Sea Lampreys VII--The Battle Continues
Now Playing: Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band--"Pachuco Cadaver"
They're taking over the Great Lakes, it seems. The downtown library hosted a tank of the critters for a week--you could squeegee the glass in order to get a better look at their cavernous, sucking maws, greedily facing curious human faces. I ran into Sara and Dug there and we spent about five minutes riffing on unpleasant and weird marine life. Invertebrates seem harmless now (except for the giant squid, maybe), but just wait a bit... keep watching the water... "the battle continues" indeed...

Plague Week ends yet again in Ann Arbor--the yearly infestation of the "Art Fair" that generally finds me tenanting the Planned Parenthood booth for some period of time. This year wasn't all bad; stultifying temperatures at the beginning of the week dissipated to yield several lovely days. In the middle of that wekeend, I got to hear Umberto, a.k.a. Gina Pensiero, at Crazy Wisdom. Opening the show were Emily Bate (something of a throatier, sligtly more upbeat Joni Mitchell) and the always wonderful Misty Lyn (backed by Matt Jones and Colette Alexander, for some time without the microphone, which was pretty impressive). I'd met Gina one night while drunk, and hadn't heard her play before. Chalk Umberto down as another delightful and largely unexpected surprise. The songs are fairly simple and almost a little too whimsical, the usual preserve of cutesy, inside-joke sensibilities and purposefully "ironic" off-key warbling. None of that here--numbers like "I Want To Be Terry Gross" (and I do confess to wondering what it would be like to start every weekday noon saying "this--is Frrrrrrresh Aaaaair!") featured clear, cool vocals and a jarringly funky, bluesy sound (something which the local folk scene could certainly use more). Excellent show, the three (actually, seven, I think), of them.

Growing up in the South, I found the whole issue of American slavery to be more relevant than people from the North and West probably did. It used to be discussed with a mixture of forgetfulness and even nostalgia by certain whites, but mostly forgetfulness. The attitude was often one of "It was abolished and that's that--why are people still complaining?" Those questions aside, the "peculiar institution" has generally had a somewhat sanitized treatment even in cultural productions--TV, movies--critical thereof (and since the sixties, that's been most of them). Such an accusation can't be laid at the feet of last week's Cinema Guild selection--Addio Zio Tom ("Goodbye, Uncle Tom") (1971), an Italian "documentary" by Mondo Cane makers Gualtieri Jacopetti and Franco Prosperi that, despite (occasionally because of) its unnerving depiction of slavery's brutality, doesn't rise much above a queer mishmash of nonfiction reportage, historical lecture, radical-chic late-sixties leftism, and exploitation. The latter actually has its uses; Zio Tom brings to the fore the vitally important place sexual violence held in American slavery, unflinchingly showing rape and sadomasochistic torment of slaves (especially women) by white planters, indentured servants, and even other slaves. While the film frankly comments on an aspect of slavery that's been relatively hushed up in popular American culture, it really wallows in the nudity and violence to an extent that reveals the filmmakers' priorities to be less than savory (the Mark of the Devil- and Last House on the Left-like soundtrack accompanying said sequences doesn't help; shorn of its context, Riz Ortolani's music is actually tremendously groovy, but the shearing is well-nigh impossible after you've seen the movie). In the end, Zio Tom commendably raises issues that many Americans would probably wish swept under the carpet (thirty-five years ago or today), but does so at a price that undermines its effectiveness as a movie, "documentary" or otherwise. There's an excellent review at allmovie.com, saying pretty much the same thing only better.

Sunday in the Park with Non-Pointillists
Now Playing: Manuel de Falla--"Cancion del amor dolido" from El Amor Brujo
I spent early Sunday evening sprawled in the grass, dogs nosing around, the sun setting, and a baseball game nearby, listening to Jim Roll, Ryan Balderas and Adam Theriault play to an audience at the West Park bandshell, nestled among wooded hills in the Old West Side of Ann Arbor. The weather reports called for rain but were thankfully proven wrong. The show was supposed to feature a lot more people, but they never showed. It didn't matter to me, as Jim and Ryan were more than enough, playing their usual sterling games. Adam, who I got to know a few months ago, was a pleasant surprise as I had no idea he even played music, among other things the potential novelty hit "Diet Dracula". Lying flat with my eyes closed, the sun on my face, is a way to experience music I should try more often.

The show was a needed comedown after the World Cup final, a thrilling game between France and Italy that scored a point for each and then went into two overtimes and a series of penalty kicks. I'd been a tepid France supporter, because (a) they seemed to be the underdog, although not by much, (b) I thought Italy suspiciously lucky in the matches I'd seen, (c) Italy had beaten the U.S., and that matters, no matter how average our team played, and (d) most of the soccer fans in Ann Arbor seemed to be Azzurri partisans, so my contrarian impulses rather demanded that. All that changed in the last few minutes, as Zinedine Zidane disgraced himself and his team (and probably cost France the World Cup), leaving a sour taste from an otherwise terrific couple of hours. England's Wayne Rooney had been bad enough, but that little tantrum at least seemed to be a result of the heat of passion; Zidane actually turned around and walked back to deliver Mazzerati his savage headbutt. No matter how tired you are, no matter what kind of shit people try to talk, when the stakes are that high, isn't a better form of vengeance simply plowing ahead and winning, especially if it's your very last game ever? I suppose the guy'll have grief enough to deal with--as he's retiring anyway, one thing for which people will remember him is that he probably pissed away his team's chances through unthinking machismo. Lesson for us all there, really.

Me And You And Everyone We Know (2005), which I'd seen the previous day, is pretty much the polar opposite of L'Affair Zidane; a beautiful, luminous movie written and directed by the beautiful, luminous Miranda July, who also stars as Christine, a video artist and taxi driver who searches for enlightenment and happiness through personal encounters. She eventually runs into shoe salesman Richard (John Hawkes, Sol Star on Deadwood), who has his own problems to deal with in the form of his two precocious children. It sounds unbearably twee and pretentious, but somehow skillfully avoids it. I still haven't figured out how July pulled it off. It probably has something to do with the simplicity of the ideas and the acting, as well as the frequently insane dialogue: "How do you computerize soup?" Christine and Richard's problems are linked to those of a variety of individuals, a perspective amplifying the struggles faced by people simply searching for happiness in the knowledge of others. Sometimes the subplots become extremely disturbing, but if Todd Solondz can apparently get away with it, I see no reason not to give July the benefit of the doubt. The last scene is a beaut, but the penultimate scene is one of the most romantic cinematic sequences I've ever encountered, redeeming the occasional slightness of plot or direction. I had a smile on my face (occasionally bemused, but generally beatific) the whole time I was watching this, and that's not something that happens very often.

What Freedom Means To Me, Etc. Etc.
Now Playing: The Go! Team--"Ladyflash"
I spent the days surrounding the Fourth as a semi-recluse; on running into a friend while leaving the Arboretum the evening of the Fourth, I babbled for a few minutes, perhaps not remembering how to converse. I suppose it was worth it to get some writing done and check out a few flicks, all of which turned out to have some sort of relevance for the holiday...

John Carpenter's They Live (1988), of course, was the conceptual basis for the classic Casionauts number "i came here to kick ass and chew bubble gum. (and i'm all out of bubble gum)," off Bailemos Muriemos Juntos! (2005). The music on the actual soundtrack is nowhere near as good, since (a) the first song mentioned was by the fucking Casionauts, and (b) on They Live, as in the Escape From Iconic American Coastal Cities movies, John Carpenter made the tragic decision to score the movie himself, which means a bland, slightly oppressive soundscape of unimaginative blues-rock. Some of you may be familiar with the plot: WWF legend "Rowdy" Roddy Piper plays a drifter in L.A. who discovers that skeletal aliens have infiltrated America's political and economic ruling class, among whom they've found a host of only too willing collaborators--the resemblances to the superior V (1983) were striking. In order to consolidate their rule, they implant subliminal messages ("obey," etc.) throughout the media. Once Piper learns of this nefarious plot, he grabs a shotgun and basically annihilates every alien he finds (discernible by a pair of special sunglasses)--a good eleven years before The Matrix. It's all very imaginative, slightly ridiculous, and in the end downbeat. So it's a lot like the Eighties, which the first half-hour magnificently skewers, focusing on the plight of L.A.'s working class and homeless population--a useful corrective to all those annoying VH1 shows. Piper's insanely uneven, surprisingly good in milder moments, as when he reminisces about his upbringing, but his delivery of lines such as the Casionauts song title and (even better) "Mama don't like tattletales" curiously lacks power. Keith David's good in an early role as Piper's co-worker and eventual ally, as is Meg Foster as the sort-of-love-interest. This is one of those flicks, like The President's Analyst, that just grow more depressingly believable with every year.

I've wanted to see Pickup on South Street (1953) forever, as Samuel Fuller is one of my artistic heroes. His autobiography A Third Face (1997, published near the time of his death) is probably one of the most entertaining works published about the cinema (and perhaps any art form). Pickup, one of his most famous movies, shows the Cold War through the worm's eye view of New York pickpocket Richard Widmark, who accidentally walks away with purloined microfilm that the Commies are after. Various attempts by the Red bastards and probably crooked police send Widmark through a variety of double-crosses before he can win free of both groups' clutches. Fuller's ahead-of-their time camera angles and editing struggle with Widmark's performance for mastery, and I love them both. Widmark was always at his best as lowlifes, sneering their way through their problems, and his avoidance of patriotic rhetoric ("don't wave the flag at me") makes this a rather subversive statement on American society during the 50s; the small fry have to protect themselves from the foreign threat, but they have to keep their backs to the wall so no one sneaks up on them. This, apparently, is "what freedom means" to the down and out, and it ain't pretty. There's a great interview with Fuller on the DVD extras where one can see what an amazing character (and American) this guy was.

The HBO flick Iron Jawed Angels (2004) visits the comparatively underused (at least in historical movie terms) field of first-wave American feminism. Alice Paul (Hilary Swank) and Lucy Burns (Frances O'Connor) have grown weary of Carrie Chapman Catt (Anjelica Huston) and her cautious approach to a constitutional amendment for women's suffrage. Forming the National Women's Party, they begin to directly press the federal government (as opposed to working through state legislatures), a strategy leading to protests, picketing, the gimlet stare of Woodrow Wilson (Bob Gunton, so you know he's bad news), and imprisonment, the latter punctuated by brutal treatment, hunger strikes, and force-feeding. The cast is great (and, I must admit, easy on the eyes)--the only other thing I'd actually seen Swank in, believe it or not, was this TV movie from the mid-90s with Mark-Paul Gosselaar and Jenna von Oy about evil sorority girls causing suicide among their would-be anorexic pledges; as soon as I get a chance, I mean to check out Boys Don't Cry and Million Dollar Baby (mind you, I did see her hilarious impersonation of Loretta Lynn on Saturday Night Live, supported by Will Forte's cadaverous Jack White). O'Connor, who womanfully served through the trashy magnificence of Timeline, provides able support as Burns, Laura Fraser pops up as a mousy yet stalwart volunteer, and the great Brooke Smith makes everything three times better (as usual) as the imperturbable Mabel Vernon. Occasionally, Angels becomes a little too cartoonishly didactic and empowering. The unusual direction reminds me of a music video, with the frequent camera trickery and pop music on the soundtrack. I actually think this a good thing, as far too many movies (especially TV movies) dealing with historical subjects fall into a semi-reverential tone--Angels seems much more modern and immediate, which is fitting as many of the conflicts haven't been worked out yet (if they ever will). All the more reason to remember Independence Day.* Full circle, thank you.

*Yes and no, anyway--last week my Mexican co-worker asked our superior how Independence Day came to be, and the latter, in turn, asked me (because I was "brainy") whether it was the British who had formerly governed us. I was tempted to answer that it was the Ukrainians, but there are limits even to my nastiness.

The Ronaldinho Repose
Now Playing: Hector Berlioz--Roman Carnival Overture
The World Cup is here, and I've decided to keep up with it this year as best I can. ABC televised several of the games this year (the commentary was interesting--I'm not sure whether Brent Musberger's always followed soccer or had to bone up once they decided to start carrying it) and I watched three of them: US vs. Italy, Brazil vs. Australia, and France vs. South Korea (so understandably remote is the possibility of Pyongyang's ever fielding a side that the latter was billed simply as "Korea"). Watching soccer (and as long as the NCAA exists, that's what I'll keep calling it) is a lot different for me than, say, watching football, as I used to play soccer when a child. Not for long and not very well, but I do have a basic understanding of what the players are going through out on the field, so it becomes more interesting to watch, despite (or maybe because of) the relative paucity of goals scored. So I spent pretty much all Saturday and Sunday watching soccer and reading The 9/11 Commission Report.

I read the last mentioned as part of a general brushing up on recent history, along with James Patterson's Restless Giant, Haynes Johnson's Sleepwalking Through History and The Best of Times, Sidney Blumenthal's The Clinton Wars, and E.J. Dionne's Why Americans Hate Politics. It's interesting to go back and take stock of one's place in the larger picture. In retrospect, the 90s were kind of a golden age (relatively speaking), and I find it instructive to piece together the accounts and form a whole. Dionne's book is particularly good--a concise yet thorough analysis of right- and left-wing thought since the 50s and how both have affected American politics and widespread popular cynicism.

Ann Arbor garage gods the Avatars played the Blind Pig Saturday night in honor of their newly-released CD, Never A Good Time, for which I've been waiting for around two years. I felt rather listless during the actual show, even though the band was great (and their openers, the Defectors, were a lot of fun, further upholding the great Danish musical tradition of Carl Nielsen and Victor Borge--only other Danish musicians I know). The album was good, songs like "Honey Do," "Wait," and the title track (as well as all of "Wonderin' Why") in particular. I'm not sure the energy of the live shows can be recaptured on CD. It's a situation similar to Canada, another group whose superb live shows don't seem to translate well to recording, at least on the EP I own. Still, that just means that they're definitely bands to catch live.

Speaking of Canada, I also watched the Stanley Cup finals. Events here conspired from the first to interest me, at least marginally, in hockey. My first roommate in Ann Arbor was a Red Wings obsessive, and with so much Canadian media available in southeast Michigan, it was, perhaps, inevitable. I caught Saturday night's steamrolling of the Carolina Hurricanes, and then watched part of the latter's vengeance Monday, before I realized a win was inevitable and went to bed. I think I've watched more sports in the past three days (outside of the Olympics) than at any time outside of college football season. This really has to stop, man.

Clean Grandfathers
Now Playing: Oingo Boingo (believe it or not)--"It Was The Life"
The accidental "theme nights" continue... crazy teenyboppers, music, and 1964.

I didn't think it was necessary to see A Hard Day's Night (1964) on the big screen; I didn't remember it having the epic visual sweep of Lawrence of Arabia or The Good, The Bad and the Ugly. Night played as part of the Classic Film Series at the Michigan, and I almost skipped it. Why see it on the big screen for $8.50 when I could probably grab it from LSV for $0.99? Well, ol' Wendell forgot about the music. There's nothing like hearing great Beatles songs, belted out by the lads themselves onscreen, with a whole cinema sound system to deliver. From the very first scene, when the title song begins in that Ninth Symphony quality lightning strum, and the epochal Scousers flee ravening mobs of swarming youth, there's a rush that never lets go, perfectly punctuated by the musical numbers. After it was over, I barely repressed the urge to run out of the theater and down Liberty Street, weaving in and out of what half-assed traffic there was. The Beatles are great*, but the supporting cast more than holds its own--the always welcome Richard Vernon as a stuffy train passenger John propositions; Norman Rossington (who seemed to show up in much of the great British cinema of the era, from Lawrence of Arabia to Death Line) as Norm, the lovably gruff manager; and, of course, Wilfred Brambell as John McCartney, Sr., who makes life miserable for the lads (and great for the audience) as he gets himself and Ringo into all sorts of scrapes. It wouldn't be complete, of course, without the fans, their tearful closeups at the end pure fun-filled hysteria.

Mind you, none of them actually stalk the Beatles, or ruin their cuckolding and force them to leave the country. That takes a special kind of dedication--grit, gumption and good old-fashioned American knowhow, as Peter Sellers finds to his cost in The World of Henry Orient (again, 1964). One of those deliciously weird movies I could easily have overlooked and gone my entire life without even seeing (to my cost), Orient, directed by George Roy Hill, looks at an obnoxious, womanizing concert pianist (Sellers) and his effect on fourteen-year-old friends Val and Marian (wonderful performances from Tippy Walker and Merrie Spaeth). The latter develop an obsessive crush, especially Val, whose distant parents (Tom Bosley and Angela Lansbury) send her looking for love... well, you know where. All sorts of amusing and occasionally moving complications ensue, with some gorgeous location footage of New York in winter and a fairly happy ending, but I was left mainly with the sweet friendship between Val and Marian, which has tremendous resonance that probably wasn't in the minds of the filmmakers. The end implies that they're going to be causing the boys no end of trouble. As we'll never know, I'll pretend that they both moved to the Village after graduating from whatever Seven Sisters college they attended and ended up in the front lines at Stonewall, fists raised and love in their souls.

I'm also holding out for a civil union, but I'm not holding my breath.

*Probably the dumbest part of a sentence I've ever written.

White Or Orange Cheese?
Now Playing: Robert Turner--Manitoba Memoir
For most of last week, I managed to stay off the internet. As addictive as it gets when one has a connection at home, it gets worse when accessed mainly through the library (that the library's on my way home from work is no excuse). I feel strangely refreshed, to be honest. It's a great invention, but one can be too attached to it.

The past few days have been mainly enjoyable as well. Work's actually been less annoying, even with a colossal set of caterings we had to prepare over Thursday and Friday; I spent Saturday morning putting together shish kebabs and listening to Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me on NPR (and there are far, far worse ways to spend a Saturday morning). Saturday evening I took some biscones and feta cream-cheese cucumbers to the party Sari Brown and Jim Roll threw for housewarming and Sari's graduation. It was a fine time, particularly with Sari reading her rather moving graduation speech and local writer Steve Amick getting us involved in a fascinating discussion regarding the house's defensive capabilities (set atop a low rise at the end of a long, relatively wide street, and smack in the middle of the lump of renter-vs.-owner dry tinder that is the Old West Side of Ann Arbor, I suppose it was only a matter of time). Trebuchets were proposed. That night I reversed my earlier decision and decided to go to the show at the Blind Pig, featuring Chris Bathgate, Canada, and Kelly Caldwell. On my way, I ran into Ryan Balderas, his colleague John, and their friends Megan and Ryan outside of Borders, all on their way to the same show. On our way, we picked up other friends of the other Ryan's, and I wondered whether our numbers would further swell before we got there. I stopped in at the Parthenon to say hi to Phill (they'd only had one table that entire night, which was pretty disconcerting), and skipped on over to the Pig, where most of the usual suspects were present. I had fun chats with Becca, Maria and Laura, Matt Jones tried his hand at cracking my head together with Annie's, Bathgate was great, and I prefer Caldwell's earlier stuff. For the most part, it was a very fun, rather social day. Canada continues to be a great live act, even if I only heard two of their songs. I lost the mood and left early, because...

When getting my third beer, a Labatt Blue, the bartender yelled at me for not tipping him--"Dude, if you're not gonna tip me, don't order from me!" When at the Pig, where you only have as much time at the bar as it takes to get your drink, I follow one of two customs: I include the tip with the price of one beer, or I keep a tally (which I would anyway) and leave the tip at the end of the evening (or, more often, beginning of the morning). I've done it both ways for the past three years and nobody has once complained (including this guy, usually nice as pie). It sounds like I'm outrageously overreacting, but tipping is very important to me.* In lieu of widespread and effective labor unions, it's the only way in which I can really express any meaningful solidarity with fellow service industry workers. I almost always overtip, even if it's at the end of the night. For this guy to yell at me was rather shocking (and a little bracing). I didn't blame him for being irritated; perhaps he'd just had a bad day or had been stiffed earlier. I do blame him for yelling at me; no matter how obnoxious or unpleasant a customer's been, I've never yelled at them or been rude until out of earshot. Add to that the fact that tipping, while it should always be done, especially in restaurants, isn't legally (or sometimes even customarily) mandated outside of large parties (even though it becomes more complicated when speaking of workers making minimum or over). I'm usually pretty conflict-averse, so I was proud of myself for answering back and telling him how I did things, and to his credit, he said he was sorry. It's good, I think, for something like that to happen every now and again.

*It's also mildly embarrassing to note that this was probably the most exciting incident my life has seen for a number of weeks.

Girl, I'm Just A Hamster For Your Love
Now Playing: The Stone Roses--"She Bangs The Drums"
I'd hardly consider myself "macho," but it's always entertaining and instructive to think about how easily jealous and immature I get in a romantic situation. The possessive instinct is always very strong, and I always find myself fighting it, especially when in a romantic relationship. I haven't been in one in six years, and nothing of that sort is even close to occurring, so I'm not sure why I've begun thinking about this sort of thing recently. It might be the random mental associations I've had from conversations with the sensible and intelligent females of my acquaintance (practically all of them, really). I recently had a long phone talk with my long-not-really-lost-but-just-out-of-touch-and-it-wasn't-really-anybody's-fault-the-out-of-touch-thing-that-is first ex-girlfriend Jessica, which was very enjoyable, and had a swell chat with my friend Maria after listening to the tail end of Jim Roll's show at the Old Town a couple of weeks ago. I suppose I think that I should be on my game and watch myself the next time I get into a relationship, thinking that perhaps I'll be "prepared" that time. I came close to ruining a relationship through jealousy (it petered out anyway, but I'd rather have that than screwing it up myself), and I terribly fear it happening again. And, of course, it could (yet again) be the movies I've been watching.

Bad Day At Black Rock (1954) and A History of Violence (2005) feature Spencer Tracy and Viggo Mortensen. Reluctant alpha males. Deceptively iconic rural settings in, respectively, inland California and Indiana. John Sturges and David Cronenberg directing. Black Rock has mysterious WW2 vet Spencer Tracy arriving in the title town and immediately running afoul of the small-town machismo that's caused this country so much damage and embarrassment over the years (especially the last six). Chief among his foes is Robert Ryan, the unreconstructed, unapologetic badass swingin' cock, whose dark secret has brought Tracy to Black Rock. Anne Francis, as Ryan's adoring admirer, unknowingly embodies just about every negative female stereotype cherished by "sensitive" guys from that moment on (attracted to bullies and money, etc.), lending the flick complications I doubt they were all too concerned about in the Fifties. Violence has Mortensen (no stranger, as in Lord of the Rings, to playing the strong, silent type) as an almost cartoonishly loving and stalwart huband and father, which makes sense, as Violence goes on to satirize the whole phenomenon. Mortensen, as kindly diner owner Tom Stall, may or may not be ruthless Philly mob enforcer Joey Cusack, facing down his wife (Maria Bello), alleged former adversary (Ed Harris), and alleged estranged brother (William Hurt), in a desperate quest to maintain a normal life. As with most Cronenberg movies I've seen, the ending isn't quite happy or conventional. Cronenberg is actually a director I respect far more than I like--I don't really share many of his obsessions or concerns, but I admire his commitment to exposing humanity's fascination with mental and physical mutilation (and then relentlessly displaying it, particularly the latter).

Camp Fires and Klimovskiana
Now Playing: Icarus Syndrome--"The Donut Shop"
Saturday night I saw Starling Electric at the Ann Arbor Neutral Zone, in what was probably the most aesthetically pleasing show I've been to in Michigan, with the possible exception of last summer's finale show at the Madison House. The Neutral Zone was established several years ago as an arts/performance space for high school-age youngsters, thereby shielding them from more nefarious environments such as Wobbly meetings or pool halls or whatever the hell they do these days (full disclosure: the NZ has a pool table). It's set in an old warehouse of some sort, the brick walls and low ceilings framing a series of windows, the northern set of whch face the hill that commences downtown Ann Arbor. As shows play into the evening, one can look through the music and see the cars plod along Main Street, their headlights taking the sun's natural place as the day dwindles.

Starling Electric are probably the best band, melodically speaking, in Ann Arbor. The songs invoke and interpret the best kind of 60s sunshine pop, but with a more grounded feel. The guys (Caleb Dillon on keyboard and vocals, Christian Anderson and Jason DeCamillis on guitar, and John Fossum on drums) give a great stage show, helped by the dapper glam-rock fashions, the smoke machine, and the ivy on Caleb's keyboard. The audience was small yet rapt, the scene pleasantly intimate. By the time the smoke came on, the magic was there. Towards the end, during "Camp Fire," Jason tossed me the tambourine, so I tried following along as best I could, and it didn't seem weird in the slightest. I hadn't actually heard them in ages, and it was great to sit transfixed for such a wonderful show. Honorable mention goes to their openers, the Ultrasounds, who delivered a splendid and eclectic set of pop, with some of the same retro style. If they aren't going places, then they should.

The retro-glam thing brings me to my DVD player's most recent inhabitant. While grocery shopping at Meijer Saturday morning (during which time I also got a proper tart pan, so I can actually make tarts and quiches), I ran across a set of 5 movies on 2 DVDs, all billed as The Vampire Collection, Volume 2 and priced at $5.99. All were horror-sleaze products of the early 1970s (at least one having absolutely nothing to do with vampires). I've now seen three, two by Spanish-Argentine director Leon Klimovsky and one by future Porky's and A Christmas Story director Bob Clark at the start of his career.

Note: Reviews edited day after posting for more smartass comments the critic forgot the first time around...

Klimovsky's Werewolf vs. The Vampire Women (1970) and The Vampires' Night Orgy (1973) both have about eight jillion other titles and are basically good as they sound. I think that I may have spoiled myself a little by getting used to all the classy horror movies; my tolerance for entertaining drivel needs a little rejuvenation. Werewolf stars Spanish horror legend Paul Naschy (a.k.a. Jacinto Molina), a cross between Peter Boyle and John Belushi, as a mysterious landowner who tries to protect two bitchin' hot grad students against sinister forces (in the course of which, one might imagine, a werewolf tangles with nasty vampire women). Despite execrable digital transfer, it's worth a look, with the occasionally genuinely haunting moment (and Barbara Capell, as the hapless Genevieve, is gorgeous). Orgy is much wackier, with widescreen presentation, a Madonna-doppelganger heroine, a creepy, voyeuristic "hero" who sleeps in what appear to be gold lame pajamas, a pointless and nasty plot development that only briefly threw me off, random Shakespearean monologues, actual shocks, some bracing (as opposed to pretty) scenery, inappropriate, mildly sleazy humor, and above all the unstoppably groovy, frequently insane soundtrack. It's no Five Dolls For An August Moon, but it'll do. An interesting phenomenon: Werewolf's grad students and Orgy's "itinerant service workers" all traipse around in this incredibly groovy, fashionable gear that must have cost wads. I've been both a grad student and an itinerant service worker, and would definitely never have been able to stretch to that. Either life in the overeducated underemployed was much different in 1972 or I just don't get it. Or both.

Clark's Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things (1972) is apparently something of a cult classic (as described on the back cover of the collection), "one of the most inventive movies to come out in the wake of George Romero's Night of the Living Dead." It's also "chilling, tension filled and only for people with strong stomachs." It flatters itself, but the Romero comparisons fit to a point, as Children essentially involves people holding their own in an abandoned shack against a zombie invasion. I don't find it all that inventive, at least as far as the scariness goes, but it's great fun. For the first half of the movie, just about any terror flies out the window as the viewer sits awestruck at the antics of the monumentally annoying cast. They're all actors in the questionable employ of Alan (Alan Ormsby), who really must be seen to be believed (as must his pants). I currently don't remember a more grating character in a movie I've seen--alternately fey and ruthless, dominant and cowardly, it's not a performance that's easily forgotten (and I'm still not really sure whether it's a great performance or an awful one). The rest, not-so-willingly taking part in Alan's plan to have fun by raising Satan, fit the stereotypes pretty well--the dippy ingenue Terri, the dumb jock Paul, the (really, really) unfunny "comic relief" Jeff (who actually does have one very good line towards the beginning), and the snotty "artiste" Val. The last named delivers Children's most jarring moment when she usurps Alan's ceremony, first in an overly theatrical Cassandra-like tone and then by channeling Molly Picon from Fiddler on the Roof. Alan's faithful lackeys Roy and Emerson are such classic 70s gay stereotypes that they make Sean Hayes look like Yakima Canutt. And then there's insane, death-obsessed, birdlike Anya (Anya Ormsby; no idea how she's related to the "star"), who I now not only want to marry but also want to get with child. There's incredibly bad, "hip" humor, Val's nonstop, oh-so-sophisticated bitching, Alan's laughter (it actually manages to be more irritating than that of my boss), a refreshing zombie attack and subsequent body count, and themes that still remain relevant today--relatively intelligent people forced to work crap jobs for dipshit bosses and eventually being ground down to the bone by life (or unlife, in this case). My sympathy for the characters' plight* didn't stop me from wanting to slap each character at least twice throughout the movie (except for Anya). Even so, when all's said and done, the financial and psychological hold Alan has on his "troupe" is possibly the movie's most frightening aspect. Don't miss the "manning the barricades" scene in which a brief shot makes it look like Paul's masturbating. There's another "appreciation" of Children here.

*If "plight" it is; can Alan really fire people for refusing to take part in necromancy? Can't they sue him for that? Don't unemployment checks (with which he threatens Val) generally pay more than obscure theater work anyway? Besides, aren't all these people supposed to be in shitty service jobs? Shouldn't they be concentrating on blowing the floor manager in order to score the patio section Friday night? Either life in the overeducated underemployed was much different in 1972, etc. etc.

Someone (Asshole)
Now Playing: Super Furry Animals--"Focus Pocus/Debiel"
A relatively staid and uneventful weekend, other than my friends' blissfully raucous dual birthday party Sunday night--much of which has mercilessly begun to return in bits and flashes--dragged into a staid and uneventful week, which crashed unexpectedly into a situation I couldn't have invented if I'd planned it.

Don't Tip The Waiter is a semi-regular satirical paper offering Onion-style stories concerning southeast Michigan-area restaurant managers and workers, stories with titles like "Stripper-Turned-Waitress Can't Forget Former Job" and "Restaurant Manager Gives Sexual Favors As Bonuses". It's rather hit-and-miss; one would think that the asteroid-sized sitting target the American restaurant "industry" presents would attract a surer aim. It's better than nothing, though, or so I believed until my boss laid down the copy by the counter where I was eating my lunch yesterday. "Wendell, can you believe this? An Applebee's manager trading sexual favors for service?" It took me about a minute to realize that she was taking it seriously. I tried to convince her that it was all a joke, but she wasn't buying. Mind you, I was tired, but still... it had me laughing for the rest of the day, which was badly needed.

We apparently won't be carrying Don't Tip The Waiter anymore, it looks like.

Closing The Circle, And About Time
Now Playing: Jim Roll--"Another Lover (I Never Had)"
I recently watched the first series of The Duchess of Duke Street (1976), a fictionalization of the life of Cockney chef and hotelier Rosa Lewis ("Louisa Trotter" on the show), and her amorous and commercial adventures (and those of her guests) in Edwardian England. It was created by John Hawkesworth, one of the people behind Upstairs, Downstairs, and starred the lovely, wonderful Gemma Jones (Oliver Reed's relatively virtuous girlfriend in The Devils, Mrs. Dashwood in Ang Lee's Sense and Sensibility, and Renee Zellweger's mother in Bridget Jones' Diary), whose work I will now make a point of seeing--not only is she a terrific actress, but she reminds me of a girl at the Baton Rouge Barnes and Noble for whom I used to have a fondness. The series climaxes with Louisa's goofball on-and-off aristocratic love interest being married off to some colorless bourgeoise, and was really quite heartbreaking.

So thank heavens I watched the last episode right before Star Wars, Episode III: Revenge of the Sith (2005). I was in the mood for something mindless and consoling, and the movie for which some people waited twenty-five years sounded like just the ticket. Now that I've seen God knows how many other movies in the intervening years since Star Wars first came out, it's rather alarming how large the flaws in this whole mythology loom. After I discovered Doctor Who, I never really had the same interest in Star Wars--all the special effects money in the world won't compensate for the ability to write dialogue. I stopped caring about the whole thing, by and large, by the time I entered high school. While I, like most of the industrialized world, was curious about what the prequels would bring, I didn't fret over it.

The movie was a terribly lopsided bag, some genuinely good stuff swamped by the sheer weight of the thing. The special effects were glitzy and overwhelming, making one wish CGI had never been invented (almost, anyway--for a primer on how the technology should be used, watch Shaun of the Dead; some of the effects are revealed on the hilarious DVD commentary, the funniest bits courtesy of Dylan Moran). One of the things I always like when watching the original Star Wars is how natural many of the effects look in comparison to some of the other stuff done at the time (and since), Logan's Run and Battlestar: Galactica being good contemporary examples. In Revenge of the Sith, it's all very tinny and obviously fake, and detracts considerably from an already beleaguered story.

I was astonished anew at the wretchedness of the dialogue. The original Star Wars, with the continual wisecracks between the characters, had some great moments, but I think once Lucas decided to take the whole thing seriously on screen (I couldn't stop giggling at the initial prologue for Revenge of the Sith, which would look great on the back cover of the thirteenth volume of some roleplaying-game-derived novel series), he either shot himself in the foot or simply forgot how to write (providing fuel for the idea that he'd had himself hermetically sealed into Skywalker Ranch for fifteen years, only emerging for The Young Indiana Jones Chronicles--which, to do him justice, was a great idea). The jokes are tragically limp, reminding me of Nixon wielding a yo-yo. The expository dialogue is particularly brutal, sounding like notes taken for an eighth-grade history paper on "The Decline of the Galactic Republic": "Palpatine felt uneasy about the Jedi Council." "I feel... uneasy about the Council." Jan Morris suggested once that this might have been how G.A. Henty wrote his Victorian boys' thrillers, and it's fun to see how little things have changed, even when one's dealing with imaginary history. I know it's hard to sell political and economic chicanery in a movie like this, but at least try and dress it up, for heaven's sake. It's entirely possible that I've been spoiled by the ready availability of Deadwood at the local library, but that only explains so much.

It's unfortunate, too, because the dialogue obscures some surprisingly good moments and acting. The sight of the various Jedi commanders throughout the Republican armies cut down by budding stormtroopers is genuinely moving. Professional sourguts Christopher "Who is this 'Dracula' you speak of?" Lee shows up for a bit as Count Dooku, and... honestly, people, the fact that he can "do his thing" at all at eighty-three is pretty impressive. Samuel L. Jackson glowers as Mace Windu, and does what he can with little. Natalie Portman is rather wasted, mostly fidgeting and fretting for poor Anakin in a variety of costume-design travesties. Ewan MacGregor's good, but he's unexpectedly outpaced by Ian McDiarmid and Hayden Christensen. McDiarmid's Palpatine turns into a great reptilian villain in Sith, revealing himself as an enemy of the Jedi and then drawing Anakin into his diabilical clutches. I hear Christensen caught a lot of flak for his performance as Anakin, but given that he plays an already annoying teenager beset by mommy issues and given a ludicrous amount of power, I think he does awfully well.* I'm not being facetious--that's how I always read Anakin.

The good thing is that it's over. Nobody can be hurt by mistaken decisions or fruitless fifteen-year filming gaps taken by Lucasfilm ever again, right?

*It doesn't hurt that I have considerable goodwill towards Christensen. He took the flaming pile of shit that was Life as a House and, with Jena Malone, made it almost tolerable. I heard Shattered Glass was pretty good, too.