Putting on the hits (10/29/99)

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Photographing Fairies. [Nick Willing, 1997; written by Willing and Chris Harrald, after the book by Steven Szilagyi.]

A photographer honeymooning in the Byronic wilds of Switzerland in 1912 loses his wife in a climbing accident; after the trivial interlude of the war, he becomes involved in the postVictorian fascination with spirit photography [embraced for example by Arthur Conan Doyle, who appears in a couple of scenes] — first as a skeptic, then as a believer. In an enchanted wood, with the assistance of a couple of little girls who look just like Dodgson’s Alice Liddell [duh], he attempts to penetrate the veil between the worlds. — Does he succeed? or does he not? With cinematography like this, does it even matter? Convey my congratulations to John de Borman for the beauty of the shoot; and reassure Tinkerbell that yes, I still believe.


White Slaves Of Chinatown. [Joseph Mawra, 1964.]

In the dungeons cunningly secreted beneath an unassuming New York City brownstone, wicked dominatrix Olga tortures and brainwashes captive teenage bimbos, the better to enlist them in her army of drug-dealing prostitutes. After a while opium-smoking makes their clothes fall off, clarifying the evil nature of drug addiction but failing to answer the burning question: will the authors of this picture ever get around to shooting any of these scenes with real synch sound? or will we have to listen to that docudrama narration and that twentysecond loop of cheesy Chinese music for an hour and a half? — No and therefore yes, as it turns out; but if you make it all the way through you get to see the rapidfire package trailer for the Something Weird video catalogue, which includes Hoodlum Girls, Mundo Depravados, I Eat Your Skin, Tijuana After Midnight, Jail Bait, Teenage Gang Debs, Child Bride, Cannibal Island, Wild Women, The Acid Eaters, Blast Off Girls, She Freak, and Scum Of The Earth. I stand in awe.


The Naked Man. [J. Todd Anderson, 1998; written by Anderson and Ethan Coen.]

A chiropractor by day, a professional wrestler by night, mild-mannered family man Michael Rapaport is contented with his lot until the ill-fated day he returns to his father’s drugstore to find that his wife, his parents, and his unborn child have been butchered by an evil paraplegic druglord and an Elvis-impersonating henchman. Driven mad by sorrow, he wanders the countryside in a daze until he happens upon the familiar haunt of the wrestling arena, where he adopts his stage persona of The Naked Man [a deranged creature in a fleshcolored unitard painted with depictions of the internal organs], vanquishes all comers, and then announces to an enraptured audience his intention to go forth from the ring and walk among them, the better to combat the single great wrong that poisons human intercourse: spinal misalignment. Later while thrashing a barroom full of Hell’s Angels he meets a biker chick with Love tattooed on one boob and Hate upon the other [cf. Mitchum in The Night Of The Hunter] who accompanies him upon his quest for justice and the philosophic truth that lies beneath the skin. — “Do the names of things really matter?” Rapaport muses. — Or as the biker chick is always saying: Feel the marshmallow.


The Celebration. [aka Festen: Thomas Vinterberg, 1998; written by Thomas Vinterberg and Mogens Rukov.]

The first essay in the style proposed by a Danish newest-of-the-new-wave manifesto advocating the production of films without artifice, a variation on a classical theme of Renoir [cf. The Rules Of The Game] shot on video without benefit of cinematographic lighting or postproduction sound: a family gathers at a mansion in the country to celebrate the sixtieth birthday of the father of the clan; after a certain amount of preliminary hard drinking, angstridden soulsearching, and recreational fucking across class boundaries, the eldest son rises before his assembled relatives and their retainers to accuse the birthday boy of having played stuff-the-paternal-sausage with himself and his [recently deceased] twin sister in their childhood thirty years before. This provokes predictable outrage, and the sense of the meeting seems to be going against the whistleblower until the fortuitous discovery of said sister’s suicide note provides a smoking gun. — So much for the ambiguity of memory. — With a bit of forethought this might have been developed into a Kierkegaardian Rashomon; but forethought is itself the kind of contrivance that must now be renounced as doctrinal anathema, and instead we have a charming cinema-verite depiction of the Ramseys at home. — Not likely to be the last such essay in mannered antimannerism, though I expect it will be less influential than the far more successful [and far more amateurish] Blair Witch Project.


October Sky. [Joe Johnston, 1999; screenplay by Lewis Colick, from the memoir by Homer Hickam.]

In darkest West Virginia, in October 1957, in a company town populated by the indentured servants of the mining industry, a merry band of high school lads are somehow seized by the inspiration to build rockets; despite the derision of their fellow troglodytes, the baffled hostility of their parents and the opposition of the school system, the incurable disease with which the one teacher who believes in them is suddenly stricken, and the dark realization that none of this seems to be getting them any chicks, they press onward to success, win a science fair, and get to go to college and live long enough to find a place where the sun still shines. — This would simply be forgettable uplifting Hollywood bullshit had it not all actually happened. — But thus it is instead an inspiring reminder of a profound truth [one which, paradoxically, Kevin Williamson will never fully grasp]: that all the great things lie in the hearts of adolescent boys; and that there is no deeper wisdom than that to be found in blowing things up.


Stigmata. [Roger Wainwright, 1999; written by Tom Lazarus and Rick Ramage.]

After an apparent false start [a loose shirttail later tucked much too neatly back beneath the beltline of the plot] involving a trip to Brazil to view that stock device of Gothic fiction, the Bleeding Statue, ace Vatican investigator/priest Gabriel Byrne is dispatched to Pittsburgh [a city which thanks to the cinematographic efforts of the very talented Jeffrey Kimball looks like it may never recover from the filming of Flashdance] to investigate reports that freeliving hairdresser Patricia Arquette has begun displaying the wounds of Christ crucified. Indeed she has; though on her, as you might expect, they look good. Mysteriously she’s also begun speaking in tongues, hurling people around with fingerflicks, and levitating above her bed — i.e., displaying the wounds of Linda Blair — and has attracted the attention of flocks of doves indicating either the descent of the Holy Spirit or another remake of Blade Runner. Fortunately before the producers have time to offer the screenwriters any more notes about cool stuff they’ve seen in other movies that simply has to be grafted into the narrative Patricia lapses into a trance and inscribes a lengthy passage in Aramaic upon the wall of the loft she is mysteriously able to afford on that paycheck from the beauty salon; this turns out to be a forbidden gospel from the NC-17 portion of the Dead Sea Scrolls, and Vatican hit men are dispatched to clean house. Will Patricia escape their clutches? Has that dead Brazilian priest come back to haunt her, and if so, why? Will the producers insist on the gnarly green face and the projectile vomit? Will Byrne’s vow of celibacy make it to the final reel? mine certainly would not have. — And, incidentally, if all this sucked so lamentably why did I enjoy it so much?


Lake Placid. [Steve Miner, 1999; written by David Kelley.]

Cute but spunky paleontologist Bridget Fonda follows a mysterious reptilian tooth back to its place of origin, a lake in Maine; there she meets cute but bashful Fish-and-Wildlife guy Bill Pullman, cute but screwy millionaire adventurer Oliver Platt, cute but foulmouthed little old lady Betty White, and entirely cute deputy bimbo Meredith Salenger. Then they all stand around in the picturesque North woods cracking wise at one another while a giant crocodile leaps out of the water every few minutes and bites somebody in half: The Creature From The Black Lagoon played for laughs, I guess; though [obviously] one can never be sure that Messrs. Miner and Kelley appreciate that their premise is not entirely serious. — Entertaining nonetheless. — And inspiring: I’m looking through the trunk for that old script about submarine warfare in Boulder Creek. I could have sworn I had a part for Meredith Salenger.


Dark Planet. [Albert Magnoli, 1996.]

After many world wars have turned the Earth into a radioactive ashtray, a temporary truce is declared between the contending factions to allow the mounting of an expedition to the, uh, dark planet, where secrets may be found that will reverse entropy, restore the wasted home of mankind to its primordial beauty, and provide an excuse for Maria Ford to take her clothes off. Alas, halfway through the voyage I fell asleep in the middle of a fascist tirade by Michael York, and what happened thereafter I don’t recall.


Sour Grapes. [Larry David, 1998.]

A couple of guys take their girlfriends to Atlantic City for a weekend of dissipation; during the course of the merriment, one of them hits a jackpot on a slot machine [the, uh, grapes], with predictably dire consequences: the buddies quarrel, and the winner loses his job, his girlfriend, his friends, his health, his sanity, and finally the money itself; though not before I myself lost interest. — At one point an otherwise superfluous subplot is discharged when the obnoxious star of a big-hit sitcom is rolled into an operating room and by hilarious accident gets his testicles removed. Presumably this is meant to convey something profound about Mr. David’s experience in television; forgive me if I confess I don’t care to know exactly what.


Bug Buster. [Lorenzo Doumani, 1998; written by Malick Khouri.]

Though the opening composition — an overhead shot through the slowly-rotating blades of a ceilingfan: an adolescent girl in filmy negligee lying on a bed, a full moon lighting the room through a window framed by blowing drapes — and, yes, that swarm of beetles crawling all over the tender flesh of the nubile ingenue — betrays the influence of Dario Argento, the abrupt apparition of Randy Quaid in the character of a deranged exterminator sends the plot careening in a wholly unrelated direction, and what happens after that — save possibly the parts where teenaged vixens get munched by mutant insects — makes no sense whatsoever.


Creature From The Haunted Sea. [Roger Corman, 1961; written by Charles B. Griffith.]

In the chaotic days following the fall of the Batista regime, a group of fascist sympathizers snatch a substantial chunk of the national treasury and flee Cuba on a fishingboat, escorted by a motley assortment of gangsters including a guy who speaks only in animal imitations, a gunmoll in a bathingsuit, a dude who’s seen To Have And Have Not one time too many, and that fabled master of disguise, Secret Agent XK-150. On the passage to exile the gangsters hatch an absurd plot to seize the loot which requires they impersonate a legendary monster which [they claim] keeps crawling out of the ocean to feed on the Cuban party; unfortunately for the success of this scheme the real monster crashes the party and [after a variety of intervening comic incident] eats everybody and hauls the treasure away to the bottom of the sea. [“That’s it,” Corman exclaimed when he was seized by this inspiration: “The monster wins.”] — Among other things this was probably the first spymovie put-on: remarkably, it appeared a year before even Doctor No [let alone Our Man Flint], and therefore [as the great comedies will] parodied in advance. — Another testimonial, in short, to the fertility of the imagination of the great B-movie writer Charles Griffith; also the author of Bucket Of Blood, Little Shop Of Horrors, The Wild Angels, Death Race 2000, and the twice-remade Not Of This Earth.


Search And Destroy. [David Salle, 1995; written by Howard Korder, from a play by Michael Almereyda.]

I still like it. — Just in case you wondered, the scream queen in the last scene is Racquel Welch’s daughter.


Worst trailer of the month: Oliver Stone’s football movie. Please somebody stop him, before he directs again.

Best trailer of the month: Luc Besson’s forthcoming film about Joan of Arc, starring Milla Jovovich as the Maid of Orleans: LeeLoo hears the voice of God. — Jean Reno says he asked for the part, but was turned down. “No,” Besson said. “Not even if you shave.”


Trainspotting. [Danny Boyle; screenplay by John Hodges, from the novel by Irvine Welsh.]

Having now found the script at godsamongdirectors.com, I can report that it reads very well; in fact [since those Scots accents were completely impenetrable] it read well enough that in several passages I had my first chance to figure out just what everybody was talking about. — Really a brilliant specimen of dark comedy; for the sake of a sequel, one must hope Mr. Welsh’s success has not led him to hang out in better company. But next time let’s consider subtitles.


Of course, after that Ewan McGregor met George Lucas, and his career took a turn for the worse. — A few more questions about The Phantom Menace:

What Phantom? Which menace? [I know, I know. But I’m still wondering.]

How can the Jedi dudes swim in those heavy robes? How do they manage to step out of the water absolutely dry?

Why is there so much light underwater? Didn’t any of these guys see Titanic?

What is the “planet core”? and how are they supposed to take a shortcut through it? The center of the Earth, for instance, is molten iron at astronomical pressure; the centers of Jupiter and Saturn are probably even more exotic, perhaps metallic hydrogen. Does Lucas even know this?

Doesn’t Neeson look bored when he’s pretending to talk to those CGI characters? Don’t you think he’d have walked if he’d ever actually seen the Jamaican frogs?

If the frogs and the surfacedwellers have a “symbiotic relationship”, what is it? Which are the ants and which are the aphids?

Why can’t any of these professional mindreaders figure out that the Queen is travelling incognito? Was it just that this particular twist of the plot didn’t make any sense to them either?

If the same droids were involved in all these earlier episodes, shouldn’t everyone have recognized them in the later ones? Wouldn’t C-3PO have narked Vader to Luke and Leia? Or vice-versa?

Aren’t there a lot of three-line scenes in here? It reminds me of the worst of the old serials: “We’d better get the film from the Professor’s laboratory.” “Yes, when it is developed it may reveal the identity of The Crimson Ghost.” “Let’s take the car.” — Cut to the henchmen listening in. A radio message from the Ghost: “Intercept them in Brook Canyon.” — Cut. — Carchase. — Stock footage of a car hurtling over a cliff. — Fistfight in the warehouse. — Shouldn’t Lucas have taken a hint from Mike Myers and just introduced a character named Basil Exposition to walk in every few minutes and explain the action to everybody?

How can the Jedi knights run out of money? Has this ever happened in the history of science fiction? Never mind walking into a bank and writing a check [“You don’t need to see identification...you don’t need to check the balance...”]; if you can send a holographic projection across the galaxy, shouldn’t you be able to wire funds?

Isn’t the virgin-birth thing a couple of tokes over the line? Doesn’t Lucas remember what the Pope said about Godard’s Hail Mary?

How is this kid supposed to bring order to the franchise? He isn’t exactly a prodigy of the order of, say, Drew Barrymore or Sarah Polley; or Natalie Portman herself, for that matter. — There’s nothing dark about him; not that a kid can play dark — maybe the young Christina Ricci could have pulled it off, but even then it would have gone for laughs; nor is it any accident, obviously, that when you think of acting prodigies, you always think of girls. — And it’s inconceivable that he’ll improve over the next couple of pictures. Is it just Lucas’s plan to gradually morph him away into a digital clone?

Is there anyone who can stay awake once Yoda starts explaining how Fear leads to the Dark Side? I always feel like Kevin Kline in A Fish Called Wanda: “What was that...middle...part again?”

What is this story about the little people living in your cells as the source of the Force? Is this some reference to mitochondria? [Has Lucas actually been reading up on molecular biology?] Or are these just like the South Park underpants gnomes?

Is The Line Integral of The Force over The Path through The Configuration Space equal to The Change In The Potential Energy? What is the Dark Side of that?

And who was that babe in the slavegirl outfit standing next to Jabba? What’s his secret? Why does he get all the chicks?


Later.

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Lang in Hollywood (9/11/99)

The repossessed.