Thursday, November 25, 2010

SIGNIFICANT OTHERS.




Again, into history, goes another year of mortal media shenanigans and cinematic peaks and valleys. For the previous 11 months I have attempted my usual routine of guiding reader attention toward certain things in the arena of film art that I humbly feel merit significant audience expansion. Invariably, along the way, a great many candidates must fall by the wayside, as I am only allotted so much space in which to gleefully rant away.
Here then are some of the honorable mentions I have witnessed in passing and even some brief verbal spite aimed at a few films that, I dare say, y'all should steer well clear of.
Not exactly a 'Best Of', nor a 'Worst Of' compiling, more accurately I deem it a 'Rest Of' round up of notable tids and bits from across the span of this casually fading thing we all will come to reflect back upon as 2010.
1. In Criterion We Trust.
Surely, this is not the first time someone has pointed extensive, wordy praise in the direction of the collector friendly home video institution, The Criterion Collection (I know I've shucked my share of kudos in its favor), so it should stand as a given that several titles from their ever impressive catalog would make the cut here. Most substantially, the company decided to grace two paramount early works by one Terry Zwigoff (the Wisconsin born, geek-chic anti-hero later to stand behind 'Ghost World' and 'Bad Santa' and the increased commercial acceptability both films would fleetingly allot).
The pictures (first 'Louie Bluie' then 'Crumb') stand as testament to Zwigoff's painstakingly curious affinity for outsider art and, to an even higher extent, those who stand responsible for it. Now, 'Louie Bluie' served as the break in point in regards to Zwigoff's directorial formulation. The project grew out of his intense love of old record collecting (mostly with a lean to obscurities from the dawn of the 20th Century) and many of the oft-unappreciated talents behind them. Zwigoff scraped meager fundage together to attempt an independent cinematic study piece based around one Howard Armstrong, a Tennessee based 'Country-Blues' tunesmith who's long standing nickname doubled as a handy title. It is within this scrappy little hour long experiment that we are given the basic strengths (attention to character ticks, networking out to various intriguing secondary persons to gain further insight into the main subject) that would mature enough to enable Zwigoff to achieve near masterpiece status with his sophomore effort.


'Crumb' sets out to investigate the creative engine behind Robert Crumb, the epic scale cult phenom most immediately recognizable as the father of Fritz the Cat and a fair collection of hippie era album covers (think Greatful Dead='Keep On Truckin''). This gaunt, thick speckled human anomaly survives under the constant prod of Terry Zwigoff's cinematic microscope by way of his own nervous brand of on screen charm, his genuinely innocuous sexual proclivities, copious samplings of his artistic output (well representing the span of his substantial career) and, not of least importance, the input of his remarkably bent male siblings, Charles and Max. It is by witnessing these two that any viewer will be able to surmise the specific role that Robert's pursuit of his bent artistic instincts would have in maintaining a relative semblance of sanity and a great measure of success throughout his life. Both the brothers are legitimately batshit in their own curious way, with Charles arguably stealing chunks of the show as he nervously banters with Robert on the subject of their childhood ups and (mostly) downs while ever so barely maintaining his fractional grasp on sanity.
'Crumb' serves as both a reminder of the importance of nurturing one's creative energy as well as the benefits to be reaped by not selling it short. Robert Crumb remains steadfast in his aversion to common place, pop culture dictated behavioral traits and can even be seen intentionally bastardizing such mannerisms as satire in his drawings. The film triumphs as a study of a variant of the so-called 'human condition' in that it fully embraces the potential of a nominal persona in a rampantly redundant society. What the Criterion folks have done with this critically lauded art house darling is to retro fit it in one of their customary, director supervised transfers that work to present the film as close to perfect as it can feasibly get . Next, they've fattened their new reissue (spine # 533) with a pair of director commentaries (one alongside Roger Ebert, from 2006, before that poor sap lost his voice to cancer) and a pile of raw outtakes and still shots. An accompanying booklet has the usual written banter (this time it's author Jonathan Rosenbaum) and a mini gallery collecting together art by all three Crumb brothers as well as Robert's son Jesse. As per usual with Criterion, the film has never looked nor sounded better (the same goes for 'Louie Bluie', though, in truth, this was the first time I'd ever even seen it.) and they show little sign of slowing down as they enhance their catalog with fine selections from both the current and historic factions of the cinematic realm. Already at large are the likes of 'Hunger', British helmer Steve McQueen's alternately beautiful and unflinching portrait of Bobby Sands and his monumental role in the 1981 Irish hunger strike that would lead to his martyrdom and Austrian Götz Spielmann's engrossing Revanche, which twists together the fates of a petty criminal, his hooker girlfriend and an emotionally taxed policeman in unexpected fashion. On the horizon are such fetching titles as Terrance Malick's return from self exile war opus 'The Thin Red Line', Stanley Kubrick's pre-Spartacus Kirk Douglas vehicle, 'Paths of Glory' and the, allegedly, really warped Japanese head trip horror fable 'House'.
The company is also responsible (for better or otherwise) for the home video birth of Lars Von Trier's latest challenge to all senses, 'Antichrist'. This time out, Von Trier was allegedly wrestling with a severe bout of depression as he set about delving into the turmoil of how a married couple must contend with the abrupt death of their infant child (he fell out of a window while they were getting frisky, as realized-penetration shot and all-as what oddly looks like some high gloss perfume ad). The pair (another Wisconsonite-William DeFoe and some french chick who looks even more malnourished than he does) abscond themselves to the woods to cope and instead find themselves facing persistent demons at seemingly every turn. Spooky sounds, mutant animals and incredibly brutalized genitalia flesh out the bulk of this less than spirited romp with nature. Bookended by some rather sumptuous black and white imagery, but the major gut of this thing is a one shot deal, if at all. For Von Trier die hards only.
To track down any of the above films, check-www.criterion.com
2. Vengeance, How I Love Thee.
As of this point in my recent cinematic experience, I have yet to be quite as struck by the sheer mastery of the medium as I am when I submit to the works of the mighty Park Chan-wook. Most recently, he has managed to reconfigure the oft-beaten path of the vampire scenario into a bent epic of salvation in spite of damnation called 'Thirst'. I covered that gem way back in February, so I will now pay passing respect to the year's best 'box set', Palisades/Tartan's 8-Disc packaging of Chan-wook's magnificent Vengeance Trilogy.
Said set is comprised of all three, thematically connected Park masterworks. 'Sympathy for Mr. Vengeance' is the lead off film, covering the unforeseen dramatics that ensue once a foolhardy fellow kidnaps the young offspring of a high ranking corporate type in order to derive a solid ransom to help save his dying sister. Once a swift succession of events are set in motion, leading to the tragic death of the little girl, the once orderly, high dollar pops turns to a path to self imposed justice. Perhaps, the most famous of the three pictures, 'Old Boy' gives up the results of a clueless man imprisoned 15 long years without reason and then suddenly set free with nothing but savage retaliation on his broken mind. 'Lady Vengeance' completes the set, this time with a female as the falsely convicted protagonist who finds herself on an elaborate payback campaign of her own. With this immaculate trio, Park Chan-wook strives to detail just how equally devastating an impact the easily chosen path of revenge can have on those who have already suffered indelibly, vengeance often proves to be but an extension of their torment.
Park crafts each chapter with fine, articulate balance of brutal intensity and graceful cinematic poetry. Each film is stacked with an even share of striking images, precise performances and inventive plotting that make for so much more than the standard issue 'right the wrong' outline. No cut rate bullshit here people, Park Chan-wook is among the finest currently practicing in the art of film. This fat box set comes full of legit evidence as all three phenomenal films come enhanced with commentaries, making of stuffs, interviews, deleted footage, press kits and (for 'Old Boy') even a 3 hour video diary (!). 'Lady Vengeance' even boasts of an alternate, 'Fade to White' version that, well, ends as the title dictates. Truly essential stuff for film lovers, fan boys and Asian cinema obsessives alike. www.palisadestartan.com






3. The Concept Heard 'round the World.
The Human Centipede (First Sequence)
Ok, take two ditsy American chicks, a flat tire in the German countryside, a remote locale and a gaunt, menacing doctor (who once maintained a career separating conjoined twins) and what do you have? Said females linked ass-to-mouth with some, random Japanese fellow to form 'The Human Centipede' of course. A Dutch director named Tom Six came up with the idea, so of course he had to bring it to the screen to share with the rest of us. Ultimately, it's the concept that carries the weight of what is, otherwise, just a few beats above average low grade, shock horror. Sure, there's the main visual of the centipede itself, as well as a few choice 'yuck! moments scattered about, but it all proves a tad mundane when one takes into consideration the expectations a person's mind sets in motion once such a high/low scenario is presented. Still worth a cheap rental, just to say you saw it.


A sequel (Second Sequence) is slated for next year, lucky us.
4. When the 'Good Guys' Do Less Than Good. (filmmakers I dig making films I do not)
There has arisen a moderate trend toward the negative in that several key filmmakers that I have long followed and greatly admired have begun to embrace projects of late that (at least within my humble perspective) fall well outside the perimeters of their standards. Now, as I have yet to catch David Fincher's 'The Social Network', I must, in all fairness, leave it well enough alone (I'm confident it is expertly realized and all, but a Facebook movie from the guy who did the great 'Zodiac'?). Elsewhere though, someone tell me why Edgar Wright, the man behind two of the freshest, genre blending hybrids of recent years ('Shaun of the Dead' and 'Hot Fuzz') would invest an obvious high level of blood, sweat and artistic energy into whatever the hell you'd call 'Scott Pilgrim vs the World'? I know it all hails from some cherished comic and blah, blah, blah and that go-to kids around the world will tell you it speaks to this generation's blah, blah, blah and so on and total bullshit. This does not address the simple fact that a whole lotta money, time and considerable union cash burning was utilized to dress up a simpleton story involving a less than geek level douche bag who finds himself torn between two unrealistically attractive chicks and the stock 'slackers' in his insufferable garage band. Oh, and the brother of that one time 'Home Alone' kid plays the gay roommate as a slightly exaggerated fag stereotype, so like, OMG! how topical. However, if you have a case of extreme pop-culture based, channel surfing, blah, blah, blah disorder, this movie will make you orgasm your retarded self to death, now get to it.
Next victim.
Can somebody please help me understand how the once incredibly inventive, hyper stylistic one of a kind man behind such seminal Italian giallo epics as 'The Bird With The Crystal Plumage' and 'Cat O' Nine Tails' can fall flat on his face by making a terribly mundane and lazy piece of emptiness called 'Giallo'? Dario Argento is not likely a filmmaker apt to please all tastes, even in a fan fanatic arena such as horror, but few can refute the distinction of his directorial voice, very much the highest example of style over substance, but what an often breathless style it can be. True, the finished film was re-cut by the producers and even the man himself disowns it, not to mention the disdain of lead actor Adrien Brody, who claims he was never fully paid! But this sad, uninspired mess could barely pass muster on some late night cable channel slot. It's just lacking everything, decent writing, plotting, set pieces, acting, everything. The story, something about a woman (Emmanuelle Seigner) who teams with a jaded cop (Brody) to find her missing sister whom may have become the latest victim of some deformed serial killer type, is never advanced far beyond the type of stale approach one might find on any number of those silly, major network crime shows with the initials in the title NCSISCSI or something (does it make a difference in the end?).Lots of chases, police procedural cliches and cigarette smoking fills the running time out. Not my idea of a good time, or a real Argento movie.
5. Good For Them Boys.
We wrap this whole endtime retrospective with a nod toward the future (or so I hope), at least in part, of this wonderful and troublesome thing we like to call the movie business. As much bitching and groaning as one might glean from this column of mine, I would hope they can also, on polite occasion, uncover a morsel or two that will serve to give them hope that there are, indeed, fimmakers and films out there that do thrive as worthy opposition to the bloated mental bankruptcy that helps keep bad comedians and remake happy producers off the unemployment line.
A man named Adan Green hit a two-fold punch this year as he managed to sneak back to back works under the commercial radar yet into respectable theatrical bookings for brief stab at the box office. His scheme didn't return much beyond pigeon scrapings in terms of absolute dollar, but both the decent 'Frozen' and the proudly moronic bloodbath 'Hatchet II' got one metaphoric foot in the door, 'Hatchet II' even managed to do so without bowing to the constraints of an MPAA rating.
Elsewhere, Chad Ferran bounced forward from a spate of earnest but overly amateurish time wasters ('The Ghouls', 'Easter Bunny Kill! Kill!') to hammer out a tight and surprising little head scratcher by the name of 'Someone's Knocking At The Door' a heady amalgamation of grind house sleaze, mind bending plot distortion, gleeful sexual depravity and more than a touch of quality, widescreen carnage. No lie, as much as I shrugged at his early work, this loving embrace of twisted psychosis and rubber reality narrative rape works on just about all levels. don't even worry what it's supposed to be 'about', seek it out and drink heavily while lots of strange shit unfolds before you. www.someones-knocking-at-the-door.com
Finally, two more that I'm not sure I can either pan or recommend in all legitimacy.
'Trash Humpers' is probably the next logical step for the guy who made arguably one of the defining indie geek shows of all time with 'Gummo'. Yet how many people will honestly make it through nearly an hour and a half of derelicts in old age masks raping inanimate objects and fondling fat whores while uttering really obnoxious non-dialog, all shot on sub-par VHS tape? Hell, I bought it. What does that say about me?
Never mind. www.trashhumpers.com
'Best Worst Movie' If ever a movie were non-deserving of such a badge of honor, it would be 'Troll 2', the cast off non-sequel that this movie attempts to rationalize as worthy of one of the most inane and pointless cult followings ever delusionaly fabricated. Cast and crew members are unearthed and pressed to recollect their part in some no-budget filmmaking that took place in rural Utah two decades prior. Main man George Hardy, a meat head Alabama dentist with a perma-grin played the dad in the movie (his on screen son, Micheal Stephenson, serves as director of this full length homage) and acts as tireless tour guide for much of what's seen here. There are 'Troll 2' parties and convention appearances and even a video game to help emphasize the 'so bad it's good' legacy. Still, try as I might, I cannot see 'Troll 2' as anything more than what it originally was, a cheap and instantly forgettable knock off of a much better Charles Band movie that is actually far more in need of a nerdtastic revival (c'mon, it's got Sonny Bono mutating into a big, uh, cabbage sack, or something).
Treasure for some, trash to others I guess.
Ok, that went on too long, but don't expect an apology.


Saturday, October 23, 2010

CRUEL NORWEGIAN BLACK METAL.


There's one 'round every corner.

Within any so-called creative network, there always proves to be a heady handful of left of field types. Outsiders, creepy sons-a-bitches or 'fringe' players plying their indifference to convention and wrecking havoc on the safe and serene. These are the artistic marks on the human race that serve to set things off balance every now and again through both behavioral traits and tangible output, be it sonic, photographic, drawn out on any given material, whatever. This is the shit and these are the folks that work under the skin and into the subconscious, raping away at what the common man may perceive as 'A-OK!'

Now, I have sworn allegiance to both the bent dementia of the artistic outcast and the non-fiction form in moving pictures. I've been devoting ample time to both subjects in this here column of mine ever since day one ('tis true, just go dig through some moldy back issues at the Appleton Library), thus it would prove second nature for me to fully embrace and digest the coming together of inventive, yet bent, humanity and ace documentation.

A case in point........

The majority of the people I know and tend to run with address the scrappy hard rock sub-sub-sub genre of Black Metal as some kind of guttural train wreck clown routine drenched in quasi-medieval posturings straight outta some random B-movie redressing of deep-rooted Scandinavian folklore. Any average fool need not look further than established brutes Immortal and the layout imagery for their seminal record 'Battles in the North' as impetus to, either, bug your eyes way out in disbelief or let forth a torrent of savage giggles. Two dudes in corpse paint, all stone serious and posing dire with their guitars in a pile of bright, white snow, there you have it, black metal in a nutshell.

Not so fast with such simple, easy judgments, time to scratch just below the surface. Take a more explicit sampling of the recordings and press (and fanboy) response on through the years (in great particular-'Lords of Chaos:The Bloody Rise of the Satanic Metal Underground' by Michael Moynihan and Didrik Søderlind and photographer Peter Beste's tome 'True Norwegian Black Metal') and one can discover a brutal, convoluted soap opera of double crossings, deceit, copious church crisping, murder fantasies (and realities), homo/xenophobic and barely disguised fascist leanings.

All of these handy, highly melodramatic nuggets find themselves dredged up to the surface yet again via an intertwining of dialogs and cultural samplings that make for the bulk of the meat in the newly presented study on this Norwegian Black Metal scene titled 'Until The Light Takes Us'. This rather earnest little slab of immersive reportage attempts to distill the epic scale madness and confounding (to the uninitiated) level of addictive appeal to those among us who've actually taken the time to 'get it' to a manageable degree. The two names behind this project, Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell, sought to gain unfiltered insight into the inner workings of this mini-phenom by uprooting themselves and moving to Norway to acclimate to the locals and generate trust and accessibility with many of the principles in the normally stand-offish Black Metal fraternity.



In the end, the pair have scaled their point of focus down to two primary voices. Gylve 'Fenriz' Nagell is a founding progenitor of the watershed genre outfit Darkthrone and Varg Vikernes established underground 'fame' via his hand in the notorious Mayhem and his own, one man, raw dog juggernaut Burzum. The choice of these fellas proves an apt one as they offer up sharply contrasting vibes as interviewees. Nagell resembles to me, the archetype death metal rat; skinny, disheveled, with stringy long hair and a mumbling, socially inept demeanor. Hardly an intimidating presence, Nagell is more reminiscent of the countless dudes in patch saturated black leather jackets I'm used to seeing skulking about at many a given metal gig. Vikernes, however, is as strong a persona as Nagell is shrug-shouldered and meek. Varg (sometimes known as 'Count Grishnackh' care, in part, of a predilection toward the works of Tolkien) is an alpha-male straight away, bold, articulate and unwavering in his apparent confidence as he attempts to address the depth of his pivotal role in black metal history from his pale, sterile cell in a maximum security joint in Trondheim.

You see folks, Varg was a very naughty lad, he was tried and convicted for the offing of one time band mate Øystein 'Euronymous' Aarseth (from Mayhem) by way of multiple knife wounds. Vikernes was also heavily suspected as a participant in the then rampant outbreak of area church burnings (a symbolic burden that the black metal scene would prove unable to fully divorce itself from that point on). Varg claims the Euronymous homicide as a 'kill-or-be-killed' situation in which he bested a man who was out to do him in.

The filmmakers chart all this tension and turmoil by bouncing the words of their primary talking heads off footage (both new and archival) of the scene itself, from raw early band formations and alterations (like the shotgun suicide of initial Mayhem frontman, er, 'Dead') to present day evidence of outside cultural encroachment (7-11 and McDonald's do not warrant much affection from these gents). They also manage to wrangle a solid supporting cast of scene players from such essential collectives as Satyricon, Ulver and Immortal (sans makeup, sadly) to augment the topics at large. We learn the whole disaffected youth scenario that led the lads to seek out the rawest possible outlet to vent against their oppressive 'perfect' culture (Norway is not known for poverty and strife, you see). The film goes for a sort of drifting pace that veers between Varg and Nargell, twisting their now very separate paths back around into their shared origins and back out towards the open possibilities that await both men and the now more renowned musical outlet they both, in a basic sense, still embrace.

If the film itself is not at all perfect, it does meander some from time to time as it were an awe struck, slightly stoned youth with a taste of ADD, it serves well enough to guide the clueless newcomer though the bare essentials of why some folks grow rather nerd obsessive over all this raspy and seemingly unpleasant noise-making. It's about stepping away from the constrictions of mainstream metal brands and styles and indulging in the unfiltered, raw power and aggression coming through the music. For the previously well schooled and 'total brutal' completest (the type who pointlessly boast over a rare vinyl 7" pressed in someones cellar in Austria or something), there is that extra shade of persona revealed in the occasionally rambling and less polished discussions at hand (especially in the case of the fidgety Nargell). Plus there comes a few unexpected asides like the sudden two-cents commentary provided by 'Gummo' mastermind Harmony Korine who gushes love for all things Black Metal over appropriately low grade footage of him in corpse paint geeking out solid in some unfortunate gallery. Sometimes, things just sound more fucked the further you attempt to explain them.




A smaller, Brooklyn based distributor, Factory 25, has stepped up to make the film available to one and all on both DVD and Blue-Ray formats. The film can be retrieved in both single and double disc packages. With that second disc, the willing viewer may witness an additional barrage of interview footage (which gives much needed expansion to the Immortal interview as well as a certain Kjetil 'Frost' Haraldstad of Satyricon who ends the film proper with a self-abusive performance piece that does little to dissuade the commonly held notion that this is, indeed, dangerous music). There is also several deleted scenes (on disc one), a theatrical trailer and a long winded lesson in the step by step evolution of the Black Metal scene from the expected Black Sabbath kick start on into the modern era delivered in mostly listless monotone by Mr. Nargell. In total, a worthy project well handled, but for the troublesome way the discs on the DVD version are encased (I damn near snapped both of mine in two trying to take them out...beware!)

Genuinely interested parties are greatly encouraged to stop here (http://www.factorytwentyfive.com/until-the-light-takes-us/ ) to satisfy any and all further steps that need be taken to make this baby theirs.

Enough pure crushing blackened hate for now, stay, uh, 'Evil' why don't you?


killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com





Tuesday, October 12, 2010

NEVER A SLAVE TO INDUSTRY


A FINE TIME TO FIND OUT YOU'RE THE SAME AS EVERYONE ELSE.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

EXPENDABLE ME. (AKA-Every Good Boy Deserves a Body Count)


Sylvester Stallone is feeling nostalgic, he’s consumed by an abstract yearning for the golden peak of the 1980s (and a touch of the succeeding 90s) when meat ruled the marquee. The flex-steady maestro behind the sweat laden brow of such one man brick walls as John Rambo and Rocky Balboa has just vomited his action hero soul up on celluloid for all the world to digest, tagged it ‘The Expendables’ and stuffed the retro centric result into movie shacks nationwide. The films’ extensive novelty value comes almost fully from a loaded cast of manly manness employed to FLESH out its’ shamelessly formulaic ‘rag-tag mercenaries attempt to thwart a third world dictator’ storyline. Many a heartfelt dose of top shelf thespian character development and deep existential contemplation follow suit (bullshit!). Oh, and lots of stuff get lit up, go BOOM!

The most sustaining after shock this beefcake almighty demolition parade left upon the nerd-chic brain pan of yours truly was the faded recollection of days now ancient when little studios that could, actually did. Believe it, or just play along, but there once was a time when dopey and violently quite charming non-intricate shoot ‘em ups appeared on a steady basis at my local Bijou to aptly sate a particular niche of sub-par exploitation devotees. No longer officially ‘grindhouse’ but not yet absconded from public awareness to direct-to-video oblivion, many such pictures managed a meager helping of box office attention before being supplanted by the next tacky trinket out the factory. Speaking of such factories, there were several notables. Let’s see, there was the Roger Corman fathered trifecta of New World Pictures, Concorde Pictures and New Horizons, Vestron (the ‘Dirty Dancing’ people) and even eternally smarmy huckster Charles Band’s infrequently worthy Empire Pictures (who helped propel the career of Stuart ‘Re-Animator’ Gordon and also made a bunch of movies with dwarves and shabby looking puppets) all of which made much cheap shit with lasting cinematic impressions on my young and feeble mind. None, however, held sway over the court of sub-important moviegoing at the level of prolific ferocity that The Cannon Group did.

You see folks, Cannon had a wee something extra, a spark of charismatic showmanship that culled its very impetus from both the brazen studio system of old (contract players and all that cunning, media savvy manipulation of the distribution process) and the brand of ‘quick scheme to make a buck while the gettin’s good’ philosophy that formed the appeal of many a William Castle type product. Keep it topical, keep it cheap, make it look flashy, get asses in seats. Such was the Cannon modus operandi, and it served them well, for a time.

But wait, first, a compact history lesson.




The Cannon Group was first given unto an unsuspecting movie going culture in the fall of 1967 care the efforts of Dennis Friedland & Chris Dewey, two entrepreneurial types who’d set up shop to both showcase lower profile international product as well as fund their own low cost ($300,000 or south) features. Along the way, these early era Cannonites struck minor paydirt with the Peter Boyle dark satire ‘Joe’. Sadly, the success story was short lived for Cannon’s young fathers and so in 1979 the pair sold their baby off for a strikingly low rate=$500,000 to two Israeli born cousins Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus. This duo had already been creating and hustling pictures in their homeland before making the leap stateside, Golan himself frequently took on the role of director as well (a position he would return to time and again during his Cannon tenure) and the boys had a plan cemented in their minds as to how they would make a lasting and financially fulfilling mark on this crazy American thing called ‘Hollywood’.



Golan-Globus (as the cult film world would come to know and adore them) set about procuring a fat catalog of inexpensive and genre faithful scripts to shove into production on the low cost/easy market tip. The fattest of their big screen returns came from the mass of grade B+ action epics and genuinely unabashed sequels to films most folks could have done without one of in the first place (‘Exterminator 2’, huh? why?). Granted, the company did branch out through the possibilities of several types of cinema, championed both break-dancing(more on this below) AND lambada pictures, helped run Tobe (‘Poltergeist’) Hooper’s career into the ground (regardless, I still love both ‘Lifeforce and ‘Texas Chainsaw 2’) and even courted art-snob and literary circles a few times (including both a later stage contribution from John Cassavetes-’Love Streams’- and oft lauded author Norman Mailer’s see-it-to-believe-it curo ‘Tough Guys Don’t Dance’) but the bread that held their butter was mostly laden with bullet shells, supplement infused musculature and many a simplistic line of dialog. It fostered the careers of Chuck Norris, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Michael Dudikoff (c’mon, you remember the ‘American Ninja’ guy, don’t you?) and a waning Charles Bronson.




By the mid section of the 1980s, at the sheer height of their productive powers, the cousins were slapping the slick Cannon logo on as much as 40 or more films in a given 12 month period. Chuck Norris’ Vietnam war inflected tentpole ‘Missing In Action’ did enough wide release business to justify two follow ups, Van Damme flourished with his kicks (if not his line readings) in the supposed true story ‘Bloodsport’ (supported by a young Forest Whitaker) and old man Bronson would milk the shit out of his ‘Death Wish’ anti-hero, Paul Kersey, all the way to a part 5.

Much of this Cannon fodder adhered religiously to the bare bones b-movie mantra of self-righteous ‘good’ overpowering some form of leering ‘evil’ (often heavily stereotyped foreign people). No matter if it was Chuckie Norris single handedly deflecting an impromptu Communist infiltration in ‘Invasion U.S.A.’ or former television heartthrob Richard Chamberlain aping Indiana Jones in ‘King Solomon’s Mines’ (one of many blatant derivatives of Spielberg/Lucas’ beloved archaeologist the Cannon folks would cobble together), the end result remained the same, the world is rendered free of villainy care the fearless exploits of a grizzled scenery chewing second-tier hero.

Which swings this whole thing back in the direction of that new Stallone flick. You see, not only does ‘The Expendables’ bare strong stylistic and thematic similarities to an atypical Cannon action programmer, it also bares some fraternal ties on the casting front. Within the line up of the film, I counted at least four fellows who had participated in the solidifying of the esteemed Cannon legacy(and if I have overlooked someone, too bad). Not only are Dolph Lundgren (He-Man in the wonderfully clunky ‘Masters of the Universe’), Mickey Rourke (‘Barfly’-not quite action, but they can’t all be) and main baddie Eric Roberts (‘Runaway Train’) guilty by association, but the man in charge Stallone has not one, but two Cannon lovelies to call his own (‘Cobra’ and the arm wrestling standard barer ‘Over the Top’). So, as one can clearly see, the bloodline flows on, albeit at a considerably higher cost (‘The Expendables’ ran up a tab in the neighborhood of $80 million, that could easily have funded a dozen or so Golan-Globus puppies).

So, in the end, is it all worth it? Does a pricey, ensemble homage to the good if not so clean big screen heroics of yore really warrant any measure of genuine affection? Why, shit yes, it sure do. Sly and the family steroids have pummeled all the pieces in place to smack your ass back to the age of perfect, cut muscle fibers and bias, well timed gun play. From the moment the elephantine Lundgren bellows out ‘Warning Shot!’ ‘til the last bullet shell falls, ‘The Expendables’ lives up to the one thing so many of this year’s offerings fail to even touch (‘Inception’ not withstanding), it’s promise to give you a reason to head back to the theater. May the ghost of The Cannon Group smile down upon Stallone and his over stretched flesh, first ‘Rambo (2008)’ and now this, the man has made body counting fun again.




ALSO,

In keeping with this month’s ever compelling subject matter, I offer up a dandy double header I snapped up at one of the local Wal-Marts (yes-I gave some dollars to pure evil, if you don’t like it-invert me) for a basement level $5. The object in question is a two disc DVD repackaging of Cannon’s love poem(s) to the finest dance craze of the 1980s. ‘Breakin’ and the vastly superior ‘Breakin’ 2-Electric Boogaloo’ (think of it as ‘The Empire Strikes Back’, only with break dancing and an L.A. back drop, and no Billy Dee). Both fine features follow the plucky efforts of two street smart youths (Adolfo ‘Shabba Do’ Quiñones and the legendary Michael ‘Boogaloo Shrimp’ Chambers) and the sweet thang (Lucinda Dickey) from the wealthy side of town that wants hang and learn to be ‘real’. The trio utilizes their expertise in hip dance moves to put on a show and save both their street cred (in part 1) and save an inner city community center from demolition (the untoppable ‘Electric Boogaloo’).

Both films thrive as vivid and addictively cheesey time capsules of a prehistoric period when a pop, a lock, a drop and a spin could make you famous and ICE-T ruled the earth (he cameos in both films). Pure energy raised to a level of beautiful stupidity that just cannot be forced, the concept of cult status was created with movies like these in mind. More than recommended as a cure for the doldrums of sanity. VIVA CANNON!

For more great, disposable info on the Cannon Group, visit this=www.cannonfilms.com

Sunday, September 12, 2010

AGAIN WITH THAT OSHKOSH ZOMBIE WALK.....







BECAUSE MY MAN JOHN PATA AND THE OSHKOSH HORROR CREW KNOW HOW TO BLEED TERRIFIC ANNUALLY.

Sunday, September 5, 2010

INFECTION-OSHKOSH ZOMBIE WALK 2010

IT ALL TAKES PLACE IN THE PRESENT DAY AMONG THE FITFUL RUINS OF A HUMANITY GONE SOUR AND DRUNK WITH ITS OWN BLOATED SENSE OF SECURITY.







Saturday, August 7, 2010

MORE FROM DAT APPLE/MADDEN 2 THE PEOPLE PART 2


I LIKE TO MOBILIZE THE NEW YORK CANON BETWEEN FITS OF STREETWISE GENUFLECTION AND RANDOM CELEBRITY SIGHTINGS....ALL IN THE NAME OF PHOTOGRAPHIC 'PURITY'......YA.


Sunday, July 25, 2010

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

MADDEN2THEPEOPLE (PART 1)

STUMBLING UPON A SHOOT FOR A MADDEN 11 SPOT IN THE SWELTERING CENTER OF TIMES SQUARE, JULY 6 TH........PLUS-DREW BREES AND SOME GUY IN A DOG SUIT.




NEW YAWK IN THAT 2010 THANG.

BEEN DOIN' THIS METROPOLIS PHOTOGRAPHICALLY SINCE JUST BEFORE THEM BIG, BAD BUILDINGS WENT 'BOOM'....SO MANY FACES, SO MANY PLACES, SUCH PRECIOUS LITTLE TIME IN WHICH TO EXPLORE AND EXPLOIT THE TOTAL OF THEIR WORTH....NOT FOR LACK OF TRYING, MIND YOU.



Sunday, July 11, 2010

FAITH NO MORE?




IT'S QUITE AMAZING. ACTUALLY, THAT I EVER EVEN SNAPPED A SINGLE SHOT OF THESE 'BASTARDS' AS I ONCE GOT THE BOOT FROM THE BROOKLYN BASED WATERFRONT VENUE FOR POSSESSING A MORE THAN DECENT CAMERA AND AS A CONSEQUENCE, HAD TO GO AHEAD AND SNEAK INTO A GIG THAT I HAD ALREADY PAID MY $60+ IN TICKETING AND FEES TO SEE.......AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH=LOGICAL.