not do is determine a film's worth before I have seen it. It is only through watching the fucking thing that one can decide whether it is good or not, and oftentimes, one can truly be surprised. It's the only reason I watch films at all: the hope that I will be surprised by something I haven't seen or didn't expect to be any good.
Lastly, if you really look at the lists of the films I have watched over the past two years of this blog, one thing should be abundantly clear: I actually am one of the more well-rounded film viewers out here in the blogosphere. The films I catalog are from everywhere on earth, from every decade in film history, from every genre known to exist, and of many varied lengths, from shorts to features to silents to animation to film noir to... well, everything. I am only watching dreck if EVERYTHING is dreck. And if everything outside of a shortly defined period of time is dreck, well then, I say, let your mind be boggled! Because I am not going to stop...
The List:
Let's Go to Prison
Dir: Bob Odenkirk // 2006 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Les Anges Exterminateurs [Exterminating Angels]
Dir: Jean-Claude Brisseau // France, 2006 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 7
Accepted
Dir: Steve Pink // 2006 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Zodiac
Dir: David Fincher // 2007 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 8
Neptune's Daughter
Dir: Edward Buzzell // 1949 [TCM]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Fast Food Nation
Dir: Richard Linklater // 2006 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 7
Friday, August 10, 2007
Recently Rated Movies #53: A Brief Pause to Refresh...
Please, longtime readers of this site, bear with me for this post. It's mainly going to be a list, and it's going to be long. Efforts to write about every movie that I see, inside a time construct roughly approximating the order in which I saw those films, have proven fruitless as of late. I see far too many movies, and have far too little personal writing time, given the evil brain-draining demands of my day job and the fact that I wish to have a continuance of my relationship with my significant other (in addition to actually watching these films), and thus, with this post, I am going to play a little catch up.
Significant changes have occurred in my life to get me to this point, not the least of which is a renewed interest in my personal health. I have put on over twenty pounds since I moved to Anaheim almost 2-1/2 years ago, and a heightened cholesterol level, breathing problems at night, and a general sense of ickiness left me flustered and sick with myself. Then, the Orange County Transit Authority bus strike hit, and I was left with one option only: walk 3 miles to and 3 miles home from work each day. I had already done 3 miles total each day from my old job in Anchorage, so I was merely doubling my old routine. As of today, I haven't caught a bus on a workday for five full weeks, walking a total of 129 miles in that time, not counting mileage on my walks with the pups or going places on the weekend. Additionally, I cut out my regular soda routine at work two full months ago (I do not keep it at home either, but I haven't done that for four months). What's more, I am eating smaller amounts at meals, eating only half of anything I order when out and about, and upping the frequency of these small meals. And, eating a lot more in the way of fruits and veggies.
The result? The happy loss of a handful of pounds thus far, the lessening of the ol' love handles, and a severe boost to my already rather robust (ask anyone who has ever been in a room with me) energy level. Dr. Pepper, or any soda, which I will still have when at a restaurant, now tastes almost foreign and far too sweet to me. My headaches, for the most part, which used to be several times a week, have almost totally dissipated into an awful memory (I now get my caffeine from tea, and have come to believe the bulk of my brainache problems stemmed from the massive amounts of sugar I was intaking). I have also discovered that regular exercise is much like any type of addiction; I have merely shifted from a bad to a good one. Personally, I feel better now than I have felt for several years, and I look forward to getting back to my fightin' weight...
The other big recent change is that I have been spending undue amounts of time on a website called Spout, which I have written about a couple of times before, and where I am now part of a review group where we receive promotional screeners for films and then are obligated to review them for the site. The best part is that I get to keep the DVDs that they send me -- gratis. All of the reviews will appear here as well (and, vice versa, most other posts here will appear there eventually); you may have noticed my post last week for my first Spout Mavens review, Familia, which completely surprised me as I let myself slip into pre-judgment over its cover, something I am fighting to control. I am currently working on getting my film lists matching up with my similar personal lists on IMDB, and have currently rated over 6,400 movies there, also finding out in the process that I have spent well over 15 months of my existence watching the movies on that list once. I don't even want to think about how much time that is when weighing those films I have seen over 20 times, like Kane or Falcon, or Kong, which I have seen probably around 40 to 50 times (I have watched it yearly since I was about 13, and then some...) Oy!
So, if I seem distracted and not posting a lot on here lately, well, it's because I've been exactly that. II meant, at one point, to write about most of the films that appear below, and I likely will for most of them at some point. I just wanted to let everyone know that I am seeing new films in the theatre, something which I don't often write about, and I am now making strides to start getting back to where I was: a constant, buzzing annoyance. Bzzz...
The List (in no particular order):
Papurika
Dir: Satoshi Kon // 2007 [Edwards Irvine, Irvine CA]
Cinema 4 Rating: 7
Umberto D.
Dir: Vittorio de Sica // 1952 [Critertion Collection DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 8
Shrek the Third
Dir: Chris Miller // 2007 [Century Stadium Promenade, Orange CA]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
28 Weeks Later
Dir: Juan Carlos Fresnadillo // 2007 [AMC Downtown Disney 12, Anaheim CA]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End
Dir: Gore Verbinski // 2007 [AMC Downtown Disney 12, Anaheim CA]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Ed Gein
Dir: Chuck Parello // 2000 [Showtime]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Marebito [The Stranger From Afar]
Dir: Takashi Shimizu// Japanese, 2004 [Showtime Beyond]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
A Flock of Dodos: The Evolution-Intelligent Design Circus
Dir: Randy Olson // 2006 [IFC]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
The Barefoot Executive
Dir: Robert Butler // 1971 [TCM]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Buddha's Palm and Dragon Fist
Dir: ?? // 197? [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 4
Gaau ji [Dumplings]
Dir: Fruit Chan // [Sundance]
Cinema 4 Rating: 7
Namu, the Killer Whale
Dir: László Benedek // 1966 [TCM]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Hot Fuzz
Dir: Edgar Wright // 2007 [Edwards Brea Stadium West 10]
Cinema 4 Rating: 8
Gokudô kyôfu dai-gekijô: Gozu
Dir: Takashi Miike // Japanese, 2003 [Showtime Beyond]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Kibakichi: Bakko-yokaiden
Dir: Tomoo Haraguchi // Japanese, 2004 [Showtime Beyond]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Jingi no hakaba [Graveyard of Honor]
Dir: Kinji Fukasaku // Japanese, 1975 [IFC]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Il mio nome è Nessuno [My Name is Nobody]
Dir: Tonino Valerii // Italian, 1973 [TCM]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Spider-Man 3
Dir: Sam Raimi // 2007 [Century Stadium Promenade 25, Orange CA]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Blades of Glory
Dir: Josh Gordon & Will Speck // 2007 [Century Stadium Promenade 25, Orange CA]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Croupier
Dir: Mike Hodges // 1998 [Showtime]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Creature Unknown
Dir: Michael Burnett // 2004 [Showtime]
Cinema 4 Rating: 3
Octopus
Dir: John Eyres // 2000 [Sci-Fi]
Cinema 4 Rating: 3
Calvaire
Dir: Fabrice Du Welz // 2004 [Showtime]
Cinema 4 Rating: 4
Rokugatsu no hebi [A Snake of June]
Dir: Shinya Tsukamoto // Japanese, 2002 [Sundance]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Romasanta [Werewolf Hunter: Romasanta]
Dir: Paco Plaza // Spanish, 2004 [Showtime]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Whisky Galore!
Dir: Alexander Mackendrick // British, 1949 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 7
FUCK
Dir: Steve Anderson // 2005 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Mimic: Sentinel
Dir: J.T. Petty // 2003 [Showtime]
Cinema 4 Rating: 4
When A Stranger Calls
Dir: Simon West // 2006 (Showtime]
Cinema 4 Rating: 4
Bulletproof Monk
Dir: Paul Hunter // 2003 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Sora-te baka ichidai [Karate for Life]
Dir: Kazuhiko Yamaguchi // Japanese, 1977 [IFC]
Cinema 4 Rating: 5
Gendai yakuza: hito-kiri yota [Street Mobster]
Dir: Kinji Fukasaku // Japanese, 1972 [IFC]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Three Days of the Condor
Dir: Sydney Pollack // 1975 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
Vanishing Point
Dir: Richard C. Sarafian // 1971 [DVD]
Cinema 4 Rating: 6
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