Happy 2014!

 

30 YEARS!

Very Brief Thoughts: Man on the Moon (1999)

Question: Why did Hollywood pay tribute to the most famously subversive, arguably brilliant entertainer of the late 20th century with a maudlin and utterly spineless biopic?

Answer: No one involved understood (or cared) that Andy Kaufman was a media terrorist, and possibly the most dangerous comedian E-V-E-R to appear on national television. Hey, great.

Man on the Moon sucked.

Unless, of course, it was a posthumous prank. Which is possible. I assume Kaufman would get a perverse kick out of seeing his life turned into two hours of expensive, syrupy dogshit.

Watch this:

Way to go, Milos Forman! Did you quote the Bhagavad Gita, Oppenheimer-style, at the premiere? "Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds." Probably!

Incidentally, reader, my sincere regards to your loved ones in the event that seeing a somber Courtney Love "d'aww" face forces you to hang yourself with the power adapter from an Atari Jaguar.


Just sayin'.

Playing with Fire

Gang! Here's a movie you should watch as soon as humanly possible, Brian Trenchard-Smith's Dead End Drive-In (1986)!

Dead End Drive-In? More like Dead End . . . I thought I had a joke for that, but I don't. Whoops!

The films of Brian Trenchard-Smith (BMX Bandits, Stunt Rock) were first brought to my attention by a great documentary called Not Quite Hollywood. Said film details the history of Australian cinema with a strong emphasis on genre pictures. Among the many strange and amazing-looking movies mentioned in Not Quite Hollywood was Trenchard-Smith's Dead End Drive-In, which Quentin Tarantino hailed as his favorite Aussie flick.

Actually, wait, my first experience with Trenchard-Smith's work was Leprechaun 3, which I once watched back-to-back with both Leprechaun and Leprechaun 2. I'm a d-d-daredevil.

My point is, Dead End Drive-In is a super-duper treat. It starts off as the (well-crafted) Australian equivalent of  Escape from New York -- replace Manhattan with a post-apocalyptic drive-in movie theater pulling double duty as a prison camp for new wave hooligans -- and then morphs into a transparently allegorical parable on racial scapegoatting, police corruption, manipulative girlfriends who look sorta like Sheena Easton, social welfare, getting in fights with 7' tall freaks with danger-mullets and skin-tight silver Rod Stewart pants, oh! and fascism.

Fascism?!

Maybe. Dead End Drive-In does go deep, and it goes hard (!). The metaphor involved is probably kind of, uh, on a remedial level in the sense that even I picked up on it, and let's face it: I spent at least half of the film's 92 minutes daydreaming about Christmas leftovers and that girl from Billy Idol's "Cradle of Love" video. That's an exaggeration, but only a slight one. Oh, and (SPOILER ALERT) I don't know why our hero crashes through a neon sign that looks like a slightly-angled star of David at the film's climax. Maybe it was already there. Maybe it was Trenchard-Smith's way of saying, "Fuck you" to the Illuminati.

S'kiddin'.

But, hey, check this song out:

Cool, right?

Lisa Edwards' "Playing with Fire" rocks during the end credits, as (SPOILER ALERT) the film's hero makes his daring escape from the drudgery of ghetto existence, and speeds toward the horizon . . . and a better life. Look, I'm not saying I tied a wool sock around my head and started furiously Phil Manzanera-air-guitaring on a softball bat I had handy -- but that's exactly what happened.

I dare you not to listen to it at least four times in a row. I-FUCKIN'-DOUBLE-DOG-DARE-YOU.

According to Wikipedia, which is never wrong, Lisa Edwards was a back-up singer for Kylie Minogue in the early '90s and had an Australian Top 5 hit in 1992 with "Cry" -- a cover of a Godley and Creme song.

Godley and Creme were members of the weird-but-affable British pop-rock band 10cc, and then went on to direct music videos during the early years of MTV. And that's an amazing coincidence considering I literally JUST finished reading I Want My MTV by Craig Marks and Rob Tannenbaum, which prominently features Godley and Creme.

Please forgive my sad adult ADD outburst/stream of consciousness retard-tangent. What's that? That's the thrust of my entire blog? Oh, snap. You're right.

I'm exhausted by my own stupidity, but that shouldn't stop YOU from marching over to your TV and adding Dead End Drive-In to your Netflix queue. Or you could do it on your computer, which you're presumably using right now. See what I mean about the stupidity? I'm insufferable even to myself!

Hasta luego and stuff.

(Worth noting: That guy on the poster has almost nothing to do with anything that actually happens in Dead End Drive-In . . . just a heads up.)

Christmas Is for Homos

S'kiddin'.

Hey, here's a movie you probably don't care about...

It's worth mentioning that if you click on that poster image you'll get to watch a trailer that doesn't make a lot sense . . . unless you've already seen the movie. I especially like it when those two demented Aryan Kidz® snicker at the lil' ragamuffin's Christmas wish for a bicycle...

Fuck you, pauper! Your Caldor-brand stocking's gonna be full of coal -- or would be if your parents hadn't spent all the coal money on food stamps! Also, you're adopted.

Anyhoo, One Magic Christmas is a Disney film from 1985. It's pretty surreal, and probably deserves its current spot in the dustbin of misbegotten and unloved '80s family entertainment. Though, it IS kind of a hoot if you pretend Harry Dean Stanton's playing a mentally-ill transient instead of, whatsit?, a "Christmas angel?"

They're all Christmas angels in the Cuckoo's Nest, baby.

So, here's a Christmassy playlist I'm not going to upload because I don't want to go to federal prison:

01. Here Comes Santa Claus (Right Down Santa Claus Lane) - The Chipmunks
- It's kitschy for sure, but it's also a lot of fun. Like fondu, or gay men. 

02. Christmas Time Is Here (Vocal Version) - The Vince Guaraldi Trio 
- I once heard this referred to as "The saddest music in the world." Yep.

03. The Man with All the Toys - The Beach Boys
- At a time when things were going right for our friend Brian. Beatlesque and beautiful.

04. Christmas Wrapping - The Waitresses
- That Patty Donahue was something else. She died of lung cancer, aged 40. Happy Holidays!

05. Twelve Days of Christmas - Bob & Doug McKenzie
- "And three other days, which I believe are the mystery days." C'mon!

06. Blue Christmas - Elvis Presley
- The greatest Christmas album of all time that I know of...

07. Merry Christmas (I Don't Want to Fight Tonight) - The Ramones
- Kind of schmaltzy but, hey, Joey Ramone was a black leather Muppet.

08. Frosty the Snowman - The Chipmunks
- Awesome. I hope the intro has been sampled.

09. Christmas in Hollis - Run-D.M.C.
- Black people were excluded from Christmas until 1987.

10. Merry Christmas, Baby - Otis Redding
- This contradicts what I just said.

11. Another Lonely Christmas - Prince
- This was a B-side from the Purple Rain era. You're welcome.

12.  Joy to the World - Sufjan Stevens
- Fresh for 2012, from Stevens' five-disc box set of Christmas music. Not kidding.

13. Hark! The Herald Angels Sing - The Vince Guaraldi Trio
- The greatest Christmas special of all time that I know of...

14. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas - The Chipmunks
- As sung by "David Seville." Utterly heartwarming, and I'm not even pulling your chain.

15. Silent Night - Elvis Presley
- There's no better way to end a Christmas mix-tape. Great music to die with!

Honorable mentions (fun, but too NEGA for inclusion):

No Presents for Christmas - King Diamond
- This exists!

Fuck Christmas - Fear
- Belushi's choice!

Now, go steal all of that music from the Internet (or just click the YouTube links) and play it loud while you get wasted on that monster egg nog your brother makes with lighter fluid.

That's how you praise Baby Jesus in style. Merry Christmas!

Issue #8: So Timely

Hey, gang.

Even the early '80s weren't safe from exploitative parody films made by people who didn't understand what it took to sustain feature-length satire.

My assumption is that the money people -- e.g. Vito "Champagne" Roccaforte of the Secaucus, New Jersey sanitation industry -- saw Airplane! and figured, "Ey, dat's not so hard... it's just a bunch of fuckin' gags! And look at the MACARONI those [enter racial slur of your choosing] made off dat PASTA FAGIOLE! MARONE!"

 Now let's talk about this movie!

Wait, starring Richard Benjamin and Paula Prentiss? Jackpot, guys!

Saturday the 14th  was directed by Howard R. Cohen (the ladies' choice) and produced by Roger Corman's shrewd wife, Julie Corman. She was best known for producing a series of T&A flicks from the early '70s involving night call nurses, young nurses, student nurses, and/or candy stripe nurses.

So many nurses.

Hey, Jeffrey Tambor played a vampire in this movie, which is dope.


Roberta Collins, the best-looking B-actress who ever lived [see site banner], was in it, too -- but barely. Which is stupid and wasteful. Did you people think she was going to make movies forever? Selfish, gang.

Selfish.

Oh, and the eldest daughter from TV's "Gimme a Break!" did this:

There's actually a pretty drawn-out "gettin' naked" sequence leading up to that bubble bath, and I didn't know what to make of it, as the actress (Kari Michaelsen) looked like she was about thirteen years-old. And while child concubines might be legal (encouraged) in the frozen wastelands of Canada, it's definitely frowned-upon here in the States.

Thankfully, Michaelsen was, like, nineteen at the time of filming -- so that's a crisis averted for both New World Pictures and my ambivalent pee-pee.

By the way, Saturday the 14th is a parodical horror movie about a cursed book that magically makes rubbery monsters appear and cause TRUBBA for a suburban family who've just moved to a creepy new house.

Guys like this:

I really like The Creature from the Black Lagoon. Some might say too much. But I don't really know what to do with this (charmingly) ghetto hydrocephaloid clone: THE CREATURE FROM THE WACK LAGOON, HAH-HAH.

Right, kids?

Then there's this little guy, too:

He's really familiar, and I can't place it. I want to say he was in that one Billy Ocean video.

(I hear he's hard to work with. The monster, I mean. Not Billy Ocean.)

Also, my brain draws some parallel between that suit and Reese's Pieces. And it has nothing to do with E.T.

Or maybe it has everything to do with E.T. That's the logical conclusion.

That or an aggressive brain tumor.

See, the thing is, Jeffrey Tambor and his vampiric wife want the cursed book for themselves, because... that's what monsters do, I guess... and there's this flabby Dr. Van Helsing who thwarts them, but then it's revealed that...

OK,  I don't want to talk about the very spoofy (laff!), very cheap Saturday the 14th anymore -- and I have no exit strategy -- so here's another picture of Kari Michaelsen in the tub!

Lucky duck. HA-HA, I'm a joker, you guys!

And jokers are WILD.


See you soon!

Issue #7: Jason Voorhees Is a Terrible Goalie

Hey, gang.

Today is FRIDAY, THE 13TH.

Amazingly, it's already the second Friday the 13th this year (we had one in January).

And there'll be another in July.

Ooooh, baby...

OK, this one time at a Fangoria convention, I was waiting in line to get Sean S. Cunningham's autograph. There was a couple in front of me: a doughy middle-aged man and his much-younger girlfriend.

And when this guy handed Cunningham a Jason Voorhees action figure to get signed, the Friday the 13th creator growled, "I don't play with fuckin' dolls."

Flustered, the fan laughed, "I don't either, but..."

"But-but-but... grow a pair of balls, you fat shit... you shit monkey," Cunningham stuttered mockingly.


Before the humiliated convention-goer could reply, the director lunged over the table and pawed one of his girlfriend's breasts. Mortified, the woman recoiled violently -- causing Cunningham to tear her blouse.

The air went out of the crowded convention hall in one collective gasp.

Upping the ante, Cunningham started rocking back and forth on his feet, drunkenly screaming:

"Last House on the Left, 
Deep-Star-Six,
That bitch's pretty mouth
Was built for suckin' dicks!"

That was pretty much when security closed in, and hurriedly escorted the filmmaker out of the stunned room before a riot broke out.


See you soon!

PS - Obviously, NONE OF THAT EVER HAPPENED. Sean S. Cunningham is a kind and gracious guy who happily signed my DVD copy of the original Friday the 13th.

Issue #4: Rich Kids

Hey, gang.

1979 was an awesome year. Walter Hill's The Warriors had hoodlums shooting each other dead in crowded movie theaters. Seminal English post-punk band Wire released their magnum opus, 154. A couple of ill-matched neurotics got drunk at a Columbus Day party and accidentally conceived another baby.

Me.

Also, Robert Altman executive-produced a movie that no one ever talks about.

Boy, that lobby card sure doesn't pique your interest. Fuck.

So, right, the movie was Robert M. Young's Rich Kids. It's the story of Franny Philips (Trini Alvarado), a 12 year-old girl whose well-meaning parents (John Lithgow, Kathryn Walker) are dancing around the issue of their pending divorce. Unfortunately, Franny understands perfectly well what's going on thanks to the insight of her sympathetic classmate, Jamie (Jeremy Levy). As the situation at home worsens, Franny distracts herself with pre-adolescent sexual curiosity and recurring visits to Jamie's father's incredible bachelor pad. Lessons are learned, parents eat shit, and life goes on.

It's not a stellar movie, but I'm mildly obsessed by it.... Let's explore that.

  
#1: The Location

Rich Kids is set entirely in Manhattan. And this isn't post-Disney, post-9/11 Manhattan -- this is fucking 1979, son. The locations used are jaw-dropping. Franny's Upper West Side brownstone; a neighborhood Italian restaurant with built-in bocce ball court; the posh progressive school the kids attend, or the aforementioned (Asian-themed) bachelor pad -- the film is seemingly built to stir envy in anyone whose childhood wasn't spent among the upper-class environs of '70s NYC.

Ralph D. Bode's cinematography seals the deal, and ensures that Rich Kids is, if nothing else, an amazing document of retro urban privilege.

#2: The Stewardess

This one is easy. There's a hot actress named Diane Stilwell playing a manipulative stewardess who's dating Jamie's dad (Terry Kiser).

She's cute, that's all. (I like the bangs, OK? Fuck off.)

#3: The Heart

Well, I'm kind of a sucker.

Yes, Judith Ross's script is a little rigid (though, kudos for the legit use of profanity); Lithgow doesn't exactly have to flex his acting chops; and Jeremy Levy comes across like "Silver Spoons"-era Jason Bateman's effete Jewish clone. All that aside, there's an old-school earnestness here that, frankly, provides a welcome 100-minute refuge from modern life.

Really, you know, I dig that Franny's parents unabashedly love her... just like I dig that the kids share their first kiss in front of a giant advent screen that's tuned-in to some shitty "late show" B-horror flick.

Plus, Jamie's dad has pet piranhas. I'm only human. 

Rich Kids is currently available on Netflix's streaming service. Check it out.


See you soon!

Issue #3: Godzilla Is Real

Hey, gang.

Godzilla haunts my dreams.

That's the original theater poster for Toho's 1954 masterpiece, Gojira.

Thanks to 50+ years of (awesome) bullshit, a lot of people don't realize that Godzilla's first adventure was actually, you know, a serious movie.

Here's a synopsis:

Japan gets butt-fucked by a nuclear-powered, fire-breathing dinosaur. Some awesome dude with an eye-patch invents a big metal ball called the oxygen destroyer that... destroys oxygen, but also dissolves flesh like that Mad Scientist Monster Lab toy from the late '80s. That thing was fucking cool!

When I was little, I had a re-occuring nightmare involving a day at the beach with my immediate family. Our picnic was routinely interrupted by ground tremors, followed by roars, followed by this EXACT sight:

Well, there weren't any Japanese peasants in my dream -- usually it was just my parents, my siblings and an Igloo cooler full of Five Alive juice and Hydrox -- but you get the gist.

I was terrified!

Not as terrified as Easter '85 when I peed the bed and woke up at 2 am to find that there was a Masters of the Universe figure in my egg basket that I'd never seen before.

Spikor.

My mom made a pretty fucked-up face when, pee-drenched, I suggested that maybe she should let me stay up and open the toy. And she probably could've handled the situation better than wringing her hands in convulsive despair and screaming, "Shit on my life!Shit on YOU!"

Kidding! She just hit me, and then made me take a bath while she changed my sheets.

By the way, Spikor looked like... this!

Pretty dope, but those boots are really clashing with that loincloth.


See you soon!

PS - Did you notice the blonde kid in that Monster Lab ad? Yeah, he was in both Return of the Living Dead, Part II AND the 1988 remake of The Blob. Rad!