God, Murder & Palm Springs: Duke MItchell's Gone With the Pope

My first trip to the beautiful state of California practically overflowed with film watching. Which is highly fitting for about eighty different reasons. Even better was that I got to watch some spectacular films but out of the veritable Whitman's Sampler of good cinema, there was one film among all the others that has continued to stay with me. In fact, it is one of those that worms its way ever so neatly under your skin. I couldn't stop thinking about it and in fact, still can't, which means there was only one thing left to do. Write about it.

At the very core of this Mesmer-worthy pull is the filmmaker/star/writer. A man of somewhat slight physical build but yet contained a pure power that only the most alpha and charismatic of males can have. On top of that layer cake of qualities is the undiluted creative passion and fire that only the truly brilliant, mad or a little bit of both possess. The man in question is the inimitable Duke Mitchell and the film? His last and unfinished until recently masterwork, GONE WITH THE POPE.

Going into the film, the main thing I knew about Duke Mitchell was that he was an entertainer that had popped up as the pseudo-Dean Martin to Sammy Petrillo's Jerry Lewis-esque schtick in the C-Film, BELA LUGOSI MEETS THE BROOKLYN GORILLA. The only thing I knew about GWTP was that it was going to be a strange mafioso type film. Both of these are the golden winners of the understatements of the year award because boy howdy, I got sucker punched and in the absolute best of ways. 

In GWTP, Duke plays Paul, a career criminal getting released from prison after being locked up for several years. Most would want to lay low after being trapped in the ultimate cement jungle, especially with a loyal, sweet natured wealthy blonde waiting for them. But Paul's not really given that choice when he is immediately pulled back into the underworld and is coerced into pulling off seven hits in two different cities. In a brilliant move that I will not spoil because I love you, let's just say that Paul is not a dude you want to ever underestimate, especially in a double-cross situation.

Brilliant is a word that one can attribute a lot to GWTP and the core of that is the character of Paul. This man is one heartburst of a character and with an absolute moral need to do right by his friends, who have also just gotten released from the clink. We even see him give a pep talk to a young, strung out long hair (played by Duke's son, Jeffrey Mitchell) about staying off the junk. With the aid of his lady fair, he even gets to take his boys out on a world wide boating trip, all to give them experiences that they never had and would never get to have without his help.

The big sweeping shades of moral gray never quite leave and in fact, only grow exponentially after the film's first act. One night of fun with the boys leads them, all woman-starved from being in prison, to spending the evening with a model-gorgeous black escort. It's bizarre because some of the non-politically correct shit said her way would be greeted with, at best, “what the fuck” and at worst, sheer repulsion. The lady handles it with way more grace and smiles than it deserves but yet, Paul ends up joking with her and being affectionate. It's a brainmelt move because any other film would have these characters as outright, cardboard cutout racist villains. But Paul is clearly our hero of sorts and his attitude isn't totally dyed-in-the-wool racist. It's a bit like having an older relative who will say some heinously politically incorrect shit, but yet his best friend is an African-American and more importantly, he is at least NOT the kind of asshole to swing the “but one of my friends...” old chestnut.

Paul is not that type and from all accounts, neither was Duke Mitchell. 

It's a move that neither endorses nor condemns but better yet, is a slice of life. Good people say messed up things and do messed up things. Anyone that is willing to share this truth with you and not treat you like a child weaned on John Wayne morality is a person that respects you. Thank you, Duke Mitchell.

The moral complexity further continues with Paul's ultimate grand scheme: kidnapping the Pope and holding him for ransom until every single Catholic pays fifty cents. Out of love for their friend and leader, they go along with it but once the egg is hatched, nobody banks on the crew discovering spiritual enlightenment. All of this leads to the film's absolute pivotal moment, one that is not riddled with bullets or machismo laden violence or bravura, but instead one emotional scene that rings more true than a gaggle of any “Oscar” worthy melodramas. The criticism of the Catholic Church is one that is still being echoed over thirty years later and yet, the Pope in this film is also a good man. Not a corrupt figure doing the ole soft shoe on molestation charges and wearing Gucci slippers, but a quiet older man with a sense of serenity and light around him. Yet everything that Paul rips his heart open about the church, right down to the lack of black faces in the pews, rings true.

The rest of the film spirals into a strange climax that has to be seen to be believed. Which is all part of the shocking beauty of GONE WITH THE POPE. It is alternately well made and yet raw at its core, with a fluidity and rhythm like no other. The closest filmmaker that had that same fire spirit that Mitchell displays both acting and directing wise with GWTP is John Cassavetes. Which may sound like an odd comparison at first, especially since Cassavetes' films tended to lack dialogue like “Why Me?” “Why not?” in the midst of a mob hit, but these two men are cut from that same, we're gonna do it anyhow cloth. The blending of the true-to-life lack of filter, zero compromise and pure volatile heart are the hallmarks of artists like this. That's why guys like Duke and Cassavetes will forever stand out because their breed is as striking as they are endangered and realistically, they have always been endangered. 

  

Duke Mitchell, whose career as an entertainer remained solid enough to be deemed “the King of Palm Springs” and have his own star in that famed desert resort, that he didn't need to go into filmmaking. Looking at his short but striking filmography, including the strong gut-punch of a debut with MASSACRE MAFIA STYLE and GONE WITH THE POPE as the crown jewel, a cat like Mitchell did this out of pure need and love. There was no way, even in the more liberal climate of the 1970's, that his films ever had a chance to be blockbusters. There is no justice but it also means he did something right by making a film so wild, wooly and with his thumbprint all over it.

Bless both the folks at Grindhouse Releasing and Jeffrey Mitchell, for making sure that Duke's final film not only was finished, but that it is seeing a more than proper Blu Ray/DVD release. (Complete with a bounty of extras, including interviews, deleted scenes and liner notes from uber-writer, filmmaker and Bizarro literature high guru, John Skipp.) Passing way too soon from this plane at the age of 55, Duke Mitchell's cinematic legacy will continue to live on and grow bigger than it was when he was still alive. If you want to see a film layered with crime, love and religious conflict, then look no further than Duke Mitchell's incendiary GONE WITH THE POPE. 

Copyright 2015 Heather Drain

A Tale of Food, Love, Desire and Man-Chickens: Bob Chinn's Hot & Saucy Pizza Girls

Picking the perfect title for your film or any creative work for that matter, can be incredibly tricky. A bland title will nearly guarantee your potential audience to take a pass. A misleading title, much like reaching for what you think is a hush puppy but instead is a cold, gross battered ball of corn, will only lead to disgust and highly irritate. (Seriously, why would someone do that? Cruelty has many, many forms, dear reader.) But a perfect title will pique your interest and give you a hint of what you are to expect from the work in question. Case in point, Bob Chinn's breezy 1979 film, “Hot & Saucy Pizza Girls.” There are, in fact, girls that are hot, saucy and work in a pizza joint in this film. But the “Pizza Girls” is more than just a food-sex pun of a film. Sort of. Anyways, let's begin!

The movie starts with a classic lit-up sign, promoting “Country Girl Pizza. We Deliver.” Cut to inside the rustic looking pizzeria where the restaurant's owner, John (John “The King” Holmes) is interviewing a potential new delivery girl, Ann Chovy (Desiree Cousteau.) The naive Southern Belle ends up wooing her new boss over with some physical charms and she gets to join the gang of ultra-lovely and highly sassy delivery girls, including Gino (Candida Royalle), Shakey (Laurien Dominique) and Celeste (Christine de Shaffer). If the film had been made a bit later and in a different region, we would also undoubtedly have Totino, Red Baron and Tony.

The girls start to make their deliveries for the day, with the customers ranging from one intensely enthusiastic hayseed (the always reliable Richard Pacheco) to a bored and lonely housewife (Vicky Lindsay). Meanwhile, a slight and shifty man in black is blatantly trying to keep tabs on the pizza girls' comings and goings. Turns out this gentleman, aptly named Inspector Blackie (John Seeman), is a detective determined to bust Country Girl Pizza for being a front for prostitution. While we're on the topic, the phrase,“pizza brothel”, might be one of the best to have emerged out of the valley of language in a long time. Say it out loud. Let it roll off the tip of your tongue. Now think about the connotations. Nice, isn't it?

Anyways, further intrigue emerges as the cowpoke from earlier is buddies with a group of fried chicken enthusiasts led by Henry (Paul Thomas), who also has used the ebullient services of the pizza girls. Turns out, they don't cotton too well to the world of pizza encroaching on their great true love of fried chicken. Never has a hatred of pizza fueled such diabolical tomfoolery. The intrigue gets even weirder when the boys choose to employ the services of the San Francisco “Night Chicken.” Apparently this never seen but heard on screen fowl-tool-of-villainy is six feet tall and has a penchant for rape. (As all overgrown night chickens do!)

After one of the girls gets violated, John immediately knows it is the Night Chicken. We then find out from him that, “We have been after this chicken for ten years!” I guess local police weren't too worried about giant poultry sexually assaulting various people? Anyways, with the aid of his coworker and sidekick Bob (director Bob Chinn), John and company are determined to crack down on this truly foul fowl. Will the gang succeed or lose out to perverse man-birds and fried chicken enthusiasts? What about Inspector Blackie and the wholly guile-less Ann? For that and more, you'll just have to grab some hopefully non-carcinogen riddled popcorn and watch for yourselves! 

“Hot & Saucy Pizza Girls” is an amazingly silly film but the best kind, since it knows it's ridiculous and completely revels in it. It is truly a fun, airy little film that has all the appeal of a naughty and light comic book. The fact that you have a subplot about women getting violated by a monstrous chicken and yet, the whole still plays very sunshine with no dark clouds, is nothing short of amazing. It helped, undoubtedly, having Bob Chinn at the helm. Chinn is most famous for directing a number of the “Johnny Wadd” films, which also brought “Pizza Girls” male star, John Holmes, to major fame and notoriety. The two men had a great rapport with each other and that definitely shows here, with Holmes being incredibly likable and quite funny as the manager of Country Girl Pizza. (Though it is Bob who gets the great line, “I just don't want to get fucked by no chicken!”) Speaking of funny, Richard Pacheco also merits a kudos for his eight-miles-outside-of-Hee-Haw cornpone bumpkin who sings “Get Along Little Doggie” mid-coitus. Eternally underrated John Seeman is funny and physically adept as the mysterious yet wondrously nerdy Inspector Blackie.

The titular pizza girls are all supremely lovely and likable, including such classic adult legends like Desiree Cousteau (“Pretty Peaches”) and Candida Royalle, as well as the equally wonderful but more on the cult side starlets Laurien Dominique and Christine de Shaffer (who was great as lunatic Babsy in Johnny Legend's mind-blowing “Young & Nasty Teenage Cruisers.”) Here they get to be sassy, gorgeous and funny, with Royalle and de Shaffer both carrying off a very strong, take-no-prisoners pizza delivering style. Cousteau is her usual charming Betty Boop by way of small town Southern USA self and looking every inch a 1970's version of a Vargas girl. 

The pseudo-twang-country music is fittingly goony, right down to it being listed as “Lousy Music,” that is credited to “Lon Jon.” (Surely, his real name.) The film is well shot, with all of the colors popping in a pastel yet vibrant type of way. Another stellar remastering job courtesy of the skilled folks at Vinegar Syndrome does not hurt either. Speaking of the DVD release, there's also a short but very informative interview with noted adult film director and “Pizza Girls” producer, Damon Christian. 

“Hot & Saucy Pizza Girls” may not reinvent any cinematic wheel or even the wheel spokes themselves, but it is a very cute, dementedly whimsical movie that features some good comedic performances and is the only film to date that has combined the notion of a pizza brothel with a menacing six foot chicken/creeper. That alone spells it out better than any paint by numbers nature velvet scene available at your nearest family oriented hobby store.

2015 Copyright Heather Drain

You're Either In or In the Way: Duke Mitchell's Massacre Mafia Style

When it comes to crime cinema, there is real and then there's Duke Mitchell real and once you have witnessed that, you will never be the same. Imagine if Cassavetes was a famed lounge singer who once worked with a third-rate Jerry Lewis imitator in a schlocky Bela Lugosi film and then would go on to make two of the most volatile, straight from the soul-gut crime films in the history of independent cinema. That, ladies and gentlemen, is Duke Mitchell.

His directorial debut was 1974's Massacre Mafia Style, in which he also starred as Mimi Micelli, the son of Don Mimi (Lorenzo Dodo), a massively powerful mafioso who was deported back to Sicily when his son was only in his teens. Mimi marries a woman of “...simple Italian heritage, a Saint..” who bares him a little baby boy before she dies of cancer two years later. Now, being a widower with a 6 year old son and a graying father, Mimi plans to move back to the States and continue the family business. Namely, moving to Los Angeles and getting a firm hold on the bookies and pimps. Despite his father's warnings, Mimi goes through with the move, hooking up with his old childhood friend, Jolly (Vic Caesar), who is now a bartender. Mimi offers him a better deal than serving up drinks to the Hollywood fringe and Jolly quickly becomes his right hand man. 

He manages to muscle his way back in with his father's old crew via kidnapping one of the main guys, Chucky (Louis Zito.) After severing his captive's ring finger, Mimi gets the ransom money, releases Chucky just in time for his son's wedding and attends the family event. His beyond brass balls technique works and Mimi and Jolly are officially in business. Mimi's pathway to mafioso supremacy quickly grows slick with blood, with him even saying to Jolly early on, “Tonight we eat, tomorrow we shoot!”

It's not long before the gang want Mimi off their back and to calm all the murdering down. (Which is a huge testament, by the way, to how violent someone is when they have other mob guys complaining about the amount of murder going on.) Even his own father calls him, begging him to stop all of the killing. But when Mimi becomes the target of a double cross, it is only a matter of time for his life of crime and killing to take a monumental ancient Greek tragedy turn. 

Massacre Mafia Style is a gut punch straight from the heart. What Duke Mitchell was able to do with both this film and its masterwork of a follow up, Gone With the Pope, is singularly brilliant. You have this cross-pollination of extreme violence, gritty and highly un-politically correct language, Cassavetes style verite (more on that in a minute), artistry, intelligence and strangest of all, pure love. The latter is a lot like obscenity. It's hard to properly define but you know it when you see it and with Duke's work, it is all over the place. One of the best scenes of this caliber is when Mimi and his compatriots are having this big Italian lunch, prepared by one of the guys' mother. Mimi launches into this terrific monologue about how they are the ones that have disgraced this woman and all Italian mothers, with their violence and crime. It is such an interesting choice on Mitchell's part because with that monologue, he gives his character a depth and underlying moral tear that is not typically expected.

Speaking of dialogue, there are some real doozies here, with my personal favorite being the scene where Mimi and Jolly go to kill the “Greek” and are confronted with his massive bodyguard. After firing several bullets into the hulk of a man, who promptly keels over, Mimi says to Jolly, “You know I'm empty. Got any?” His partner says “I got two.” Mimi replies, “Give them to him.” Jolly does just that, finishing the hit. 

More tender audiences will probably have a tougher time swallowing some of the more racial language used throughout, a lot of which revolves around the pimp character, Super Spook (Jimmy Williams). But it is all true to life because you are dealing with characters who are rough, working class criminals circa the 60's and 70's. It would be false to have these guys suddenly be mindful of their language after gunning down x-number of people. On top of that, if you're really sensitive, maybe picking up a film called Massacre Mafia Style is not the best idea in the first place.

Going back to the Cassavetes theory, Mitchell used a cast of mostly non-actors whom physically fit their roles to a T, giving the film a more raw sort of feel. Which for a movie like this, is such a harmonious move. It graces the film with a sense of more realism that some of its more polished counterparts lack. This coupled with some of the highly intense and bizarre bordering on surreal acts of violence, make for a truly unique brew. The latter includes a man in a wheelchair hooked up via electrical cables to a urinal and another one literally crucified near the Hollywood sign. (The crucifixion scene sports some great intercutting with a religious choir, making the proceedings all the more ghoulish.) What's even more crazy is that both of these incidents are based on true events, with the wheelchair incident being something that Duke personally witnessed during his days as a singer, with the only exception being that in real life, the guy didn't die. In fact, much of the film was loosely based on true events, all gathered from friends and associates Duke had made in his music career. Cliches exist for a reason and truth really is stranger than fiction.

After years of minor cult notoriety due to its run under the title of The Executioner back in the 1970's, Grindhouse Releasing is doing Massacre Mafia Style justice, with help from Duke's son, Jeffrey Mitchell and releasing it this month on a 2 disc set. It is a true shame that Duke Mitchell never got the praise and attention he deserved for his directing work while he was still here, since he died at the young age of 55 back in 1981, but there is no time like the present to raise a toast to the man and marvel at this blood soaked cinematic patchwork quilt sewn together with thought, hard work and love.

Copyright 2015 Heather Drain

Lost, Found & Future: A Peek into Vinegar Syndrome

The phrase “lost film” is one of the saddest in the English vernacular. For being such a young format, it seems inconceivable that any movie could already be vanished to the ether of time. Of course, most know that a large portion of silent films were lost due to both intentional negligence, since film was considered a culturally disposable medium, and bad storage habits, leading to severely deteriorated prints. Due to the flammable nature of the nitrate, some prints would even spontaneously combust!

There's a new type of lost film, though. There are films that are barely old enough to collect a pension check that are marked as missing. People didn't really know better back in the early days, but what is the excuse for the past forty or fifty years? The flammable type of nitrate film stopped being used after 1952, so it's not really the case of movie prints literally bursting into flames. But then what is it? 

A lot of it is direct kin to the same kind of thinking that dates back to the early 1900's. Film was not considered “respectable” therefor it wasn't viewed in terms of preservation. Fast forward several decades later, with the tide changing enough for people to start thinking in terms of cinematic preservation. Ironically enough, most preservationists were thinking in terms of “respectable” films. Genres and subgenres, like adult, sexploitation, horror and underground, were, much like those early silent reels, were regarded as disposable and crude entertainment.

This kind of ignorance and pigheaded elitism is borderline chilling, but there is a silver lining. As more and more people are debating the future of cinema, there are those who are working hard to fight for the preservation of all film. Especially the type of films that have gone on unloved in mainstream circles for too long. Front and center on this right path is Vinegar Syndrome. 

Unearthing everything from arthouse gems (Nelson Lyon's “The Telephone Book,” Theodore Gushuny's “Sugar Cookies”) to ultra obscure cult films (Stanley Lewis' “Punk Vacation”) to adult film classics (Alex DeRenzy's “Pretty Peaches,” Roberta Findlay's “Angel on Fire”), as well as lurid oddities (Bill Milling's “Oriental Blue,” Howard Perkins' “Baby Rosemary,”), they are more than a mere distribution company. Giving the kind of love and care to prints that is normally reserved by companies thrice as old and twice as big, Vinegar Syndrome first come upon my periphery with their Blu-Ray release of “The Lost Films of Herschell Gordon Lewis.” Being someone whose teenage years were spent reading and re-reading and then reading some more books like Michael Weldon's “The Psychotronic Video Guide” and Re/Search's “Incredibly Strange Film Book,” this was a release right after my own heart. 

A simple basic release of such previously lost H.G. Lewis films like “Black Love” and “Linda & Abilene,” would have been more than enough. Especially when you take into account how many a cult film fan had all but given up on these titles ever surfacing. But, even better, not only did they surface but on a lush, re-mastered release to boot. It felt like a gift and it was that key that unlocked for me, the world that is Vinegar Syndrome. 

 In keeping with their forward-thinking means of preserving and distributing these fringe gems of the past, Vinegar Syndrome have started a fundraiser via Indiegogo. The VinegarSydrome.TV project is a motion to bridge their incredible library of cult films with the digital age by creating a video-on-demand channel for such a treasure trove of cinema. Given that their title database is going to grow by at least forty more titles this year, it is a undoubtedly a project worthy of any film lover's attention.

Now....let's all go to the movies! 

2015 © Heather Drain

Mondo Round-Up: Goodbye 2013

Holidays like New Years can have a lot of mixed emotions. For some, it's an exciting time for an alcohol and stupid party hat induced revery. For others, it's the lingering reminder of all the stuff you wanted to, maybe even vowed, to accomplish that never happened. Call it ghosts of holiday resolutions. It used to be one of the most dreaded of holidays for me, but over the past few years, that anxious knot has dwindled down to more of a thoughtful observation and a low burning sensation that inevitably bleeds into ambition. “Failure” is the best opportunity to recycle the past and focus on the fresh, pristine white page in front of you.

For me, this has been an amazing year of seeds planted. Some big projects were put on hold, but potential bigger ones have started to take shape. All the 2012 superstitious fears are laid to waste as life keeps on and on again with the big message here is to never let fear rule you. Remember kids, the worst strain of regret is for the things you never did. And before I devolve into doing some hideous karaoke version of the Butthole Surfers “Sweat Loaf,” here is a Mondo Link round-up for your reading and visual pleasure! 

Happy New Years and let's make every moment smoke and sparkle in 2014!

 Movie Morlocks Tribute to Jess Franco

Beyond Blood Feast: The Lost Films of Herschell Gordon Lewis

Mondo Round-UP: Who the Fuck is Madison? Edition 

The Candy Web & William Castle Tribute!

Rupert Pupkin Speaks: Underrated Dramas & Underrated Horror

Lost Art of Flying Saucer Rock &Roll: Ghastly Love of Johnny X

Wet Nights on Neon Grounds: BillMilling's Oriental Blue

Paracinema's Notes from the Backroom

Fish Heads & Meat Babies: The MusicVideos of Barnes & Barnes

Lust, Mad Love & Dirty Talk: Nelson Lyon's The Telephone Book

In the late 1960's and early 1970's, there was something very special and weird in the cinematic waters. Underground cinema, thanks to mavericks like Andy Warhol, Jack Smith, the Kuchar Brothers and, of course, the granddaddy of them all, Kenneth Anger, was in a golden age and opened the gates up for more filmmakers to experiment. Throwing rocks at the windows of the mainstream, the seeds planted started to bloom. That said, there was no other film that quite blended the worlds of the art underground, traditional narrative, the irreverent spirit and juvenile sexual humor quite like Nelson Lyon's “The Telephone Book.”

Made in 1971, “The Telephone Book” is the type of film that you are never fully prepared for. It doesn't matter what you may have read about it, you will never truly understand what kind of ride you will be in for until you actually sit down and let the images unfurl in front of you. Even then, after the last frame is finished, you will be sitting there, possibly scratching your coconut head, wondering “what the hell did I just watch?” Of course, these are all positive attributes leading up to the fact that there is nothing quite like this film.

The center of this experimental whirlpool is Alice (Sarah Kennedy.) A blonde gamine with a spartan apartment wallpapered floor to ceiling with repeated images of human coupling. She does her morning stretches and listens to “dial-a-prayer” on the radio. Life is a series of weirdly sexualised but rarely sensual vignettes for Alice, with the apex being a chance phone call from the master of dirty phone calls. The velvet voice caller whirls Alice's universe, leading her on a wild goose chase for the elusive Mr. Smith (Mr. Mad from “Tennessee Tuxedo” himself, Norman Rose). Down the rabbit hole Alice goes, running into a ridiculous stag film star by the name of Har Poon (veteran character actor Barry Morse), a thwarted flasher/bargain basement psychiatrist (Roger C. Carmel, best known for his turn as Harry Mudd on “Star Trek”) and a creepy housefrau with sapphic intentions (Jan Farrand), all in the quest to find her dream obscene talker.

 “The Telephone Book” is one kinetic comic book of a film. Not in the sense of the superhero “Zap! POW!” splendor, but more in the sense of vignette pacing and colorful characters. Like a doll eyed version of Candide, Alice is basically this ethereal girl chasing after the one man that's reached out to her and her dysfunctional id. Everything is played out so light, but with all of these strangely dark underpinnings. When Alice's friend (a pre-fame Jill Clayburgh), who goes unnamed and wears an eye mask throughout most of the film, asks her why can't Alice try to find her dream man at home via her own telephone, our heroine reveals that if she spends too much time at home, she fears that she will kill herself. Even after she meets her dream man, there are precise barriers that will prevent them from ever having a non-payphone based union. Then there is the question that is never really posed after the two have an all night phone fest in the absolute most bonkers section of the movie. The film, which up to that point has been in black & white suddenly switches to color, which is then criss-crossed with Len Glasser's crudely striking pornographic animation. The question, for me, is what is left? Presumably, Mr. Smith will keep tantalizing random women with his absurdest erotic phone calls, but what about Alice? 

 

Will she keep chasing Mr. Smith or will the all nighter sonic eros-fest do her in? That's the problem when you reach the mountain is that you either have to find a new mountain or fall to the ground. “The Telephone Book” is such a good film that stubbornly refuses to make any of this easy for you, which is eternally an aces move. The way the film is edited is one hair away from feeling like a Burroughsian cut-up. At different intervals, documentary style interviews come up, talking to an assortment of reformed obscene phone callers. My personal favorite is the gentleman whose new kind of kicks involves farting down an deserted alley. Hey, at least it won't get you arrested! 

 

 

Early on, Warhol Factory Superstar/cult writer, the inimitable Ondine pops up behind a desk, serving as what could only be described as the loosest definition of a Greek chorus ever. His segments are not very long and sparse, which is too bad since Ondine was an incredibly compelling personality. Speaking of fabulous Warhol related figures, Ultra Violet shows up as a whip wielding tigress at Har Poon's studio, looking sexier than any of the nude girls there in her shiny black clothes and surly expression. Rounding out the 6^th degrees of Andy is go-go dancer Geri Miller, who was also in Paul Morrissey's “Trash.” Geri does her famous dance starkers for Mr. Poon's amusement, shimmying like both her rent and life depend on it. The ultimate Warholian move unfortunately is lost, with there originally being intermission footage of the man himself munching on popcorn.

 

Nelson Lyon created something really unique with “The Telephone Book.” Drenched in neurotic human sexuality but always a little too wry and caustic to ever be erotic, this is a film that straddles a line of being richly late 60's/early 70's and yet, due to its very own insane structure, is inadvertently timeless. Being sadly obscure for years, thanks to the continually stellar work of the fine folks at Vinegar Syndrome, we now have this film looking gorgeous and available both on DVD and Blu Ray. 

 

Visually striking in ways you could not even dream of, such as the unforgettable sight of a youngish and aroused William Hickey, and the attitude of a thumb delightfully up the nose towards the status quo, “The Telephone Book is a subterranean gem.

Weekly Mondo Round-Up: And You Know What This Means? It Means That You Can Earn Some Real Money Edition

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.

Human Monsters: A look into George Romero’s Martin

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!

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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.

Weekly Mondo Round-Up: Lessons From the Living

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. 

On a happier note, the crepe was truly sterling.

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