I had a dream last night that was
fairly incredible. Well the first half was typical, scary yet kind of
boring brain vomit, but the second half involved visiting Henry
Miller's watery grave/tribute. (Truth-Henry Miller is not buried in a
woodsy lake in the Pacific Northwest.) Said site had an attached gift
shop/convenience store that had a separate area for arts and crafts
(!) As the tour guide was showing me this section and picking up some
of the stone work that a lot of people used to make jewelry, I look
up and making this incredible plexiglass/amber piece was Joey Ramone
(awesome). Joey pointed out that he was decidedly not making any
jewelery but just enjoyed creating little bits of art for the
texture. After creating some watercolor paintings on my own, I went
into their stock room for something and ran into Bruce Springsteen.
Upon meeting the man, the first thing out of my mouth was, “Oh my
god, you once met Lester Bangs? What was he like?” After that, I
woke up but the chances of me actually saying that to “the boss”
in real life are fairly good. (Unlike the odds of me actually meeting
Springsteen.)
Speaking of Lester, I've been thinking
of the man a lot lately. Granted, that is not entirely unusual since
I have been a huge fan for years. Bangs is the type of writer that
constantly makes me evaluate my own work. He was able to bring both a
hyper-real intelligence, no bullshit quality to his work and yet,
never losing any of his warmth or verve. The latter is something a
lot of folks don't seem to touch upon with Lester but for someone to
write the way he did, they have to truly care. The world of critical
writing can be littered with some A-1 wankery, which usually stems
from some white-bread type who is stroking his/her own ego. We all
have ego but when it comes to creating anything, the work itself
should always and eternally be number one and I think with Lester, it
was always was. It's a huge crime that he is no longer in this realm. And a total aside, while Lester is by and large known as a music writer, his write-up of Ray Dennis Steckler's "Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-Up Zombies" is hilarious and worth looking up.)
In a music frame of mind, I would be
remiss not to mention the passing of Alan Myers, one of the pioneers
who got scalped and drummer for Devo for over ten years. Part of the
“classic era,” Myers was unlike any other drummer. He provided
the spine for some of Devo's greatest songs. This year has already
been rough, after losing Harry Reems, Andy Copp (miss you), Nagisa
Oshima, Jess Franco, Ebert, Annette Funicello, Richard Matheson and
too many to mention. I hate doing these things to be honest. It
always feels like too many people have gone and trying to write the
perfect thing to honor a whole lifetime of work feels impossible. It
kind of is impossible but to quote a friend of mine, these things are
always harder for the living. The best thing anyone can do is to kick
extra ass for those who can't.
This past Thursday, I was interviewed
once again on my friend Frank Cotolo's internet radio show, The
Cotolo Chronicles, discussing zombies. It's funny, since I have been
feeling burned out on the subject for quite awhile. But when Frank
invited me, I took it as a challenge and ended up getting some
different perspectives on the whole thing during my research. There's
more to it than just brain eating Romero-styled revenants and Haitian
voodoo. Anyways, it was fun and available to listen for anyone who
missed the live show.
Last but certainly not least, please
check out my latest for Dangerous Minds. Riding the
lost-sexploitation film train from “Sexcula,” this time I explore
Vinegar Syndrome's superb release, “The Lost Films of Herschell
Gordon Lewis.” Their work on restoring and releasing this trio of
films, including “The Ecstasies of Women,” “Linda &
Abilene” and “Black Love,” is nothing short of stunning. As a
huge H.G. Lewis fan and a film preservationist at heart, it feels
great to have these previously lost films not only available, but
also released with a lot of love and attention.
In honor of one of my favorite actor's birthday, the inimitable John Amplas, I am re-posting an article I wrote about George Romero's best film, MARTIN. Originally published in issue #22 of Screem magazine, it was a real joy getting to share it with the man himself a couple of years ago. (With much thanks to my friend & fellow film writer Greg Goodsell for encouraging me to do so!) Anyways, enjoy! +
Some people believe that monsters are
born, not made-that there are those who are literally a “bad seed”
that grows up to be a rapist, dictator, or murderer. Of course, if
life was that black and white, then there would be no need for the
horror genre. The reasons we’re attracted to horror are
multifaceted, but the basic reason is that it is a safe way for us to
explore our fears and the darker side of human nature. When it comes
down to it, monsters are most certainly made, not born. Mary Shelley
knew that when she wrote Frankenstein and George Romero knew
that when he made his underrated masterpiece, Martin.
Martin is that rare film where
each star in the sky aligned around 1977 and everyone involved
brought their A-game. Intelligent, emotional, and haunting, there has
never been a movie like Martin. The movie centers around a
young man named Martin (John Amplas), whose boyish appearance may or
may not mask an age-old vampire. Whether or not his vampirism is
supernatural or an aspect of a deeper pathology is really not the
main point, though it is one I will get to here in a bit. The real
disease is the familial sins that Martin is ultimately the martyr
for, along with all of his victims. While it is a vastly different
film, Martin’s theme of the innocent paying for family
dysfunction brings to mind is Walerian Borowczyk’s La Bete
(1975), where the main family’s son literally dies from his
ancestor’s cursed deeds. The innocent always pays for the
guilty’s sins.
Horror cinema up to that point had not
seen anything quite the likes of Martin. The closest heir is
would have to be Hitchcock’s groundbreaking film, Psycho (1960).
Both feature boyish leads who are powerless to their darker urges,
often fueled by psycho-sexual impulses and unhealthy rearing. Norman
Bates kills due to his potentially incestuous upbringing from his
mother and Martin kills because he was raised to think he carries the
family “curse” of vampirism. Norman and Martin are two characters
that are captivating and at times, even sympathetic, putting the
audience in the uncomfortable position of having to identify with a
killer.
Both films also feature some amazing
and emotionally impactive musical scores. The Bernard Herrmann score
for Psycho is now legendary, but the Donald Rubinstein
soundtrack for Martin is just as good. The sign of a perfect
film score is when you cannot envision the film without it and this
is most definitely the case with these two films.
Martin was even supposed to be
entirely in black & white in its original 3-hour form. (Sadly
that print has become lost to the ether.) Certainly, neither film
would be half as powerful without possessing actors as innately
talented and physically striking as Anthony Perkins and John Amplas.
But what Psycho hinted at,
Martin bravely delves right in and simmers. Vampire or no, Martin is
our protagonist and is an amazingly complex, sympathetic, and
ultimately sad character. We’re never really told about his
parentage, but he ends up with his batty and uber-cantankerous uncle
Tata Cuda, played to the hilt by the memorable Lincoln Maazel. Cuda
is immediately accusing Martin of being a “nosferatu” and
reacting extremely hostile to him, to the extent of rigging up a
crude alarm on Martin’s bedroom door to keep tabs on his comings
and goings. He even hires a priest to perform an old school Catholic
exorcism on the boy, which will hit too close to home for anyone who
has to grow up with religious fundamentalism.
Part of Romero’s genius is how he
approaches Martin’s “vampirism.” While there has been a debate
for years over whether or not Martin is a true supernatural vampire
or a victim of mental illness, most of the signs point to the latter.
Romero himself said as much in the featurette on the Lion’s Gate
DVD, Making Martin: A Recounting. A good chunk of the
confusion is fueled by the black & white flashbacks/visions that
Martin has, especially when stalking his victims. If anything, these
scenes serve a dual purpose.
The first purpose being to put us into
the head space of Martin and how he is romanticizing his life and his
deeds. He is never shown to be truly cruel and is often surprisingly
gentle with his prey (Well, as gentle as one can be when murdering
and drinking blood). The real world is ugly and full of people that
are often rude and ignorant. Being placed in the industrial and
rotting landscape of urban Pennsylvania doesn’t help matters. One
could say that he is flashing back to his past life. But more than
likely, it’s a coping mechanism for the intense unhappiness in his
life. Even when religious folks and angry villagers are terrorizing
him, it all plays out like a classic, 1930’s horror film.
All of this ties into the second
purpose of the flashbacks. They are a brilliant device to play on
what the viewer is expecting with a “vampire” film, all the while
giving them the hard reality that the closest, proven thing we have
to the creatures of the night have more in common with someone like
Ted Bundy than they do with Dr. Alucard. After all, vampires are the
mythical world’s serial killers.
Heavily dysfunctional families
usually have patterns of unhealthy behavior that can cycle back a
couple of generations. So it’s no surprise that a lot of real life
killers had extremely unhealthy upbringings. Martin was brought up
with the notion that he was this bloodthirsty supernatural killer
while never being treated like an actual human being.
On the flip side, his cousin Christina
(Christine Forrest), one of the very few people who are actually kind
to Martin, grew up in the same family and turned out healthy. Which
is very true to life. Plenty of us grow up with dysfunction and yet
manage to turn out to be fine. Yet, if someone is especially
sensitive, naturally prone to mental instability, and abused enough,
you’ll get your vampire. Just don’t necessarily expect him or her
to be some romantic, poet shirt-wearing hipster.
One of the things that makes Martin
such a frightening killer is the intelligence and agility he displays
while going after his victims. The garage scene is especially hard to
forget. There is nothing scarier than a smart killer and he is
definitely no exception. Alternately, it does make his situation all
the more sad, because if he had been nurtured by a sane family, who
knows what potential may have been reached.
Finding any horror film, now or then,
that is intelligent enough to incorporate the shades of gray instead
of the typical black/white moral pantheon, can be a rare thing. But
this film would not be half as powerful without the lynchpin
performance of John Amplas. He is to this film what Kinski was to
Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972). Romero could not have found
a more perfect actor than Amplas, who is able to convey a myriad of
emotions with his face alone.
Physically, he is Martin. At
times he looks amazingly boyish, complete with awkward gait and
downcast eyes. Yet he is able to simultaneously project a
world-weariness that lends itself well to someone who either thinks
he is a vampire or actually is a vampire. His combination of striking
looks and subtle emoting results in making Martin one of the best
roles in film. In a just world, guys like Amplas, Romero, Rubinstein,
and Tom Savini, who did the effects along with playing Christina’s
mook boyfriend, would be winning Oscars left and right. Which is just
further proof of the country club mentality that is Hollywood.
It should also be noted that this is a
good-looking film, courtesy of cinematographer Michael Gornick. The
framing, the choice of camera angles, all of it is tight and plays up
everything that needs to be played up. Tension is created during the
stalk and kill scenes, though some of the most haunting scenes are
the ones of Martin walking around the city at night. The sense of
loneliness is damn near tangible, making the movie all the more
effective and powerful.
Martin is one of the greatest
horror films ever made. Not because of the blood, but because it
shows the damage that can be done when one’s family, biology, and
mental state fails them. This movie is a masterpiece of nuance,
emotion, and the deep fissures in the human condition.
Happy Solstice and
Summertime Blues everyone. I've always had a like/hate thing with hot
weather. I prefer it to cold, but still find it to be on the steamy
side of assy. That said, there is a certain atmosphere, a certain
weird gravitas to Summer days that I do enjoy. In other words, it's
great for creativity and bad for the ole electric bill. The humidity
will thrill you as much as it will clobber you.
This week has been long,
but not bad. I finished the first part of my contribution to the
upcoming William Castle blog-a-thon and am about to dip again into
the waters of formerly-lost-films, as well as underrated dramas. Like
the Magic 8 Ball says, more will be revealed.
Music wise, I've been
revisiting my Lee Hazlewood kick, with “Sand,” “Jackson” and
“Some Velvet Morning” becoming the biggest repeat offenders.
There's such a lush weariness to Lee's voice and music that gets me
every time I listen. There are some artists that you have to be in a
specific mood to listen to and then there are those like Hazlewood,
that just hit the sweet spot every single time.
Last night, the hubby and
I went to a growing outdoors art event, which was fun. There were
fabulous crepes to be had and there was one artist in particular,
Robert Shinn, whose work really stood out. He had this one piece,
involving an old nutcracker, that I became intensely smitten with.
Naturally, it was way the heck out of my budget, but worth it if
you've got it. While we were looking around and entered a small
gallery, I was quickly annoyed by one of those classic, pretentious
art conversations. You know, the talkers in question have a little
glass of white wine (rarely red, for some reason, which is fine since
that leaves more for me!) and a white-bred/upper-middle class sense
of self-importance. I hate this kind of thing so much, especially
since I think there is way you can have an intelligent and even fun
conversation about art without it devolving into yuppie-styled
wankery. Being an artist does not make you a better person than
anyone, only being an honest, aware and a conscious person does.
This has been one of the weeks where
wanderlust has been striking me big time. (Note about myself, this
happens every other week!) With the heat starting to creep up as the
air grows denser, hitting the open road and going out West has never
felt more appealing. Driving on the oil-stained highway, throwing on
Department of Crooks' criminally underrated “Plan Nine from Las
Vegas” and feeling the scorch of burned gas station coffee....it
just sounds so perfect. The reality of such an excursion is not
possible right now, but at least I have “Plan 9” and endless cups
of strong Joe.
Dreams of pavement and open skies
aside, I finished and posted a little article on Dangerous Minds about the
formerly-lost, Canuxploitation film that combined flesh, fangs and
very little filigree, entitled “Sexcula.” As a born and bred
preservationist at heart, seeing anything that was originally written
off as lost get found is a wonderful feeling. Plus, who doesn't love
free loving vampires flashing the peace sign during coitus? It gives
me some hope that a print of “Convention City” could still turn
up. Dreaming is free.
The great thing, for me at least, about
delving into titles like “Sexcula” is it gives me the chance to
write and explore the types of cinema that a lot of film writers
avoid like the plague. Which is really absurd. A lot of “serious”
dramas that garner all sorts of awards are no less exploitative, in
fact usually moreso, than most “skin flicks.” Manipulating
audiences dramatically is too easy. Most people do not want to see
sick children or their sad families, so both are easy elements to
throw in. But to actually confront them with anything that truly
takes them out of their comfort zone is both brilliant and extremely
needed. The only kind of elitism I'll put up with usually involves
one of two questions: a) Is the work good? b) Is it interesting?
Anything else usually borders on flat
out snobbery and in some instances, cultural classism. Forget it. Who
has time for that?
Speaking of Department of Crooks, let
me sing the joys of Marc Moreland. One of THE best guitarists you
will ever hear and who will never get some cheesy cover or centerfold
in any type of Guitar Monthly magazine. (Yet, if you're a metal guy
that goes wheedly-wheedly-wee with your arpeggios, they will soil
themselves to kingdom come.) For me the real sign of a genuinely
great artist is their thumbprint and with everything that Moreland
played on, you can instantly tell it is him. Blending such stellar
influences like Ennio Morricone and Dick Dale into his own creative
blender, there will never be another like the man. Best known for
being in Wall of Voodoo, his side projects are also worth checking
out, especially the aforementioned Department of Crooks and his final
band, the Marc Moreland Mess.
And if all you know about Wall of
Voodoo is “Mexican Radio,” then I beg you to please get your
sweaty little mitts on a copy of “Seven Days in Sammystown.” The
Andy Prieboy era of that band is brilliant and merits ample
listening.
Upcoming project wise, I'm about to
work on a contribution for a special upcoming tribute to one of the
greatest showmen in the history of film, as well as the usual one-two
step review work. Stay tuned kittens.
Hello cats and kittens, welcome to a
new feature for Mondo Heather. While I'm sure all of you love reading
the same articles again for over a month, you deserve some fresh
content on a more regular basis. So think of this as a weekly peek
into the colorful and occasionally schizoid miasma that is both my
life and brain. Sprinkle in some self-promotion for my non
Mondo-writing and your ready to strap on your saddles shoes and go!
Something I like to do, especially
whenever I'm working on any sizable projects, is throw on a film in
the background and then some additional music. Basically, a
multimedia melange a go-go. Last night, it was Fellini's classic 8
1/2 with my Ipod mix playing. (We're talking everything from Love &
Rockets to The Residents here.) It was a great match and it lent
itself well to getting art stuff done. The latter included a collage
art book, fashioned from a formerly religiously-themed diary that I
got for free back in my retail day job years. I started this back
around 2004-5 and finally finished it earlier this week. Writing is
always and forever my main love, but the visual arts are an eternal
close second. It's tentatively titled “Dome of the Spheres,”
inspired by the obscure and lyrically weird song of the same name. It
has been one of those projects that I was not sure that I would ever
actually finish, so it feels sweet to have the bloody thing done. Woo
for productivity!
Speaking of which, the piece covering
the “SoftRock” series, created by Actually Huizenga and her
partner-in-crime Socrates Mitsios, is finished and live on DangerousMinds. I think Huizenga is one of the most interesting figures, not
to mention ballsiest, in music and video out there right now. Most
pop tartlets flirt with the whole sexy-girl thing, but Huizenga uses
sexuality as a device to be both cheeky and explore some rather dark
human territory.
One new kid on the film distribution
block that is already knocking my socks off is the Vinegar Syndrome.
They first came to my attention as the fine folks releasing “The
Lost Films of Herschell Gordon Lewis,” which includes “Black
Love” and “Linda & Abilene,” two films that I NEVER thought
I would ever get lucky enough to see. Looking at their small but
already growing library, they are one of those rare companies whose
entire library is covet-worthy. I'm looking forward to writing about
some of their titles in the near further, both here and abroad. Keep your peepers peeled.
As a whole, this has been one weird
week. Some of it stressful, other parts extremely wonderful. No matter what, art and life are what it's all about.
