ZOMBIE LORDS AND FRANKENBEASTS.

(As published in the October 2013 issue of The Scene Newspaper)

With that most hallowed of all dark days waiting at the close of this given month, I feel a bit more than passingly obliged to banter on in favor of a few fitting nuggets of sinister cinema. In the often deplored and very cult-specific realm of the horrific branch of the motion picture art form, finding a treasure of any notable measure can often times prove to be a might challenging. This days seem fatally infected with many, many examples of the largely sad trend of remakes/reboots that predominately serve to rape away the valuable memories lovingly held in regards to many of the classics which founded in many of us the enduring adoration of this particular genre in the first damn place. Even the rehashes done with irrefutable technical skill (i.e. Evil Dead, which sports its' fair share of impressive, stand alone images) leave a lasting stain of being completely unnecessary and occupying precious space far better suited for something at least attempting to share ideas of the fresh and self-contained variety (like Edgar Wright's The World's End, perhaps?).

So, to do my part in keeping with this cause, I give you, fair reader, a pairing of 'from scratch' horror flicks that should assist you in your quest for all things spooky this Halloween.

'Frankenstein's Army' plants its' ragged, low budget feet down on East German soil at the tail portion of W.W.II and follows a ramshackle company of Russian troops trudging across some truly lifeless terrain hoping almost in vein for any semblance of a connect with their lost fellow comrades. One member of this war party, Dimitri (Alexander Mercury) has been charged by the big man himself, Stalin, with exposing footage of the battalion in action as material for use in a future propaganda project back in the homeland. Before too very long, the men come in contact with a ransacked little hamlet that actually houses a madman's abhorrent laboratory fitted up for the most inexplicable and corrosively far reaching experiments to ever be realized by mortal man.

It seems a skittish, weather beaten character calling himself Viktor (Karel Roden) has established a foundation here for which he can foster many of the twisted, breakthrough malformations of protean beings that have been swimming in the fetid reaches of his deviant mind. This certain flavor of freakish mad scientist has rapidly assembled a gallery of motley confections that marry, by odd and often rather random design, elements of both living organic (mostly human) structures with a wide array of tools, devices and rusty industrial leftovers. How the increasingly weary and unbalanced soldiers manage to address and survive (or not) this less than welcome dilemma fills out the majority of the film's scant run time. The creature creations themselves are basically the prime sell point for this bent little picture (hell, several of their nasty, deformed mugs adorn the film's poster art) and I have to slap the credit in the appropriate direction, many of the mad lab rat's patched together 'children' are a might impressive. Sporting nappy metallic limbs and various, violently misappropriated bodily structures, the creatures (or 'Zombots' as the picture dubs them) are rendered to on screen life as something between a steampunk convention where every participant suffered a brutal gang rape and a long lost Hellraiser sequel as imagined by a seriously sociopathic black metal band. These hybrid beasts see the most action in Frankenstein's Army's closing segment, as the fiendish Viktor, having laid waste to the bulk of the outfit's numbers, guides the erstwhile documentarian on a personal journey through the damnable particulars of his vivid form of genius. Keep an eye out for the creepy little teddy bear woman, she's something special.

The director of this whole odd scenario, a competent Dutchman by the name of Richard Raaphorst has managed to carve together a worthy and effective piece of rampant monster cinema. Nothing to be embarrassed of here, tight and mostly to the point (though at the expense of a good deal of genuine character development, oh well), this Frankenstein's Army achieves what it set out to do, throw its audience into a dark pit full of blood crazed monstrosities that come at the screen from every direction. Sure, the film may sometimes look a tad suspect (notably some uber murky nighttime imagery) and one can't really be faulted for a lack of emotional investment when certain main characters expire, but Karel Roden chews it up quite nice as the good ol' awful doctor (who alleges a blood tie to the Dr. Frankenstein of horror fiction lore) and again I must point to the monsters, that's really what it's all about...right?

Frankenstein's Army arrives care a company out of Chicago called Dark Sky Films. Now these folks have long been good to the horror film, having helped spread the magic of gems like the immortal Henry Portrait of a Serial Killer, House of the Devil, The Hatchet trilogy and the works of Jim VanBebber (The Manson Family, Deadbeat at Dawn). For this new entry in their esteemed catalog, Dark Sky has issued the film on both DVD and Blu Ray with a just over half an hour making of bonus piece that introduces any interested parties to the cast, crew and, of course, the ranks of Frankenstein's Army as FX aces and the director himself detail their fabrication. Catch it at local rental joints everywhere or go to the source- darkskyfilms.com

Coming from a blatantly different pedigree and boasting a separate set of conceptual and aesthetic goals is The Lords of Salem. This film marks the return to magnificently twisted filmmaking form for one Rob Zombie. Lords gives forth ample, legitimate evidence once and for final that this Zombie fella is actually blessed with the ability to grow apart from the hectic shock and awe approach he's become known for that frequently pummels the viewer with the profane and colorful ultra violent stylization that did work at times earlier on in his career (The Devil's Rejects) but came to wear thin and grow a bit tiresome (Halloween II, that lame Superbeasto cartoon).

This time up, Zombie has both slowed things down to a notable degree and learned how to craft a story around less obvious traits and ideas in relation to his chosen genre of operation. The basic outlay this time around involves the uneventful daily routines of Heidi Hawthorne (Rob's always present spouse Sheri Moon) a Salem area local and disc jockey by trade who shares her dank, under lit apartment with her faithful pooch. One evening, after a typically loose cannon stint at the radio station where she is so gainfully employed (a stint which incorporates a cheeky interview session with an all too clueless 'black metal' musician at one point) our gal is given a right odd form of promotional swag. Seems some enigmatic recording entity known sparingly and cryptically as The Lords has made a point to pass along an oddly packaged slab of wax (think something along the lines of the wicked Necronomicon Bruce Campell's iconic 'Ash' character regularly fell prey to) containing some truly entrancing sounds. Proceeding with a patient, steady pace director Zombie charts the gradual regression from the psyche on out that this disheveled, dread-locked protagonist must now endure as this mystery vinyl has apparently seeded something seriously volatile deep within her.

To help solve the mounting puzzle and lend a more rational perspective on the none too clear cut progression of the narrative, Zombie gives us Francis Matthias (Bruce Davison), an aging free spirit type and author of a scholarly book on the subject of the Salem witch trials who guests on Heidi's radio gig to push his work. Francis has a nose for the occult underpinnings in and about his town and his interest gains a boost when he meets Heidi whom he later discovers is of direct descent along the family tree from Jonathen Hawthorne, a man of faith who sought to foil the satanic plottings of a coven of witches back in the late 17th century. Francis may normally bide his time with his weed toking painter, lady love Alice (Maria Conchita Alonso) but his fixation on brooding witch rites in Salem and their possible link with Heidi proves to be a stronger draw.

Worlds duth collide as witches both modern and ancient weave maximum hallucinatory hold over Heidi, morphing her take on what passes for real and tangible. Zombie infuses this melding of demonic worship and vicious personal torment into a spiral of inventive madness that dips into an influential well, mixing the likes of Stanley Kubrick, Dario Argento, Nicolas Roeg and even the multi-layered hyper surrealism of Alejandro Jodorowsky. I wouldn't startle me to discover that Bobby boy here immersed himself in a marathon run of shit like Don't Look Now, Suspiria, Santa Sangre and definitely The Shining (which, to be fair, is a film Zombie has directly sited as having a direct hand in the genesis of this project).

 

The Lords of Salem engages more by way of its intricate textures and creative renderings of potentially cheap, exploitation level ideas. The witches, ghouls, phantasms and less clearly defined apparitions that populate the nightmare unreal creeping its way into the formal landscape of Zombie's New England based, small town locale emerge as quite remarkable, working to realize the ongoing concept of a somewhat damaged (Heidi is also revealed to be a struggling former drug addict) woman's mental abduction by a superior force beyond the natural and serving a timeless agenda. Meg (They Live) Foster heads up the mostly rotting, naked coven of old school witches who lead the charge to turn the modern world over to their beloved, evil master and the film sports the expected genre friendly supporting bits and cameos by Dee Wallace, Ken Foree, Sid Haig and Michael Berryman. Several subplots/segments of the film ended up falling short of the final cut however, this lead to the abandonment of a film-within-a-film, Frankenstein vs The Witchfinder which involved Udo Kier, Clint (Ron's brother) Howard and the chick from that ugly 1978 rape-revenge 'classic' I Spit on Your Grave, Camille Keaton.

Sad news indeed, even sadder is the fact that none of this cut footage has been included on the Anchor Bay DVD/Blu Ray combo that so recently hit retail stores and rental joints. Only a handy, dandy audio commentary from the informative Rob Z himself is included. Strange turn of events as many of the previous Zombie directorial efforts have come stuffed with bonus goodies, especially in the extra footage department. These bastards had better not be planning a deluxe package for release somewhere further down the road, that would be a bit of an unforgivable scam. Still, I say give these Lords a chance, they do well by October standards. anchorbayentertainment.com

Bonus....

Screaming in High Heels (The Rise and Fall of the Scream Queen Era).

Charming, retro-centric essay dwelling on a time and place in the annals of indie schlock cinema where a pretty gal with marginal, non-aesthetic talents could carve out a dependable niche for herself without having to submit to the narrow, scumbag confines of the porn industry. Beginning at the cusp of the blossoming home video tape boom of the early 1980s, able babes like Linnea Quigley, Michelle Bauer and Brinke Stevens (the trio profiled here) became staples of a prolific run of bargain level, boobs, bloodshed and rubber beast laden sub-genre spectacles. Fully vested in their careers founded on exuberant sexual chemistry at play in some of the most openly tacky product yet to emerge on the market (an inordinate amount of witch came care the production houses of Charles Band and Roger Corman), said ladies none the less managed to grow upward in stout popularity and eventually drew upon themselves the precise classification of 'Scream Queens'.

Filmmaker and obvious fan boy Jason Paul Collum investigates this small scale but utterly notable bubble of popular culture trivia by way of a meshing of in the now interviews with the three key Queens (whom time has not been entirely polite to) as well as multiple movers and shakers in this cost conscious dungeon of an industry like directors David DeCoteau and Fred Olen Ray and jack of many trades; writer, director, actor, F/X man Kenneth J. Hall. Along the way we are treated to the expected homegrown origin stories and copious clips from a vast VHS library of washed out looking examples of no budget greatness including Dr. Alien, 'Murder Weapon', 'Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama', 'Night of the Demons' and 'Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers'.

The girls employed their weird, skintastic form of celebrity to network both entertainment (at third rate nerd conventions doling out autographs) and political arenas (some even met Reagan, how conservative) and occasionally touch the edge of the mainstream (Linnea's buck naked cemetery stint in 'Return of the Living Dead' immortalized her in the eyes of the Fangoria demographic). Sadly, both the pains of mortal time and the rise of higher quality tastes on the home video front took its toll on the 'Scream Queen' juggernaut and the ladies largely faded from sight.  In the end, what we're left with is a fond memento of a bygone time when the value of a VHS deck actually held weight in the lower ranks of the motion picture medium, when locally owned rental operations thrived on the unending output of a relentless army of driven showmen and 'give it to 'em fast, sleazy and dirt cheap' cinema was the treasure of the (mostly awkward male dominated) market. Recommended to those who still cling to those VHS classics that came in boxes with artwork that probably cost twice as much as the film inside. You can acquire Screaming in High Heels at breakingglasspictures.com

MAKING A DAY OF IT.

COSMOPOLIS AND THE COLD TRUTH OF THE MODERN CITYSCAPE.

 

What is left for the man who has everything?  The majority of the chief appeal of ace director David Cronenberg's latest concoction, Cosmopolis, is the way it attempts to explicate a functional answer. Said answer, unfortunately, appears to manifest itself through a series of calculated steps leading in the direction of total self destructive collapse. The main body of focus is on the every waking movement of one Eric Packer (realized here by a sparkle free Robert Pattinson) a still youthful master of the universe type who prefers to wheel his deals quite literally within the top end confines of his slick ass limousine. We enter his cool and precise mode of existence on one typically bustling, big city Monday. At the start of the film, while posturing in that certain special way the 1% do, Eric decides that he needs himself a haircut and although there are plenty of functional barber shops in the fairly immediate vicinity (as his ever trusty chief bodyguard Torval carefully points out) Eric has his mind set to traverse the cluttered urban sprawl to a rickety old joint in some far less polished segment of the crude inner city.

The ensuing trek fuels the remainder of the film's body, peopling Eric's slow crawl to his rather illogically chosen destination with varied fragments of his business and social lives as well as the random, sweltering chaos of the increasingly unstable cityscape that surrounds him. He trades barbs with his tech boy, endures an alarmingly protracted prostate exam, bangs a foxy French cougar (Juliette Binoche) who happens to be his art dealer, morns as best he can the abrupt passing of his favorite hip-hop star, suffers the wrath of a hyper-kinetic pie wielding activist and breaks off from the action proper to attempt to sway his aloof young beauty of a wife (Sarah Gadon) back into his embrace, which seems odd given his own seriously detached reaction to just about everything. The limo ride proves so protracted and drawn out due a perfect storm of calamitous factors including a presidential event that has era security on edge and traffic smashed together like cattle. Riots and protests abound and the risk of an assassination attempt is at the forefront of every foot soldier's mind.

So what pragmatic purpose could this obstacle laden sojourn actually have? It would seem that our suave non-hero has a slow burning agenda pertaining to the particulars of his own financial ruin. Eric Packer has set his Wall Street skills against himself by hedging his investment luck against the power of the Chinese yuan (much to the chagrin of his key financial analysts). This poor, practically soulless fool even seems to be more preoccupied with a cheap, sensational fling with a sexy security agent than addressing the notion that someone out there in all the mounting disorder may be plotting his mortal demise.

We eventually get a reveal on this looming threat of a potential assassin in the form of a disgruntled former employee of Packer's named Benno Levin (Paul Giamatti, as twitchy and curious an actor as ever) who opens fire on his one time boss yet ends up engaging in a long and greatly involved conversation with him about the nature and purpose they both serve in this twisted information age saga and Levin basically offers forth a summation of all that went wrong for this young man who so long had effortlessly excelled at getting everything right. The verbal trade off between Pattinson and Giametti in itself works as a strong and fitting recap of the world this film Cosmopolis presents to us. Language and the measure in which it is delivered as a method of communication is the protein that drives this picture.

The film is essentially a rapid succession of conversations pertaining to the bits and specifics that fill out Eric Packer's vast, upper crust lifestyle. Robert Pattinson is supported throughout this parade of unending chatter by a healthy (and mostly Canadian) cast featuring (in addition to the aforementioned Giametti and co.) Jay Baruchel as Packer's personal tech geek, Samantha Morton and Emily Hampshire as two key advisers, Kevin Durand (memorable as the menacing Martin Keamy in the T.V. show Lost) as Packer's close yet ill fated security escort Torvil and Mathieu Amalric as the pie crazy 'Pastry Assassin'. Cronenberg milks each performer's respective strengths to max effect and has assembled a tight and efficient machine in which to detail Eric Packer's weighty day on the move.


Cosmopolis was adapted to a loyal degree by the director from auther Don DeLillo's 2003 novel of the same name (Big Dave claims to have pounded out the script in a scant 6 days!) and lensed on a very controlled set in Toronto featuring the limo interior surrounded by greenscreens with the New York like cityscape imagery inserted on top of them for the finished product. Cronenberg's ample skill makes a potentially stuffy and redundant project come off with a deft pace and well above average level of dramatic value. No, this is not to say this baby has earned a place alongside the filmmakers finest works, like Naked Lunch, The Fly, The Dead Zone and A History of Violence, but it never bored me. Worth it fully for fans of the director and/or the novel. Twilight groupies, you might wanna make an alternate choice.

The home video release comes by way of a company called E One Entertainment (us.eonefilms.com) and comes outfitted with audio commentary from Cronenberg and a feature length behind the scenes documentary that goes in depth with the steps it took to put this project together. It can be found at most outlets.













Extra, Extra.


I DIDN'T COME HERE TO DIE!


Another Wisconsin boy gets it done. Bradley Scott Sullivan writes and directs a senario that entails a fateful trip into the woods for a small collective of earnest young volunteers looking to find a suitable location in which to develop a youth center. The six of them arrive, pitch their tents, feel each other out, bust open the booze and then it all goes to hell. One by one, each of the cast members falls pray to an increasingly absurd series of cruel, brutal examples of dire human error. The overachiever pokes an eye out with a tree branch, the bitchy girl gets slapped in the face with a chainsaw (the picture's finest gore gag), another poor sap becomes overwhelmed by visions of one of the newly dead gals and hangs himself and eventually the bad boy with a sordid past becomes paranoid and perpetuates further mayhem.

This ultimately leads to the silent, brooding semi-hero type of the picture (some actor named Kurt Cole, as with most low budget genre offerings, there are no names that will be easily recognized) to rise to the challenge of overcoming the unexpected chaos and making it back to the civilized world in one piece. The film plays out its rather simple yet slightly startling, odd ball premise of random misfortune as opposed to a concrete, standard issue stalker/monster menace as a cross breeding of grindhouse tackiness (the picture quality occasionally becomes suspect as a result of this) and a somewhat slapstick addressing of some really hardcore ultraviolence. The cast is serviceable (plus the lead chick, Emmy Robben, looks just swell with less and less clothes on) and the picture is kept to a nice, compact 80 minutes. No fat on this puppy. Good job Brad, you've scored another one for the Wisco (even if your film was shot down by Austin, Texas). Plus it all leads to a solid wrap up that really does make this little trek deserving of a two dollar rental.

Further details-ididntcomeheretodie.com

'WEIGHT' OF WISCONSIN

DEAD WEIGHT STAKES ITS CLAIM.

DEAD WEIGHT STAKES ITS' CLAIM (originally published in the March 2012 issue of The Scene Newspaper)

When people tend to talk on end about cities with 'happening' film communities, more often than not, you would likely see the conversation veer in the predictable direction of L.A. or New York City or maybe even (to a reduced extent) the rise of more tax-break savvy places like New Orleans or Pittsburgh. It's true that copious big-scale productions tend to occupy such areas for the sake of standard issue, metropolitan back drops or the ease of luring more top dollar superstars, but what of the essence of the community itself? Do the lesser participants give their all to a project for the love of the art form or the handy fattening of a resume?

This topic brings me back around to a spot on the map I have covered a time or two in this column before, Oshkosh, Wisconsin. For all its apparent, and over emphasized, mundane qualities, Oshkosh (and the majority of its surrounding area) is quietly harboring a potent and increasingly more fertile cinematic community of its own. Said collective is really blessed with having largely been born of the seemingly tireless creative impetus now known as Head Trauma Productions. Recall, if you will, a plucky little horror short entitled Better Off Undead and later on a pair of surprisingly sprawling, Oshkosh based Zombie walks. These projects came out of the duel brain trust of John Pata and Adam Bartlett, who had majority roles in bringing these things to light. Now the pair have taken their swelling ambitions to task and crafted (with ample local aid in tow) what may be the most accomplished cinematic product to come out of this here Wisconsin to date, Dead Weight.

Dead Weight is a full blooded, feature length and very character driven end of days opus that focuses on one Charlie Russell and his laborious efforts to reunite with his displaced gal deep in the heart of what's left of Wisconsin. Along the way, the expected (and sometimes not so expected) threats and complications are made manifest. I was fortunate enough to be part of the audience at a not quite 100% complete advance preview screening with cast, crew, friends and family members and I can personally attest to the fact that, thanks to the quality of this film, this previously self contained Oshkosh film community may just have to learn to get used to a dwindling level of obscurity. Good cinema cannot go unnoticed for long.

Recently, I sat down with both John and Adam to analyze and discuss some of the bits and fits of independent filmmaking, from concept to public consumption. It all took place in a narrow office space atop the Blue Moon coffee joint in the gut of Oshkosh, the fellas did most of the talking, which is a good thing.

Asking for the inevitable, how it all got started back story led Adam to recall noticing an ally in the city of Neenah (the slightly less filthy sister of Menasha) that he snap shot with his cell phone, passing it on to Pata with a caption that read 'We should fill this with zombies!' What followed was a succession of story ideas (or 'bullet points') jotted down by Adam and John (who was still shaking off the bad hangover of his collapsed feature project Among The Dead) and cobbled into a sort of basic outline until finally, while en route to Madison on an assignment in relation to their screen printing day job, the duo began brainstorming in tandem about how to flesh out a proper script.

For the next 16 or so months (at twice a week, four hours a night) the guys got down to serious, hash it all out and wrangle it all together screenwriting. The initial draft of the script for Dead Weight (the only title this project ever held, by the way) counted in at 122 pages (roughly two hours in the typical page to

screen rationale). Carving and polishing and subsequent drafts carried them up to November of 2010, when, with a finished script in hand, John and Adam set to assembling a cast and crew that would provide the protean that would bring their words and situations to vivid life.

Actually, the lead of the piece, Joe Belknap-who plays Charlie, came to mind midway through the writing process. Pata and Bartlett had made his acquaintance at the bachelor party and later wedding of a mutual friend and as they were fleshing out their protagonist, Joe kept popping into mind. 'He totally had all the elements, all these characteristics that we were already writing into the part of Charlie' Adam explains. 'We pitched the idea (and later, the script) his way and though being initially very weary due to his work schedule and an utter lack of acting experience, Joe-with the encouragement of his spouse Becky- jumped on board!'

Once the script, lead and shooting schedule was established (for a mid-April start) the remainder of the cast/crew needed to be established. With the noted exception of three Chicago based SAG (Screen Actors Guild) actors, including Aaron Christensen (who plays the most level headed of Charlie's fellow 'survivors', Thomas), the rest of the the total of 27 speaking parts and all the behind the scenes players were all tried and true Wisconsinities. Mary Lindberg (who plays Samantha, the girlfriend Charlie is questing for) and Sam Lenz (Dustin, another of the survivors) are Oshkosh locals and good friends of the filmmakers. Cinematographer Travis Auclair is a pal of Adam's from back when he was a teen hustling records at the notorious area juggernaut The Exclusive Company.

Travis, in fact, provided John and Adam with a defacto third party in the core creative engine of this project. His cinematography graces the picture with an uncommonly rich and crisp quality (bleak and close to monochrome for the desolate present day scenes, warm and inviting for a series of well placed flashbacks) that raises the film immediately above any dreaded restrictions of finance and/or resource. The film looks superb.

Just how much input did this D.P. have in terms of the production? 'We would tell Travis what we wanted, how we wanted it to look and he would try to figure out the camera angles and ask us what we thought. Every shot was a collaborative effort.' Adam relates, adding, 'Travis was the professional on set, he was the experienced one, he made our film look legit.' Travis Auclair studied film at the U of Milwaukee and has applied his camera skills to everything from commercials to political spots to a forth coming documentary called The Sign Painter Movie for filmmaker Faythe Levine (Handmade Nation). John points out, 'When ever Travis spoke up about something, we listened.'

Supporting parts were matched with fitting people the pair knew had traits they felt went in accordance with a given role. 'Every step of this process involved us pulling talented people we knew from around Wisconsin' Adam states with native pride.

A guy named Lee Marohn, who served multiple roles on the film as a producer, script supervisor and location manager provided the shoot with a lion's share of its locations (for the present day timeline footage) by virtue of his family owning a sizable portion of rural Wisconsin property. Perfectly remote and mostly barren, these locales (plus a neighbor's abandoned house) provided a major saving grace for a production that was oftentimes at odds with the cruel and moody whims of Wisconsin weather. The team sought to shoot this portion of the film in full chronological order, so the convenience of these locations further lent aid to this goal in spite of an uncooperative mother nature.

Rehearsal time with the cast was another obstacle altogether, albeit one with ironically fitting results. You see, for the most part, due to the fact that actors and crew members hailed from all across the state (plus the few from Chicago), there basically was never any pre-production rehearsal time, just a few brief read throughs with select players and the filmmakers. How did this effect the project? I'll let Mr. Pata place it in perspective, 'Many of the actors are meeting each other, during the actual production, for the very first time, much the same as their characters are and it kinda worked out to our benefit, in a way.'

In addition, alot of the blocking, setting up and framing of scenes was done with a great deal of spontaneity with the crew foregoing storyboards and flexing their troubleshooting skills to work around unforeseen circumstances (like the aforementioned shitty weather). despite such adversity, they managed to plow through around 12 script pages a day on average (a more traditional shoot tends to cover more in the area of 5 or 6).

Stunts and tricky physical action was dealt with on a more measured and controlled level thanks to some handy expertise on the parts of cast members Aaron Christensen and Reba Fox who knew well how to deal with moments of edgy confrontation and violence in a safe and efficient manner. Any trials and tribulations the production may have endured were greatly offset by the constant 'high' generated by members of the cast and crew, even at the lowest of points. John and Adam both agree, 'Nobody ever complained, nobody ever wanted to quit or go home. Everyone was just into it and having a good time, they picked us up more than, we think, any of them realized.'

When asked to further detail the level of difficulty and challenge they faced as co-creators on Dead Weight, Adam does his best to sum it up thusly, 'Even though the making of the film is one of the things I'm proudest of in my life, it is also, easily, one of the most stressful things I have ever been involved with. It's been an unbelievably difficult task.' On divvying up duties, 'John was sort of like the primary director, I'd never directed before. I helped in the writing and I knew how I wanted the actors to say stuff. Plus John was doing all the editing and I don't know anything about editing or what kind of coverage we'd need, so I was there more to try and keep things rolling and not have time wasted.'

With the initial April shoot completed and John undertaking the assembly of footage, plans were next set into place for how the Dead Weight posse would nail down the mostly interior based flashback scenes that can be found sprinkled throughout the film. 'The flashback stuff really solidified the sense of this picture as a community based effort well more than the present day country stuff as we had to deal with many area businesses and shot in a multitude of spots in Oshkosh and the Valley.' John elaborates. Places tapped for this portion of the production (which rolled in August of 2011) include The Reptile Palace, Cranky Pat's, House of Heroes, The Ramada Plaza (in Fond du Lac), Sparks Advertising (Neenah) and the Outagamie County Airport (standing in for Minneapolis). 'All the businesses were super cool and more than eager to to get on board', John says, noting that his and Adam's previous experience in dealing with city officials and area companies for their pair of zombie walks came in handy. 'That gave us a bulk of proof that we can do things with credibility and in a professional manner.'

The editing, sound effects, A.D.R. and soundtrack work digested a total of around 7 months. John and Adam sat down and wrestled with trimming the initial, 96 minute cut down as well as incorporating composer Nicholas Elert (of the band Northless)'s score into a right tight 89 minute final cut (including credits). Of the finished piece, the proud parents had this to emphasize, 'We wanted to make it the most concise and solid 89 minute film we could, no filler. Everything is in there for a reason, it may not seem like it at first but it does when you visit the film again, and we hope that people will be willing to do that. There's little hidden things that people can pick up on with repeat viewings.'

As for the future of Dead Weight? Aside from the low profile screening I attended, the film will have its first official public screening on March 30th and 31st at the Time Community Theater in Oshkosh. The cost of admission is $5 (and you can snag advance tickets here; carryingdeadweight.com), door open at 7pm, the show kicks in at 8. Cast and crew will be on hand and there will be t-shirts, posters and a double disc DVD package of the film available for purchase. The DVD will contain a fat platter of bonus nuggets like outtakes, lengthy making of documentaries and other, random insanity. Also, comic book artist Tony Moore will be doing some cover art for a limited edition of the disc.

From that point on, Pata and Bartlett are looking to shop the film around to potential distribution houses and film festivals and if that don't work they'll just press on and get it seen by any means necessary. The goal is not so much to placate their egos and show the world what they've done, it's more about getting the film out in the name of all the people who worked on, invested time or money on or just basically lent their support toward the making of Dead Weight. In Mr. Bartlett's words, 'We started Dead Weight, but from the moment the first shot rolled it was no longer just our film, it was about all these other people and their energy and it was all that me and John could do to contain that and mold it, it became its own thing.' Perfect.

One last thing, the first person who can name the actor who gets referenced a dozen or so times throughout the film gets themselves a free DVD after the screening. Ready. Set. Go!

50 STATES, 50 FILMS-THE FINAL CHAPTER

To Create and Complete (some final, passing words on the subject of the greatest Wisconsin movie ever made).


The time has come for me to end it all. With this twelfth and closing month in the last full year before the predicted demise of all things, the moment has arrived to address the last standing point of interest in this all consuming, state to cinema pair up. At long, long last I get to slap some lucky bastard of a film up on a metaphoric pedestal as a (hopefully) fitting representative of our oh so totally beloved fortress of dairy and booze stuffs, all-pro sports collectives and plus-size citizens (aka-Wisconsin).

But, which film do I choose? A troublesome dilemma, but not really. Do I go with Rodney Dangerfield mugging his way across the UW-Madison campus in the mid-80s feature length sitcom BACK TO SCHOOL? Nah, how about that grim yet proper, deep Gothic, Black River Falls based checklist of startling fatalities and somber, monochrome psychosis packaged (in book and film as) WISCONSIN DEATH TRIP? Eh, too one-note and stuck in the distant past. Maybe one of them low profile (not to mention quality) horror flicks (SEVERED TIES, THE GIANT SPIDER INVASION) they like to shoot in one of our lesser, remote towns? Certainly not the exaggerated qualities of something like the over hyped, Mid-Western hopping, Johnny Depp led lesson in old school, criminal glamor, PUBLIC ENEMIES?

I can do better, I think.

There is one film far better suited then any and all of these mentioned here (and several more that have slipped my cluttered mind, I'm sure, with good reason) and that film is called AMERICAN MOVIE.

Contained herein we have the perfect, personal saga, captured in the raw and sometimes earnest style of the scrape and scratch independent documentary form, that fully encapsulates many of the finer charms (and even some alarming quirks) that may feel overly familiar to anyone who has logged in a substantial measure of time in the Badger State.

It's all based around the lifeline of an exuberant persona named Mark Borchardt discovered by director Chris Smith while he was working on a separate, earlier project (AMERICAN JOB) at the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee. Mark is a head strong creative force of the most addictively absurd sort, bent beyond hell at completing a feature film entitled NORTHWESTERN. However, as the tempestuous fate of the grass roots gods would have it, Mark is compelled by way of erratic preparation and ever mounting debt to shift his ambitions to finish off his previously abandoned, but now more manageable short thriller film endeavor COVEN.

From this point, the film dives into an inspired and quite colorful breakdown and delineation (some might add, aberration) of the film making process by virtue of a motley line-up of none too professional, yet attractively rogue Wisconsinites, many well worthy of a film all their own

Mark's ceaselessly loyal right hand man is a deeply substance abused fellow named Mike Schank. A fairly portly and often scruffy looking gentleman with a penchant for acoustic guitar (he even put out a record-'Songs I Know') and gambling on scratch off tickets, Mike accompanies Mark throughout the body of his daredevil stab at cinematic infamy, laughing uneasily and injecting dumbfounding yarns from his drug addled past.

An equally significant compadre in Mark's immediate social circle is his frail and world weary Uncle Bill. Arguably the top bid for a sentimental favorite in the film (or, at least, in a tight tie with Mr. Schank), Bill is a wonderfully weathered ol' miser type who chills about his trailer court palace and endures frequent motor mouth visits from his financially handicapped nephew. Although Willie hems and haws (and hacks and coughs) at the idea of funding Mark's brand of distraction afflicted, stop/start style of movie making, he can often be seen filling space in and around the core action as a sort of begrudging moral anchor. Because, in Wisconsin, family is everything.

Oh, wait...

The remaining human satellites (both blood relation and otherwise) that rotate around Mark's cold hard real life vary wildly in their take on the man and his mission. His parents, though not without a loving respect for their child's flawed obsession, could do without the equally fanatic drinking habit (a shocking trait in these parts, I know) and persistent profanity (the guilty quality that earned this film its R rating) and would rest better if only he would settle into a solid 9-5 routine (a thing Mark loathes passionately). Two male siblings hold contrasting views on their brother and his bombastic exploits, one (the far more 'effeminate') seeing him as suitable for little more than factory labor. Other solid peripheral players include hangers on from the aborted NORTHWESTERN pre production days (a pair of whom, Dean Allen and Matthew Wiesman, earned tangential side coverage by the filmmakers that wound up, largely, as deleted scene fodder), COVEN cast mates and girlfriends past and present (as well as Mark's trio of kids who provide spunky comfort during even some of the lowest points in our hero's journey).

AMERICAN MOVIE earns its place as a chief representative of this Wisconsin by way of the ease in which the picture dips into and reflects back thick, genuine chunks of the state's culture and epic, idiosyncratic delights. The narrative thread covers a pivotal two year span, from 1995-97 and thus places the Mark Borchardt experience on a direct parallel with the rise to triumph of another long suffering (at the time) local institution, the Green Bay Packers. Said NFL forefathers complete their sole championship run of the Favre era just ahead of Mark's final stretch to his own, personal, happy ending, the wrapping up and premiere of COVEN in front of a packed and still disbelieving house of his many co-horts.

What Chris Smith and his main (no, only) direct partner in this necessary crime, Sarah Price have achieved here is nothing shy of a perfect inspirational miracle. It is smoothly and beautifully cut and arranged (with ample sonic assist from many a drifting Schank guitar piece) to best sell the soul and struggle of the entire of this most fascinating of down home, Wisconsin dream come (semi) true scenarios. The filmmakers never truly film down to their subjects and even manage to imbue their key protagonist with a heady level of gravity. By example, at several parts throughout the picture, Mark is shown waxing quasi-philosophical in his own abstract Mid Western reconfiguration of the English language on subjects ranging from basic life lessons to spiritual conflicts and even the juxtaposing of a standard, overcast Wisconsin terrain with the work of Ingmar Bergman.

Like with any piece of art I so self affectingly respond to and deem 'classic', I want to know and absorb every single incremental detail of its very existence. This begins with excessive repeat viewings (for this film, I've logged close to 100 such by now) and later by seeking out the participating parties in the mortal flesh. At a screening for AMERICAN MOVIE held at the upscale think joint, Lawrence University in shit-hot downtown Appleton, circa 2001, I managed to corner Sarah Price in the lobby and quiz her on, among other topics, the chance of ever baring witness to more of the alleged 70 hours of exposed footage apart from the finished film and the near hours' worth of DVD bonus scenes. She dealt with such fanboy gushing with a gentle demeanor and vaguely suggested I keep an eye on the internet for the unveiling of any additional footage. The same event also boasted a drunken Mark Borchardt ranting on about the Sundance Film Festival and porn star gang bangs and Mike Schank taking requests for acoustic renderings of everything from 'Smoke on the Water' to 'Reign in Blood'. Lawrence has never been nor probably ever will be a cooler place to hang in than on that night.

Beyond the success of AMERICAN MOVIE (Sony snapped it up for a cool $1 million) Chris Smith has progressed to helm well regarded work like the Errol Morris inflected HOME MOVIE, THE YES MEN (again with Sarah Price) and the compelling 'one man act' (if you will) COLLAPSE which allows former L.A. cop turned author/radical thinker Michael Ruppert to expound upon the issues and incidents that are corroding our nation's infrastructure and depleting our much coveted oil supply. The duo of Mark and Mike have expanded their cinematic careers as well. Sir Borchardt has made his way onto the David Letterman Show and bit parts in films like THE ONE (with Jet Li), CABIN FEVER 2-SPRING FEVER, THE GODFATHER OF GREEN BAY and BRITNEY BABY, ONE MORE TIME (reunited with Mike Schank as a faux documentary crew following a cross dressing male Spears impersonator as she/he travels to New Orleans to meet her/his idol, much better as a concept than as a finished film). Schank also pops up in Todd (WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE) Solondz's STORYTELLING but he's not forced to press his acting chops too hard.

I can also spot a thread of the story covered in AMERICAN MOVIE living on in the undertakings of several strong willed Wisconsin natives here and now. I see it in Hunter Adams who dived right in and crafted a delightful little Fox Valley based comedy, THE HUNGRY BULL with friends and family in tow. I see it even more in the growing Oshkosh juggernaut Head Trauma Productions, lead by the blessed forces of John Pata and Adam Bartlett. This duo birthed a hokey yet likable zombie short (BETTER OFF UNDEAD) several years ago and are now poised to drop a fat, full length feature (DEAD WEIGHT) in the impending, year to end all years, 2012. It can be seen in guys like Jason Buss and his peers in the Wildwood Film Festival each spring, and in people I know who have taken the influence to such diverse places as Minnesota and California to make it happen on film. I am pretty certain not one of these cats can say they've never crossed paths with the mastery of AMERICAN MOVIE, the greatest Wisconsin movie ever made!

You tell me different. Also, if for some stupid reason you've never seen or heard of this film, either get to it with much haste or move the fuck to Illinois.

Thanks. Experiment over. killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com

Weaving Through Debris.

(originally published in the September 2011 issue of The Scene)


Winding it all down to the wire, I find myself left with a lucky 13 states awaiting proper marriage with a suitable cinematic partner. It’s getting harder to find good lovin’ these days and in the movie/geographic matchmaking scene, it’s hardly any better.

But, I digress, let’s set to business and open it all up with a pair of impossibly dated time capsules wedding the multifaceted quirks of human behavior and mannerisms to their immediate surroundings. Both the ambitious and reverently revealing Middletown (for Indiana) and the playfully stupid Heavy Metal Parking Lot (for Maryland) address their chosen subjects with a strict anthropological objectivity, the goal is simply to share a slice of the American pie with as wide an onlooking crowd as possible.

Shepherded over by its creator, Peter Davis (the mind also behind the essential to watch, Oscar-adorned Vietnam war dissection Hearts and Minds) Middletown takes precious time to meticulously investigate the various, wide-ranging particulars of the populace of Muncie, Indiana. Leapfrogging across six separate episodes (five of which actually made airdates on PBS before unwarranted yet inevitable controversy set in) the project comes as close as any in recent memory to capturing the exact pulse of both a city and, in turn, a specific region.

Nestled snug to the east of the state (and sporting a head count roughly comparable to our so beloved Appleton), Muncie fits right and tight under the basic, presumed guidelines of small scale, Bible-belt all Americana. I imagine it stands today much the same as it did in the later 1970s when this program was assembled.
Taking its overlaying cue (and title) from a 1929 publication Middletown: A Study In Contemporary American Culture by esteemed scholars Robert and Helen Lynd, this Middletown digests its subject matter and reorganizes it into its six handy sub-sections. Said films (each helmed by a different party, including Peter Davis himself) focus with separate yet equal objectivity on things political (The Campaign), spiritual (Community of Praise), marital (Second Time Around) and athletic (The Big Game, and it’s basketball, as is to be expected in the Hoosier state) and the pains of youth and the lack there of.





The epic scale and the intimate detail hold hands productively throughout as the disparate citizens of this chosen hamlet extend their lives out in full for the camera eye. Standouts in this rather massive, archival undertaking include a gregarious Irish politico, an ex-marine turned Shakey’s Pizza proprietor and even a collective of lippy high school seniors in full rebellion mode (to be seen in the series closer Seventeen, which piles on enough curse words and touchy themes and ideas as to instigate an uproar and subsequent banning from being aired back in its day).

The success of this work as a whole is care the way it both provides its potential audience with an unsparing insight into a specific community’s pros and cons and how it manages to liken them to much of our own. In a way, Middletown serves as a mirror held up to anyone who chooses to pay it any mind. If one were to attempt a similar project in a different locale in our present here and now, sure the trivia of fashion and hip technology would prove markedly altered and the inevitable given regional inflections would seep through (plus, there would be far less smoking, everybody seems to be cigarette dependent in this damn thing!) but the essentials of the social, financial and emotional aspects of American living have remained largely a constant. Catch it all at icarusfilms.com.

Likewise, albeit on a far more compact, bootleg and some might say downright moronic scale is the mid-80s, Maryland/D.C. area relic Heavy Metal Parking Lot.

Now this baby began as a one-off public access short stunt by two local dudes (John Heyn and Jeff Krulik) seeking to share, in passing, the delirious/drunken celebratory silliness that is the tailgating sub-culture collecting outside a Judas Priest gig somewhere called Largo, Maryland. What came soon after was a steady building cult phenomena born of copious tape trading and rock star endorsement (it was reportedly a tour bus staple of a pre-martyrdom era Kurt Cobain and that one little folk band he played in) and, ultimately, the well-dressed out DVD release I’m now using as reference (get yours off the website heavymetalparkinglot.com) which goes a long way to demystify the legacy of the whole thing and give it a proper historic context.

What essentially consists of about 16 minutes or so of loud, inebriated (and often shirtless) working class dopers, basement rockers, big hair bitches and all around chuggerheads attains a bit of quasi-nostalgic legitimacy by way of numerous sequels, homages and exhaustive “Where are they now?” updates (they even managed to track down the elusive Zebra-Boy! If you have no idea who I am speaking of, watch the film, you can’t miss him).

I do realize the state-based significance of both John Waters and Barry Levinson, but nothing has ever sold me so deeply on Maryland as this retarded little work of art. I’m telling the lot of you now, if it is deep and insightful reportage you seek, if it is lasting mental nutrition you are lacking then this is certainly the place to look for...the exact opposite.

On to more modern meditations and the pristine Virginia-based farmland of What Remains. This location (near Lexington) serves as the living, loving and working space of the pro shutterbug Sally Mann. Mann, best known for her hot button collection of portraits and other captures involving her three children titled Immediate Family (which contained images that fell under the strict designation of child pornography care the religious right), subscribes to a philosophy of finding the appropriate muse within her familiar surroundings. First, she milks her family members for photographic effect (the mostly black and white prints are often glorious) and then moves with gradual progression toward the landscapes that encircle her home. She shoots in large format (film, remember that shit?) and imprints her work with a soul and an openness to the randomness of life or, “the angel of uncertainty” as she dubs it.






Her work addresses the fragility of existence (a trait possibly influenced by her father’s preoccupation with death). The peak exemplification of this comes when she pays visit to a University of Tennessee-based forensic study area and is allowed to shoot various decaying corpses. The set up might seem unsettling but the resulting photos hold an irrefutable power.

We follow Mann through a multitude of highs and lows, from the everyday living variety to the convoluted process of snagging gallery support. A man by the name of Steven Cantor had previously covered the crafting of Mann’s notorious Immediate Family project back in 1990 (a resulting short film, Blood Ties is part of this picture’s bonus materials) and again provides the guiding eye that allows the audience to step inside Sally Mann’s space and observe for a cool 80 minutes. What Cantor does here set up an open mic for Mann’s ample voice, both as an incredibly gifted, born photographer and as a strong-willed woman who makes her way through her life as she sees fit.

Being as I am a wanna be camera nerd my own damn self, I managed to cull many informative tidbits in relation to this wonderful art form and certain methods that I may wish to emulate and apply to my own approach to imagemaking. Thus, What Remains stands as both a compelling biographic portrait and as an information well for those seeking to learn and/or polish their “eye,” so to speak. (zeitgeistfilms.com)

Lastly, we slap this whole uneven thing upward to our nation’s very first state.

I Can See You marks yet another challenging entry from the New York-based, East Coast-minded mini-studio Glass Eye Pix. Founded in 1985 in good faith by actor/writer/director Larry Fessenden, this outfit has steadily produced some rather striking pictures. Key works of note include Ti West’s efforts The House of the Devil and The Innkeepers and Jim Mickle’s more ambitious than it can afford to be vampire opus Stakeland. They also found the time to fund this severely under the radar ditty from Graham Reznick and it’s a fitting fable for Delaware.





It all comes together so simple, a trio of upstart Big Apple ad campaigners abscond themselves to the deep woods to camp, frolic, snag photos and brainstorm ideas in prep for an impending big dog client. All progresses smooth and tidy I suppose as the lads wander and drink some with various fellow campers and even find the time for a little free-spirited skinny dipping. Soon, however, a fattening level of menace creeps into play and the tone of each passing situation shifts into a sort of collision of David Lynch savvy shadow mystery and Stan Brakhage abstract experimentation.

The whole thing is pieced together with an admirable level of skill and the story feeds its three leads (including one eerily Conan O’ Brian-looking sad sack who basically fills the obnoxious blowhard role all too well) with a heady succession of surprises and ultimately sets them on a course with things better left seen than explained. The fear of the unknown and all that, you dig? Our founding fathers would be so proud. There’s probably still a smattering of their tortured souls wandering them diabolical Delaware forests, creepy. (icanseeyoumovie.com)

And one more thing.....JOHN CARPENTER’S THE WARD.

After flirting with a near decade of non-activity, save a pair of underwhelming Masters of Horror episodes, the frail old gentleman who blessed us with Escape From New York, The Thing and several other major genre pieces (say, what’s the one with that masked dude knifing people?) is back to making movie babies and the first result is, well, meh.

This time out Carpenter follows the fateful trials of a troubled lass (the admittedly fetching Amber Heard), who is placed in a nuthouse for gals after she is found oblivious in front of a burning farm house. The script then finds various ways for our lovely young anti-heroine to clash with staff and inmates and wander dark hallways so that she may cross paths with a number of ghostly cliches.

It all plods along with unremarkable abandon toward yet another one of those twist endings you’ll never see coming unless you’ve already seen a lot of movies with twist endings before. In all good truth, I have seen much worse from an upper shelf genre brand name (i.e. Wes Craven’s woeful My Soul To Take), but that hardly excuses the middling vibe that embodies this thing. Oh well, welcome back John and better luck next time.

Outta words, outta time.

killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com

THE EMPIRE OF WISCONSIN DESERVES A BALD EAGLE KISS (Flag Day 2011)

bring out your dead (from the neck up) sons of Gawd, the stars an' stripes is a wavin'



SALUTE?

SOMETIMES, A BEAUTIFUL DELIRIUM.

50 Films/50 States Part 5.

I have trouble dissecting the eccentricities of the human mind sometimes. Even though I am a card carrying member of this so-called 'race', I find that many of my fellow man, woman and child things possess a measured degree of character differentiation that sets them at sharp odds to my given perspective. Because of my nerdy predilection for cinema, I often find myself scrapping for clues to the how, what and why of the human mechanism within the confines of the motion picture medium. I got several choice examples of what I'm on about right here, plus it will serve to knock off a few more states in the process.
Take, for handy instance, the irresistible, eye sore of deliberate tragedy that is the life of Jonathon Sharkey. Here is a feller so bent in the direction of wrong that he can justify maintaining a lifestyle mash-up of blood drinking, neo-satanism and all around pagan/goth/macho posturing while fostering such lofty political ambitions as running for the part of Governor of the state of Minnesota! His bold and (some might add) dunder headed attempts at such serve as a sort of spring board for an awkward yet functionally amusing, shot for the bare minimum documentary/case study titled, in all fair taste, Impaler.
Said title hails from Sir. Sharkey's blunt platform of discipline in relation to a wide range of criminals and lowlifes. Sharkey states plainly, early on in the film, that any and all terrorists, drug dealers and baby rapers (for scant example) will be subject to blunt force trial, torture and eventually decapitation and impalement. This warped unit sees himself as a bastion of hope for his beloved America (Sharkey also holds future plans of a Presidential run, something that should fitfully suit another film, likely already in the works) and not some weak kneed failure like George W. Bush (himself a ripe target for Sharkey-esque impalement).





All this rant savvy 'look at me, I'm weird!' type nonsense leads to, really is a patchwork dissertation on the punishing particulars of living under the grip of mental illness. In this instance, the filmmakers (Texas native W. Tray White being the main man) have gleaned acute evidence of this man's suffocating urge to dance in the proverbial spotlight. You see folks, in addition to his proclaimed status as a devil adoring, vampiric lord, Jon claims to have plied his natural genius in such arenas as Nascar, pro-wrestling and Law (for a more expansive rundown on all this, check his IMDB profile- http://www.imdb.com/name/nm2652647/bio- it'll enrich your life! no really!). Of course, all of this grows more and more pathetic as the film strays from in house chats with Sharkey and his school bus driver lady friend in snowbound Princeton, MN to outside parties (ex-spouses, pals and legal officials) who tend to highlight the copious holes in Sharkey's train of logic. Overall, not an unbearable slice of 'you can't make this shit up' style of human interest reportage. Plus, it always does my heart good to see any form of social commentary in relation to that lake and lousy sports team saturated state with the often odd-duck political representatives (Jesse 'The Body' Ventura, Al Franken, Brett Favre) that resides just to the west of us. Impaler can be readily snatched off of netflix...probably about all the effort one needs to expend on it.






A man of equally potent, yet immensely more positive, self design is humble, God fearing, workaholic South Carolina resident Pearl Fryer. The man is a self taught topiary wonderkind and honed local institution who finds himself in front of the camera lens for the quint little feature A Man Named Pearl. Like Impaler, this film serves as a small scale (though more effectively rendered) intro to a genuine American curio at large just off the beaten path. The precise setting is Bishopville (pop. 3,600-ish), located (in Lee county, what's said to be the poorest county in the state) out in the open spaces between the more sizable state populaces of Florance and Columbia. It is here that ol' Mr. Fryer has carved and maintained one of his state's (and most certainly his town's) more esteemed attractions.




Since relocating to Bishopville in the mid 1970s, Pearl has managed to stun and bewilder his mostly simple and set in their ways neighbors by transforming the yard of his domicile into an organic gallery of sprawling art. Pearl toils tirelessly at sculpting, trimming and nurturing the many elaborate designs in his 3+ acre garden that has earned a word of mouth legend that attracts bus loads of tourists to this sleepy little stop off the road that may have otherwise never even registered on most folks' radar. This ongoing life's work now works to solidify this community and keep it healthy. Mr. Pearl lends his knowledge and a shade of his potent work ethic to area (and, sometimes, statewide) children and students, attempting to instill in them a level of self value that can only grow and mature along with them. As a character, Pearl is a gentle, labor worn yet vigorous individual with an even balance of traditional rural morals and free spirit impulse. His thick east-southern drawl and wiry, lanky stance make for one memorable screen figure. Credit to directors Scott Galloway and Brent Pierson for collaborating on a warm and informative piece that always respects this southern gentleman and true artist for every quirky aspect that fuels him. Well shot and economic, A Man Named Pearl never wares out its welcome. Available from the good folks at Docurama, don't believe me? Check here- www.docurama.com/docurama/a-man-named-pearl-dvd-cd-set
A slight bit of pace changing for this next entry in that it is not so much a standard issue feature, per se, but more of an epic and on going small screen offering that breaks down the graphic dramatics of one urban locale yet plays it off as wholly symbolic of many of the other cityscapes in the given region.
Brick City, as the title suggests, is a deep rooted delineation of the largest city (Newark) in what is commonly passed off as the Garden State (New Jersey). Now, I know I could have easily picked this state off of my convoluted 50/50 checklist by virtue of some dispensable dick, tits and fart joke addled Kevin Smith movie or, maybe even something a tad more upscale, say the Louis Malle opus Atlantic City or....hell, there's even a movie called Garden State .
Nah brah, I'm sticking to the real shit. This here Brick City thing is a Sundance Channel backed series (season one covered here, season two recently completed) that covers the modern day quest of positivity obsessed mayor Cory Booker to restore order and integrity to the long impoverished and crime ravaged city he now oversees. Booker and his all star team of do good types and various, assorted low income street citizens work though the tension and turmoil of urban renewal and the challenges of slapping order over top of the kind of embedded chaos that doesn't conveniently subside.




The scope of this subject matter is intricately addressed within the project's 260 minute sprawl. Subplots, asides and effectively placed injections of humor work as second and third tier support systems to the greater central ambitions of community, family, economy and the cancerous detriment that the city's ever present criminal element brings (murder's the word, ya heard?!). At the front of it all is Booker, the bright light of hope or frustrating pain in the metro ass (all depending on which talking head's speechifying one buys into). The mayor and his tireless quest to reverse his city's negative level of notoriety and maintain the sanity of both himself and his loyal crew (gruff Director of Police Garry McCarthy most notably) veers back and forth from the cruel reality of gang related homicide, which is haphazard and unyielding, to a cheerful downtown distraction for the positive like a visiting big ticket circus troupe. Intermixed with Booker's renovation campaign are the immediately related struggles of several reformed gang banger cum social activist types, feuding politicos and even a feisty lawyer pulling to save one key (and very pregnant) young lady out of jail.
This truly is what one might legitimately refer to as 'quality television', the dearth of such stuff on the small screen in recent years (shows like 'Lost' and 'Dexter' not withstanding) makes a rare breakthrough like this one here ever more special. The team of Marc Levin and Mark Benjamin have assembled and finessed a staggering amount of material into a still fat and epic dissertation on the pains of urban discipline and the harsh truths of classism and social/economic imbalance that could well serve as a metaphor for most sizable cities in the state of New Jersey (I've been to Newark and been told by those in the know there various 'ghetto' anecdotes, with all the worst signs pointing to Camden). The show was first aired on the Sundance Channel but can easily be obtained in the ever dependable DVD format with a sprinkling of bonus features including input from executive producer Forest Whitaker (one can also obtain further background nuggets on Cory Booker care a defacto prequel of sorts titled Street Fight and covering Booker's initial trial and error attempts to become the Newark mayor-par excellence). So, without fail, you must get your Jersey learn-on the real way, track the first, five part, season of Brick City at all costs starting with this website; firstrunfeatures.com
Backing away from documentary overkill, it is time now to pay respects to a film I find is one of the best and most complete experiences of recent years. That and it all takes place in and all over my birth state of California. Paul Thomas Anderson's fifth feature, There Will Be Blood (Paramount Vantage) is, for me, a complete beast of a film that executes on such a high and consistent level of sheer film making finesse that reminds me once again what being a film geek is all about.
This is the movie that finally made full and robust usage of that most particular and fascinating of quality modern screen actors, Daniel Day-Lewis, that possessive screen presence that made the most of his place in such otherwise underwhelming A-list affairs as Gangs of New York and In the Name of the Father. Here, Lewis is given no restriction and the picture is his to dominate and he never disappoints, plowing through an epic (158 minute) saga of gusto, greed and the savage means to which the main character, an oil obsessed entrepreneur named Daniel Plainview hell bent on monopolizing the turn of the century California landscape, pursues his meal ticket, no matter the social, moral or spiritual cost. Plainview uses methods of keen manipulation and smooth oratory skills to rest area folk assured that his goals are lofty and genuine enough to prove beneficial toward them and their related communities in the long run. Meanwhile, he proceeds to dig and drill his way toward increasing wealth and a rapidly distancing attitude toward the very nature of mankind. Plainview finds direct conflict in the shape of several pesky, intrusive bodies such as a dodgy, alleged long lost sibling (Kevin J. O'Connor, hailing from, you guessed it- Fond Du Lac!) as well as an equally shifty young vessel for the good lord's word, a preacher named Eli Sunday (Paul Dano) who ultimately shares in Plainview's descent to the very bitter end.
What P. T. Anderson has done with this film, by far his best, is fashioned a magnificent, fully realized work of art, not simply dispensable commercialized 'entertainment' as fodder that passes by the eyes well enough without ever entering the brain for any substantial measure of time. He has even surpassed his previous, very good, Robert Altman in the time of Tarantino style fables Boogie Nights and Magnolia in terms of storytelling, strength of character and virtually every facet of technical prowess one can think of. The film looks grand, is cut great and boasts one immaculate sound mix topped, above all, by the eerie/beautiful minimalist score from Radiohead lead guitarist Jonny Greenwood. Yes, my friends, this is, as in the parlance of the drunken youth of this sad modern hell, the shit. Eternal props to Anderson, D. D. Lewis and the rest of the There Will Be Blood commune. This is the perfect mix of light and dark, art and actuality, elegance and cruelty. Probably not the type of graphic banter many will agree upon in the direction of this film but, no matter say I, this is a glorious slab of misanthropic poetry set to separate the deep thinker with the keen sense of cinema from the gaggle of 'bros' in vapid search of the next big Hangover.
Ugh, all out of words. Next month, more movies, more states, more brotherly love for one and all!