Ever have one of those weeks that is
just one long blur? That would be this past week for me. Sadly, it
has nothing to do with going all rock-and-roll or committing vast,
lurid acts of bad decision fun. If anything, it has more to do with
bad sleep. But if there is anything more tedious then having
insomnia, it is writing about it, so let's move on.
I've noticed that lately there has been
more and more discussion regarding gender and sexism in the fringe
film writing field, especially in the horror camp. Over the years,
I've been asked occasionally about my own experience being a female
writer in a male dominated writing world. It can be weird at times,
especially when people try to assign gender to your work. Nobody
really asks a male writer to add a “masculine voice” to his work,
unless it's for “Macho Beefcake Weekly.” At our core, we are
artists before we are anything else. Most guys don't write with their
happy equipment and I don't type with my ovaries. (Though if I could,
that would be spectacularly impressive!) Don't get me wrong, I am a
proud feminist. Granted, I'm the type of feminist that gives more
traditional types the hives and I have even been labeled a “bad”
one. But I'm not living for them and I wear my love of fringe art on
my sleeve. There's nothing more beautifully radical than just being
yourself.
For you cult film lovers who have a
weakness for revenge-fueled action flicks and strange approximations
of the punk subculture, then you will love my latest for Dangerous Minds. This time around, I explore 1990's “Punk Vacation,”
another fine release by Vinegar Syndrome. While you're there, check
out some of the reader's comments. There is some great info,
including mentioning the epic tome Destroy All Movies and even The
Dickies appearing on C.P.O. Sharkey. Fabulous.
Keep your peepers open and peeled,
since there are some fun things coming up. In the next few days, look
for articles on “Oriental Blue,” both a William Castle tribute
and a review of “13 Frightened Girls!” for the uber-fantastic
William Castle Blog-A-Thon and “The Ghastly Love of Johnny X.”
Being born creative
is one of those double-barreled gifts. It's almost like having a
second type vision. You can see life, both good and bad, in richer
hues and assorted layers. The downside is that we live in a world
that is not really built for artists. Making a viable living doing
what you're born to do can feel about as accessible as winning the
Mega-millions jackpot while simultaneously getting a deep-tissue
massage. That's not even touching the assorted comments you will get
from families, loved ones and friends. People that are not writers
often have NO idea about the realities of trying to get your work out
there. Every real victory you have will mean nothing to some folks
just because of out-moded prejudices. Back when I was getting my feet
wet with zines, I had friends obviously look unimpressed just because
the publication wasn't a)glossy and b) available at your local
mass-market book emporium.
Another one is
using the term “blogger” like it's an insult. In the past few
years of writing, I've been lucky to see people get progressively
more open minded about writing online. It was just a handful of years
ago where the snobbery towards online writing was massive. Whether it
was writing for a blog or a regular website, the prevailing attitude
was that it just didn't count. The sheer amount of bullshit attached
to that is nearly mind-blowing. Writing is writing. If your work is
out there and someone who is not yourself is reading it, then guess
what? It totally counts. The fact that literary titans like Neil
Gaiman have a blog should be proof right there that being a “blogger”
is not and should not be a scarlet letter.
There's been a lot
of really fascinating and needed discussion lately about the value of
writing, especially for those of us in the fringe/genre film world.
The internet is a huge blessing, making everything more democratic
than ever. Of course with the landscape bigger than ever, it also
means that there is more work to sift through. Even more troublesome
is that it also ups the odds of having someone opportunisticly
cribbing some of the words that you worked hard to craft. Of course,
does that mean you shouldn't put you and your work out there? Hell
no! When you're creative, at the end of the day the biggest priority
should always be the work itself. If the cult of personality is
something that is your main goal, then just be a celebrity and leave
the art to the people that actually care. Also, ego? Check that at
the door too. Doing anything to be “cool” is about the uncoolest
thing in the world.
Writing is a field
that will give you ample scar tissue, so to quote one especially
mediocre Van Halen song, “you've got to roll with the punches to
get to what's real.” The cream inevitably rises and the karmic
scale does get balanced. Being a “real” writer isn't just about
getting paid and published. It's about getting rejected, having
someone leave a shitty comment or an editor bypassing your hard work
for one of a lesser quality. Yet it is the negative that makes the
positive all the sweeter when it happens. Getting your work out there
and connecting with both like minded readers and writers is far
richer than any of the annoyances that come with it. The more you
explore, the more you realize that the good far outweighs the bad.
Being a film writer
has a lot of blessings. That moment of not only moving a reader but
sometimes even the artist whom you are writing about is tantamount to
magic in this world. It is those moments that make up for any dramas
or depression. Getting to explore and write about the language of
cinema is what I live for and even when it can drive me crazy, it is
without a doubt, my path. It's not even my chosen path, because it
chose me long before I chose it and I would not have it any other
way. Play people, especially your readers, for chumps and they will
return the sentiment two-fold. But treat them with respect and the
right ones will always, always get it.
Dedicated to
Larry Gibbs and Andy Copp. Two friends that loved film and cut out
from this plane too soon. Thank you both for making a special mark in
this world and my life.
The art of the double bill is a fine
one. It's the cinematic equivalent to creating the perfect mix-tape.
(Sorry, even in the digital age, they will always be mix-tapes to
me.) I love picking out two seemingly divergent movies and bringing
them together, forming one most interesting evening. Granted, my
personal taste has never been for everyone, so your mileage may vary.
I was once banned from picking out movies for some friends of mine
one night after crafting the double bill of “Meet the Feebles”
and “Desperate Living.” Hey, it maybe a heady mix for the
uninitiated but I still stand by that one. Puppets singing “Sodomy”
and Edie Massey yelling out
“Look....at.....all....those....dummies!!!” is sheer perfection,
people.
Image from filmposters.com
So earlier this week, we had the
diverse yet kind of harmonious double bill of the 1970 classic
documentary, “Gimme Shelter” and the equally classic 1979 horror
film, “Phantasm.” This was my first time seeing the former,
unbelievably, and after reading about it for years, it did not
disappoint. One of the fascinating things about the Rolling Stones is
that within a time span of 10 years, there was not one but three
documentaries made about them. The first being Godard's “Sympathy
for the Devil” aka “One Plus One” (1968), “Gimme Shelter”
(1970) and the infamous and sorely needs-to-be-legitimately- released
“Cocksucker Blues” (1972). One could do a whole book about their
connection to cinema, starting off with these three films.
Okay, this has nothing to do with the documentary, but mein gott, Merry Clayton SMOKES it.
“Gimme Shelter,” made by The Mayles
Brothers and Charlotte Zwerin, documents the band around the time
period of “Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out!”, complete with a brief shot of
Charlie Watts being photographed for the cover, as well their 1969
concert at Madison Square Garden. The latter has some great footage,
particularly of opening act Ike & Tina Turner doing a scorching
version of “I've Been Loving You Too Long.” Seriously, the latter
is total baby making music and undoubtedly made everyone in the
audience that night about 200% more fertile. Mick's response to the
footage? “It's nice to have a chick occasionally.” Mick? Shut up.
Of course, what “Gimme Shelter” is
best known for is featuring the build-up, the firestorm and the
aftermath of Altamont. What was supposed to be a sweet-cheeked follow
up to Woodstock turned into a festival of bad vibes, abuse and one
death, all thanks to some extremely poor organizing and the bright
idea to hire the Hell's Angels as security. Because outlaw bikers
being paid in beer are a great mix with pie-eyed and huge-pupiled
flower children. The thing about “Gimme Shelter” is that even
though I went into the film knowing the ride I was in for, I was
still floored by the pall that blankets every frame of celluloid.
Even the lighter footage, like the band recording “Brown Sugar”
in Muscle Shoals, Alabama, has a somber undercurrent. It did make me
happy to see that my favorite Stone, Charlie Watts, got a lot of
camera time. (My other favorite Stone, Ron Wood, was not in the band
at this point, though for what it's worth, more folks should give
some love to Mick Taylor.)
After that rock & roll deathshow,
“Phantasm” was very much the spirit of the night that was needed.
Re-watching it, something hit me that despite it being one of the
biggies of horror from the past 30+ years, there is still really
nothing quite like it. It is atmospheric, surrealistic, features some
great colors and has Reggie Bannister....all wonderful things that
should be in every horror film! I definitely wish more genre
filmmakers would study a film like this, not to mention all of the
Italian greats (Bava, Argento, Fulci) and honor the fact that there
is a wide rainbow of gels in the world of lighting. Film is a visual
medium, so embrace the colors. Some rich red lighting is way more
striking and eerie than muted sepia. Muted sepia is fine for the old
timey photo booth at Silver Dollar City, but not a horror film.
Reggie, in one of the most iconic scenes in horror.
By the way, speaking of Mr. Bannister,
he is such an impeccable character actor. The man is like an
alchemist. In “Phantasm,” he plays an ice cream man/musician who
sports a ponytail with a fading hairline. No one else in the world
could make a role like that so indelibly badass, but in the hands of
Bannister? Sheer awesomeness. Seriously, the man looks amazing in an
ice cream suit and the scene where he joins Jody (Bill Thornbury),
guitar in hand, for an impromptu jam on the porch? Awesome and even
better, he not only bests Jody but then declares themselves “hot as
love.” Holy hell. You can have your leathery, beef jerky skinned
aging roid-heads in “The Expendables,” I'll take Reggie Bannister
any day of the week.
Also in horror news, I saw the poster
for the “re-imagining” of “Maniac,” with Elijah Wood. Now, I
have no opinion on the film itself since I haven't seen it, but it
did make me wish that more directors and producers would take more
influence and less direct ideas from older films. There are good
remakes, of course, some even great, but I feel like the past few
years have sported a bulk-sized bonanza of them. There maybe few, if
any, truly original ideas at this stage of the game, but individual
approach, when honest and pure, is always original.
It's post-Fourth of July here in the
States but you would not know that around my neighborhood. Lots of
noise, smoke and glitter. No mangled bodyparts just yet, but the
evening is still young. Earlier today, after stumbling upon a small
Farmer's market in a nearby berg, I was reminded of the last time we
visited such a thing. There was a local group of hipster-y,
psuedo-folk-jug fellows playing, all covers of course. Nothing
inherently wrong with that, especially since covers are the
groundwork a lot of bands use to build their chops, but I realized
that if you're the kind of group that can instantly play “Me &
Julio Down By the Schoolyard” or whatever that hideous Paul Simon
song is, then I instantly never want to hear you again. Imagine
hearing someone covering some Coltrane, Les Baxter or Killing Joke?
Now, that would be sweet. But good lord, no Paul Simon or any other
pap that makes middle-upper class middle-aged white people feel
comfortable. The ultimate credo of any artist should never ever be
“give the people what they want.” Nay, give them what they
deserve. That? Is true love.
On a far happier and rewarding note,
the latest issue of Paracinema is now available for pre-order. In
addition to featuring articles covering everything from the great
David Patrick Kelly to action film heroes, it will also have my
compare/contrasting article on Stephen Sayadian's two equally
brilliant films, “Nightdreams” and “Dr. Caligari.” If you
haven't seen these films, then do yourself a favor and seek them out
immediately. Sayadian is one of the most standout directors to have
emerged in the last thirty years, so it was a pleasure getting to
explore these two semi-twin works. For the converted and uninitiated
alike, you can check out my friend David Arrate's tribute on his
Tumblr, My Kind of Story or view the clip below. If these things
don't convince you, especially the dancing toast, then you've got ice
in your veins, baby.
One album that has been getting a lot
of play this week in Casa Mondo has been Fallen Angels. This is a
band that is ripe for some proper rediscovery. Led by Knox, who also
founded the legendary punk group The Vibrators, and featuring the
entire rhythm section of Hanoi Rocks (Razzle, Sami Yaffa and Nasty
Suicide), Fallen Angels were a terrific, trash-rock band that managed
to incorporate some emotional gravitas sans the usual gouda baked
overdramatics. From the same family tree that begat the New York
Dolls, Johnny Thunders & the Heartbreakers, Hanoi Rocks
(naturally) and Lords of the New Church, Fallen Angels, especially
that killer first album, deserves to be placed next to its more well
known brethren.
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.
