"The old formats are dead! Long live the old formats!"

We have been awaiting the death of movies, film, flickers, the studios, for decades now, but looking at the boxoffice figures for 2009 we can see that it was yet another stellar year for the industry. The thing that continues to change is not the appetite of the movie going audience but how they "see" film, how they view movies not only in the theaters but at home as well. The 2009 holiday shopping season saw the rise, not only in the number of advertisments but in sheer tonnage moved out the door, of Blu-ray high definition movie players and large flatscreen tvs, showing once again that if you make quality goods affordable to the middle class, technology, and peoples tastes, will change.

I am happy, once again, for the change. I like to stay a trend or two behind the bulk of humanity. I like to catch up after the parade has passed and reap the benefits of the discard pile. Right now is a grand time to be a film collector. VHS tapes for fifty cents a throw, pawn shop DVD's going for little more than a buck, second hand hi-fi players for under ten dollars and used dvd players for less than the price of a movie ticket.


For the time being I am not too worried about the imminent demise of Hollywood Video or Blockbuster rental stores. I am not struggling with the high cost of retail films or outrageous ticket prices at the door. I have my own "movies on demand" system going on at home 24/7 and have hundreds of movie titles to choose from. Let it rain, let it pour. The Futon Cinema is always ready to screen something new or old, and baby, if I haven't watched it before, it's all new to me.

Action!

Monday, May 31, 2010

Film poster heaven!


TOTAL ART! Orignal movie poster collection (for sale, no less!) that warrants a post all unto itself! Check it out and be wowed!

Action!

http://www.theartofmovieposters.com/ForSale/Pages/RollingRoadshow.htm

Delicious art house, explotationist, drive-in fare


Paul Schrader. I should have known. I have to wonder how long the script sat on the shelf, how many and passes those I'm Coming Home with a Pistol in My Hand dreams of vengence were fully exorcised. Lord knows you penned a mighty timeless epic with Taxi Driver, a sort of Searchers comes to New York in a heat wave/unexpected garbage strike. I am sure that you were champing at the bit to do your own version of Scorcese's masterwork. I saw it written all over Mr Flynn's seminal drive-in work. It was there all over again, the Vietnam vet/POW returning home to a world that he just can't get, a world filled with simpathetic characters that went on with their lives while those damaged, haunted men sold their souls or had them stoll away overseas.

I remember seeing Taxi Driver one night at the drive-in, right before I went off into boot camp. Took a car load of pals, a trunk full of beer, a pocketful of weed. Was so impressed with it that I went back and saw it again, twice. Lost my liquor store job due to that trunk full of libations, lost that girl to Jodie when I went off to boot camp, but Taxi Driver went off to international acclaim, never mind it lost to Rocky. I've only watched Rocky once. Taxi Driver is and will remain a perennial favorite.

Stumbling across, buying and viewing a copy of Rolling Thunder the other day I was reminded of the glory and almost dirty mystery of catching flicks at the drive in and third run suburban cineplexes. It's not easy to establish a diet for b-features, for exploitation film, for marginal fare these days. Multiplexes are big money, single feature for the price of a ticket kinds of joints these days. Drive-ins are disappearing landscape everywhere we go, all too many plowed under and paved over for subdivisions and shopping malls. There is nothing quite like "learning" about watching flicks in old movie house, the kind where leaky light, poor sound, ratty upholstery and low admission fees add to the atmosphere. Watching the opening titles for Rolling Thunder I saw Z. Arkoff's name displayed and thought, yeah, swallowed my share of that guy's goods, biker babes and horror shows and monster mania. But it was all good.

Schrader wanted to direct Rolling Thunder, it had Taxi Driver written all over it. It had that simmering, brooding anti-hero, the scumbags, the hyper violence, the pedigree actors, the mad writing that he was famous for, all of it, but it was destined for some other kind of noteriety. It was classic, alright, classic drive in fare. It was the kind of flick that had 70's b budget written all over it, had the makings of summertime, greasy popcorn and a car load of pals more than Scorceses classic ever would. Somehow I missed it on it's first run. I was already off dropping acid and taking mandatory Westpac trips overseas, I didn't have time for drive-ins anymore. Might have caught it in Olongapo if I had been paying attention, must have seen the poster overdisplayed in garish colors at some wonderfully ratty cinema somewhere along the Magsaysay.

Pity that that era is almost gone. B features, yeah, still have a taste, an appetite, for those things, an almost secret pleasure. I've never stopped watching them, I only graduated to art house flicks when I saw that's where real film was being stashed, being hidden away. Sure, I marvel at the never ending Hollywood buffet displayed on the marquees of the multiplexes. And yes, I groove on the latest and greatest blockbusters like anyone else, The biggest and newest of the CGI laden is always welcome on my screen.

But, if truth be told, I loved catching Avatar the other day in that hole in the wall dollar house. It lacked the tawdry feeling that I used to get back in the days when I trotted down to Stanton to catch kung fu, it was missing the bloated wonderfulness of a triple feature in a beat old movie palace on Broadway in LA and it certainly lacked that wild open goodness of partying through a feature in a big slab of Detroit metal, but it had the FEELING, the cheap thrillness of that long ago time when you could plonk down fifty cents and catch a handful of those Hammer/Arkoff/DiLaurentiis explotationers. Paul Schrader would have been proud to see his penned and forgotten thriller there up on the screen of that Boise dollar house. I know I would have.

So, do it. Go find a copy of Rolling Thunder if you can. Grab a bucket of p-corn, your gal and your pals and pretend you're sixteen again, young, stupid and bullet proof. Your cinema heart depends on it and so does your movie diet and education.

Action!

Nice review of Rolling Thunder (thanks, Bandiniblog!):
http://www.bandiniblog.com/2009/10/review-rolling-thunder-john-flynn-1977.html

Samuel Z Arkoff, producer of the greatest B features of all time!
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0035098/

Paul Schrader, tough guy writer, no doubt about it:
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0001707/

Dino, baby! DiLaurentiis, another great and powerful Producer of B:
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0209569/

Roger Corman, King of Classic Cheese!
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000339/

Saturday, May 29, 2010

The Great Hollywood Test Case is dead!


Dennis: I wondered for years what would take you out. Hard living? Drugs? Women? What? In the end it was something as prosaic and mundane as cancer. What a drag. No fiery ends, no explosions, no gunplay, no ruptured arteries, no massive heart attack from too much speed or broads or benders. Man, but what a ride it was, none the less.

You rocked my world in Rebel Without a Cause without me even knowing it. You were always there for me on my idle days, handling my Saturday afternoon matinee jones for a madman with your over the top madman roles like the frustrated bomber you played in Speed and that twisted leader of seagoing madmen in Waterworld. You challenged my date night sensitivities with the likes of your Photojournalist role in Apocalypse Now and when you played the coach's rummy assistant in Hoosiers and in the end I was glad for it.
You took me to end of the line and freaked me out in Blue Velvet and gave one masterfully vulgar cameo in True Romance, which had to made Christopher Walken crack up in spite of himself. God, man, you were always on, a benign drug addled fool, a philosophical crazed demon, an underappreciated artist, a man who took the proverbial candle and burned it at both ends while trying to find a way to set it on fire in the middle, too.

I looked at your face in the papers the other day when they laid down your star on Hollywood Blvd and said to myself "there goes one of the last of the old order". You outlived everyone's expectations, you blew up all the bets they had going on you in Vegas, you took the world by storm and the world treated you with indifference and it didn't seem to bother you a bit. You flipped one big finger at world and you kept right on going, living hard, spining your art, sharing your talent, showing the weasles that you were in for a penny, in for a pound of flesh. In the end you were whittled down by disease and an estranged wife who was just a bit too grasping. What a drag, what a way to go, to hell with it all.

So, tonight, for you, I'll dig out my battered VHS copy of Easy Rider, roll a pinner, play some Steppenwolf. You were the man, Dennis Hopper. Thanks for sharing that hell of a ride that was your life. Rest in peace.

Action!
LA Times obit:
You Tube: True Romance: the "n-word" scene with Christopher Walken:
The opening credits to Easy Rider:
NY Times obit:

Friday, May 28, 2010

Tight, tight!


I'm a man who knows how to manipulate the power of the remote.

I can wield a remote with complete and total abandon, making for massive plot holes and abrupt and horrid continuity in any film, big or small. I try not to indulge in using it too often, as I had all too many years of movie watching ruined due to late starts (think popcorn and wide awake kids)and marred by all too many uncertain endings (thank you Bacchus and work related fatique). These days I just get, well, not bored, but restless. Dinner, or wine, or dessert or the net, something lures me downstairs, away from the set. It's odd because if I am watching a movie with a friend, or one of my kids, or with just about anyone it bugs me to no end to break a film in the middle, but since I am on my own to start or stop a movie whenever I want is a sort of freedom that you can't have in a theater or with company.

Tonight I bucked the trend. I found a VHS copy of Zinneman's The Day of the Jackal earlier in the week at Goodwill. Non-descript box, pan and scan. I thought that tonight would be a good night for a thriller, and I was more than pleasantly surprised at what I found. The print was crisp, the editing was so incredibly sharp I thought I would get papercuts from watching it. In a world still caught up post-MTV style the editing in tonights flick turned out to a textbook case for what the new generation of film students need to study and emulate. It was tale that unspooled at a rapid yet lanquid pace. You could follow the story of the cat and the mouse, of the assassin and the police commissioner, pursuing each other without needing to take on a neck brace by the end of the flick from rapid fire editing whiplash. Great acting, tight direction, wonderful location work, the whole ball of wax. Can't recommend it enough.

I found out afterwords that the film is out there in widescreen. Something else to seek out at Hollywood Video, one more film to lay up and store away for a rainy day. Kind of pathetic, in a way, but hey, that film jones of mine just yielded another treasure tonight, a baubble for me and an excuse for you to bug your local librarian to lay in a copy of this stellar thriller. Old school, yes, seventies style paranoia, sure, but timeless and worth your while, believe me. And why should you, you might ask? Well, I never used my remote tonight to stop the film, not once.

Action!

Allmovie review: Day of the Jackal:
http://www.allmovie.com/work/the-day-of-the-jackal-61917

Monday, May 24, 2010

A lasting lacross moment



It was an epic moment, one that I only saw clearly my mind's eye the next morning when I awoke. That Saturday I was too caught up, enmeshed in the moment, standing there under the spreading whatever kind of tree it was, dark clouds heavy and horizontal over the field, cold rain coming down ceaselessly, snow spitting down lightly at first then relentlessly, watching that boy of mine along with teammates totally kicking their opponents collective asses in the final match of a weeklong tournament, tallying up a final win out of a long spring season fraught with few wins and many losses, I was a proud, wet, cold and soaked through papa, but not near as cold and soaked through as those young warriors were who were duking it out on the lacrosse field for honor and glory. I saw my boy for the first time as a young man that day, no longer the young lad on the floor playing with his toy soldiers but as a young hairy chested soon to be hombre who was more than happy to tell me all about his dreams about going airborne or being a Navy SEAL after graduation. Sigh.

I stood there watching the water come off the field in buckets as those kids hit the ground in pursuit of a win and a dream and thought, much later, of that final battle scene in The Seven Samurai. I will forever and always think of that day, of those boys in the midst of their very real and epic "battle", every time I go to watch that film from here on out. I have seen Kurosawa's masterpiece a couple dozen times or more but never have I seen that final scene reenacted or lived so purely or realistically as I did that day. No blood was shed but man, those kids had heart! Kurosawa would have been proud of their warrior spirit!

Action!

It runs in the family


Where did it start? Certainly not when films jumped ship in New York and shifted their operations to the sunny climes of So Cal but that didn't hurt. Did it start somehow when my Abuelita and her clan made their way to LA? How about Ernest, Mister Cop in the Closet case himself? I have to wonder, with that passal of boys already ahead of my pop, what was that old man thinking when he looked down on my father, fresh from the womb..why did he think of Wallace Beery, of all men? But the image struck him as reasonable and I suppose it was good with my Abuelita, too. So my Father was named after a popular movie star all because his faced was scrunched up. I suppose I could have been named after Clark Gable but that would have made my name a bit too plain and redundant.

So, my father goes on to be in the industry as a grip, his brother goes on to marry a horsewoman and the two of them go on to be major stunt people in a world filled with horse-loving stuntfolks. My aunt marries a man whose brother works for the Disney studios, my uncle's son follows in his father's footsteps and gets into stuntwork as well. My father, well, gawd bless his heart, turned me away from his line of work because he felt it was no way for a young married man to support his wife. He knew the way of the studios as far as grip work was concerned. Feast or famine. I remember all too well his stories of the off season, hitting up the back side of businesses with his Chevy Apache pick up, picking up scrap metal for sale. He weathered tough times but then again he was a tough SOB.

I think of the movie business and know that it's in the blood. Sure, we are not Copollas or big film families who have veritable empires in the industry, but we are the flesh and blood, blue collar, end of the credits kind of families who make movies, who hold them in high esteem, who know stars and don't fawn in their presence. As my father always told me, we all put our pants on the same way. "They're real folks, everyday people, just like you and me" he told me once while we were on location, "they just have a different job, that's all". Heck, his tales of hanging out with Nick Nolte on the set of North Dallas Forty are legendary.

Well, I never got into the business the way my kin did but my profession at least allows me to be an exhibitor of a kind. I have set up film series, I use my experience and expertise to help me collect films madly and knowledgeably, follow the latest in cinema in all the national papers, blogs and movie rags like Variety. I am an accumulator, alot like my mother and my grandmother were before me. They were both movie heads as well, both of which helped to shape my misspent youth, who turned me onto late night movies, matinees on school days and triple bills in the old seedy theaters along Broadway in downtown LA. It seems that we have always been movie people, with talk always circling back to what we watched last before we popped on or tuned into another feature on the tv.

My children are wild for film as well, all with their own unique tastes and appetites. Toy Soldier Boy is into war film, Punkin loves her "scary movies" and anything with Audrey Hepburn and my son, the auteur, loves fantasy and animation of any kind. That boy is poised and ready to launch off into the industry. He's doing well in his classes, working with film and eating it alive, editing, sound tracking, acting, the whole shebang.

I like to think of that and gloat, not so much because so much of his family has been in or has been actively pursuing movies all these years but because my boy's mother always tried to make me pinch pennies in the film acquisition department. I squandered money on movies and gear, bought electronics when times were tight, expanded our film collection when it didn't make sense to do, always looking for movies that were good to share, always expanding my kids horizons and tastes, always making sure that those pesky youth of mine sat through the credits and absorbed the final details, the names of the workers, the titles of the jobs that made the movies. As I always told my boy the auteur, pay attention to the credits, that's where movies are made.

He took that lesson to heart, as he always sits and watches movies through to the end, always pays homage to the men and women who made the films he just watched unspool. Someday, with luck, I will be sitting there in the last part of the dark, in the quite of the emptied auditorium, waiting for the lights, waiting for the moment, THE MOMENT, when I first see his name up on the screen in something big, in something nationally released.

Hell, he already has his first credits under his belt. Those student films I just watched unspool in Boise? I saw his name and I weeped.

Wallace Berry and Wallace Senior would be proud. Wallace Jr was, that much is certain.

We are movie people.

Action!

IMDB: Wallace Beery, actor!
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000891/

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Dark, campy, not nearly perfect


We are in the midst of Robin mania this weekend with the release of the latest swash and buckle epic from Ridley Scott. It was one thing for Sir Ridley to reteam with his old action buddy Russell Crowe in the saddle as the legendary outlaw, but it is another thing entirely to take Higgins boats, dude them up with wooden planks, pass them off as ancient landing craft and expect the audience to swallow that big fish tale whole.

But maybe we've always had a bit of the big fish tale to swallow whenever we take a bit of time out from our busy days to settle in for another round of Robin and his Merry Men. We never seem to tire of that bandit's noble shennangans up on the big screen. We can't really count Disney's cartoon version here, and his first major live action outting is largely forgotten, unless you are lucky enough to have stumbled upon it on VHS. Then there was that wonderful late in the life tale with Sean Connery and Audrey Hepburn, but it was long on love and short on swash and could have used more than a bit of buckle. Kevin Reynold's 1991 tale was more like Dances with Woodsmen, with Kevin Costner playing around in Sherwood Forest with the rest of the gang, everyone dancing along merrily thanks to Friar Tuck's Famous Mead. I truly loved Morgan Freeman as The Moor, but what really made the film was not the stunt work or the costuming (both grand) but Alan Rickman's Sheriff of Nottingham. Camp, swishy, mad, one hell of a lot of fun.

So, I need to rummage around a bit and see if I can rustle up my remastered copy of Errol Flynn's Robin Hood, that grand old Warner Brother's Technicolor masterpiece. It may not have been historically accurate, but Robin Hood was a legendary guy so accuracy is what you make of it. I think of the film I just rewound this morning and then think of the one I want to unspool tonight and know that there is world of difference between the two. The latter was told to fulfill the audience's need for fantasy, action and adventure and more than just a little bit of romance. The former was there in place to sell an awful lot of products and toys and to massage that old Cal State Fullerton graduate's self focused ego. Oh, heck, I'll go light on the man. It had it's moments, no one likes to flash their backside like Kevin!

Meanwhile, I think once I land in Boise I'll have to grab the paper and see where and when the latest bow string and salmon epic is playing. "Salmon?" you might ask. Yes, looks to be another big, lead, dark and gloomy fish to swallow, albeit an action packed one. Gimme my popcorn, just can't wait!

Action!

Friday, May 14, 2010

Cinema upgrade!




The proprietor of the Futon Cinema has been craving a nice new flatscreen television ever since he purchased one for his kids last Thanksgiving but such things are not always meant to be, least ways, not in the time frame that we would like them to happen in. I can still remember rolling the box that contained the set out to my car with the help the electronics department floor manager. As we were lifting the set into my car I told him that it was for my Estranged One's house, not mine. I cracked up when I looked at his scrunchy face, but more when he said to me "that's just not right, man, not right at all!"

No matter, I bought a PS3 for my kids that christmas, too, so I have a reason to buy Blu-ray disks, even though I don't get to watch them here in my house.

No whining, though. My time to enjoy that Samsung will come later on, maybe next year after taxes. For the moment I am very happy. "And why is that?", you might ask, knowing that that forty inch flatscreen that I bought and paid for resides in Boise and not in my house. Well, let's just say that I got what I needed, and that the Futon Cinema got a mighty big upgrade yesterday, and taking into account all factors, including cashflow and the dynamics of available space upstairs, it was a mighty great deal for twelve bucks and change.

To put it mildly, I lucked out. It was the perfect positioning of time and place and plastic. I was already wandering around my local Goodwill in seach of music and movies (oh, and I scored a nice quantity of both, including a copy of Wim Wender's very hard to find The American Friend (!)) So, there I was, burning up a perfectly fine, sunny afternoon when I heard the announcement that all tvs were 50% off that day. WOW! So I made my way back up to the front of the store and got serious in evaluating the sets, checking out picture quality, name brands, jacks in the back of the sets, all that. One by one they were eliminated when out from the sorting area arrived one harried looking worker bee with a couple smaller sets in hand. I asked the man, after he finished fielding a few other questions, if he had any larger sets in the back. "Sure", he said, and came back with a massive 32 inch Panasonic. I knew Panasonic, had one at home and it worked just fine.

Didn't think twice about that set. Took it as soon as I saw it light up.

Getting it home and upstairs all by my lonesome was just part of the Thrift Store Zen religious program I will forever be enrolled in. Truly a massive beast, but it looks good in the place where my old faithful 19 inch Sony used to reside. I woke up this morning and realized I had an elephant in my room, but after watching Lucky # Sleven last night I discovered it was a kind, gentle elephant, the kind that a bachelor man needed to find in his bedroom after a long year of gazing at a wee screen from across the room. For health reasons alone it was a good purchase. "Health reasons?", you may ask. Yeah, it's better on the eyes!

Action!

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Seminal moments


It was just something that my grandparents did, didn't think anything of it, actually. Take the kid to the movies, never mind that movie content in the late sixties, early seventies was screaming along like a jet fighter at ground level. I don't think they ever read film reviews, or gave thought to how much movies were changing. They looked at the movie times in the paper to see what was playing, or maybe checked out the lobby cards. Marquees didn't matter much, what was in a title? If it looked good, looked to have lots of action, yeah, let's take the kid, fill up some time, grab some popcorn.

So, thanks to my mom's people I was exposed, at a tender young age, to a number of films that had nice bits of gratutious frontal nudity packed in to them, well, maybe not fully frontal, but to a straight arrow boy of thirteen or fourteen, packed with bodies and breasts that were about as fully exposed as they could possibly be. Gosh, thanks to my grandparents I was able to catch all manner of nubile breasts in Vanishing Point, Five Man Army and Play Misty For Me, all on very innocently planned summer vacation outtings. For a pubescent young guy those matinees were about as memorable as a trips to Disneyland or Tommy's! Probably even better!

What brought on this bit of nostalgia this evening? I was gifted last Christmas with a clean, widescreen print of Vanishing Point. It was really a two for the price of one kind of film pack, as it had both the US and the UK release of the film on the same disc. I had seen the US version during it's initial run and screened a beat pan and scan a few times over the years but never knew that there was a foreign print of the film floating around out there as well. It was great to see a clean print and to see the edited piece that contained a dreamy moment of dialogue between Barry Newman and Charlotte Rampling. It added a bit of dimension to the plot that was missing before, gave just a hint as to why Kowalski didn't turn himself in, rounded out that last truncated moment on the highway before the final wham bam finale.

Yeah, it was a time trip, catching that flick again in wide screen. But boy, let me tell you, films have changed quite a bit since those days, when a gal riding nude on a motorcycle in the California desert (no tans lines in sight!) could make such a impression on an impressionable young Catholic school lad. Sideways shots of breasts, yeah, no big deal these days, especially when compared to flicks like, say, Abel Ferrers' Bad Lieutanant with Harvey Keitel giving us full frontal anatomical shots of his package. Man, that flick even made me blush, and I'm a full grown man.

Yeah, thanks Mama and thanks Grandfather Manuel for taking me to the flicks, for providing those long lasting, sideways bits of tittilation...no pun intended.

Action!

Will this herring do?


“First you must find... another shrubbery! (dramatic chord) Then, when you have found the shrubbery, you must place it here, beside this shrubbery, only slightly higher so you get a two layer effect with a little path running down the middle. ("A path! A path!") Then, you must cut down the mightiest tree in the forrest... with... a herring!”
Monty Python and the Holy Grail (1975)

A Giant 12 Foot Dead Herring makes the news!
http://www.csmonitor.com/From-the-news-wires/2010/0512/Enormous-12-foot-giant-herring-found-off-coast-of-Sweden

Tuesday, May 11, 2010

Wine, fatigue and sub-titles, oh my!


First, I must say that I highly recommend the film Il Divo, and not just because Roger Ebert says it's good. It was truly a gripping bio pic, a story about the much feared Senator for Life Giulio Andreotti. It was grand stylish bit of insight into Italian politics, the interconnections between parliament, the Vatican and the Costa Nostra, a camera eye's view of a closed, power-mad world that no one in their right mind would want to venture in.

Secondly, I have to say that while the picture was gripping, fearless and artsy-fartsy, all of which make for a good foreign film experience, I must admit I am happy at this time that I didn't shell the big bucks out in town to see it out in town and that, instead, I caught it upstairs in the luxurious comfort of the Futon Cinema.

"Why's that?" you might be aski, if you ever bothered to come by to inquire, asking as if you care while you sip your cooling latte and scan the latest reviews in Variety. Well, if only because it was one of those films where stylishness was at odds with historical complexity, where fatigue went to battle with the speed and complexity of the Italian language (and resultant sub titles that go along with it). I wasn't built for speed last night, I needed mindless entertainment. I seriously messed up as far as movie choices were concerned.

See, I have this belief that on the most part Americans want their movies served up like the chow they get at McDonalds. Go to Micky D's and the food is practically predigested for you. Eat, fill up, feel lousy afterwards but you can pretend, for a moment or two, that you had a meal of sorts. Same with an awful lot of movies that pass for entertainment these days. Pop one in or blow high dough at the local movie house, sit down, crack open the top your head and drop in the pre-viewed, edited to hell, focus group trimmed pablum that passes for art. Sometimes that works for me, too, especially after a hard day. Last night I wanted more and overdosed on a good thing. Pity.

See, that's what I'm saying about Il Divo. It was a grand masterwork, an incredible piece of cinema, but man, I needed to have my wits about me to follow it. The layering of characters, the swapping out of lies, details and fact, the fast and fancy editing, the speed of the language, the subtly of the acting, it was all too much to handle in the dark recesses of my room, a room overheated from a generous days' worth of sunshine. It didn't help that I was emotionally blown out from just having put a phone interview to bed, that I helped hump numerous pallets of food at Helpline, that I had just finished up a nice big heavy fried fish dinner that was breaking down in my belly and had about two thirds of a bottle of a delicious Australian Merlot under my belt as well.

Face it, it had nothing to do with the quality of the movie, it was a perfect storm of warmth, food and alcohol that pushed my ability to concentrate over the cliff. The more the details and facts stacked up to make the film interesting and thrilling, the less my anesthetizied brain wanted to deal with it. What it REALLY wanted was explosions, titilating sex and potty joke humor. It couldn't handle class, it wanted crass. Damn, foiled again by my own sense of wanting the best for myself!

So, now I know better. NO more fancy pants foreign films for me after a big supper, no sirree. I just can't wait to put on Il Divo again, but this time after a restful night's sleep and pot full of hot black coffee. Definitely a Sunday morning movie.

Now, where did I stash that copy of The Hangover?

Action!
Allmovie review: Il Divo:
NY Times article: pairing drinks with films, yes indeed!

Friday, May 7, 2010

A suave and cool sort of menace


Lee Marvin. You were the real McCoy, no doubt about it. A honest to god tough son of a bitch.

What was it, man, that gave you such a heady edge? The premature white in your hair coupled with that low register growl of yours? Was it the way you smoked a cigarette and squinted your eyes, scowling or smiling or a combo of the two, all at the same time? Maybe it was that macho bravado that never seemed faked, even up on the screen. Maybe it was the way you entered a room and everyone would look at you. It didn't matter if you played a soldier, cowboy, hitman or drunk, you were always spot on. You could be evil as hell like you were when you played Liberty Valance, or tough as nails as you were in The Professionals or the Dirty Dozen..all the same, you were a man who commanded, not demanded, respect, from men and women alike. Even someone as wicked as Liberty Valance had pals, and that says alot.

Somehow I can see you and my old man hanging out in The Valley after a shoot, tilting back tall cold ones in the recesses of cool, shady garage, hood opened up on some old big block Chevy, some tough old Nashville or R&B playing on the radio, talking rough man talk. I can see you being very real, in real life, a man's man, sure, but also the kind of man who would know how to treat his woman well, with kindness and respect. I think of wherever you went you were treated with respect, too. Not because you were tough or mean or ornery in your movie roles, but because you were a man who, when folks looked at him, made people at ease and yet at the same time pop to attention. A strange sort of combination, sure, but you were the man to pull it off.

I just watched three of your films last week. The Emperor of the North by Aldrich was new to me, so was Liberty Valance. I always had a hard time getting into the Dirty Dozen but finally sunk my teeth into it and loved it. Hard core, macho man stuff. But see, I always loved your work because you worked with the best. Ford, Boorman, Siegel, Fuller. Hell in the Pacific with Toshiro Mifune. The Professionals with Burt Lancaster and Woody Strode. Paint Your Wagon with Clint Eastwood. Cat Ballou with Jane Fonda. All grand stuff. Never tire of it, any of it.
Yeah, just wanted to let you know that even though your star is no longer rising, hell, maybe eclipsed by those younger, bolder, more familiar faces splashed up on the screen these day, that I still think the world of you, for you represent a time in the history of cinema when men were men, not cherry faced poster boys pretending to be men. Hell, no posters for you, man. Too fem. Que macho, hombre! Truly, one of a kind!

Action!

Internet Movie Database bio:
Wikipedia bio:

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Drive-in fare: Bleak city


I broke out Death Wish last night. It had been a long day, a day filled with second handing, meeting an online connection for dinner for the first time and trolling the 'net for work. The date went well, second handing yielded a nice Akai 7 inch reel-to-reel deck for twenty bucks and I managed to find an interesting job opportunity on the Olympic Penninsula. All well and good. So what was it, after that wonderful, feel good day, that propelled me towards Charlie and his mean spirited 32 caliber pistol and the even meaner streets of circa 70's Nu Yawk? Was it that I was missing my neer do well pal The Hot Dog King? Was it because I needed something rugged to offset that warm, fuzzy glow I got from that iffy first date? Maybe it was because the VHS tape had been sitting around FOREVER and needed to be screened? Hell, I don't know for certain but it ended up in my hands and it unspooled before my tired eyes. I made it halfway and the bottle of wine I consumed earlier took over. Missed the last half. Fine. More for later on tonight.

I have to wonder what the hell folks all around the world thought of New York after watching Taxi Driver or Dog Day Afternoon. Those two films, part of the vertible bushel basket of horror...er...crime films and dramas that came out of that place in the seventies, gave that town one hell of a tarnished image. Sure, Times Square has turned into a sort of Disneyland these days but still, it's one of THE world's most magnificent and rugged cities to visit and live in. I know that when I finally go there to knosh on pizza, deli and Chinese foods I want to have a handgun strapped to my side, just to keep those hungry hordes of muggers and department store sale freaks off my back.

Death Wish was bleak, Jeff Goldblum in his debut role even bleaker. Who would have thought that that cool professor who made quirky quips in the Jurassic Park films would have started out his film career as a low level hood in such a dark and hottly debated feature? Maybe it was a real snapshot, a true picture of the NYC of the time, the cesspool of crime, hate, drugs, racism and high rents that so many movie characters and scriptwriters made the city out to be. The crime rates are down these days, sure, but if all you had to go by were a handful of movies from the seventies you wouldn't want to visit the Statue of Liberty or Times Square without an armed escort and a waistband full of armament.

Then there was Taxi Driver. Gosh, that movie changed my life. I never watched a Scorcese before that one. Missed Mean Streets, but everything else after that that Marty directed I was sure to see. I remember pulling a movie pass for the Midway box office..or was it some drive-in in Buena Park?...no matter ..I wanted to see that flick. Took my new girlfriend, a carload of buddies, a trunk-full of beer and wine (lost my liquor store job over that one) and whole hatful of hubris along with me that night. It was a grand thing. Can't remember what the first feature was, but once Bobby DeNiro took over my whole movie world changed once again. It was just like catching that Bullitt/Bonnie and Clyde years before. A truly radical, worrisome, wonderful feature. Went back across the county and saw it twice more. Cinema was never the same after that. Never mind that I couldn't hold onto the girl. The US Navy and a bunch of cinemahead pals kept me from missing her and helped me get over the Dear John letter I got from her in bootcamp. Movies and fellow movie freaks are like that. There's always another one, a better one, next release .

So, watch those seventies NY crime flicks for a bit of unhappy nostalgia and be happy that you missed that time, that wild and crazy era. Go there now and groove on the relative safety of the place and be thankful that only inept bombers have struck fear and guffaws into the hearts of the good people of New York lately.

Action!

Review: Death Wish (M. Winner, 1974):
http://www.allmovie.com/work/death-wish-12933

Need a list of some urban-terror filled titles to watch? Check these out:

Taxi Driver
Cotton Comes to Harlem
Dog Day Afternoon
Superfly
Warriors
Taking of Pelham 1-2-3
French Connection
King of New York
Fort Apache the Bronx
Seven Ups
Shaft
Alphabet City

New York in the 70's: A Remembrance


Want to watch them but can't find them at the local rental house? Amazon has them!
http://www.amazon.com/Kick-Butt-70s-York-crime-thrillers/lm/R3UMV68NMXXDYX

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

I Confess


It wasn't just about me and my needs. There was a bit of altrusism there, really. But still, it was an incredibly selfish outlay of cash. How nice!

Ok, what I didn't buy was the new fridge and a stove that might have helped move along the sale of my house.
I didn't buy a Disneyland package deal for me and the kids from my local travel agent.
I didn't buy x-amount of cinderblock to replace railroad ties rotting alongside my patio.
Frankly, I didn't do alot of things. I passed up the opportunity to lay down carpet and linoleum, to buy new bathroom fixtures or a new bedframe or springy new mattresses. I certainly didn't get the new Samsung widescreen television that I was promised, nor did I take a personal holiday in Mexico as much as I could have used one.

For what I spent I could have upgraded the rims and tires on my car, jumped on a plane and taken in gay Paree. I suppose I could have had a really nice time down in LA, seen friends, eaten large, done the grand tour, but then again, that's what I promised myself when the house sold. I suppose it might sell someday but that someday will have to wait for after summer vacation.

What I did do, though, with that grand of mostly plastic cash, was blow it on close to four hundred Hollywood Video catalog titles, mostly old, quite a few foreign, largely award winners, some cult, alot classic, some cheese, most of which fed some sort of jones that I had burning in me throughout the winter of 2010, one that mandated that I had to close the loop on 24/7 film access. Screw Redbox, I wanted a solid catalog at my fingertips.

I could have done a lot of things but instead I helped out Hollywood Video in it's race to beat the clock on it's bankruptcy proceedings. Instead of buying a sailboat or seeing the world in real time I took it upon myself to pad my back room with several large cardboard boxes of dvds. Instead of going out and consuming calories in some swanky pub, instead of blowing gas on long distance drives, instead of expanding my world the exists outside my walls I took in a larger film world instead. Truly? My plan, my wildness, my foolhardy purchasing added to the classic film collection I plan on passing along to my film school bound kid. Blame it on something. How about 1001 Films To See Before You Die? Yeah, that'll do.

I didn't quite make it to Cannes this year, but I did bag an awful lot of films that screened there one time or another. You know what? I'm happy. Damn the ursurous plastic rates, screen it!

Action!