sad to say, gone away........

murdered by neglect

the last time we played together

skinned knees, left to bleed

subtext unforgiven

heave me over

topside

broken

all apart

cry them eyes out

livid

in a sad old memory

rotting

fetid and

something less for a collective lack

of

interest?

ONE WAY TICKET TO LOW BUDGET HELL...........AND BACK.

(Originally published in the October edition of The Scene)




Life is shit, eat a bullet.

This is what appears to be the running philosophy throughout the mid 80s no-budget cult fixture 'Combat Shock'. The film is set in New York's Staten Island at a time when things where in a prime state of moral and aesthetic decay. This richly textured hellhole is the current residence/self inflicted prison of the tale's sorry protagonist, Frankie Dunlan, a filth and sweat laden Vietnam vet whose every waking hour plays out like a litany of all the things anyone clearheaded would try to sidestep in life. Frankie lives an utterly impoverished existence with his fat slob wife and Agent Orange tainted offspring in a fully soiled apartment. Income is less than sparse, the rent is woefully past due and the plumbing is an atrocity all unto itself. Faced with a family unit that is tired, irritable and starving in the face of a lumpy carton of sour milk and precious little else, Frankie takes it upon his hopeless self to venture out into the bleak surroundings to make one last, half-hearted stab at salvation.

Frankie's trek through the bargain rate Dante's Inferno that is his 'hood is peppered with the customary stumbling blocks of junkies, whores and the small time thugs that lord over them all. Between being roughed up and held up, the poor sod finds nothing but the negative in relation to employment options and, in turn, hope. Now, unless you happen to possess serious mental aberrations of your own, this synopsis is not going to read as 'feel-good' entertainment but, rather, an experimental endurance test devised to tap into a certain facet of the human psyche that lingers just outside the boarders of popular interest.

The project was brought to life on location and in complete guerrilla fashion by one Buddy Giovinazzo. Giovinazzo is yet another textbook case of the brand of D.I.Y. directors that seemed to live for (and, comparably, thrive by) the struggle of pure independent filmmaking in a time before the prevalence of such alternative distribution routes as DVD and the Internet. Sadly, as is the case with such peers as Jim 'Deadbeat at Dawn' VanBeeber, this resulted in a greatly minimized level of creative output as money conscious industry types were not exactly fawning over the concept of making product of a grim and uncompromising nature. Giovinazzo scraped and scavaged and tapped friends and family alike to make his stubbornly ugly vision come alive. His real life sibling Ricky inherited the lead role and proud brother Buddy works an epic level of pathos from every inch of his ragged, gaunt frame. He elects sturdy (if admittedly unpolished) performances all around with several key characters succeeding in pulling of some truly unnerving behavior (one stand apart moment involving a seriously jones afflicted junkie using a rusty coat hanger to open a vein deserves extra kudos for its genuinely unsettling qualities) and he even provides his non-hero with a gentile little moment of simple banter with a young girl, nevermind the fact that girl turns out to be a prostitute.

Following the completion of 'Comat Shock', Giovinazzo struck a distribution deal with the beloved low-rent Troma Studios (who retitled it from the original 'American Nightmares'). Troma then added Vietnam war stock footage and trimmed the copious violence to appease the omnipotent MPAA and earn a marquee friendly 'R' rating. They slapped a grossly misleading 'Rambo/Missing in Action' themed poster and stuffed it into any grindhouse dive that would take it. Now I guess it would be overstating the obvious when I point to the fact that 'Combat Shock' didn't become anything close to a box office phenom upon initial release, instead it had to gestate in the underground in the now familiar pattern that slowly builds a following for a film before earning it a second life as a 'special edition' DVD.



To their credit, Troma have packed the two-disc, 25th anniversary 'Tromasterpiece Collection' release with many significant goodies. Beside both the edited 'Combat Shock' cut of the film, there is the slightly longer (and rawer) 'American Nightmares' director's cut as well as a new documentary charting the butterfly effect the film has had in the independent film community (directors like John McNaughton, Richard Stanley and Jim VanBebber chime in on the subject) plus several early shorts and music videos (of Buddy and Ricky's band 2000 A.D.) from Buddy G's archives.

Apart from working the system to largely no avail to get other projects to fruition, Buddy Giovinazzo has also made a minor name as an author a collage film instructor and as a steady hand in German television (he jumped ship from America in the 1990s and settled in Berlin ). The man has managed to finish a handful of films as well. Several, including 'No Way Home' with Tim Roth and 'The Unscarred' are as of yet unseen by me, but I shall do my best to reverse that. His latest offering 'Life Is Hot in Cracktown', adapted from his own short story collection, just arrived on disc last month and gives full indication that Ol' Buddy has not lost his touch by a damn sight.

This film features a labyrinthine intersection of story lines involving street gangstas, deviants, addicts and even a blue collar married couple to throw us all for a loop. Giovinazzo as apparently assembled a bit more money and a rather impressive cast (Lara Flynn Boyle, Illeana Douglas, RZA, Shannyn Sossamon to name a few) to further address the ills of a low income, crime infected New York environment. He again displays a fearless take on the less glamorous side(s) of human nature but still finds time to let a little light shine through the grime. The best realized sub-scenario in all the pimping, thuggin' and melodrama comes care an awkward yet, oddly, sweet romance held between a pre-op tranny (a potent Kerry Washington) and her/his (uh?) eternally doped up Beau (Desmond Harrington). It really is their saga that proves the most endearing. In the end it just goes to show that the folks that should be behind the camera rolling it are fairly often left to fend for their own means and that helps to cause the art of film to become stifled, stilted or abandoned all together.

So, genuine film lovers not afraid to get some soot on their hands, step up.

This Buddy Giovinazzo fella needs your support.

Hunt 'em down....'Combat Shock' www.tromasterpiece.com

'Life Is Hot in Cracktown' http://media.lightning-ent.com/index_new




ALSO......

I'm pretty certain the last thing the cinematic world desperately needs is another Hurricane Katrina documentary, so why not two?

First we have 'Trouble the Water' (www.zeitgeistvideo.com) which separates itself from the rest simply on the strength of its central focus. Young, married Lower 9th Ward lifers Kimberly and Scott Roberts hooked up with filmmakers Tia Lessin and Carl Deal (who've had a helping hand in several Michael Moore projects) at a shelter in the mid state Louisiana city of Alexandria. Meshing footage Kim snagged pre/during/shortly following the now legendary natural disaster with their personal hardships set against the dumbfounding broader picture of the collapse of order across the Gulf Coast, the film serves as one of the most concise, ground zero depictions of life in the wake of an unmitigated catastrophe. We tag along for the bumpy ride as the couple must leave their homestate for the first time in their short lives and find a way to retrieve and reassemble the scattered pieces of their lives sent flying to the four winds thanks more to an infamous failure of politics than the so-called wrath of god or whatever other nonsense the truly soulless among us prefer to believe.

Unlike the more extensive investigative works on this very same basic subject (i.e. Spike Lee's to-end-all magnum opus 'When the Levees Broke') this film triumphs not so much from the overburdened rehashing of the disaster itself that has now become sadly cliché (oh! the floating dead bodies and overturned vehicles, good lord the horror!) but by giving the screen over to the Roberts's themselves, to let them convey in words and gestures just how staggering an impact this misfortune of time, tide and human error has had upon them and the place they have always called home. Kimberly earns her right as the film's natural star as she makes her way through the rigors of recovery with a moxie that could have only been honed from her years on the street hustlin' and, later, bumpin' rhymes (she goes by the MC tag 'Black Kold Madina'). It's from this latter skill set that she provides the film with one of its strongest moments, an on the spot rendition of one of her own tracks, 'Amazing', which effortlessly fills in personal back story details with an articulate economy most screenwriters would die for.



It comes as no real surprise that this film managed to garner both a fairly substantial big screen berth and a Best Documentary nomination from the Oscar crowd, it is a powerful and important slice of (a greatly disrupted) life, a sharp piece of social criticism and ultimately an affirmation of strength through perseverance. Recommended to those whose range of compassion branches well beyond their own comfortable surroundings.

Similarly there is the slightly more scatter shot 'Kamp Katrina' (www.carnivalesquefilms.com) which plays more like an often dysfunctional group home movie then a polished feature. The locus this time 'round is a Bywater community (aka-Upper 9th Ward) fixture known as Mrs Pearl who opens her back yard to several wayward types in the fairly immediate aftermath of the big K. Her generosity benefits a mangy gathering of decrepit New Orleans standbys, drinkers, druggers and victimized dregs just looking for a place to 'heal' (don't miss the weathered lass with the removable eye). The movie burns most of its scant running time on various arguments and lapses in solid judgment, basically a low rent reality show meets soap opera thing with far more literal grit on its teeth. One thing that really works here (at least for my eyes) is a fair measure of solid visual representation of the rather bent charm of the Bywater neighborhood. I have ventured down its crooked streets dozens of times and crossed paths with colorful people and places on countless occasion, so it was kind of a fleeting thrill to go there again, if only care the confines of my television set. Recommended for N.O.L.A. or Katrina purists or if you stumble upon it by chance at the library, otherwise, don't try too hard.


Another month laid to rest like Patrick Swayze.

Wish me better luck next time, eh?

COMIC CON INT-2009

Because there is nothing on this earth with as prevalent a selection of geeks, freaks,pulpy eyesores, famous and infamous citizens and ridiculously hot Asian chicks.





Plus, GWAR!

(Near) Forgotten Film Makers, Part 1

This month I am beginning what I hope is only the first in a series of columns geared to draw attention back to some members of the movie-making fraternity who have seemingly fallen well short of their deserved place among the cinematic stars.

To start with, I have chosen to hone in on three particular talents who, though they had been on sabbatical from the big screen (by choice or otherwise) for some time, they have each found their way back to their calling and have spanking new cinematic spawn to share with the world entire.

First up is the criminally underrated Kathryn Bigelow. Trained as a painter before switching to film studies, Bigelow is the guiding hand behind a small army of cult phenoms as well as some effective (if not always commercially bonafide) big studio thrillers.

She first tested the cinematic waters with a short film called The Set-Up (1978), an attempt to deconstruct the employment of violence in film. She broke into features with a co-directing gig on a biker flick titled The Loveless and starring the soon to be famous Appletonite Willem Dafoe.



It would take until well into the 1980s before Bigelow would make the first film to truly set her apart from the madding crowd. Near Dark came as a result of Bigelow and her creative posse failing to find funding for what was initially to be a revisionist western. So she and her co-writer, Eric (The Hitcher) Red brainstormed their way into a meshing together of western tropes and vampire lore, keeping only the elements from both genres that held their interest and jettisoning the rest. The final film hit theaters on a rather limited scale care the slowly dying Dino DeLaurentiis-run company D.E.G. (which seemed more capable of blowing money than earning it) and had to settle for box office crumbs and rediscovery down the road via other outlets.

The shame of this all is that the picture is so much more than the also-ran it was made out to be. Bigelow proves from almost the very first shot that she is a natural born director and, better yet, she can wrestle with themes of violence, tense emotional conflict and horror as well as stage an action sequence on par with many a male peer. This last point becomes particularly more significant as her body of work grows.

Near Dark charts the unfortunate plight of a naive cowboy (Adrian Pasdar) who sets his sights on the wrong girl (Jenny Wright) leading him directly into the nocturnal embrace of a makeshift family of vampires. Said nomadic blood lusters are fleshed out with remarkable zeal by what is essentially a class reunion of sorts for several holdovers from Big Jim Cameron’s iconic Aliens (Lance Henriksen, Bill Paxton and Janette Goldstein. Michael Biehn was also approached for a part, but passed). The movie builds on the seamless camaraderie generated by these anti-hero types as they struggle to cope with the hellish demands of their accursed immortality.

Two key traits Bigelow establishes here that she clings to time and again throughout her career are a unique approach to hard action set pieces and the violence they inevitably generate (less sensationalistic and more story motivated) and her adherence to giving ample meat to her female characters.

An example on that second bit can be easily gleaned from the dependent nature of Pasdar’s good ole yokel Caleb after he’s been “turned” by the fetching Mae, no matter how hard he resists, he always comes back to her sick, weak and groveling.

The director would improve upon her representation of women on screen subsequently with Jamie Lee Curtis’s emotionally fragile yet diligent cop in Blue Steel and again with Angela Bassett, whose steadfast bodyguard role in the uneven Strange Days provides great counter point to Ralph Fiennes’ often sniveling future world huckster.

Perhaps the biggest commercial reaction the director has received thus far came following the 1991 release of her adrenaline-junkie bank robber epic Point Break. An almost perfect meshing of cranked-up action flick and beach boy chic, the film stands as one of the more oddly unique big summer, would-be sensations to ever rear its nappy head. Macho has never been played so loose and with such a spirited, comic book charm. Plus, who doesn’t love the sight of meat-head Red Hot Chili Peppers front man Anthony Kiedis shooting himself in the foot? Classic, visionary nonsense to drink the night away to.

Sadly, everything Bigelow has touched since that Swayze/Keanu semi-classic has tended to die upon theatrical arrival. Both the high price projects Strange Days and K-19: The Widowmaker set their respective distributors back some and the would be art house darling The Weight of Water came and went with nary a ripple.

As a consequence, it would take nearly seven years before the arrival of her next film, The Hurt Locker. The film (currently in limited release) details the less than enviable day-to-day duties of an Iraq-based Explosive Ordinance Disposal bomb squad. Shot in Jordan with a multitude of film crews racking up a reported 200 hours of raw footage, Bigelow has somehow assembled what could be her most critically adored film to date.

The film stars Jeremy Renner (who once played a certain Milwaukee notable in a decent little number called Dahmer) as the wild card leader of the bomb squad who often lends as much tension to the task at hand as any bomb ever could. Assorted other dependable names including Ralph Fiennes, Anthoney Mackie, Guy Pearce and Evangeline (Kate from Lost) Lilly are on hand to lend support. If all goes well, this one could very well put Mrs. Bigelow firmly on the top shelf. She deserves it.

Shifting over to the seedy streets of 1980s New York City, one would have to look hard to find a dude who got more out of them for so little than Frank Henenlotter (perhaps Abel Ferrara or Buddy Giovinanzzo might qualify as runners-up, but more on them some other time). Beginning with the original Basket Case in 1982, Henenlotter forged a grimy vision of the Big Apple based around fringe ne’er-do-well types and the curious relationships they build with some odd and ugly (but in their own way rather lovable) critters. This running concept gave vivid birth to not only Basket Case and its two slightly less cheap and dirty sequels, but the cheeky-vulgar Frankenhooker and, best of all, Brain Damage. It is on this last one that I shall now go ahead and banter a tad.

The synopsis goes something like this; Brian (Rick Hearst) lives with his brother in an archetypical low-rent Manhattan apartment. One day he wearily awakens to discover that a mysterious parasitic ghoulie has made itself at home at the back of his neck. This remarkably unattractive creature has a name (Aylmer) a voice (provided by pioneering late-night horror movie host and disc jockey John Zacherle) and a sinister agenda. See, little Aylmer has injected our average Joe lead man with an addictive fluid that causes euphoric hallucinations (represented on screen by some sharp, beautifully dated bargain rate opticals), with this convenient “gift,” the little booger goads Brian to take him out in the night to find random street dregs to lobotomize. Any effort Brian makes to resist Aylmer’s bidding leads to withdrawal sickness. Thinly veiled substitute for heroin addiction? Hmmmm could be.


Brian soon shrugs off all normal commitments (obligatory girlfriend, hygiene, etc.) in favor of placating his new-found master. The majority of the film is dedicated to one inventively off-putting homicide after another. Brains, blood and even a gore-tinged variant on oral sex work to cement the whole thing as commercial poison, and make it charming as fuck to anyone with a taste for the bent and disturbed.

Brain Damage initially came out in 1988 with some of its juicier splatter bits neutered for R-rated approval. I first witnessed this thing on a VHS tape found at the old Menasha Super Valu (now a ghetto-fab vacant eyesore). Naturally, as media evolved and the DVD thing raped and pillaged the market, there grew to be a renaissance of cult movie labels and many of Henenlotter’s films gained a fresh start in uncut, deluxe form.

Brain Damage got the gore back along with a spiffy new widescreen transfer that suits its rugged visual aesthetic reverently thanks to a company called Synapse Films (the people responsible for unleashing Executive Koala, Street Trash and Entrails of a Virgin, you know, the good shit) thus providing this gnarly gem with the second chance it surely deserves.

As for Frank Henenlotter? Well he will be ending a protracted 16-year silence (initiated because he was sick of making Basket Case sequels) with Bad Biology. A subtle yarn of awkward love involving a young woman with seven clits and a penchant for orgasmic homicide and the spry fellow whose vicious, mutant sex organ wins her over. Henenlotter’s mission statement for the film is that he wanted to make something “funny, appalling and just plain wrong!” Most likely, this one will bump through various festivals on its way to video. Welcome back to the grind, Frank.



We wrap this rather unbalanced trilogy up with a nod in the direction of Allen and Albert Hughes. These fraternal twins from bad ass Detroit (Go Lions!) made big waves with their brilliant debut Menace II Society, a brutal urban head rush that plays like the no bullshit, problem child sibling to the far more mainstream testifying of Boyz N’ The Hood. They would only manage three more films before amicably taking a break from each other in 2001.

In the interim the pair would come together from time to time to collaborate on various commercials, episodic television shows or music videos. Smaller portions of the entertainment buffet to be sure, but it appears the twins have finally discovered another big screen project to lay claim to.

The Book of Eli (due in January 2010) stars Denzel Washington as a man harboring an important document while traversing yet another post-apocalyptic movie landscape. His goal is to keep the titular publication out of the wrong hands of a dictatorial baddie (Gary Oldman) as it could spell hope for a decaying human race. Now, while none of this spare plot info sounds utterly earth shattering (especially with Viggo Mortensen’s The Road set to tread a similar dying planet scenario scant months ahead of it) one has to keep in mind the quality of the Hughes Bros.’ potent (if scant) backlog.

Their third film, the 1999 documentary American Pimp is easily my fave. Electrifying and to the point, with endlessly quotable soundbites pouring with rapid articulation from an engrossing caravan of gentlemen whose bread and butter is based 24/7 around the baiting, hustle and penetration for profit of sadly ignorant and emotionally bankrupt young women. Oddly, the movie does less to shameface the art of streetwalker management than simply clarify the how, what and where of the whole dicey issue, even going so far as to give pimping and prostitution a good measure of historical context. After all, everybody wants to get their fuck on (whether they admit to it or not). That’s why this is the world’s oldest profession.

American Pimp mostly fell between the theatrical cracks following the Brothers' second feature, the overly ambitious yet not altogether unsuccessful Dead Presidents (which crammed Black Panthers, Vietnam horrors, drug addiction and a well staged bank heist into a 119-minute box) and the stylish Johnny Depp vs. Jack the Ripper thriller From Hell.

That last one served as a marked departure for the pair, more reminiscent of the gaudy Hammer films from the ’50s to the ’70s crossed with something Tim Burton might have done with a little more edge than anything that could be compartmentalized as a “black film.” The film was yet another adaptation of an Alan Moore graphic novel that pushed the revered scribe to distance himself from the Hollywood machine (still, the film shits all over League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, now THAT’S a film to get angered by).

The Brothers also endured their share of frustratingly unrealized projects, one of which, a biopic on the life of J. Edger Hoover, fell into a developmental abyss at Warner Bros., as well never achieving a financial or critical success to rival their initial venture. However, with a top tier cast (alongside Washington and Oldman will be Tom Waits, Ray Stevenson and that Flashdance maniac Jennifer Beals) a hefty budget and a likely wide theatrical berth, The Book of Eli should prove a much needed reversal of career fortune for the lads.

To be continued...


Unrelated Capsules.

'SPLINTER'

Employing the old horror standby of placing an abbreviated cast in an isolated situation beset by a menacing force, this unexpected treat proceeded to upend my minimal expectations and deliver a punchy, and dare I say even intelligent, ride. The setting is a rural Oklahoma gas station where one upwardly attractive couple have found themselves thanks to falling pray to a desperate pair of fugitives hell bent for the border. While seeking coolant for their overheated vehicle, the principles find that they have stumbled into an abandoned locale that has come under siege care a nasty, prickly, blood thirsty organism of no clearly defined origin. Plenty of sticky violence ensues as the cast count is whittled away and the tension mounts. Conceived, directed and acted with utter competence and conviction, this is a movie that utilizes its puny resources to the fullest. Tight, clever economic horror from a man named Toby Wilkins, who is apparently also responsible for 'The Grudge 3'. Can't win 'em all people, but don't worry none, this one will ply that horror itch quite well. Proceed to track it down posthaste.


'LUNCHMEAT'

Ok, this one is not movie but a magazine....a fanzine type thing to be exact. This dude from Pennsylvania sent me issue # 3 and I just had to pass on the love. This slick publication is dedicated to the memory of many a long out of print horror, exploitation and/or no-budget VHS release. Yes, y'all read it clear as crystal, VHS tapes of wild and forgotten shit like 'Mutant Hunt', 'Hellhole' and 'Zombie Nightmare'! They even lend some space to 'Candyman' helmsman Bernard Rose's maiden effort 'Paperhouse' which is actually legitimately decent. This thing is filled with choice images from many a colorful has-been, most of which I fondly recall adorning the moldy shelves of the long buried into memory Dean's Video (formerly located at 705 Appleton road in Menasha, right across from where the Red Owl used to be). So, if you ever wondered what happened to all those cheesy flicks you never had the heart to rent, now you know.

Further info (including subscriptions!) can be retrieved here: www.myspace.com/lunchmeatzine

I Check In With The Ladies.........

....from time to time....just to see how they doin'.

Lodge Kerrigan....For Beginners.

( This is and introduction to a pair of films made of the rare brand of genuine vision that reminds me why I bother to ever watch movies in the first place.)

There is a little girl at the heart of it all. Through the mire of maniacal, static sounds capes that only intermittently show reprieve. Or the panorama of bustling strangers at a bus terminal, at once overwhelming and unyielding. Said girl lies just out of reach for two desperate lives barely at functioning par within the final vestiges of sanity.

For Peter Winter, the girl is his last tangible fragment of a life abandoned for the mandated confines of a mental institution.

For William Keane, she is either a victim of a heinous abduction in the blink of an eye, or a fabrication in the troubled recesses of his mind.

For New York based filmmaker Lodge Kerrigan, these men serve as protagonists in two compatible yet separately effective meditations on the sometimes fragile nature of the socially imperfect.

'Clean, Shaven' is Kerrigan's debut effort and it builds its power off a sharp, minimalistic approach and the performance of one Peter Greene. Greene is probably most fondly remembered by all in movie geek land as the guy who laid uninvited pipe on poor Ving Rhames in a dank cellar in 'Pulp Fiction'. Here he plays Peter Winter, a wide-eyed apparent schizophrenic just reintroduced to the challenges of 'normal' life. He first whiles away his moments in his rundown auto adorned with layers of old newspapers (meant to keep him 'safe'). He then pays visitation to his less then welcoming mother before finally setting out to find the one thing that may bring him stability, his daughter. At the same time, a rather middling detective is developing suspicions about Peter in relation to the recent murder of a child.

The Winter character is etched out by Kerrigan and Greene through a series of panicked gestures and hectic actions. He is often subject to a barrage of grueling internal noises. Baring the likeness of harsh radio waves funneled through half blown speakers, the sounds are enough to push a questionable psyche toward dire extremes. At one telling point, Winter is seen crudely removing one of his own fingernails in hopes of diffusing the nuisance. Winter does such things, one must presume, in hopes of making himself more accessible for his inevitable reunion with his daughter.

'Keane', however, provides a more elliptic scenario for its titular character. See, William Keane spends the bulk of his days skulking around the New York City Port Authority bus terminal. It is here, we are lead to believe, that his only child was taken from him, leaving him broken and destitute. When away from the terminal, Keane exerts himself in multiple avenues of self-destructive behavior (i.e. drug intake and unsafe sex in public restrooms). Eventually he carves out a sort of companionship with a woman and her young daughter. Both are residents in the same moldy motel as he and apparently have their own problems to solve. Soon Keane is entrusted with the care of the child as the woman attempts to address her mounting personal woes. It is in the next few passages that the real tension develops. Is Keane stable enough to play guardian to this child? Is he at risk of some manner of outburst that may place the child in harm's way? Do his wires get crossed to the effect that he mistakes her for his own lost offspring?

In one scene the pair are in the midst of a friendly game of bowling. Keane loses all composure and lashes out verbally to both everyone and no one. Shortly thereafter, the little girl approaches and attempts to comfort and calm him. This is not entirely how I expected the sequence to play out, but it oddly feels right. Kerrigan has a natural gift for drawing realism via simple motions and gestures. Both his movies are built of them.



The major accomplishment made here by the director is bringing the audience as close as can be to the chaos of serious mental disorder. By maintaining consistent and unwavering focus on his central character in both pictures, Kerrigan is able to draw a more articulate performance each time. For instance, in 'Keane', the main character is shown making a noble attempt to maintain an attention to good hygiene care the sink and hand drier of a men's bathroom. The scene is deliberately played out just long enough to generate a tone of slight discomfort. The actor, British born Damian Lewis, embodies the moment with a perfect level of fervent contradiction. We can see this man struggling to retain some basic human dignity while aggressively trying to out wit the demons at large in his head. Likewise are the scenes in 'Clean, Shaven' when Peter finally tracks down his daughter. She is in the backyard of her adopted mother's house swinging on her swing set. Peter watches her from a slight distance, quietly, until she notices him. He blurts out a nervous greeting as he clings to a nearby tree, almost afraid she might run away screaming. Quite the opposite, she is moved to approach him and his frantic social paranoia partially subsides. In both scenarios these damaged, awkward men are brought closest to normalcy by the delicate trust of a child.

Lodge Kerrigan is the type of directer who in movie nerd terms is labeled a maverick. This would be the kind of filmmaker who does things for reasons deeper and of greater import then mere box office postings. He kicked his career off with 'Clean, Shaven' in the mid 90's generating solid (artsy) hype but scant else. Kerrigan has patiently produced a total of four features to date, only three of which have made the journey all the way to at least a handful of cinemas. One film ('In God's Hands') will most likely never see life in front of an audience, as it fell prey to extensive negative damage upon completion. In the remaining three (the two aforementioned and 1998's 'Claire Dolan' about an Irish prostitute trying to ultimately better herself away from pimps and johns) Kerrigan plays caretaker to deeply troubled souls at large who can only truly be redeemed by the purity of innocence.

So it goes without saying that this pair of less than mainstream character studies warrants the Fringe seal of approval. If you've made it this far into the article, you must be hooked (that or you've already read the rest of the stuff in this issue and have to kill more time). The extras on the discs themselves are rather spare. The Criterion reissue of 'Clean, Shaven' boasts the customary solid transfer, a commentary track and an audio essay on the films unique use of sound. 'Keane' features a shorter, drastically rearranged alternate cut put together by producer Steven Soderberg. This makes for an interesting example of a different perspective, I suppose, but in the case of both films I was really longing for some type of behind the scenes footage. Kerrigan's work is so intensely fascinating that it makes this particular audience member curious to see him in action. Either way I think you owe it to yourself to track down the Kerrigan filmography, and I've provided some links to help you get started.
www.criterion.com (for 'Clean, Shaven')

www.magpictures.com (for 'Keane')

www.killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com (for unreasonable rounds of debasement in hopes of electing a cheap laugh at someone else's expense).

KEEP SHIT CLEAN

Some folks just gotta go that extra distance to afford them cheap dollar store toiletries.



Rumor has it, however, that my man right here is an eccentric, reclusive millionaire.


If this is truth, what is his secret?



A lesser mind pines for the answer.

He Asked For A Dollar.....

...I asked for a picture, that's how we work it, son.

SUFFER-THE-CHILDREN?

Abortion is a hard sell, no mincing words. It's a challenge to garner a substantial audience around any type of film even touching on the deletion of a pregnancy. The concept rears its ugly head as an 'edgy' plot device in the occasional, often Oscar starved, mainstream drama ('Cider House Rules', 'Revolutionary Road'), fest-friendly indie satire ('Citizen Ruth') and the occasional dose of button pushing, low budget schlock ('The Suckling'). Yet for this complex and predominantly troubling social puzzle to take center stage usually means the over baked confines of cable network hard journalism or some right wing neo-zealot tirade. Recently, however, there has arisen a break from these trends in that filmmakers are employing more concise reportage and classier aesthetic approaches to attempt to sift through the convoluted wreckage that most reference as the abortion debate incorporating pro-lifers, pro-choicers and all the ground up little flesh-lings between them. Whilst brainstorming over potential focal points for this month's piece, I discovered a handful of such films that achieve (to greatly varying degrees) a level of intelligent insight across this oceanic battle of wills, beliefs and fanatically divided opinions.

Two minor works of note are worth mentioning in passing en route to a third, and irrefutably superior, film that is deserving of more intricate analysis. 'Unborn in the U.S.A.' (First Run Features) and 'Soldiers in the Army of God' (HBO) eye up mainly some of the more extreme representatives of the religiously inflicted pro-life stance. Much is made of the need to fight for the protection of innocent lives sucked from their mommy's tummy into a bloody oblivion. What, pray tell, does the opposition often do to help enforce the will of god? Badger all those who dare to enter a clinic, condemn the wayward heathens to eternal damnation and, when all that subtlety proves ineffective, bomb the fuck out of the clinic and/or gun down the heinous personnel either in the parking lot or (ever better) in front of their own home. Their lord sure works in mysterious (read:hypocritical) ways. The scariest thing about all of this is the blissful air content at large in the faces of convicted perpetrators of such an eye for an eye distortion of justice. Take Paul Hill (who's name and face are a reoccurring item in each of the films I viewed), this cracked nut is as devout in his homicidal conviction of 'doing the right thing' as any one being could ever be, and that is what gives the glaze in his eyes a unique form of menace. If this man claims to be a true man of god (he is a preacher don't ya know?!) then what madness in his degenerated mind passes for heaven? I pray to remain ignorant of such things.

In both these films we get a solid (albeit abbreviated) overview of the massive divide at hand across this nation when it comes to siding up on abortion. There is plenty of yelling and self-righteous banter to behold. Yet these two films are also exemplary of a shortcoming that holds them well afar of anything touching 'definitive' status. Neither work devotes quite enough time to let such ultra-touchy subject matter breathe and bare more encompassing analysis, both fall under the 90 minute mark (with 'Soldier's' just easing past one hour) and, thus, must pare their way past much essential information. It is best to regard both films, in hindsight, as tamer warm-ups to a far more substantial study like 'Lake of Fire' (THINKFILM). This is perhaps the bar-raiser that will remain unchallenged for, I would venture to guess, a long time to come. If abortion has tested audience endurance in the kind of compressed doses covered above, than the sprawl of this bastard should guarantee a truly selective following.

Now, devoting an entire 152 minutes directly to the subject, that takes resilience. In the case of director Tony Kaye, resilience and determination served as the foundation upon which he would power his way through some fifteen years or so of dogged research, interviewing, fact-checking and seemingly endless patience in his pursuit of covering all potential bases. Kaye is an audacious Englishman who has spent his career too far outside the creative envelope to even be concerned with pushing it. He has fine tuned his directorial hand behind award winning commercials and music videos for years before being handed the reigns to the neo-nazi soul searcher 'American History X'. It is with this fierce debut that Kaye made a name and reputation for himself more for his post-production battle of egos with star Edward Norton then for the considerable attributes of the movie (for details of this dude's often surreal behavior, check this confessional; /www.guardian.co.uk/profile/tonykaye). Such hot headed tantrum tossing secured Kaye's protracted estrangement from the Hollywood elite and brandished him a 'problem child' to this very day.

The sad fact of all this is that, when one observes the work Kaye has completed, it is immediately apparent that he is a legitimately gifted film maker. His eye for startling imagery is impeccable, this is a large reason why 'Lake of Fire' is so damn engrossing, even as it delves into ever more unpleasant waters.

'Lake of Fire' charts several avenues in the abortion debate with a neutral eye (or, rather, as close to such as the makers can muster). It pays visits to players on both sides of the court, weathers the fury, fanaticism, politics and pained pleas for peaceful solutions from voices across the nation who have had differing levels of interaction with babies, clinics, churches and protests. Along the way we meet saints (mostly debatable),sinners and middle ground folk who'd rather see us all 'get along'. There are vivid visions of pro-choice pride, pro-life extremities (the grim reaper even has a cameo, raising a handy plastic baby up high) and scholarly celebs from Noam Chomsky (who effortlessly details how, if one is truly 'Pro-Life' then they should-by extension-be against war, the manufacture of weaponry, poverty and so forth. Sadly, this is often not the case), Norma McCorvey (the 'Jane Roe' of the famous 'Roe V Wade', now happily 'born again') to Alan Dershowitz. The images range from casual to poetic to flat out questionable (more then one actual abortion is graphically represented for the unflinching camera), all of it presented in a cool black and white schematism running the scale from smooth to grainy.

Kaye's labor gives the film a gravity which mostly supersedes the easy temptation to settle for a cheap thrill or selfish bias. One complaint of note may directed toward the near-total absence on the pro-life side of more steady minded types who simply stand against abortion rather then the more flamboyant, brimstoners who tend to revere the Paul Hill types as 'heroes'. I mean, I have beloved family members who hold a strong sense of resistance to the concept of baby slaughter, but they are in no way prone to go eye for an eye with a bomb in their palm at the nearest clinic. Granted, these people are far less theatrical, but they still have a voice and could offer balance with the more prominent radical types. Not a fatal flaw, but the one missing element that would take this closer to perfect.

Now, everyone has a piece of mind set aside for the subject of abortion. I, myself, am of the humble opinion that the bulk of the decision making should be left up to the woman. Besides, if you really run it through your mind (putting aside any prejudices that may cloud your better judgment), if a woman has chosen to forsake impending motherhood, who's to say she won't follow through whether it's legal or not? (remember them coat-hangers people, they ain't no joke!-and this concept is touched on vividly as well) A wide span of voices stake out screen time serving to point/counterpoint this whole messy lot into some manageable shape and Kaye's lens is equally transfixed throughout. Some in the film argue, with sane articulation, that the absolute moment a sperm hooks up with an egg-that's the point when a new human life begins, and this is a process that should never be interrupted. Others lay a like minded concept out in more prehistoric terms, claiming all abortionists are blasphemers and should therefore be executed. We even hear from the mouths of several young women (all facing away from the camera) seated in a clinic waiting room, their crucial decision already made. Information and perspectives fly back and forth enriching the weight of this dilemma to a level that is staggering and, ultimately, frustrating.

What makes 'Lake of Fire' an important work is the lengths to which it emphasizes the glaring fact that, no matter which side you take, there are no easy answers (even if your religion, militia or sect has pounded it into your head to believe otherwise). It's like the esteemed Mr. Dershowitz says, recalling a story of a Rabbi relating his attempt to mediate a marital squabble to his seminary students, 'He hears the husband's view. "You're right," he tells him. He hears the wife's view. "You're right," he tells her. One of his students interjects: " But, Rabbi, they both can't be right." The Rabbi nods. "You're right," he says.

No one is ever truly right when it comes to abortion.


P.S.......Footnotes (to feed the mind further?)

'PRO-LIFE' (Anchor Bay)

Second contribution by elder statesman John Carpenter to the often underwhelming Showtime anthology 'Maters of Horror'. Carpenter improves well upon his previous offering (the dreadful 'Cigarette Burns') and even manages a few decent cheap (and gory) thrills along the way. The rather simple storyline involves a frantic teen convinced she was impregnated by an evil, inhuman presence. She finds convenient refuge in a nearby clinic and attempts to get her insides cleared out before she becomes a fatality and something horrible is spat out into the world. Problems ensue, however, when the girl's God fearing Father (Hellboy himself-Ron Perlman) and three brothers lay siege on the clinic (riffing on the director's 'Assault on Precinct 13') in order to protect the impending ankle biter. Major low budget gun play follows and there's even a late in the game cameo from the fetus's demonic pappy. Slight, hokey and altogether disposable, yet not with out B-level merit and is surely more then a few steps ahead of many of the series' other contributions.

Carpenter's long sabbatical from the big screen has gone on far too long, the restraints of the television frame are unsuitable for this man's bold, wide-screen eye. Allegedly, this drought is soon to pass as Carpenter has several feature projects in development (nevermind the unfortunate remakes of 'They Live' and 'Escape From New York'), the first of which is said to be the institutional ghost story 'The Ward' due out sometime in the next coming year. Cross thy fingers.


4 MONTHS, 3 WEEKS AND 2 DAYS (IFC Films)


Two Romanian collage students team to procure an abortion for one of them care the shady black market in an unnamed town during the final stretch of Nicolae Ceauşescu's communist reign. Their quest proves unnerving and emotionally damaging as the pair must navigate the underworld in grim secrecy with nary a guarantee of success. Tight, tense and coordinated with great skill by director Cristain Mungiu who, here, displays that he is a born filmmaker with the tools to lock an audience in without beating his message or themes over their head. The movie works to unsettle the viewer and keep him on edge and it addresses the subject matter with a clinical objectivity. These are not people the movie cares to judge, only study as they wrestle with the circumstances they have found themselves in.

A solid piece of drama and a rewarding (if not always pleasant) examination of certain unpopular avenues of the human condition.


That's enough dead baby banter for me, any feedback (or directionless word salads) may be directed this way-killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com

I Shoot ROCK STARS.

No matter the size, shape, color or poise. They can sweat, bleed, tumble and vomit all over their drunken fan base for all I care, just as long as they feed my lens with the filthy delirium of the underground.


Respect the scene, respect the sound(s).