I've not had the good fortune of walking through Times Square in the mid- to late 1970s. Good fortune? Yes because that was a time when it looked like we, as a society, were mired resolutely in the sewer and there's something to be said about experiencing a hellish, lurid reality that opens your eyes to the goodness of life.
1970s Times Square - the Deuce - was wall-to-wall movie theaters but not as we currently know them. These theaters catered to the basest of humanity, focused on grindhouse and pornography for the lowliest and lonliest people on the planet.
There's a strange nostalgia for the Deuce now and its probably in response to the the neon-blasted falsified cheerful Times Square of today, which was "cleaned up" years ago to appeal to mainstream America.
Don't let 'em fool ya - this chain-restaurant, chain-retail smeared corner of the earth is just as sleazy as it was back in 1976. But its sleaze is based on pop culture marketing, selling the masses crap that they'll consume and throw away within minutes. But I'm not complaining, Times Square is, if anything, entertaining. The predominance of hookers and drooling junkies are just buried within the masses of roustabout teenagers, families and happy loving couples.
If you want to see remnants of the 1970s, just take a walk down Eighth Avenue between 42nd and 50th.
Or - better yet - watch Martin Scorsese's TAXI DRIVER.
By the time 1972 came around we were good and fed up with the Vietnam War. We were sick of minority oppression and we were slowly discovering that the United States political system was completely corrupt and led by a popular - albeit crooked - president who eventually embitters and almost single handedly destroys a nation already embroiled in domestic and global violence while struggling with crazy out of control inflation. News was peppered by outrageous stories like that rugby team resorting to cannibalism to survive after their airplane crashed into the Andes Mountains.
Conquest of the Planet of the Apes hit audiences like a visceral blow to the solar plexus. Never mind its already built-in sequel cache. This was a film ripe for revolution - serious and violent. The opposite of its predecessor, Escape From the Planet of the Apes, but a fitting sequel/prequel/dystopian nightmare (that is if you were a human; to an ape it was verging utopian).
I first saw the film's poster hanging in the lobby of the Tivoli Theater in Downers Grove, IL about two weeks before its release on June 30, 1972. I spent those next two weeks in a hyper pre-adolescent rage, rambling endlessly about what I thought the film was to be based on my impressions inspired by that poster.
I wasn't entirely right in my predictions about the movie. After seeing it, I didn't grasp (on the surface anway) its political and humanistic implications. I saw it as an action film first and foremost. I related to the apes and saw it wholly from their perspective.
Now? As a human being, Conquest of the Planet of the Apes is terrifying.
The chase in The Seven-Ups isn't as innovative as the one in The French Connection (remember the chase in The French Connection is car vs. elevated train) but I find it more exhilarating than the chase in Bullitt. While Bullitt was one of the first to bring the viewer inside the car and intercut with shots from outside the car, The Seven-Ups chase was faster, sloppier, more desperate and dangerous.
This poster doesn't allude to the chase in the film (a movie that's pretty much cat and mouse) and its minimalist design points to the plot's bleak nature. Its not your typical "show the action" marketing ploy and raises more questions than it answers, which is what you want a movie poster to do. Roy Scheider's expression here is more resigned than angry although it's both. He's obviously been pushed over a cliff - whether society and/or career driven or purely psychological.
Philip D'Antoni (who produced Bullitt and The French Connection) was, I believe, attempting to explore the complexity of a cop's psyche. I think the film missed that mark but its still explosive.
And the chase? It's the film's raison d'etre.
I never really warmed up to Dirty Harry. Don't get me wrong - I love the 1971 film but I just can't relate to Eastwood's portrayal of the cop Harry Callahan, whose super-human, right-wing swagger puts me off. He's too mechanical (and righteous) as opposed to Gene Hackman's flawed Popeye Doyle in The French Connection - a film I consider a classic of early 70s American cop cinema. I tend to go back to Doyle more than I do Callahan. Doyle's swagger is human and The French Connection just feels real.
The Dirty Harry franchise became a parody of itself (even though Dirty Harry is itself a parody) and I find the sequels unwatchable, particularly Ted Post's drab Magnum Force. At least Harry, despite his conservatism, dukes it out with his own kind - ultra-conservative cops (albeit crooked).
Even though I don't care for Magnum Force, I think this poster - from Italy - is more spellbinding than the movie. What's great is how it captures the film but puts a sort of psychedelic spin on the proceedings. It certainly emphasizes Harry's appendage - his .44 Magnum. And I think the title, Una 44 Magnum per L'Ispettore Callaghan basically translates to "A .44 Magnum for Inspector Callahan," which hilariously deflates the power of the film's title: Magnum Force (BTW, Callahan in the Italian title is spelled incorrectly).
Ultimately, the movie simply can't live up to the swagger of its American title nor the wonkiness of this crazy Italian poster.
Movie posters don't have the marketing cache they once did. In fact, you rarely give them a second look when you walk through the multiplex to the shoebox that acts as a theater.
When's the last time a movie poster caught your eye? When's the last time you saw a movie poster and thought, "I gotta see that!"
What I love about this poster is it tells it like it is yet, at the same time, you can't help but wonder what you're in for. This film came out in 1965 and is decidedly non-conformist and anti-Hollywood. Its a big "F-You" to the movie studio system and a double dare to the movie going public. This poster is action packed and proto-feminist despite accentuating the Russ Meyer obvious.
Action, speed, thrills, kicks...its all here on this fantastic one-sheet.
A sentence ends with a period and a period denotes an ending.
If you keep rereading the same sentence over and over, you'll never get to the next sentence.
Writers stuck editing the same sentence over and over never write a new sentence.
People on rewind, running the past over and over never move on.
When this happens, they wrestle with those things in the past that went "wrong." The frustrating part for them is that you can't "right" those "wrongs."
So while every second, every minute, every hour and every day ends with a period, editing and rewriting isn't an option.
You have no choice but to write the next sentence.
And the next.
I took a couple vacation days right before a long Columbus Day weekend because I need to burn some before the end of the year. I'll be taking the week of Thanksgiving and Christmas off as well and will still have days left over.
I work a lot and rarely take time off - even those given to me as part of the company's vacation plan. I like my job, so I'm not scrambling to take time off. Even when I'm not there for a day, I miss it.
I get that everyone needs time off, including me. So when I do take a handful of days for myself, my goal is to disconnect. No checking voicemail and absolutely no checking e-mail.
The not checking e-mail is a challenge for me - I use my phone for lots of stuff so when I do something with it during time off, its tempting to check that e-mail monster. But I won't. Because if I do, I'll get caught up in work and vacation time - even if a couple days - is meant to recharge so that when I do go back to the office, I'll feel refreshed.
Granted, I'll have hundreds of e-mails to go through and half of those will be on fire. And while I could get a jump on them during my time off, then what's the point of taking the time?
So today what did I do on my day off? Not a freakin' thing. I could feel my mind empty.
And it was great.
P.S. I actually did do something. I watched Brian DePalma's SCARFACE on Blu-ray. Truly a feat of greatness.
I run. Five to seven days a week. Two to five miles a run. It helps alleviate stress, the biggest reason I do it. It also helps to keep fear at bay.
Fear. Of what? Failing? Winning? Dying?
I can't remember the last time I failed at something that was debilitating. I've walked away from stuff by choice. But doing so didn't mean I failed. I just walked away and was better for it.
Yes, people close to me have died. And it was horrible. But fear of this happening didn't stop it from happening.
I've had winning moments where the win was overshadowed by the fear. Ironically, the win came easily when fear was pushed away.
But often fear, it seems, is actually unfounded and is more of a low-grade constant psychological aberration that plagues many, if not all of us most all of the time.
I see people living in fear everyday. The truly fearful overcompensate - they're either hyper-confident, hyper-funny, or bully their way through life, or they brag, or they mumble their words and give up trying anything that's unfamiliar or in the spotlight. Or they back-pedal without answering you straight. They drink a lot. Or they condescend. The fearful rarely raise their hands. They let people run all over them. And the truly fearful don't even know that they do any or all of these things.
Fear. There's an uncertainty - always. That's the way it is.
And since that's the way it is - stop. Don't hide behind out-of-character behaviors.
Be self-aware. Ask yourself: "What are you so afraid of?"
You never know. One day you might answer, "Nothing."
And, obviously, they don't give a shit about me. But I am tired of all the consumer grousing about Netflix and their new and more expensive rental policy.
Either stream low-fi movies directly to your box or have superior quality DVDs and Blu-rays mailed to your house. Apparently, speed trumps quality because most people want to stream right now, instead of waiting for the disc. Netflix knows this so, basically, they're cutting off the disc arm of their business and placing DVD rental under something called Qwikster to add confusion to their newly adopted price raising policy. The streaming arm will be called Netflix. And it will win.
Netflix raised their rates but they don't owe me any convoluted explanations (like CEO Reed Hastings does here).
Just say it like it is: "We're basically the only game in town (Redbox is just an annoying gnat) - a corporation in it to make as much money from the consumer as we possibly can and the best way to do that is to double your monthy rates or give you half of your subscription for half the newly doubled price. Yes, we are fully aware that you, citizen consumer, are a sucker."
I'll stick with the disc option - quality trumps speed. But ultimately I'll probably acquiesce. Hopefully by the time I give in to streaming, the quality will be at disc levels (or, in the least, cable levels).
Or I'll just drop the service all together. It really doesn't matter much to me or Netflix.
Am I creative? My ego says yes.
My evil alter ego - the one that wants, for some ego crushing reason, to keep me in check (right or wrong) - says no. I hate my alter ego but sometimes he rears his ugly mug anyway because, too often, I let him.
I've killed off creative thinking that comes out of others because I've let my alter ego win.
I've killed off my own creative thinking because I let that alter ego bastard get the best of me.
This article at Brainzooming opened my eyes: How Creative Thinking Gets Killed by Team Members: 8 Fatal Blows.
Its time to kill the buzzkill.
"Vengeance is a dish best served cold..."
Notoriously known in Drive-in circles as THEY CALL HER ONE EYE (which is really the best title for this film, particularly in terms of exploitation cinema) or HOOKER'S REVENGE, if you were lucky enough to experience it back in the late 70s (say '76 or '77), sandwiched between VAMPIRE HOOKERS and HOUSE OF HOOKERS as part of a traveling outdoor theater "Hooker Extravaganza" road show.
THRILLER - A CRUEL PICTURE was orignally titled THRILLER - EN GRYM FILM (giving the movie "artistic" cred as opposed to being a stark exploiter-cum-sexploiter as it was presented here in the States - its European distribution history is sketchy) in its home country of Sweden where it was subsequently banned for its extreme violence. THRILLER - A CRUEL PICTURE was written and directed by Bo Arne Vibenius - who, incidentally, became very angry when Synapse Films released the DVD of this film a few years back even though Vibenius originally gave Synapse his blessing.
But this was before Quentin Tarantino professed his love for THRILLER. While filming the KILL BILL double threat, Tarantino had the female cast - specifically Daryl Hannah - watch the Vibenius film. Without a doubt, THRILLER was one inspiration for Hannah's character of Elle Driver, who, like Frigga [the main character in THRILLER], wears an ever-changing eye patch. But I'm willing to bet eye patch inspiration was multi-dimensional for Tarantino. Another of Tarantino's favorite films is Jack Hill's SWITCHBLADE SISTERS, which also has a character who wears an eye patch. She is named, fittingly, Patch, and was played by missing-in-action B-Queen Monica Gayle [and Tarantino has never mentioned the Duke's Rooster Cogburn but, typically, when I see eye patch, I think Henry Hathaway's original TRUE GRIT - so, too, would film-buff Tarantino, one would think].
When Vibenius realized he could've jumped on the KILL BILL bandwagon and possibly made a bundle with the DVD release of THRILLER, it was too late - DVD clean-up and production had begun. Finally, Synapse released THRILLER in a limited edition - 25,000 - squaring it firmly with DVD obsessives (almost gone on Amazon, which carries two disc versions here [red box and uncut] and here [yellow box and the version seen at Drive-ins in the 1970s]).
Regardless, it should be on your shelf - whether you can warm up to it or not - simply because its so obscure and so weird. Besides the fact that its a great conversation piece and, if you want to shatter psyches, host a THRILLER screening at your next gathering.
That said, its difficult to peg Vibenius as an artiste based on this film but it does make the viewer wonder if the film's artistic elements (and there are quite a few on display) were accidental or naive or with purpose. And note that while the film's structure is unsettling, its pace is almost interminable.
Take, for instance, the opening sequence where we see a young Frigga wandering through an autumnal woods. The camera dwells on the colors of fall, bright yellows and reds (Frigga's jacket is also yellow), with the occasional sun flare hitting the lens, as Frigga meets an old man. The old man takes Frigga by the hand, walks with her and lifts her in the air and spins her around. The soundtrack plays some scratchy child-like tune, which is not at all joyful but filled with dread.
Vibenius presents this scene in a series of long, medium and POV shots, holding onto the the scenery for literally minutes. When the old man rapes Frigga, this turn of events holds little suspense (which, admittedly, adds to the disturbing element of this scene) but it goes on ad nauseum with ugly, fish-eye shots of the old man's face with his lips dripping tobacco seen from Frigga's perspective (we never see any physical contact between the old man and the young girl, but its certainly not implied - the intent is viewer as victim meant to impose a psychological reaction/relationship with the girl) . The scene ends with the old man being hauled off by the police while Frigga is cradled in her mother's arms. The mother slaps the man across the face but, obviously, Vibenius doesn't know how police procedural works - victims would never be allowed contact with their attackers after an arrest.
This scene sets action in motion but it also sets up the film's pacing - long shots, continuous shots of the mundane (people on the phone, people lighting cigarettes, people filling glasses with alcohol, etc). But, beyond inducing boredom, these continuous shots affect the viewer psychologically, lulled into a nightmare with little chance of escape. Frigga's world slowly devolves into one of complete degradation and eventual annhilation - an existential howl (though silent - because of the childhood trauma, Frigga is rendered mute) of pain and humiliation.
In a jump cut after the attack, Vibenius introduces Frigga (Christina Lindberg, who is now Editor-in-Chief of Swedish Aviation publication FLYGREVYN) as a young adult, working on her parents' farm, milking cows. One day, on her way to therapy, she's picked up by a man who brings her to his apartment where he seduces her with alcohol until she passes out. The man turns out to be a pimp, who has a stable of women strung out on heroin. After being force fed smack, Frigga loses contact with her mother and father, and experiences a myriad of sexual abuse. At one point, Frigga angers the pimp and, in retaliation, he cuts out one of Frigga's eyes with a razor in an excrutiating scene that Vibenius elects to show.
From that point on, Frigga dons a patch that matches not only her clothes but her moods - pink to match a pink neglige, which she innocently wears for her johns; red to match a red dress that signifies firey anger; and black to go with her black leather duster coat where she hides a sawed-off shotgun, hell-bent for vengeance.
Pre-dating TAXI DRIVER, Frigga goes through a training sequence - learns how to use weapons, is tutored in kung-fu, learns how to drive a car - to ready herself for slaughter, to get back at the people who have spent their time abusing her. Unfortunately, the training sequences are dull - and Frigga never really gets physical at all - the kung-fu is done mostly by her teacher, the driving by her instructor. Sure, she shoots, but that's easy.
While the pacing of the film is tiring, Vibenius shoots Frigga's final acts of revenge in excrutiating slow motion. Her weapon of choice is a sawed-off shotgun and she sprays buckshot everywhere - as her johns are dispatched, they fly, fall, flip in almost stop action motion - blood bags exploding in reaction to the slow motion pulsations of Frigga pumping her shotgun. These scenes are bizarre yet achingly beautiful - Vibenius uses this method at least a half dozen times and it never loses its impact. In fact, this motif in THRILLER - the use of ultra slo-mo for acts of violence - out Peckinpah's Peckinpah and almost approaches odd parody.
Ultimately, THRILLER's images burn into the viewer's subconscious - you certainly never forget the experience.
Arguably director Herschell Gordon Lewis' 1964 MOONSHINE MOUNTAIN gave birth to a whole new type of exploitation film—"hixploitation."
The typical hixploitation movie was filled with inbred, wild-eyed hillbillies, horny farmers' daughters, corrupt big-bellied cops, and chainsaw wielding maniacs wreaking havoc over "normal" citizens unfortunate enough to head south across the Mason Dixon Line.
During the 1970s, the drive-in was bursting with a whole heap of hixploitation, which tackled violence, sex, and comedy with plenty of bar brawlin’, ass whuppin’, car crashin’, and barnyard screwin’.
It wasn’t hard to find local passion pits running double features like MIDNIGHT PLOWBOY (1971) and COUNTRY CUZZINS (1970); SOUTHERN COMFORTS (1971) and TOBACCO ROODY (1970); or THE PIGKEEPER’S DAUGHTER (1972) and SASSY SUE (1972) – southern-fried sex/comedy flicks that made the drive-in rounds throughout the wanton 1970s.
The problem with these movies (all of which are available via Something Weird Video), is that when you’ve seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying to avoid these hee-haw humdingers – it’s just that the cornpone gags squeezed between the copious pulchritude has the same numbing effect as drinking kerosene-spiked moonshine from an old fruit jar.
In other words, there’s better hixploitation out there. Good films bypassed by indoor theaters that were busy making their dimes on legitimate movies like STAR WARS. The notes that follow analyze some of the best movies that have transcended their dubious place in the hixploitation subgenre.
WALKING TALL (1973)
Directed by Phil Karlson
WALKING TALL brings us into the nightmare world of the Deep South with non-corruptible sheriff Buford Pusser (played by Joe Don Baker) continually getting his ass whupped by the praetorian local yokels.
They don’t cater to Pusser’s conviction that running moonshine, managing whorehouses and operating gambling dens are not activities conducive to the basic tenets of southern hospitality. Because Pusser busts stills with a big stick, the corrupt powers-that-be decide to make the sheriff’s life as miserable as possible. Pusser shies away from physical violent retaliation – that is until his wife Pauline (Elizabeth Hartman) is murdered, sending the baseball bat-wielding sheriff over the edge, cracking skulls instead of stills.
What makes WALKING TALL so great is its over-the-top reactionary stand making DIRTY HARRY (1972) seem outrageously liberal in comparison. WALKING TALL reeks of Old Testament stuff and vengeance is the platter du jour – especially relevant during the early '70s when the "system” was seen as totally corrupt thanks to Richard Nixon's White House follies.
At that time, everybody felt a little like Buford—abused by those in power, helpless in the wake of violence (think Vietnam) and looking for good old frontier justice.
WALKING TALL, based on a true story, was so successful that it spawned two sequels—WALKING TALL PART II (1975), and THE FINAL CHAPTER – WALKING TALL (1977), and a TV show called WALKING TALL (1981). The sequels and the show starred Bo Svenson as Pusser but Baker's strong performance in the original attributed to that film's long lasting legend.
WALKING TALL was remade in 2004 and starred The Rock – not as Buford Pusser but as a character named Chris Vaughan! The remake – directed by Kevin Bray – tanked at the box office most likely because its anti-authoritarian disposition didn’t ring true like it did in the original. The 1973 film tapped into a burgeoning social breakdown that gripped the U.S. citizenry fed up with an impending governmental crush. Its sentiment still holds today.
MACON COUNTY LINE (1974)
Directed by Richard Compton
Remember back in 1999 when people actually thought THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT was real? Even folks who copped to the film's phoniness whispered a conversation ending caveat, "But you never know..."
The Blair Witch myth, first introduced via the Internet (the site's still live, by the way), was a major marketing coup. THE BLAIR WITCH PROJECT became a moneymaking event. And the film itself, despite its detractors, turned out to be a tidy piece of indie film work—atmospheric, claustrophobic, and psychologically twisted.
But in 1974, all it took to get the buzz going on MACON COUNTY LINE was a clichéd but ominous teaser line splashed across the screen before the movie started — "This story is true. Only the names and places have been changed."
No Facebook. No Twitter. No Internet.
MACON COUNTY LINE is pretty simple—two brothers, Chris and Wayne Dixon (played by real life brothers Alan and Jesse Vint), get violently mixed up with a psychotic Southern sheriff (played to the hilt by Max "Jethro Bodine" Baer, Jr.) resulting in plenty of bloodshed and a pretty effective shock ending. The film's deliberate pacing and sharp juxtaposition from comedy to horror are still fairly unsettling. The acting throughout is natural and director Richard Compton utilizes a documentary feel to the film, which is shot under all-natural lighting.
In 1974, on the outdoor screen, the grainy images became an extension of the surrounding landscape adding to the movie's stark quality. On DVD, the film is a visual revelation—almost painterly.
According to Compton, when MACON COUNTY LINE played to test audiences, nobody liked it. Then, when producer and star Baer, Jr. decided to put the teaser at the start of the film, MACON COUNTY LINE box office broke wide open. The film's final production budget was $225,000. It brought in a remarkable $18.7 million playing almost exclusively at Midwest and Southern drive-in theaters. The key to its resonant success was the perpetuated myth—people believed the events in the movie really happened. And nothing spreads the word quicker than a duped audience.
COCKFIGHTER (1974)
Directed by Monte Hellman
Writer Charles Willeford – known as the “pope of psychopulp” – wrote one of the best little-known novels ever about filmmaking obsession. “The Woman Chaser” was down and dirty, Southern California sleaze with dialog that bristled better than David Mamet.
Willeford was also responsible for the screenplay of one of the best drive-in movies of the early ‘70s – COCKFIGHTER, which was based on Willeford’s novel of the same name and directed by underrated filmmaker Monte Hellman (THE SHOOTING; TWO LANE BLACKTOP; CHINA 9, LIBERTY 37) . Even though the script to COCKFIGHTER has its share of salacious down home spun nuggets, the lead character, Frank Mansfield (Warren Oates) doesn’t speak.
Mansfield, a veteran cockfighter, rambling from hick town to hick town, rooster in hand, makes his living battling chickens. In fact, he’s the Minnesota Fats of cockfighting, with every two-bit rooster rounder wanting a piece of his action. Mansfield’s reputation precedes itself and, because he threw a career-making fight, he takes a vow of silence until he can come out on top again. But the only way for Mansfield to do so is with roosters armed with spurs tearing up some of the most blood-soaked cockfighting pits in the south.
Hellman didn’t care for Willeford’s screenplay, which emphasized the sheer brutality of the “sport,” while coming up short on the redemptive aspects of the story and Mansfield’s obsessive character. Hellman wanted COCKFIGHTER to be more lyrical – a rumination on living in this depraved world of animal cruelty while finding nobility by trying to be a winner in life. Hellman didn’t have a lot of time to rewrite the script and producer Roger Corman wanted to make sure the movie had plenty of money-making action and skin.
Subsequently, COCKFIGHTER plays like a poetic cross between the meditative cinematic explorations of BADLANDS-era Terrence Malick and the contemplative yet alcohol-soaked bloodbath of Sam Peckinpah’s BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA. With COCKFIGHTER, Hellman almost seemed heir apparent to Peckinpah. If you ran COCKFIGHTER, ALFREDO GARCIA, and JUNIOR BONNER on a triple bill, you might think that they were all directed by Peckinpah, particularly when the camera slowed down to emphasize the brutality of two roosters ripping each other apart.
Yet Hellman was able to transcend Peckinpah with COCKFIGHTER by its overt romanticism especially as seen in the relationship between Mansfield and his lost love Mary Elizabeth (Patricia Pearcy). Where Peckinpah seemed uncomfortable exploring a loving connection between a man and woman, Hellman seemed at home with the idea even though it’s inevitable that the love will quickly shatter.
Hellman shot the film in 23 days with a keen eye on the French Nouvelle Vague (New Wave) movement of the 1960s, with cinematographer Nestor Almendros (who shot Malick’s DAYS OF HEAVEN) inspired by the cinema of Jean-Luc Godard, Francois Truffaut and, to a certain extent, the emotional, unblinking lens of Eric Rohmer. Almendros used natural lighting outdoors as well as indoors, giving the film a spontaneous feel with long shots languid while bird fights were cut with whiplash precision by Lewis Teague.
As poetic as Hellman’s intents may have been, Corman wanted a slam-bang drive-in film and when the movie was ready for release, the producer had no idea how to promote it. He had the film recut, inserting a car chase and some T&A, and ran those segments exclusively in the film’s trailers. Struggling to attract an audience, the film was released with three different titles at different times: BORN TO KILL, GAMBLIN’ MAN and WILD DRIFTER. None of this helped and COCKFIGHTER faded into relative obscurity.That is, until it was released in Europe, where film critics lauded it as a masterpiece in American cinema. Except, that is, for England, where COCKFIGHTER was banned for its depiction of animal cruelty.
ROLLING THUNDER (1977)
Directed by John Flynn
The late '70s boasted a long list of fucked-up-from-the-war Vietnam Vet flicks including, but not limited to, Martin Scorsese's TAXI DRIVER (1976), Jeremy Paul Kagan's HEROES (1977), Hal Ashby's COMING HOME (1978), and Michael Cimino's THE DEER HUNTER (1978). All eventually culminating with Francis Ford Coppola's napalm-cum-acid drenched opus – APOCALYPSE NOW (1979).
But one heavy vet-on-a-rampage flick called ROLLING THUNDER somehow, sadly, slipped through the cracks after it finished the rounds on the drive-in circuit in 1977. In retrospect, ROLLING THUNDER—written by Paul Schrader, not long after he and Scorsese blew cinema apart with TAXI DRIVER—is just as incendiary as the Scorsese flick but not nearly as complex.
Where Travis Bickle (Robert De Niro) was constructed with an almost impenetrable degree of motivational ambiguity in TAXI DRIVER, Schrader, with ROLLING THUNDER, writes the character of Charles Rane (William Devane) in wholly black and white terms.
Returning from Vietnam after 2,500 days in a POW camp, Rane and his friend, Johnny Vohden (Tommy Lee Jones), have a difficult time adjusting to life in the "world." When Rane's family is shot up by a bunch of hick thugs (psychotically spearheaded by James "Roscoe P. Coltrane" Best), the vets head down to Mexico on a bloodletting spree of murderous revenge. Pretty straightforward, pretty simple. But that doesn't lessen the film's power. While certainly not a dumbed-down version of TAXI DRIVER, ROLLING THUNDER, with its linear plot and minimal dialogue, was definitely written for the drive-in masses.
Director John Flynn shoots the scenes in Mexican brothels with grainy film stock that glows with bleeding reds and oranges. His south-of-the-border saloons are stocked with boozed up gringos and slippery Pancho Villa types—not unlike the festering chili dumps prowled by Warren Oates in Sam Peckinpah's BRING ME THE HEAD OF ALFREDO GARCIA (1974).
Flynn's cathartic violence is operatic yet less extreme than the slow-motion styling of Peckinpah's THE WILD BUNCH or the final hallucinatory tabloid nightmare of TAXI DRIVER. But that doesn't make the explosive finale of ROLLING THUNDER any less potent. While Flynn's overall direction is relatively static, the impact of Schrader's minimalist words has the power to permeate and haunt long after the final credits roll.
There are at least two North American DVDs of David Cronenberg's 1976 film RABID floating around out there and its a tough call to say which disc is a "must own" because both have their flaws.
Hopefully, someday, we'll get the definitive version (Blu-ray) of this overlooked - yet great film - in the Cronenberg canon. But, until then, we have to make do with either the New Concorde Home Video DVD or the 2004 released Ventura Distribution disc.
The New Concorde Home Video version was released in October of 2000 (and was my first DVD purchase), is full screen with image cropped on the sides and includes hefty headspace. New Concorde's colors are slightly muted giving the film a greenish cold appearance, which works nicely within the film's chilly context. This version was part of a series of DVDs released under the auspices of "Roger Corman Presents." The New Concorde version runs 91 minutes, includes no extras except for a trailer and very limited bios - but it is out of print, making it desirable for DVD obsessives and collectors.
The Ventura Distribution (Sommerville House Releasing label) DVD is, for better or worse, presented in a matted widescreen format, which would be great except the image has headspace problems - it simply looks cropped - but you do get some nifty image information on the sides that are missing in the New Concorde edition. Coloration is brighter, autumnal but, at times, fuzzy. I'm not sure of the print's source material - but its almost certainly not the same as the New Concorde. Happily, the cloudy imagery gives the film a nice, sleazy vibe and accentuates its odd pacing. By no means definitive, the Ventura runs 88 minutes, three minutes shorter than the New Concorde.
The bonus of the Ventura release is the inclusion of a Cronenberg commentary, which is heady, deadpan and, mosty, serious. In fact, Cronenberg takes all of his works seriously. Each one of his films is a piece of a vast puzzle, addressing bodily dysfunction and its effect on the psyche (SPIDER probes the dissolution of the psyche and its effect on the body) - and RABID is prime bodily dysfunction despite its drive-in, B-movie roots, which (especially during the 70s) typically signified dopey teen sex flicks or nonsensical splatter films. Simply put, horror with brains was a rarity at the drive-in back "in the day." (If you were lucky, you saw RABID as a double feature with Larry Cohen's excellent GOD TOLD ME TO - another smart B-grader from the latter 1970s).
The Ventura DVD also includes a lengthy interview with Cronenberg about the film, which was actually included at the tail end of a Canadian VHS release of RABID probably dated from the late 80s or early 90s. Subsequently, the commentary and interview make the Ventura release preferred but, using image as a basis, fans of this film may be disappointed with its wonky presentation. Either way, both DVD versions are superior to any tape release of RABID, which are smeared and cropped.
Although the film follows Rose (Marilyn Chambers) from a motorcycle accident to a harrowing skin graft operation from an ethically dubious doctor that causes a vampiric infection that makes Rose crave blood and, subsequently, violently draw blood from victims with a protrusion from her armpit to the rapid spread of rabies that leaves her victims slobbering and on the attack like manic zombies, RABID is really about losing control of the body and the inevitable lonliness of a victim who's been termed a "monster" - a term Rose uses about herself when she realizes that it is her that is spreading a sort of venereal disease that devastates Montreal.
But what I especially like about RABID is the film's sequence of events that lead to a totally expected conclusion, which, despite its predictability, still shocks even if you've seen the movie dozens of times (which I have). The beauty, of course, is the film's crazy-seeming logic but, in fact, events happen that make total sense (within this universe).
Spoilers ahead...
- Hart and Rose are involved in a firey motorcycle accident
- Rose is rushed to, not a hospital, but to the Kelloid Center for plastic surgery
- Dr. Dan Kelloid is about to embark on franchising his business yet is leary about becoming the "Colonel Sanders" of plastic surgery.
- The motorcycle accident interrupts his business decision.
- He operates on Rose using an untried technique where he grafts skin from her thighs to mend her extensive internal injuries.
- The operation is a success, only something happens inside of Rose and she grows a dual phallus/vaginal appendage under her arm, which is a piercing receptacle for blood - much like a stinger.
- Rose awakens confused, leaves the hospital and seduces and infects everybody she runs into.
- The infection leaves her victims rabid - they, in turn, attack other humans, leaving them infected, spreading the disease like "wildfire."
- Rose wanders the streets of Montreal, alienated and unaware that it is she who is spreading the disease even as sanitation trucks carrying lifeless and diseased corpses rumble by.
- When she realizes that she's the one passing the infection, she acknowledges she's a "monster."
- When she dies, she, too, is dumped into a garbage truck. Nobody knows she's the disease's "host" so there's little chance of finding a cure.
Terrifically bleak and intelligent, RABID is my favorite of all Cronenberg's films. From the bizarre static shots, the musical score (which is somber and eerie floating under images like a haunted Theramin), the bloodletting and green ooze, RABID plays as a sister film to Martin Scorsese's TAXI DRIVER, which also delves into the mind of someone who is fractured and alone. In fact, Rose, like Travis Bickle, wanders city streets looking to connect with someone - anyone - to sate an unquenchable thirst. Porno theaters provide, for Rose and Travis, a comfortable (for them, at least) environment to find that connection, although Travis never succeeds whereas Rose finds a willing victim.
Rene Verzier's desolate cinematography is chilly, autumnal and evokes a kind of longing in the viewer, a nostalgic creepiness that's both strange and beautiful. Freeze frame almost any shot from the film - Rose's lonely walk down a deserted, rain soaked country road - and you have an image that's nothing short of impressionistic.
Cronenberg's obsession with the dissolution of body and the mind's ability to comprehend the termination, stems from his father's lucidity while riddled with tissue eating cancer. Cronenberg watched - in horror-filled wonder - as his father's body changed into something else under the ravages of the disease.
Almost every one of Cronenberg's films deals in metamorphisis and many, including RABID, FAST COMPANY, SHIVERS, THE BROOD, eXistenZ, THE FLY, SPIDER, NAKED LUNCH, allude to insectile metamorphisis, referencing, of course, a Kafkaesque dilemma of nature where you, once of sound body and mind, wake up a starving insect looking for fuel (blood, flesh) to survive. Like cancer, the change comes quickly and, naturally, too late.
In June, when I made the long walk from my 5th Avenue hotel down to 23rd St. to vibe on the Chelsea, little did I know they were getting ready to shut the place down. I'm glad I snapped a handful of pics and got to walk under the infamous marquee.
Supposedly the hotel will be undergoing renovations and it is landmarked so it will probably retain its look but one never knows.
The Chelsea website remarks that the hotel is "currently closed." But what's interesting is the link called "Production Inquiries," which takes you to a page describing why its such a great place to shoot film and video. Not only does it provide atmospheric backdrop but has room enough for "hair and make-up or craft services."
They use a photo of actress Kate Winslet referring to a recent photo shoot she did at the hotel. But, historically, I'd like to see a listing of all the movies shot there: CHELSEA GIRLS, SID AND NANCY, 9 1/2 WEEKS, CHELSEA WALLS...to name a few. I'm sure there are more.
Maybe include a couple stills from each to show the possible ambiance. I'm not sure the shot of Kate Winslet does the joint justice. Patti Smith wasn't available?
Releasing Brian De Palma's SCARFACE on Blu-ray is good news. But this is absolutely crazy. The SCARFACE Limited Edition Humidor lists for $999 (or $699 at Amazon), is handcrafted by humidor designer Daniel Marshall, and includes all kinds of collectible extras.
While I know that Tony Montana smoked cigars in the movie, I don't think that was his premier vice of choice. So the digital accouterments are somewhat misplaced in conjunction with a film that explores the depravity of a completely debased (if not charming...and, let's face it, he is charming) sub-human being. Cocaine and guns meant more to Montana than cigars (albeit his favorites were, no doubt, Cuban). So this very expensive DVD set packaged in a humidor - while cute - is all wrong.
If I'm going to pay a buck shy of a grand on this set, it better include a gold plated coke spoon, a ticket to Bolivia and a get out of jail free card...and the best image money can buy. I'd prefer Montana's uber-cool suit that he's wearing when he gets peppered at the end of the film.
I don't know if writer Oliver Stone meant for SCARFACE to be anti-violent, anti-drug, anti-Castro, anti-anything and I don't know if Stone (and De Palma) meant to glorify this exceedingly excessive lifestye, which still influences thug-of-all-creeds anti-social behavior, but the film is still a major kick in the ass.
I saw it on initial release in 1983 at the Arcada Theater in St. Charles, Illinois and remember walking out stunned and thrilled. It was one of the first films I saw that made me want to study the art of filmmaking even deeper. I was entranced by De Palma's use of the camera and its movement. While watching the film, I became aware of the way it was edited, how it was framed and how the music (Giorgio Moroder) played a role as large as Al Pacino. I also discovered that a truly horrific subject matter can be out loud funny. Tony Montana really is a funny guy - as long as you don't cross him.
So, yes, I'm glad they're releasing this masterpiece on Blu-ray. But I won't be splurging on the humidor. I'll just have to settle for this.
