Dead Woman Walking

Cinema is, perhaps, the most elaborate trick ever played on the human mind. Movies transport us and elicit emotion because we believe the things we see on the screen to be real, at least on some level.  Movie-makers are the magicians, and those who have some of the toughest acts are those working in the genre of horror.  As the audience gets more and more jaded, the tricks seem to get more and more complicated and, in turn, more expensive.  So, what if the magicians are on a severe budget?  Keep it simple . . . and defy convention.  Never reveal your tricks, right?  Wrong.  Tell the audience exactly what you’re doing and make sure the trick is so primally terrifying that recognizing the emotional puppetry is of little to no consequence.  And so the makers of Carnival of Souls (1962) carry off one of the simplest, heart-jolting horrors of all time.

Our protagonist, Mary Henry, is the sole survivor of a car accident on a bridge.  For three hours, locals search for the car and its three inhabitants, but to no avail . . . until Mary staggers onto land, smeared with mud and looking barely human.  The trauma is too much for her, so she leaves to take a job as an organist in another town, and that’s when the magic begins.  During her twilight drive, she looks through her windows at the passing new landscapes of Utah.  But one glance through the passenger window reveals a ghastly countenance quite unhuman.  Once she catches her breath and focuses back on the road, a white-faced, dark-eyed man stands before the car, looking like the corpse of John Lithgow.  Just simple faces made up look ghoulish and cut to with such sharp unexpectedness that it throws off our conscious mind completely . . . and runs Mary off the road.

She eventually makes it to her new room for rent with a squat landlady of suspicious benevolence and a lecherous drunk warehouse worker living across the hall.  She ends up being fired from the organist job for playing sacrilegious music, and all the while she is haunted by the presence of the ghoul, when she least expects it.  In the end, the (un)dead claim her soul to its rightful place among them.  As it turns out, when they pull the car from the river, the dead Mary is in the passenger seat.  (Booyah, Sixth Sense!)

As I said, there’s no hiding the tricks.  The movie takes multiple opportunities to underscore the power of imagination to warp the simplest of things into nightmarish fantasies . . . and that’s exactly what the movie is doing.  Dr. Samuels, who wants to help the nerve-ridden Mary, very carefully and logically explains to her how the mind defies the truths presented to us in the corporeal world.  The landlady chides Mary for letting her imagination run away with her, and even though we too have been presented the unsettling images, our increased heartbeat is a tell-tale sign of our minds busy at overwork.  Even Mary herself says, “It's funny... the world is so different in the daylight. In the dark, your fantasies get so out of hand. But in the daylight everything falls back into place again.”  And so it is for us in the dark of the cinema; the post-credits daylight can restore reason (with varying efficiency depending on the power of the film).

The budget for the film is estimated at $30,000, so some make-up and all the fear-inspiring qualities of a human face, I suspect, had to be put to maximum use.  And they are so effectively woven into the visual narrative that you dread their inevitable reappearance with a visceral fear.  The scenes of the reanimated dead rising from their underwater slumbers are like macabre fairy tales come to life, and when the corpses dance, there’s a morbid elegance that puts us and Mary in a trance, no matter how much we might like to look away.  Low effects equals high fear.

And more than fear, this film has atmosfear.  The Saltair Pavilion in Utah is one of the best uses of location shooting I can think of in horror film, maybe in all of film.  The decadent decay and stark isolation against the horizon highlight its utter abandonment.  A curiosity of manmade achievement, the Pavilion lures us all in, Mary included, to discover what secrets may lurk at its heart.  One of the absolute scariest scenes in the entire film is when Mary enters the abandoned Pavilion to explore the carnival attractions from yesteryear.  While standing at the bottom of a large slide, quite alone and in silence, from nowhere an empty pad for carnival-going patrons of the slide whooshes a foreboding descent of its own accord to rest right beside a waiting Mary.  Such a simple “gag” that it’s not a gag at all (undoubtedly inexpensive)--but it’s horrific.  And it’s possible because of the fantastic locale.

The film is wonderfully identifiable from its era but feels fresh on every viewing.  There’s a quiet bravado in its fright factor.    It says, “Don’t let your mind play tricks on you,” and then repeatedly pranks your conscious mind.  And just when the trick seems trite, it pulls a dead rabbit from the hat, and instead of saying, “Look what I can do,” it challenges, “I dare you to look at what I can do.”  And with gleeful resistance, we look.

Christmas on Cloud Nine

What better place to find Christmas cheer than a crystal castle floating on a cloud way up in the heavens, the home of our beloved Santa.  And as it turns out, Jolly Old St. Nicholas and Liberace may have shared an interior designer, the evidence of which can be found in Santa Claus (1959).  This little creation is the strangest cinematic lift your holiday spirits could ever hope for.

Santa Claus is strangely intoxicating, like the hardest warm apple cider you’ve ever gulped.  In his cloud quarters that would make the Care Bears jealous, Santa plays a pipe organ to his transplanted version of Disney’s “It’s a Small World” attraction.  Stereotyped kiddies spanning the globe violate child labor laws and work like mad to make all the toys that Santa will deliver on Christmas.  (The little African children wear loin cloths, and the kids from the U.S.A. dress like little cowboys and cowgirls as they sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”)  Let us not forget famed wizard Merlin, permanent house guest of Mr. Claus.   The mad apothecary is busy concocting sleeping powders and magical flowers that can make Santa disappear at will.  And there’s a hulking blacksmith on the premises, crafting the key that will open all the doors of the world when Santa takes his toy-tossing flight.  But by far, the best amenity of the Claus estate is a talking telescope that looks like something straight out of The Rocky Horror Picture Show.  How else could Santa compose his naughty-or-nice list?

The movie is sensory overload--like someone crammed all of Christmas into Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory.  Its over-the-top liberties taken with conveying a tale of Christmas are truly childlike in their whimsy.  The longer the film goes, the more the plot sounds like a kid on a very long road trip telling an impromptu story from the back seat . . . there’s humor, charm, and a very specific sort of entertainment inherent in the wild concoction.

And what child tells a story without a bad guy?  Move the n to the end, and Santa spells Satan.  Yep, he’s here, too.  He sends one of his minions, Pitch, to spoil Santa’s global giving and to taint the hearts and actions of children.  His nimble contortions in red tights  and sulfuric stench are no match for Papa Noel, and the three little boys whom he persuades to work against Santa find three lumps of coal for all their efforts.  A demon from hell and an omniscient, aged man who lives in the clouds (albeit with a bad memory) are an interesting take on the archetypes of religion and their ties to the holidays.

Buried under all the trippy trimmings are the truly heartwarming stories of Billy and Lupita.  Billy is the little rich boy who asks Santa only for the love of his parents, a young socialite couple who substitute their presence with materialism so they can go party out on the town.  He’s so desperately seeking affection that he’s granted the ultimate privilege of seeing Santa in a dream.  In the dream, he begs for even the love of Santa, and the jolly man explains that his parents really do love him.  To drive the point home, he even goes and serves a cocktail of remorse to the absentee parents, inspiring them to race home and enfold Billy in their arms in the style of an Olan Mills portrait.  

And then there’s Lupita, the most adorable little poor girl you’ve ever seen who wants only a doll for Christmas.  Pitch almost talks her into stealing one at the marketplace, but she resists temptation because stealing is evil and she wants more than anything to be a good little girl.  But teetering on the edge of a misstep does not go without punishment; Lupita has a nightmare in which life-size versions of the dolls overtake her in a sinister, choreographed dance, repeating to her from their terrifyingly masked faces that stealing one doll won’t make any difference.  Luckily, Lupita stays strong and wakes up too scared to ever compromise her morals again.  In the end, her mother is tearfully explaining that Santa loves all children, rich and poor, but that she will have to wait until the next year to be rewarded for her goodness.  When she goes out to the patio to find that Santa has miraculously left a a beautiful doll for her, the spirit of making people happy is infectious.

Santa Claus is the perfectly weird and heartfelt antidote to cumbersome holiday traditions, i.e., Johnny Mathis singing carols, fruitcakes, and the serious physical dangers of Black Friday shopping.  It dares to dream an uninhibited version of Christmas fancy, dripping with visual splendor and childlike morality.  Whether stone-sober or hopped up on eggnog, this is a festival of fantasy you won’t soon forget or regret.

Prophet Margin

My generation’s cynicism can, at least in part, be traced back to our grade school lessons in “stranger danger.”  We were taught to trust no one, no matter how seemingly benevolent.  Even today, I’d rather the UPS man just leave the box at my doorstep.  All the prime-time police procedurals I watch have bred a hyper-awareness of surroundings and a tinge of paranoia.  It’s almost impossible to imagine an era in American history when a traveling salesman, a total stranger peddling goods, would be invited into a home to make a pitch.  The idea is absolutely beyond the comprehension of a former latchkey kid who was taught to quake and hide at the ring of a doorbell.  But, I suppose peddling the Good Word lends some credibility to one’s commercial crusade, and thus we arrive at Salesman (1968), a primary source in the history of our American identity.

This Maysles Brothers documentary is a desperate, alternately funny and melancholy look at the enterprise of selling Bibles door-to-door in the late 1960s.  We watch as the focal character, Paul Brennan--more affectionately known as “The Badger,” burns out in a firework of disenchantment as he loses his ability to connect with the customer and make the sale.  As much as examining the personalities and defeats of the salesman, the film depicts the seedy side of ecclesiastical commercialization in such unlikely nooks as the Edgewater Resort conference room, a pre-sale poolside pep talk, and around the poker table.

In a sales meeting, we see a bull-faced bully of a man stand at the front and threaten to fire any man who isn’t meeting his sales quota with a perky attitude.  There are no excuses.  There are no individuals.  There are only numbers.  You can see the creases of panic in The Badger’s face as he looks on: his performance is surely on the chopping block.  But he’s not to be pitied as much as the poor bastards who, like men moved by a sermon walk to the pulpit to be saved, stand up and give a testimony of their investment in their work and how much dough they plan to rake in during the coming year.  And what’s worse--they use their proclamations of projected wealth to publicly challenge and demean one another.  Let us not forget that they plan to claim these thousands by selling leather-bound volumes (available in red or in “antique” white) to believers and non (doesn’t matter).  They’ve managed to suck the sacred out of religion like the world’s most powerful vacuum. 

In addition to the business and the salesmen, let us not forget the final piece of this unholy trinity--the customer.  For the most part, people are receptive to at least the pitch.  But they, too, talk a mean game.  In a smattering of polite deceptions, it’s hard to know the score between seller and buyer.  Who really has the upper hand?  From Boston to Florida, these homes looking to purchase paginated salvation all seem burdened by the myriad defeats of an ordinary life.  Most of these god-fearing citizens come off as though they’ve had the wind knocked out of their sails, in turn knocking the wind out of the sales.  The major selling points?  The leather binding.  The section of glossy paintings in the middle.  The Message?  The message?  It’s all in the packaging, baby.

As we meander the snowy sidewalks and sunny shorelines, everything comes back around to The Badger.  Watching Paul Brennan attempt to navigate the unfamiliar terrain of Opa-locka, Florida, we see all the pieces of his life presented in concise clarity.  His inability to communicate and connect with people he doesn’t know.  An ineffectual wandering.  A search for purpose.  And the finale of spinning the disaster into a yarn for the consolation pittance of a few laughs.  Because if they’re laughing (whether at him or with him) he has some value, a contribution to the group . . . a performance to divert from his performance.

In a tag-team sale, The Badger is accompanied by the much younger, much more optimistic Rabbit, formally James Baker.  It’s dark outside, and the two sit in the living room of a couple with a young boy.  It’s late . . . the woman is even in her nightgown.  There’s the suggestion of an intimate trust bestowed upon these salesmen the likes of which are virtually unknown in our society today.  The Badger decides to assert himself into the Rabbit’s seemingly successful sales pitch, and his boldness tinged with negativity sends the whole thing south.  Which is painful enough to watch.  But when The Rabbit, with the impulsive condescension of youth, publicly chides him and berates his earnest tactics in front of the family, it feels like the final straw for The Badger.  It’s as if we’re watching the world formally acknowledge his futility.  Outdated, outmoded, outmanned.  

During one successful sale of a Bible and a Catholic Person’s Encyclopedia, the wife (in curlers) signs her name to the order form while her husband (in his undershirt) puts an instrumental recording of The Beatles’ “Yesterday” on the family record player.  The sound comes out wonky and drunken.  As people sign away money they don’t have in search of gilded meaning, we get the sense that they do believe in yesterday, and not much else.  The present is certainly lackluster, and the future seems tenuous at best . . . especially in the case of The Badger.  In a time of upheaval, change, and unrest, the Maysles have preserved an amusingly bleak saga of man’s search for meaning in the modern era, either by purchasing or peddling.

If Momma Ain’t Happy . . .

One of my favorite character archetypes is the crazy old bitch because she’s a ticking time bomb of vindictive grump that will cloud up and rain all over the most angelic of creatures.  And that’s what makes her so fun to watch.  (I always think Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?.)  But when you make the crazy old bitch a mother with attachment issues, well, hell hath no fury like it.  And in Die! Die! My Darling! (1965), Tallulah Bankhead is a violent little sourpuss driven to cultish worship by her dead son’s questionable purity.  And you’d better bow down with her at the altar or else . . .

Right off the bat, you have to expect melodrama; the title has three exclamation points.  And for all the campy violence the film delivers, ten or fifteen exclamation points wouldn’t be too much.  A worldly young woman (Patricia) traveling with her posh fiance has promised to pay a visit to her dead ex-fiance’s mother.  She makes the visit despite objections from her current fiance and soon regrets the decision.  Upon her arrival, she finds a shrewish curmudgeon and widower running her own over zealous mini-cult in her home (Mrs. Trefoile played by Bankhead) with her motley crew of socially rejected servants.  Upon discovering that Patricia has “betrayed” her beloved dead son Stephen by pledging her love to someone else, something snaps and she takes Patricia hostage in attic bedroom.  Initially her goal is to show Patricia the error of her ways and make her a pure commit to the dead Stephen and thereby closer to the Lord.  But Patricia’s strong will soon pushes Mrs. Trefoile to violence . . . and in the name of religious reform, of course.  Quite a scenario, right?

This movie could so easily have lapsed into horror comedy kitsch, and there are moments of ridiculousness, no doubt.  But at her core, Bankhead’s Mrs. Trefoile is terrifying and complex, and the careening sensibilities of her austere and maudlin matriarch carry this movie into the cultish divine.  There’s her absolute control over the rag-tag band of outsiders in her service.  Even the libidinous Harry, the most competent male servant on staff, can be snapped from the ravages of passion with one stern word from the diminutive dame.  She holds fast to her past secrets and confesses her complexities with utter stinginess.  She was an actress in her past life, a grand lady of the stage and probably some other environments, until Mr. Trefoile plucked her from that existence into a wholesome family life.  She offers this clue to her psychosis only in hopes of convincing Patricia to repent her sinful ways.  And in a moment of weakness, free from any prying eyes save those of the audience, Mrs. Trefoile breaks from her devotion to smear passion-red lipstick across her mouth and let her tresses snake around her uninhibited.  There is an unapologetic sexuality fighting beneath that religious suppression, and in killing that spirit in Patricia, Mrs. Trefiole, too, can keep it all but dead deep within herself.

And then there’s her disturbing, mournful worship of her son.  She keeps sporadic vigil at the locked, untouched room of her deceased Stephen.  Her constant fretting and connection to him makes him as mysteriously present as many of the characters we see in the flesh.  And while she laments the departure of Stephen’s earthly self, the circumstances could not be more perfect: his spirit will forever be virginal, at least in her mind.  In sending Patricia to the grave in the same state, Stephen’s purity and reputation are forever, irrevocably untarnished.  And she’ll do whatever it takes to make this happen.  Starvation. Beatings at the hand of the very masculine female servant, Anne.  Solitary confinement.  And in the end, the climax comes, appropriately, in the basement of the house--where the basest of Mrs. Trefoile’s deceptions and manipulations come back to ultimately defeat her.  And looking on is Stephen’s portrait, looming over the action like The Picture of Dorian Gray.

In the end, Patricia walks away in the arms of her fiance, but it is Bankhead’s Trefoile who is victorious.  She’s larger than the picture, filling the story with an ominous presence even when she’s off screen.  And every time poor Patricia delights in the worldly pleasures, no matter how small--a coat of lipstick, a bright red sweater, even an act of sexual love--Mrs. Trefoile will loom large in her mind’s eye, a deviant deity ever-present in her moral barometer.  

Slapstick Criminal Minds with a Side of Kevorkian

Serial killer senior citizen aunts have never been so delightful and inviting as in Arsenic and Old Lace (1944).  Two altruistic spinsters use the ruse of a room for rent to offer mercy killings for the lonely.  An excommunicated black sheep of the family returns home a more evil brand of killer with a Boris Karloff face transplant.  And let us not forget Teddy who is laboring under the delusion that he’s Teddy Roosevelt, burying yellow fever victims in the cellar where he’s also digging the Panama Canal.  All in one little movie.  Insanity, right?

I doubt that anyone today would have the creative bravura to combine these elements in a film, but if they did, it would be littered with cheap tricks like sidelong psychotic glances and writhing victims; the aunts would surely possess the grating, archetypal cackle.  And given this stewpot of a situation, that would be way too much--a fear-infested farce.  (I’m less than impressed with the genre of horror as it currently stands.)  Arsenic and Old Lace is completely successful in presenting itself as a comedy, a morbid curiosity that is completely unpredictable.  The fact that I never see the corpses never deters my enjoyment (but I never doubt their presence or power within the scope of the film).  The characters and the backdrop of situation override the need for gruesome evidence of crimes committed.  The first shot of Jonathan Brewster’s still-healing face transplant is terrifying enough . . . and then also fodder for some of the best comic remarks in the movie.  The shot of Jonathan’s case of torture tools inspires a visceral wave of fear, but only for a moment.  A bumbling beat cop who wants to be a playwright interrupts the impending dismemberment and once again comic mayhem rules the day.

This really is one of the strangest combinations of plot elements and characterizations I’ve encountered in American film, and it’s a bubbling cauldron of charm.  Who says crime is for young hoodlums?  I encourage you to sit down with the Aunts Brewster for a cup of tea and a ginger snap-of-the-neck!

More Than a Slight Sensation

I have yet to see a William Castle film that does not fascinate and entertain me.  His movies are macabre joyrides through humanity and the darkness (both human and otherworldly) that plagues it.  The Tingler (1959) has all the makings of a great scary flick: creepy creature, a man maddened by scientific quest, machete-wielding figment (or is it?), bathtub of scarlet blood juxtaposed to the stark black and white of the rest of the film, and, above all, Vincent Price.  Need I say more?

Actually, the answer to that question is yes; I do need to say more because there is so much else that needs unpacking or at the very least acknowledgment.  The external “gimmicks” in the film (I think Castle would heartily approve of that term) work because of the internal darkness that underlies them.  The Tingler looks like a slimy, mutated lobster that could easily bore through human flesh--think Red Lobster platter that’s been exposed to radiation.  Sure, that’s a frightening thought.  But this very tangible creature already lives in all of us . . . a parasite feasting on our darkest fears.  That’s an even more frightening thought.  The age-old adage, “It’s all in your mind,” is no longer sufficient.  The fears in our thoughts have bred a real threat to our existence.  Thank God a scream, a physical release of said fears, can allay the callous crustacean.  Unless you’re mute like poor Martha Ryerson Higginson . . .

But even beyond The Tingler as the easily-identified evil target are the blackened human relationships that parade before us like a sadistic soap opera.  There’s Dr. Warren Chapin (played by Price), a cuckold who watches his wife, Isabel (Patricia Cutts), flaunt her unfaithfulness out of the boredom and jealousy her husband’s work inspires.  Their hateful words and his founded accusations flicker like burning snakes’ tongues, searing one another’s psyche with the forked impression of pure hate.  He shoots her with a blank to get X-rays of her spine as part of his experiment and the joy of inflicting a faux death on his despised mate.  Once The Tingler has been identified and caged, Isabel doesn’t think twice about drugging her husband and then unleashing the beast so that it may devour him.  Isabel doesn’t need freedom--she has it.  She wants revenge, the deadliest form, and the delight from knowing that she has single-handedly been responsible for Warren’s complete demise.

Could there be a darker portrait of marriage?  Sure.  Ollie and Martha Higgins (Philip Coolidge and Judith Evelyn)--the owner of a theater showing silent films and his deaf wife who is incapable of hearing or making a sound.  When Dr. Chapin cuts his hand while visiting the Higgins, Martha faints at the sight of blood, her normal reaction.  Dr. Chapin finds this to be her psychosomatic escape from fear since she cannot scream, and when she fails to recover from her unease after several days, Dr. Chapin prescribes barbiturates and plenty of rest.  He gives Martha a shot to help her sleep, but she wakens to a series of elaborate, terrifying hoaxes that literally scare her to death.  Ollie is the orchestrator of her untimely death, and very unapologetically so.  Why?  It’s never really clear.  A great deal of attention is paid to a safe that holds the money from the theater box office that Martha tends.  If she’s out of the way, Ollie is a rich man.  But, he also whines that “You don’t know how it was with her.”  How was it?  In the scene of Chapin’s visit, Ollie condescends and talks to her and about her like any object in their apartment.  There’s much more fondness in his voice when he speaks of his theater.  It’s a strange relationship, devoid of love and certainly trust, and Ollie’s intricate maliciousness is underscored by his claim that it isn’t like he shot her or stabbed her.  He wants to pin his sin on The Tingler . . . only The Tingler is part of him, living on the deepest, darkest part of him.

For all of its B-movie packaging (which is another one of the things I thoroughly enjoy about the film), there’s a terrifying mass at, well, the spine of the film.  And it’s even darker and deeper than the fears we all harbor.  It’s the capacity for pure, black hatred toward fellow man that’s truly disturbing.  Or even worse, toward those we “love,” or at least loved at one time but have come to loathe after years of circumstance.  That we could possess at our core an urge so strong to steal the life of someone we’ve known so closely for years or to be the unsuspecting victim of that urge is enough to produce more than a tingle.

You Can’t Handle the Truth . . . Can You?

Last night after my husband (a 1L) heaved a sigh of relief after turning in his open memo, we celebrated by watching The Paper Chase (1973).  Until the final moments of the movie, I was completely invested, but since I’ve reserved this blog as a place to celebrate the good, I’ll leave the ending out of the picture.  (The director would have been wise to do so as well.)

That being said, there are few movies that dare to drop you down into the middle of a world that is not your own and just let you go without backstory or preparation or explanation.  One of the few films that stuck out to me as functioning in this way is one of my favorites, The Friends of Eddie Coyle (interestingly enough also from 1973).  We get plummeted into a world of crime and connections and navigate as we go.  The Paper Chase worked in the same way.   We enter the classroom (not just any classroom but a Harvard law classroom, the most glorified, deified of hallowed educational grounds) with the protagonist Hart (played by Timothy Bottoms).  We go in knowing just as little as he does about what to expect.  Neither of us read the posted assignment.  Neither of us are prepared for what lurks ahead.  And orchestrating the most intense piece of the experience:  Charles W. Kingsfield, Jr., a renowned legal genius who feeds on the fear and incompetencies of these neophytes of the law in the form of a bow-tie clad T-Rex turned professor.

For a little under two hours, those of us who are outsiders to this subculture are granted passage into what it’s like.  We navigate the various echelons of student performance and study groups, the politics of competition.  We see and even feel the effects of hero worship in academia, watch how the mighty tower over and alternately terrify and inspire those crouching at their altars.  We recognize the thrumming, ever-present competition, destroying dreams and lives and pushing some beyond the limits of what they thought possible, for better and worse.  Aside from just observing Hart, we are granted an invisible seventh spot in Franklin Ford III’s exclusive study group (probably to the chagrin of Bell, who would probably call us a “pimp” and deny us access to his 800 page outline).  This group shows us the many faces of 1L’s and how pressure manifests itself differently in various personalities and backgrounds.  

And impressively, we’re left to draw our own conclusions about this elite microcosm.  Maybe Kingsfield is a self-aggrandizing bastard whose closest thing to a human connection are the photos on the walls of his study.  Or maybe he’s a truly inspiring genius who grants his students the gift to be the living extensions of the judges.  Perhaps Kevin is a pathetic, throw-away bourgeoise, living like a king on his in-laws’ dime and driveling about a photographic memory.  Or perhaps he’s a determined young man trying to balance a family with a program that’s eating him alive despite extraordinary effort.  Either/or, we get to make our own judgments.  And in the end, we recognize that whether we think Kingsfield is the ultimate ass or feel pity for Kevin, it absolutely doesn’t matter.  Harvard Law (and any successful sect of academia) with its traditions, its “grooming of minds to rule the world” as Hart says, is going to continue and thrive despite any of our outsiders’ (or insiders’) assessments.  It’s a whole more grandiose and self-interested than any of its minuscule, individual parts.  And it’s captured and parceled so well in this film.

Hipsters and Angst and Art--Oh My!

I love movies that are off-the-wall, but every once in a while, I run across a movie that comes to that wall, rams it head first, and completely obliterates it.  That’s Roger Corman’s A Bucket of Blood (1959).  It is an oddball, razor-sharp black comedy that had me one second laughing out loud and the next harboring pity for social outcasts.

The movie focuses on the artistic counterculture, and the beatnik parodies in the film are beyond perfection.  The opening sequence features the character of Maxwell (for me, the show-stealer of the movie) reciting his own poetic take on society a la Ginsberg’s Howl.  He’s a pompous windbag and the Grand Poobah of this self-satisfied band of hipster hangers-on.  In fact, these characters are so believable and relevant that upon opening your door, you may find them boycotting the Starbuck’s down the street because it’s corporate and infesting any local, little-known coffee shop or cafe with their arrogance and disdain.  As their sanctified and sanctimonious skipper, Maxwell parcels out his florid knowledge, and his disciples lap it like hungry alley cats.  For instance, he proclaims with conviction that “Life is an obscure hobo, bumming a ride on the omnibus of art.” And “I refuse to say anything twice. Repetition is death.  When you repeat something, you are reliving a moment, wasting it, severing it from the other end of your life. I believe only in new impressions, new stimuli, new life!”  The beatniks refer to themselves as “aware” as if the adjective is a badge of honor endowed on so few.  When one of them is questioned as to what it is exactly that she’s aware of, she responds with “Not anything, stupid.  Just aware.”  The audience and the movie makers know that everything spewing from Maxwell, and in turn his followers, is pure shit, but the characters have no idea they’re playing in the sewers.  The credibility of Maxwell (and art in general) rests only on the tenuous agreement by the followers that merit is to be found in the words he strings together--an idea the movie brings into sharp, critical, hilarious focus.

And then comes the truly tragic figure of Walter--a boy as much victim as he is villain.  Walter works as a bus boy in the coffee shop where these hipsters meet to fester in their own self-importance, and he desperately wants the acceptance and acclaim that Maxwell and some of the others have achieved.  But the obstacle is that Walter lacks the creativity, intelligence, and artistic inclination to make any sort of name for himself.  This unwillingly makes Walter the whipping post of his intellectually superior peers, and he only half understands how truly suck-tastic his position amongst them is.  In speaking of Walter, Maxwell says, “Walter has a clear mind. One day something will enter it, feel lonely, and leave again.”  This is the shared sentiment of Walter’s usefulness and ability within the beatnik community.

But the tides turn when Walter accidentally stabs the boardinghouse cat, Frankie, with a steak knife through a plaster wall, covers the corpse and weapon in molding clay, and calls it art.  Bam.  Instant success.  His greatest fan and supporter?  Maxwell--who has no idea that the sculpture is anything other than a molded figment of Walter’s imagination.  Walter enters what I’ll call a very active and fertile creative period, turning out more sculptures of greater, er, stature and increasingly gruesome detail.  And rather than indict him, I root for Walter, the poor bus boy turned artist with slow-firing synapses and a desperate need for love and acceptance.

In the end, the truth is discovered, and rather than eat their words (they’d rather have wheat-germ bagels), the beatniks embrace the social groupthink to which they are so opposed and hunt down Walter.  The cycle has come full circle, and Walter is once again their whipping boy, an easy target for damnation to handily erase their misguided hero worship and praise for the “artistry” of brutal murder.  

But the real “artistry” is in twisting a tale to make the killer the victim and the smarmy pseudo-intellectuals the savage perps of social injustice.  The mixed metaphors and spoken-word mumbo jumbo that these counterculture culprits go tossing about are as deadly as Walter’s hands.  Their exclusivity and cruelty breeds a desperation that most people can relate to on some level.  What wouldn’t we do to belong?  Hand over our lunch money?  Play a cruel prank on someone even further on the outside than us?  Do the bidding of someone higher on the social food chain?  Completely sign over our self-worth and dignity?  Corman’s vision is a gathering of geeks with the adopted mentality of bully jocks, and in all its cult-film coverings, it’s as real and relevant today as it was over 50 years ago.  A dynamic social critique with some of the most quote-worthy, hilarious lines of all time make this well-worth viewing.  

S-T-A-U-N-C-H

Where can the world’s most inventive fashionista with Vaudevillian dreams of grandeur and a socialite background possibly carve out a worthy niche in this world and find daily inspiration?  If your mind went to the posh East Hampton, playplace for the privileged, then you would be right.  Sort of.  But only if in the 70s, you had taken a real estate survey and mixed it with a game of “one of these is not like the others.”  Upon doing so, you would have stumbled upon Grey Gardens, a namesake homestead for one of my favorite films of all time.  Grey Gardens (1975) is documentary magic.  Its very real material is the stuff of great fiction.  Bizarre.  Unflinching.  Lovable.  Loathsome.  Tragic.  This sad manifestation of the mother-daughter dynamic is, to use Little Edie’s term, pulverizing.  But there’s a hopeful panache in Little Edie simultaneously miraculous and inspiring.

Mother and daughter (Big Edie Bouvier Beale and Little Edie Bouvier Beale) inhabit their decaying mansion (named Grey Gardens) in East Hampton, New York.  Actually, decay is a pretty kind term for the unlivable squalor that festers around them, and it’s made all the more severe when juxtaposed to the manicured perfection that surrounds their estate.  On top of that, add the fact that this dynamic duo are the aunt and cousin of Jacqueline Kennedy Onasis.  And beyond that, add the daughter’s resent for imprisonment and a mother’s overbearing, life-sucking, ever-critical dominance, and you have more tension than a fishing line with a great white on the end.  The thin line of connection could sever at any moment.

Big Edie has hoarded her relationship with her daughter.  After Mr. Beale left the family, Little Edie became bound to her mother and Grey Gardens.  Little Edie’s every waking moment belongs to Big Edie, so long as the matriarch is cognizant.  Even Little Edie’s name, her very identity, mirrors that of her mother--one more tether to remind her of the life chosen for her.  One of the most disturbing images in the film is the “bedroom” in which the women appear to primarily live.  They cook there on a hot plate.  They play hostess there.  They house the haphazard family treasures there.  Particularly, it is the mattress, sans sheet, upon which Big Edie lodges that is so disastrous.  Unidentifiable stains run down the sides.  Newspapers, bits of food, relics, and any number of cats clutter the tiny twin-sized pad of existence.  You can almost smell it through the screen.  And as they sing their shrill notes in turn (Big Edie was apparently a recording artist of some repute) and chirp angrily over one another, I’m reminded of two exotic birds, the last of their kind teetering on the brink of extinction, gathering any assortment of bits and pieces with which to build a nest, albeit an unhappy one.

But in the face of her ever oppressive environment, it’s Little Edie’s optimism that can charm the audience.  For instance, her dress, which she deems “the revolutionary costume,” basically flips the bird at the establishment, at the town, at her dreary confinement.  Little Edie has found more uses for pantyhose and fishnets than you would ever believe humanly possible.  Well-worn terry cloth towels become regal headscarves with the right antique brooch.  With the right heels, a bathing suit makes a cocktail or even day dress.  And when is there not reason to wear a cape?  After all, her struggles are heroic.

And Little Edie’s cosmopolitan creativity extends to interior design as well and literature as well.  In a scene of gut-wrenching vulnerability, Little Edie walks us through a room she’s currently trying to re-do.  She’s clipped magazine photos of roses and glued them together for a collage, a reminder that beauty is real and accessible.  She’s hoarded travel magazines and a bird cage, and she walks us through the idea for her layout with the utmost creative confidence.  As she peruses a book on astrology, she becomes quite animated at the discovery that a Libra man would bring order to her life.  For her, that answers all the questions and sets forth a simple solution to all her woes: al she has to do is find a Libra man.  WIth legs crossed, magnifying glass in hand, “Little” Edith Bouvier Beale can face the world in all its harsh ugliness.

And there’s Little Edie’s maternal nature, as heavy a cross as anyone has ever had to bear.  Her mother needed her in the wake of a failed marriage, so Edie came home to do the bidding.  As the Brothers Maysles (the filmmakers) come and go everyday, it is Edie seeing them in and out and offering hors d’oeuvres made from only God knows what.  As Big Edie barks out demands, it’s Little Edie carrying them out with an efficiency that surprises even her mother.  From the rat’s nest, she fishes out records, radios, food items.  And for the raccoons nesting in the attic (and any of the cats that may have strayed so far), she molds a mountain of Wonderbread and cat food to keep them nourished and happy.

The rancor and rot of Grey Gardens is, no doubt, a tragic existence for both women.  Their reclusive symbiosis is as unhealthy a portrait of American living as I’ve seen.  But shining through the rubbish is the sparkle of Little Edie, her dreams and hopes.  No judgments or degradations can kill her spirit, and this film is like an old friend come to hear a self-proclaimed staunch woman reveal her triumphs and tribulations.  And as long as we’re watching, listening, Little Edie (so much larger than her epithet implies) has a lifeline to the outside where she still believes anything is possible.

Little Edie’s greatest moment of triumph comes in the form of a performance of original choreography.  Clad in a black leotard, black stockings, high heels, and a color block head scarf, Edie literally marches to the beat of her own music--a military march she has on record.  With American flag in hand, she struts and twirls like a top that may spin right off the plane of this existence and into some other dimension.  In this short stint in a dim spotlight, she’s a woman unburdened.

Ground Control to Major Tomfoolery

Amusement parks are unsettling.  They have as much sinister potential as any dark alley.  Even the smallest, seemingly innocent aspect, like the permanently smiling mascots greeting you just inside the barred, prison-like gates, can start to look monstrous if you stare too long.  Those kids screaming in fear, refusing their parents’ attempts at a photo op . . . maybe they’re ultra perceptive to the lurking evil.  And the rides designed to simulate sensations of fear and danger?  What if they were too good?  What if the animatronic dinosaur short circuits and hoists someone to a life-threatening height between his razor-sharp metal teeth?  Sure, Jurassic Park went there, but before there was Jurassic Park, there was Westworld.  And after Westworld, there was Futureworld (1976).

There’s a difference between plot and shit that happens.  Futureworld is concerned with the shit that happens, never mind the narrative thread that holds it together, and it really is a dated, wild ride completely worth taking.  If you’ve ever wondered what might happen if David Cronenberg could run Disney for a day, this film is your answer.  Futureworld is just one theme park offered by the Delos Resort.  Guests can opt for a medieval or ancient Roman holiday, complete with violent or sexual interaction with realistic robot replicas of human beings.  But our protagonists (two reporters--Peter Fonda and Blythe Danner-- attempting to dig up dirt on Delos after the murderous disaster of Westworld) set off for Futureworld, so our ticket is punched.  

The adventure starts with the simulation of a space shuttle launch, and this is interesting for a couple of reasons.  First off, the simulation forces vacationers/participants into roles laden with responsibility, such as flight commander.  The stress and panic of the simulation quickly burden these characters, and one proclaims, “Hey, I’m supposed to be on vacation!”  True.  What constitutes vacation?  Why do we go seeking these elaborate albeit temporary stressors?  How far is too far?

Once the shuttle “lands,” guests can frolic in a space-port that looks like a hybrid between Studio 54 and a Sega game.  They can drink.  They can fornicate with robots.  They can play a game of chess with living game pieces (which are confessed elaborate holograms).  There’s an early version of Nintendo Wii available where patrons can don boxing gloves wired to two humanesque robot boxers --Mike Tyson’s Punch Out with life-size knockoffs of people, if you will.  Or there’s always a shuttle available for skiing on the red snow caps of Mars.  

And then our reporters get a view behind the scenes at mission control for this virtual reality.  They find mostly robots running this portion of the park, except for the lone Harry, the maintenance man who has to be kept around to deal with any water issues as the robots are unable to get wet.  He has a faceless robot pal named Clark whom he salvaged from the trash.  They play cards together.  Of course there’s also exclusive access to the next Delos attraction--a machine that makes dreams visible and interactive.  (Total Recall, anyone?)  Blythe Danner has a strangely erotic dream sequence with Yul Brynner (the dead robot gunslinger from the now defunct Westworld) that defies description.

But for all their snooping, our reporters get red-clad surgeons (think prototypes for Cronenberg’s Dead Ringers) who scoop them up in their sleep to probe, prod, and run tests on them.  Why?  Because the Delos Resort is on a mission to create cyborg clones of all the most important political figures in the world . . . and these two reporters.  Gotta have good publicity, you know.  

In the end, our reporters destroy their cloned counterparts and escape back into reality to foil the plans of Delos.  Their final act of defiance?  Peter Fonda flips the bird to the head scientist of Delos who orchestrated all this evil and then slips through the Delos gateway back to the world belonging exclusively to humans . . . or does it?  It’s not a new idea--technology devouring humanity--and this certainly isn’t the first movie to handle it.  But what’s interesting here is we’re looking at technology as a danger in the form of leisure.  Like anything with the potential to become addictive--how much is too much?  At what point do you break from the real world and lose your ability to come back to it all?  How do you get to the point where reality becomes the escape from the fantasy?  These musings are snuggled deep below the surface of a 104-minute strange little trip to a Futureworld that is distinctly and deliciously from our past.  And if you never get deep enough to see its innerworkings, it’s still worth fastening the belt and pulling down the lap bar to see all its candy-colored tricks and treasures.

Poised on the Edge of the Clift

I’ll just get right down to it: has there ever been anything so beautiful on film as Montgomery Clift in From Here to Eternity (1953)?  (I can only think of Redford as Hubbell Gardner, and even then Monty still might win out.)  Lord knows a beautiful face at the center of a sprawling Hollywood drama never hurt anything, but there are certainly a few cases where even a hunk was unable to help much less save a film.  Unlike its tragic Karen Holmes, From Here to Eternity was never in need of saving.  From start to finish, it’s a stock pond of characters we genuinely care about, floundering to find solidarity with something, someone, anyone, ANYTHING!

Sounds melodramatic, right?  It is . . . but it’s melodrama done in that magical, arresting, classical Hollywood way where it’s completely successful.  It dares to take tired, worn out elements (like the damsel in distress) and do them so well that only in afterthought are these characters and circumstances anything other than a fresh fantasy with all the tragedy and romance of which human life is capable.

The enchantment, the spell this movie weaves rests largely in the characters.  And even deeper than that, there are these moments, seemingly minuscule but ultimately, quietly larger-than-life, that just wring my guts and my imagination.  A slew of these moments come from the ill-fated romance of Karen and Sergeant Warden.  The beach scene is wonderful--grandiose in the traditional brass band sort of way.   And visually, it is one of those pop culture points of reference that you know before you really know.  You see the scene in context and go, “So that’s where that’s from.”  Karen’s soaked locks hanging down actually make her look deflated, just like she feels, and her brave confessional and Warden’s complete acceptance of the circumstances are emotionally electric.  But even before that, the two share a moment that gives the audience a visceral jolt of tension and longing.  Warden shows up at the Holmes residence, and his boss’s wife treads the porch in her childish shorts, caught completely unaware: there’s a foreshadowing and anticipation of something simultaneously beautiful, powerful, and threatening.  Karen Holmes is bewildered, and yet she isn’t at all.  And Warden knows what he’s getting himself into, is in full control of his intentions, and yet not at all.  When they’re locked in a staring contest on that porch, rain pouring, and Warden breaks it off by presenting the “important papers” for the Captain to sign . . . it’s the roller coaster’s slow ascent to the peak before the plummet.  

While I’m not by any measure Sinatra’s biggest fan, he’s convincing as Maggio, one of the only true friends to Clift’s Private Prewitt.  Maggio is a conduit for some of the funniest and most tragic moments of the film.  His stumbling escape-turned-death from the stockade is, as expected, an emotional power play.  His drunken galavants through The New Congress Club and many other fine establishments are memorable glances at a deceptively happy clown with what will undoubtedly be a short lifeline.  But there’s a moment in the barracks, so slight and natural, that completely encompasses the camaraderie that lies at the center of the film and the core of all it’s characters’ desires.  Private Prewitt (“Prew”) is flat on his bed, staring at the ceiling; he’s just realized the line he’ll have to toe by refusing to box.  He isn’t bitter (he loves the army), but he’s hardening his shell, preparing to survive despite sticking to his principles.  The convivial Maggio comes by and invites him into town with him and the rest of the guys.  Prew is unresponsive, too deep in his brooding.  Maggio starts in about The New Congress Club. And then, he tosses a shirt (a “loose, flowing sports shirt,” no less) to Prew.  “My sister bought it for me.  She always buys stuff too big.”  That’s the moment . . . a simple act of true friendship and love, unasked for.  Pure altruism--a reason for hope in the midst of all that’s hateful and angry and self-serving.  And with that, Prew, complete with stone-cracking grin, is off to be a civilian for a night and forget his unjust trials.

And let’s come full circle back to Montgomery Clift and his Private Robert E. Lee Prewitt.  He’s visually stunning.  He’s likable (lovable, even), determined, fair, principled, and grateful for an institution that continually spits in his face.  But above all, he’s really, truly beautiful.  Do I feel shallow in this assessment?  Nope.  Because he has a grace (not feminine or masculine but just human grace) that pulls the viewer in.  If he were on the other side of a crowded street with a parade going down it, you’d be watching him.  Because of the lines and the intensity in his face.  Because of the way the wind whipped his shirt around him.  Because of how he’s carefree and at once, ready to pounce.  Because of how engrossed he is in life and living and everything before, in between, and beyond.  I think it’s fitting to end with one of Prew’s tiny but life-eclipsing moments:  he’s just showed up to his new assignment with G Company where Sergeant Warden has reprimanded him for taking a shot at pool.  Warden turns and leaves, expecting the young private to follow.  Prewitt stands a moment, pool stick in hand, and the takes his second shot before walking out.  And with the clink of the cue ball setting all those little bodies in motion, I knew at once that he was too pretty, too stubborn, and too tragic to live.  And I watched anyway. 

Buck Up!

Dr. Strangelove or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964) is equal parts frightening and funny.  And between the laughs and sheer ridiculousness in the War Room, there is a real sense of panic that transcends the screen (I can only imagine how intensified this was in context).  I suppose the panic starts to live and breath and grow with the disclaimer that precedes the movie because it’s an unexpected piece of nonfiction that isn’t normally required in our fantastical little movie universes.  And then, when General Ripper, a powerful man whose craziness does nothing to diminish his control until his death, warns us to trust no one and fire on anything within 200 yards, a little piece of our minds discards that disclaimer . . . because we’ve seen what American politics and military are really capable of.

But this is a masterful black comedy because hilarity is perfectly juxtaposed with the grim.  People marvel at Peter Seller’s triad of performances a la Alec Guiness in Kind Hearts and Coronets.  And he is fantastic.  And I’m a big Peter Sellers fan.  But, for my money, in this film, I’ll take George C. Scott as Buck Turgidson.  He absolutely killed me.    He is so frightfully, deliciously, stereotypically American, but he manages to create a very individual character within that broad range of possibilities.  His qualm with allowing the Russian diplomat into the War Room, even in time of immense crisis?  “But he’ll see the big board!” delivered in the brash whine of an impudent child.  The slurs and insults he slings at will, completely unaware of the social situation, make him the War Room Rube.    When he finds out that the Russians have a Doomsday Machine, we expect a full-scale tantrum of pounding fists and kicking legs . . . and George C. Scott lets us know that that’s what ole Buckie really wants to do.  This man with so much power and national presence is, at the core, the brattiest of little boys: picking fights and eyeing the other boys’ toys in the big, bad War Room, his own very expensive playground.  And when Buck has managed to make this have some semblance of a game, we can laugh a little, albeit uneasily.

Step Right Up

Central Kentucky and its lack of glamor has afforded me vivid memories of traveling carnivals because for one glorious week each summer, there were big lights (at least in my eyes) shining on our hamlet.  If the carnival was running seven nights, I was there for at least five.  And it was always the same . . . someone pukes after the Tilt-O-Whirl.  A kid wails like a barn owl at the top of the ferris wheel and has to be taken off.  Someone breaks a tailbone after plummeting down the towering slide on a burlap sack.  The world’s cheapest tchotchkes are bought and paid for with blood, sweat, and blisters from tossing undersized rings onto oversized milk bottles.  

And while the the key elements are the same, the routine, predictable as it may be, never alleviates the strangeness of mood or atmosphere.  And that’s magical, right?  To know exactly what’s coming (high prices for a bag of bolts put together clap-trap in an empty parking lot) and still feel as though you’ve been transported beyond the realm of the real is perhaps the greatest sleight of hand ever pulled off.  And that’s the trick at work in Carnival Magic (1981).  I gladly confess here that the ticket for this little-known circus of entertainment came from TCM Underground . . . a treasure trove of sassy strangeness and my favorite thing about TV.  Period.   

I walked away from this film scratching my head.  It was strange and strangely touching.  And had the accents of the carnival-goers been any thicker, I would have sworn that young me and many folks I know had been sitting in those side-show tents and riding those rickety rides.  Aside from the overwhelming nostalgia, the mysterious, kind-hearted hero with a dark past (Markov the Great--traveling magician with extra sensory perception) versus the archetypal jealous, overly-macho villain (disgruntled animal trainer who beats up on his co-stars and his girlfriend) is so black and white, good versus evil, that you want to see things set right, lives saved and relationships forged, before the credits roll.  You see this rag-tag band of society’s fringed figures find their own brand of happiness and success, and you’re rooting (in my case, vehemently) for them to hold tight to these triumphs.  Mix that in with carney weirdness:  A PR man dressed like a Miami Vice reject, an owner struggling to raise a daughter single-handedly and make a buck, a young girl struggling with her femininity, an ex-Miss America contestant turned magician’s assistant, and our clearly defined hero and villain.  The result is, well, pretty much like that central Kentucky carnival.

Did I mention that Markov the Great’s closest friend in the world is a talking chimp (Alex, short for Alexander the Great) that he’s trained as a way of coping with the grief from losing his wife?  Well, there’s that.  And the scenes that absolutely transfixed me were the scenes in which Markov and Alex are performing their show.  So strange and inexplicable are the feats performed by Markov--I’m watching myself in the confused, amused faces of these carnival goers, like a funhouse mirror of sorts.  I’ve seen behind the curtain, into Markov’s personal life, and I know some of his personal secrets.  But the magician’s presence and performance is in no way tarnished or explained--he’s as mysterious and unsettling for me as he is for any other person who pays a dollar and wanders into that tent.

This movie is a time capsule that moves and talks, a strange little drama that grows weirder the deeper you go . . . like any carnival I’ve ever been to.   It’s barkers’ signs made with plywood and puff paint.  And the radioactive shade of a snow cone that tastes like no fruit or flavor as yet identified by man.  Or popping three sagging balloons with tired plastic darts for an airbrushed poster of unicorns in flight. It’s wild and wonderful, mundane and marvelous in a package at once shiny and dull. 

Dance Dance Revolution

The black fairy tale that is Metropolis (1927) absolutely blew me away the first time I saw it.  It’s visually arresting in and of itself, but that something from 1927 could possess that optical splendor was a shock.  The opening scene of a workers’ shift change and a plunge into their underground city.  Freder’s short-lived frolic in the Garden.  The craggy labyrinth of the catacombs where the workers meet.  Rotwang’s laboratory, complete with bubbling liquids and rings and bolts of life-granting light.  It’s a feast of fantasy laid before us and not just for fantasy’s sake.  I appreciate the theme and the ideas that underlie the narrative, but what sticks with me after the lights come up is the dance sequence and the surrounding scenes . . . and the dark and blatant sexuality.

The initial image of Rotwang’s machinated woman on screen is pure sci-fi delight.  A svelte column of quicksilver, this invention lets us know that we’re dealing not just with a revolution of industry but with one of sex as well.  Bathed in probing rings of lightwhich create literal halos around her, it becomes obvious that it isn’t just the men in the club who are to worship this being.  We, too, should look to her on a pedestal and pay our respects with awe and reverence. Then machinated woman takes on Maria’s countenance, and C. A. Rotwang delivers us a written invitation  to see this erotic dancer, this devious mediator between the minds and the loins of the privileged.  

The stage for her performance harkens bondage, with muscled men in loin cloths (real or carved or does it matter?) holding the stage on their shoulders.  And the stage they hold is an elaborate, self-luminous creation like an oversized trinket box from a lady’s vanity.  The top opens, like a clam proffering its pearl, and from a powdery haze of smoke and light, Maria ascends.  With a headdress to rival Egyptian royalty, she is before us, and the magnificent stage melts away lest it compete with Maria’s impending performance.  Her arms spread and the backlighting reveals a cape that could be woven from dew drops and air it’s so light and twinkling.  A draping of beads from waist to foot, strategic beaded coverings, and flesh fill the screen.  She spins like a top until she’s free from the excess draping of the cape.  She marches into geometric poses, signaling to us with hands and knees.  Then, she gyrates into fluid movement, her arms creating such snakelike semblance across her back that we’re assured that archetypal evil is in the moment.

And even though this is stunning, what really shakes me up are the splices of her male audience.  I’ve seen sex scenes in movies and listened to lots of dialogue about sex, but I’ve never been as convinced of the presence of sheer, furious lust as when I look at the faces of those men.  The open-mouthed panting.  The determined eyes and half-drawn smirk.  A ravel of aggression and desire.  

In his fever-induced delirium, Freder receives a message, and we get it too--as a screen of dialogue: “For her--all seven deadly sins!”  Well, they are for us, too.  Death’s bony fingers guide a melody on the human bone he plays, and he and the sinful statues now dance toward us.  And when the statues take up their place on Maria’s revised and rising stage at the end of her performance, the men of privilege bombard her plateau to actively partake in the sinful fantasy she offers.  But beyond their rush, ending this particular sequence, the lone Death still creeps eerily toward us, his scythe posing above his head and gashing toward us like a mortal mark of punctuation to emphasize his message.  And while Death descends upon the city, new life is brought to our minds and cinematic consciousness.

One Cinephile’s Manifesto

We’ve become a society groomed to look for what’s wrong.  The media, especially concerning pop culture, has trained itself and its audience to hunt for the downfalls and sniff out what is problematic. We’re becoming a population of Debbie Downers, inept at recognizing and celebrating beauty because we’re too busy lying in wait like vultures ready to prey on any mistake or ridiculousness that crosses our paths.  Now, that’s not to say that there isn’t absolute shit being cranked out in hopes of mass consumption; I won’t deny that in the least.  And I won’t deny the place or the necessity for useful, thoughtful criticism.  But instead of focusing on all the crap out there, I’ve decided to spend my time indulging my appreciation of the weird, the wonderful, the wild, and the wildly underrated.  Life’s too short to deal in drudgery.

I’m not here to offer comparative ratings of blank-and-a-half stars.  I’m also not attempting to be the source for extensive background research detailing the creative differences between Cinematographer X and Director Z.   I’m not here to dig up and divulge factual or technical errors.  My very simple goal is to praise the films I enjoy and love, explore what is most affecting about them, and share it in writing.  I realize that no movie is perfect (maybe Bergman’s a god, though), but a great many movies have delivered a great many perfect moments of delight, terror, anger, and tragedy.  In looking to those moments in this blog, I hope both myself and any potential readers can find shared appreciation of said moments and maybe discover a few films that otherwise would never have blipped on our cinematic radars.

So, here’s to blipping radars, happy reading, and a lifetime of great cinema.