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Hobo Sonn: “Wary The Mind” LP [Amen Absen]

December 27, 2019

[another in a series of reviews written ages ago for issue 2 of a magazine that almost was…]

HoboSonnIan Murphy (Hobo Sonn) puts his lowest-fi foot forward, dictaphone blazing and practice amp overheating, resulting in a deliberately tiny music, little Cornell Boxes of strange undersea audio organisms. Although structured as one long track, small disruptions in the sound and sudden bursts of silence make this feel like a set of matched display containers, each one holding a small, exotic creature, muffled behind glass but swimming in the brine of an exotic land. Side one ends with far off piano, starting nowhere and ending somewhere else.

Side two’s agitated piano sounds like bubbles rising chromatically to the surface, like a submarine in a children’s cartoon. Soon, Steve Reich’s ghost comes to the party, with tape-delay repetitions blurring the melody further, a feathery sound that lands on the ear the way snowflakes land on the tongue, the slightest feeling of weight before it melts into nothing. This kind nostalgia doesn’t last long, as a stuttering tape deck or other household device paints dark clouds overheard.

Hobo Sonn lives in the grand lineage of English crud priests like Ashtray Navigations, Jazzfinger, and Wagstaff. There’s a proud tradition in Old Blighty of finding golden treasures in the scrapheap, arguably going back to the Brothers Rupenus and their toolshed of destiny. Am I saying that this album is as good as the first New Blockaders record? That would be hard. But it’s worth noting how working with limited means requires additional effort to convey precise emotions, to far better overall effect.

A limited edition (133 copies) of the LP contain an additional 3-inch CDr titled “Swarm.” As the title suggests, a swarming hum predominates against a background like Penderecki, with a similar choral density seemingly emanating from one man and his boxes. It’s an impressive effect, and has an orchestral heft seldom heard in a plug-and-play experimental culture of our time. Of everything I’ve reviewed tonight, this gets the highest honor – I want to give this another dozen spins even after I am done writing this review.

The Stiff-Legged Film Festival presents: THE FILMS (and TV) OF JANE CAMPION, and THE (Fiction) FILMS OF CLAIRE DENIS

October 12, 2019

Quick Schedule

Weekend one: The Films (and TV) of Jane Campion

Friday, October 18:

7:30 p.m – An Exercise in Discipline: Peel [short]

7:40 – Passionless Moments [short]

7:52 – A Girl’s Own Story [short]

8:20 – Mishaps of Seduction and Conquest [short]

8:35 – After Hours [short]

9:00 – Two Friends

10:20 – Sweetie
(ends at midnight)

Saturday, October 19:

11:00 a.m. – An Angel at My Table

1:40 p.m. – The Piano

3:40 – The Portrait of a Lady

6:05 – Holy Smoke

8:00 – In the Cut

10:00 – The Water Diary [short]

10:20 – The Lady Bug [short]

10:25 – Bright Sky
(ends at 12:30 a.m.)

Sunday, October 20:

12:00 p.m. – 6:00 – Top of the Lake (TV series), season 1, directed by Jane Campion
(ends at 6:00 p.m.)


Weekend two: The (Fiction) Films of Claire Denis

Friday, November 1:

8:00 p.m. – Chocolat

9:45 – Sen Fout La Mort (No Fear No Die)

11:15 – Keep it for Yourself [short]
(ends 11:55 p.m.)

Saturday, November 2:

10:30 a.m. – I Can’t Sleep

12:15 p.m. – U.S. Go Home [TV Movie]

1:25 – Nice, Very Nice [short]

1:40 – Nenette et Boni

3:20 – Beau Travail

4:50 – Trouble Every Day

6:30 – Friday Night

8:00 – Vers Nancy [short]

8:15 – L’Intrus (The Intruder)

10:20 – 35 Rhums (35 Shots of Rum)
(Ends at midnight)

Sunday, November 3:

12:00 p.m. – White Material

1:45 – Bastards

3:20 – Venice ’70 – Future Reloaded [short]

3:25 – Voila L’enchainement [short]

3:55 – Contact [short]

4:00 – Let the Sunshine In

5:35 – High Life
(ends at 7:30)


I really wanted to feature some women directors sooner than later, because in the 17 years I’ve been doing this, I haven’t. Looking through the filmographies of some of the usual suspects, you run into several problems. Unless you’re hyper-prolific like Agnes Varda, the filmographies of most women directors that I’ve encountered are either very small (Kelly Reichardt, Lynne Ramsay, Elaine May) or, if they’re more extensive, feature two or three “personal” films before being assimilated into the studio system to do more conventional fare (Penelope Spheeris, Amy Heckerling – Fast Times rules, but I’m in no great hurry to screen Look Who’s Talking 1 and 2 if I don’t have to). I’d still like to do some multi-director weekends featuring some of the iconoclast directors with only a few films under their belts, like Reichardt and Ramsay, Claudia Weill, Nina Menkes, and many others, but in the meantime, we have these two directors, each of which has her own center of gravity, and both of whom have kept a consistent project schedule while also not veering far (or at all) from their core interests and themes and obsessions.

The first weekend will be all Campion; the second, all Denis. Though there are intersections into one anothers’ work – Denis’ U.S. Go Home is a coming-of-age teen drama that will likely match well with Campion’s Two Friends; on the other end, the claustrophobic sexuality of Campion’s In the Cut fits well with Denis’ obsessively violent neo-zombie drama Trouble Every Day.  It’s very possible that each directors’ films, many of which need to be mulled over and examined for days afterward, may not lend themselves to SLFF’s concentrated viewing style, but it’s too late to stop now…the wheels are in motion.

The usual Logistics:


Unless we’re running late (unlikely!), the start time listed is the exact time we start. I realize that I’ve gotten a bit of a reputation about this, but it’s the only way that prevents nights that already end late from ended two hours later still. Plan accordingly. Parking is generally pretty easy in this new neighborhood.

Some food and drink and beer and liquor will be on hand (probably even themed food for certain features – there’s talk of a Bloody Mary bar during Trouble Every Day), but bringing some to share is never a bad idea, especially if you have specific dietary requirements. If you want to run out and grab dinner somewhere nearby, I have a handful of suggestions of places that are a five minute walk away. And of course, carryout is plentiful and accommodating.


Weekend one: The Films (and TV)
of Jane Campion

 Born in New Zealand and residing in Australia, Jane Campion made an immediate reputation with a series of short films that resonated with young women, men, and film scholars around the world. Three of her first five short films were packaged as a set that made the rounds at film societies and college campuses and were taught in feminist film courses. Her first full-length feature films, particularly those with cinematographer Sally Bongers, capture a certain punk/new wave aesthetic and a strange visual language while also giving voice to the kinds of personal conversations and connections a generation of viewers thought they’d never see on the screen. Friday night, in particular, is Campion at her most free-wheeling and joyous. Later, her creations get more lush, historical, and sometimes ponderous.

If you can make only one night of this, make it Friday – if you haven’t seen Sweetie or the shorts, you’ll really be glad you made time for them in your life.

Friday, October 18

7:30 p.m
“An Exercise in Discipline: Peel” [short] (1982)


I’m trying to start this as late I can so that as many people can make it out for it as possible. One of Campion’s earliest films (I’ve been able to find no consensus online whatsoever on the dates for many of these shorts), this is just a funny little moment, a stand-off between a headstrong boy, his parents, and an errant orange peel tossed from the car window.


“Passionless Moments” [short] (1983)


Campion’s next short takes the light absurdity of “Peel” and inflates it, giving us these absurd “moments,” each narrated and explained before it begins, like a high-art version of Len Cella’s “Moron Movies.” Campion is already fluid in controlled ennui and dust-dry wit with this one, and it’ll serve her well in the coming years.


“A Girl’s Own Story” [short] (1983)


Here’s the one that cashes the check. At nearly 20 minutes and featuring a more realistic and nuanced set of storylines, “A Girl’s Own Story” is the blueprint Campion will take for her first few films. We see a set of young women transitioning from playful childhood into the confused urges of teenhood. They pantomime to the Beatles, tell each other secrets, touch legs awkwardly. Though decidedly quieter and droller, fans of PEN15 and Book Smart will likely find a lot to like here.


“Mishaps of Seduction and Conquest” [short] (1984)


Perhaps the strangest of the five shorts, “Mishaps” is shot to streaky black & white video (possibly the same 1960s Sony AVC-3260 Andrew Bujalski used for 2013’s Computer Chess) with some selective colorization (glass of red wine, red pocket-square). Campion tells her most avant-garde story yet, contrasting an awkward Victorian encounter in a drawing room with accounts of the conquest of Mt. Everest, complete with archival photos. Due to the college AV department-quality of the materials and the wooden acting, this feels most like a student film, though it was possibly shot after the others. Most likely reaction as the credits roll: “That was…something.”

“After Hours” [short] (1985)


If “A Girl’s Own Story” most resembles the themes of Campion’s early films, this last of the five shorts feels most like Campion’s next two films from a visual standpoint. It takes place in cramped, loud kitchens and a lonesome-looking public pool where some icky sexual harassment takes place. 26 minutes and feels every minute of it.


2 Friends (1986)


Following an impossible-to-find TV episode (Dancing Daze) that Campion made in 1986, we come to her first full-length film, and it’s one of her best. 2 Friends, shot for TV, tells a familiar story of two teenage girls from different sides of the tracks. They’ve been inseparable friends for years, and both thought they were going to a prestigious girls’ school together, but now, only one is. This is the end of the story, but also the beginning, as Campion starts here and tells the rest of the story in reverse chronology, starting with the dissolution of the friendship, moving back to the news about school, and back and back, tracing intentions and mistakes and webs of family expectations. It’s a style you might have seen before, but Campion really makes it feel fresh, giving each new revelation an appropriate amount of pathos and heartbreak without going into sheer melodrama. I saw this in an original 16mm print at Chicago Filmmakers last years, and it blew me away.


Sweetie (1989)


Though Campion would get more acclaim for An Angel at My Table and especially The Piano, it was this film, a hit at independent cinemas, midnight movies, and late-night cable screenings, that really established Campion’s reputation as a new voice on the scene. Sweetie starts as one movie – our frazzled protagonist falls for a man at work and marries him, producing an odd but mostly comfortable existence – and becomes a quite different one once her sister Sweetie comes around for a visit. A voluptuous, strange, possibly not all that well woman in punky clothes and carting around a deadbeat boyfriend or two, Sweetie throws everything into intense disarray. From domestic turmoil through odd (and compellingly shot, thanks to Campion’s inventive cinematographer Sally Bongers) excursions into the Australian hinterlands, Sweetie crackles with strange energy that always threaten to explode into chaos or violence. It’s very funny, yes, but also well observed in its take on family dynamics and love between sisters. You ought not miss this one if you can help it. Shown, like the best three of the shorts, on a sumptuous Criterion blu-ray edition.


(ends at midnight, though if anyone wants to stick around, we might re-screen the first three shorts for latecomers.)

Saturday, October 19

11:00 a.m.
An Angel at My Table (1990)


This acts as a nice transition film between Sweetie and The Piano. At this point, Campion is working with larger budgets, her cinematographers are working with wide vistas and painterly composition, rather than Sally Bongers’ interesting crane shots and intense facial closeups, and her subjects are getting more literary. At the same time, the life of Janet Frame (the protagonist of this film) was fraught with issues of mental instability, just like Sweetie – her family, unsure how to deal with her frequent outbursts and tantrums, send her out for a series of electroshock treatments, which Frame wrote about in her first novel, Owls Do Cry. She was spared the irreversible damage of a lobotomy (which the doctor’s thought was the only option) at the 11th hour (on the operating table and everything) when emissaries run in with the announcement that she’d been awarded the Governor’s Prize for her first collection of poetry. Based on the trilogy of Frame’s memoirs, An Angel at My Table is a literary biography like few you’ve seen. Kerry Fox and her iconic nest of bright red hair is unforgettable in the lead role, escaping a family that never understood her for a literary community that embraced her as she is, a new and chosen family that helped her to soar. This is one of Wendy’s favorite movies and one of the few times that that act of writing has been captured compellingly in a film. A quiet, unforgettable epic. Along with Sweetie, this is Campion at her unconventional prime.


1:40 p.m.
The Piano (1993)


If you know of one Campion film without knowing who she is, it’s probably this one. A massive critical and box-office hit, The Piano earned three academy awards – best actress for Holly Hunter, best supporting actress for Anna Paquin, and screenplay for Jane Campion – and was nominated for plenty more. Holly Hunter is the master of the face journey as Ada McGrath, a mute woman sent to New Zealand in 1850 as part of an arranged marriage. One might call it a love triangle between she and her husband (Sam Neill) and a neighbor (Harvey Keitel), but it’s really a love quartet when you include the titular instrument. MPAA gives this a hard-R for “extreme graphic sexuality” which of course is shorthand for “copious Harvey Keitel dong.” If you haven’t seen it (as I haven’t), now’s your chance to avoid faking your way through high-falutin’ dinner party conversations circa 1993.


The Portrait of a Lady (1996)


Another literary adaptation, this time of Henry James’ most famous novel. Nicole Kidman and John Malcovich star. Roger Ebert said, “I think if you care for James, you must see it. It is not an adaptation but an interpretation. It gives us Isabel from a new angle. And it is well acted. Kidman has the bearing and quality of the intelligent young American. Barbara Hershey is magnificent as Madame Merle (who has her own heartbreak, and has worked with the means at her disposal). Martin Donovan is touching as Ralph, whose own love is bravely concealed. Only Malkovich seems wrong; we need an Osmond who seems worthier at first.” I haven’t seen it, so I’ll take his word for it.


Holy Smoke (1999)

Holy Smoke poster.jpg

In what seems like an attempt to return to the wilder and less controlled delirium of Sweetie, here we get Harvey Keitel and Kate Winslet in a ferocious and sketchy psychological battle of wills. Winslet’s Ruth has been brainwashed (so says her family) by a cult leader in India. After forcibly dragging her back to Sydney, she’s released to a desert shack with PJ Waters (Keitel), a swaggering, self-confident cult de-programmer who assures the worried parents that this case isn’t anything he hasn’t seen before. By the end of the film, Keitel is wearing lipstick and a red dress, and Winslet is not exactly what you’d call ready to return to polite society. I’ve seen this once, and I’m still, two years on, not sure if I enjoyed it or not. It’s a lot. I’ll say that. It’s a humid, clammy psychic war, and few punches are pulled, figuratively or literally.

See…for yourself?


In the Cut (2003)


Casting further out into murky waters, Campion jettisons her reputation as a maker of lush, romantic literary dramas to explore something grittier, a relentlessly obsessive and urban crime story. Meg Ryan, similarly trying to shed her reputation as America’s Perky Sweetheart, goes dark and greasy as Frannie Avery, a teacher who embarks on a relationship with a police officer (Mark Ruffalo) investigating the grisly death of a woman whose torso is found in Frannie’s apartment courtyard. We’re watching the unrated version, so don’t come crying to me – this is unnerving and ponderous. One Amazon reviewer noted “I thought I was watching a crime movie and instead it was apparently an art film. An art film full of sex-obsessed people, long and odd silences, and people just disappearing from the narrative.” I mean, I don’t know how you square that description with the one-star review she gave it, but hey, different strokes. Apparently, Meg Ryan’s character has enough slang in her vocabulary that they felt compelled to do a DVD bonus feature about it. (Although the uncut version only adds a minute’s worth of footage, all the horndogs in the Amazon review section enthuse about how much more “nuanced” Meg Ryan’s performance is, much in the same way they clambered in the reviews for the edited version “Ragtime,” begging for the version with Elizabeth McGovern’s “full frontal performance.”)


“The Water Diary” [short] (2006)


Another short film, created for the omnibus short anthology titled 8. An environmental fable about a drought in the outback. Strap in.


“The Lady Bug” [short] (2007)


A real short one, part of the massive shorts anthology To Each His Own Cinema. This is a very odd one – something to do with a bug hiding in a heat vent in a school classroom, except the bug is Erica Englert in a ladybug costume. And, uh, a lot of different voices are talking to her. On the upside, it’s only three minutes long. Go get a beer, it’ll be over before you know it.

Bright Star (2009)


We’ll end the day with Jane Campion’s last feature film (until 2021’s The Power of the Dog, starring Elizabeth Moss Kirsten Dunst, Paul Dano, and Benedict Cumberbatch), and we’re going out on yet another literary adaptation, this one on the romance between poet John Keats (Ben Whishaw) and Fanny Brawne (Abbie Cornish). Compared to the last few, this is a pretty squeaky-clean PG, with only “thematic elements, some sensuality, brief language and incidental smoking” to curl your toes. Ebert really liked this one – 3.5 stars, though he also notes that he’s been to Keats’ house several times, so I sense a little bias there. That said, if this is yet another slow two hours of “m’lady” and “oh sir, you do go on!”, it’s also, according to Roger, a beautiful film. He notes, “What Campion does is seek visual beauty to match Keats’ verbal beauty. There is a shot here of Fanny in a meadow of blue flowers that is so enthralling it beggars description.” Sounds like a nice low-key way to end the day, yes?


(ends at 12:30 a.m.)

Sunday, October 20

12:00 p.m. – 6:00
Top of the Lake (TV series), season 1 (2013)
Directed by Jane Campion


In the spirit of “last-day-of-fest ephemera,” we’re going to spend Sunday watching all six one-hour episodes of the hit New Zealand crime drama Top of the Lake, starring Elizabeth Moss. Digging deeper into Campion’s interests that first surfaced with “In the Cut,” we get another oozy and dark crime drama, with Moss as the big city detective trying to pry secrets out of a tight-lipped town that has a dead, pregnant 12-year old girl floating in a cold lake to answer for. There’s a season 2 as well, but Campion only directed two of the six episodes, so we’re just going to leave that as your homework – if you have Hulu, you can see it on your own time.


(ends at 6:00 p.m.)


Weekend two

The (Fiction) Films
of Claire Denis


Clarie Denis, born in Africa and living in France, started her life on the move traveling all over Africa with her family, a committed anti-colonialist activist. After several decades acting as second cameraperson to other people’s productions (including Wings of Desire, Down By Law, Paris, Texas and former Stiff-Leg fest entry Zoo Zero), she finally started her own directorial career with 1988’s Chocolat, immediately cementing Denis’ reputation as an auteur to watch. In contrast with Campion, who often tells the war between the sexes from a female point of view, Denis’ films are often aggressively male in their viewpoint…1999’s Beau Travail was so besotted with the images of shirtless French Foreign Legion soldiers training in the desert, the actual French Foreign Legion tried sabotaging the production, believing that she was shooting gay French Foreign Legion porn! Campion’s lushness and literary narrative skill contrasts strongly with Denis’ aggressively fractured narratives, often leaving key information off screen, requiring the viewer to fill in the pieces.

While sick on the couch one Saturday, I watched Beau Travail, and was completely and utterly blown away – I even cried a bit at the end. My friend Phil T. (whose tastes in films I trust with an almost religious fervor) repeatedly called Denis his favorite filmmaker. I did my usual thing of immediately seeking out as many of her films as possible. If I liked this one as much as I did, surely a whole weekend immersed in Denis’ stunning vision would be a great idea!

But would it?

After watching Nenette et Boni, in which plot points are more creatively hidden, and more is left to the imagination, I was still amazed, but my brain also felt a bit overheated. It was a lot to take in, even if I was only watching one film that night! After seeing 2018’s High Life, I really knew I’d made a mistake. Like the others, High Life is a meal unto itself, its startling, upsetting images and highly elliptical narrative more than enough to consider for one night. Who would ever want to watch ten of these films in one day, then six more the following day?? Well, me, apparently. As Phil said, “after watching ‘L’Intrus,’ you’re going to need 10 days without watching any other films to process your thoughts.” (As you might expect, he does not condone my festival idea.)

So, there you have it. We’re going to watch a lot of Clarie Denis’ films in a short time, which might not be the best way to watch her films. But, as the saying goes, the die has been cast, and I’m going to live with the psychological scars I may have inflicted, both on myself and you, my fine guests.

But then again, maybe not! You know, nearly every festival I’ve hosted with a sort of high-brow director at the helm, I’ve always had the pre-fest shakes, assuming that two weekends of Kurosawa, or Werner Herzog, or two full days with John Cassavetes, were too much. Nobody’s going to put up with this! And those were two of the best festivals ever! (Cassavetes really was too much.) I’m not sure if Denis will really reward deep, multi-film immersion like those did, but I guess we’ll learn together, won’t we? Besides, we’re all grownups here, right? If it’s getting too much, have a walk around the block. Go get some tacos at one of the three newly-opened Mexican restaurants on Foster and come back.

I still think you’re always going to kick yourselves for the films you didn’t see, not the other way around.

Friday, November 1

8:00 p.m.
Chocolat (1989)


Having spent most of her young life as second-unit cameraperson or assistant director to other peoples’ films, Denis made her debut at age 42 and, like Campion, becoming famous and well-regarded right from the beginning. 1989’s Chocolat (not the Juliette Binoche/Johnny Depp trifle) begins with one of Denis’ primary obsessions, the end days of colonialism in Africa, but telling it in a personal way, small and intimate and devastating. Roger Ebert called this the best film of the year, raving that the film is “one of those rare films with an entirely mature, adult sensibility; it is made with the complexity and subtlety of a great short story, and it assumes an audience that can understand what a strong flow of sex can exist between two people who barely even touch each other. It is a deliberately beautiful film – many of the frames create breathtaking compositions – but it is not a travelogue and it is not a love story. It is about how racism can prevent two people from looking each other straight in the eyes, and how they punish each other for the pain that causes them.” Probably one of the best films to start with in this weekend.



Sen Fout La Mort (No Fear, No Die) (1990)


Which is funny, because if Chocolat is one of the best places to start, Sen Fout La Mort is the one I attach the most caveats to. As above, the film stars Denis most-used actors Isaach De Bankole (some of you might know him from later Jarmusch films, too) as Dah, who, along with his colleague Jocelyn (Alex Descas, who is to Denis what Toshiro Mifune was to Kurosawa) work and live in the lower levels of a restaurant. Their one chance at making a name or life for themselves is their championship rooster, Sen Fout La Mort (literally, “Get Fucked, Death,” though one could maybe understand why US distributors might not want to sell this based on that name). Though most of the action is focused on Dah and Jocelyn, there is indeed some explicit-looking cockfighting in this movie – I say explicit “looking” because I’ve read several accounts online from people involved with the production of this film that said Denis was rigorous and insistent on making the scenes look realistic, but not actually be real – the birds rise up and circle each other, but the scene was always stopped before any actual fighting could happen, and the blood we see is stage blood. Still, faked or real, it looks like cockfighting, so if that’s not your thing, be aware of what you’re signing up for.


“I made a DVD copy of this rare early and largely unsung Denis joint for someone (you know who you are!) [ed: it was me!] and thought I’d watch the first few minutes to check it and, yep, couldn’t switch it off and ended up sitting through the whole thing. Been a while since I saw this one and, on second viewing, I’d rank it with the director’s very finest. Denis at her most Cassavetes-influenced, which means very performance/character based, and obsessed with the sleazier and more disreputable end of showbusiness as its milieu. And showbusiness does not come sleazier or more disreputable than the underground cockfighting circuit where this bleak and noir-infused tale of post-colonial rivalry and madness springs from. Alex Descas dancing with a cockerel (to Buffalo Soldier, no less) is a key early scene of Denis corporeality, and the amazing Agnes Godard makes her first appearance behind the camera and immediately makes her presence felt with handheld camerawork as agile, murky and covert-seeming as the setting for this dark tragedy. According to on-set reports, great efforts were made to make the cockfights look authentic enough but to prevent the birds from actually hurting each other, and it shows – the cockfights are the violent explosions of energy and emotion that the humans here mostly deny themselves. Mostly. Ace Abdullah Ibrahim soundtrack too. Just great. 5/5” – Phil T.

“Keep it for Yourself” [short] (1991)


There are certain Denis films that, from any reasonable circulatory perspective, are just…not out there to be found. In the sense of tape trading, torrenting, all the usual “underground” channels, films like her awesome looking documentary Man No Run, about the Senegalese “Bikutsi-rock” band Le Tetes Brulees, don’t seem to be in the hands of anyone in a position to disseminate it to people who are interested.

Up until a few months ago, the same could be said about this almost mythical 40 minute short Denis shot as part of a multi-director omnibus film called Figaro Story. The Figaro of the title is not opera, but a retro-modern Japanese automobile made by Nissan in 1991 and only reaching 20,000 units produced and sold. The idea of Figaro Story was an elaborate marketing campaign for the car – each of the directors had only one requirement for their story, that the Figaro must make a prominent appearance in it. I can find no evidence that the other two directors, Alejandro Agresti and Kaizô Hayashi, ever turned in their installments, and Denis’ contribution languished in the archives until about three months ago. A website called Le Cinema Club, sort of like a peoples’ version of Mubi, released a time-coded print of “Keep It For Yourself” on its site for free for one week, including a download link for those who wanted to, well, keep it for themselves. The movie was on all the torrenting sites within the hour, and my buddy Phil flipped me a DVDr copy soon after. (Plug: Le Cinema Club has been releasing a random, hard to find short film on its site once every 1-2 weeks for years now. You really oughtta make it part of your regular browsing routine.)

So, how’s the film? It’s in black & white, and to my eye, heavily in the style of Jim Jarmusch, even going so far to cast Jarmusch’s long-time partner Sara Driver in a prominent role. If you like Stranger Than Paradise, you’ll feel right at home here. A young French woman (Sophie Simon) visits a lover in New York, who tells her she can stay with him and practice her English while he practices his French as long as she wants. She arrives to an empty apartment and no sign of her boyfriend. Lacking money to return or friends in town, she stays in the apartment, taking ice-cold showers, reading, and getting croissants from the local bakery. Meanwhile, a criminal (Vincent Gallo, his first of several appearances in Denis’ films) steals a car out of a nearby paid parking lot (no prizes for guessing which model), and takes one of the attendants along as hostage for good measure. The overnight chase causes the two stories to interact in interesting ways. While maybe not a towering achievement in Denis’ considerable filmography, if you like funky late ‘80s New York on grainy black & white film, you’ll be glad you stuck it out.


(ends 11:55 p.m.)

Saturday, November 2

10:30 a.m.
I Can’t Sleep (1994)


They say to start your day with the worst of your tasks, and then things get easier from there. Well, we’re starting with one of the most difficult topics of this (very long) day of films, a serial killer of the elderly. Someone on imdb called this “an extended focus on nasty characters.” Another calls it “A small miracle of filmmaking.” It concerns the way horrible things go on around us, and how we choose to process or not process them.


I Can’t Sleep is, at its best moments, a collage of sometime odd elements that is somehow perfectly composed (like in Paris, Texas and Wings of Desire, and in Kieslowski, especially, Red and some of the Dekalog episodes like “Thou shalt not bear false witness”). One can’t explain why it seems right, but everything certainly does feel just right – the film is conjured from single notes that together comprise a whole score. There is what seems like extraneous stuff in there. You wonder how it fits, what it really means. Yet, it nevertheless feels right once the whole has been digested.” – imdb user “lwong”

12:15 p.m.
U.S. Go Home [TV Movie] (1994)


Another hard to find film that I only have via my movie buddy Phil (it has to be said that without his help, this festival would never have been as complete as it is), this provides a little wormhole between the ideas and concerns of Campion-world and Denis-world. U.S. Go Home is a made-for-TV-movie that concerns two teenage girls coming of age in the 1960s, amidst school, dances, boys, rock and roll, and budding sexuality. If it sounds like a 1980s teen sex romp, it’s probably not (I haven’t seen it yet), but the combination of real emotions, real teenage interactions, and a great soundtrack (music clearance being one of the obvious reasons a proper release doesn’t exist) make this a great film unto itself and a nice breath in between some decidedly more difficult movies on the docket.


“Nice, Very Nice” [short] (1995)


In the style of the multi-director films on the ‘60s, we get this, a 10 minute short from a full-length movie with many different directors each provide a small slice of the French town so nice, they named it Nice.

Nenette et Boni (1996)


From here on, we get a run of Denis films that are consistently among her very best. Though superficially a story about estranged siblings, their difficult lives, and the flights of fancy they take to cope with their circumstances, and despite the beautiful cinematography, this is a hard narrative to keep hold of. Denis gives you Nenette (sister) and Boni (brother)’s history in clipped, elliptical fragments, leaving you to fill in the details yourself. If you’re like me, you’ll come to the end of this film with questions, questions that you’ll want to puzzle over in your head for hours, even days afterward. But I’m afraid there’s no time, because the next film starts in five minutes! This is the problem. There’s no problem with quality. There’s the problem with too much quality. A good problem to have.


“Third viewing and there will be more. A story that most directors would have tackled with the plainest of kitchen sink neo-realism explodes in a cascade of dream sequences, ontological what-ifs and kaleidoscopic dialectics (principally blue/pink, hard/fluffy, m/f). Denis’ most underrated, intensely moving and funny. Claire Denis and Agnes Godard – nobody makes better films. 5/5” – Phil T.

Beau Travail (1999)


This was the first Denis film I saw, and it left me speechless. (Admittedly, I was lying on the couch recovering from pneumonia, so lung capacity was minimal. Still!) This is loosely based on Herman Mellville’s Billy Budd and conceived as an unauthorized sequel (!!) to Jean-Luc Godard’s La Petit Soldat. Denis’ love of Soldat caused her to write the character of Bruno Forestier (a conscientious objector in the French-Algerian conflict who flees France for the Netherlands) into her story, reaching us now with 40 years to process what happened in those French-Algierian days.

I truly can’t think of any other film that looks like Beau Travail. Like La Petit Soldat, the actual plot was, to me, a bit hard to follow, but not because of so much chaos, but because it unfolded amidst a slow repetition of dull physical tasks. The Legion soldiers train, and they train, and they train. They pull themselves out of cement holes, they do aggressive Tai Chi, they do squats and sprints and fight each other with knives underwater and they even practice ironing creases in their shirts, all to keep their minds and bodies razor sharp. (They also keep those creases sharp so they look nice for the women we keep seeing dancing to contemporary club hits in a fenced-in area, a combination of strobes and streetlights illuminating their movements.) No conflict seems apparent in Djibouti, no enemy to speak of – one of the few deaths comes during a fluke accident during a practice run on a helicopter.

Galoup (Denis Lavant, star of Holy Motors, if any of you saw that) is the narrator and villain here, a man who has made the French Foreign Legion his life, and who idolizes Forestier. When new recruit Sentain (Grégoire Colin, Boni from Nenette et Boni) catches Forestier’s eye, Galoup jealously starts conspiring to ruin him even though Sentain is, by all accounts, a kind and solicitous young man, an orphan whose only crime is trying to please everybody and succeeding. The seeming non-sequitur of an ending somehow caused me to break into tears. It’s one of my favorite films I’ve ever seen, and I truly can’t wait to watch it again with all of you.


Trouble Every Day (2001)


Claire Denis does a horror movie? Sort of, yes. Vincent Gallo’s back, so warning/invitation depending on how you feel about him. This isn’t a fun slasher/splatter movie, it’s a gut-churning arthouse vampire/cannibal movie in which some sort of contagion turns our couple (Gallo and Beatrice Dalle) into shrieking, blood-drenched horndog lunatics. This is apparently one of her most upsetting films, and you better believe Denis can do upsetting. Agnes Godard’s cinematography is hallucinogenic, almost psychedelic.


Trouble Every Day is a haunting vision of desire gone haywire. Light on story and big on aesthetics, the film moves silently like a sensual and terrible dream. You’ve got to hand it to Claire Denis – it could have all gone horribly wrong were it not for her ability to set just the right poetic tone and mood.” – imdb user “SheBear”

Vendredi Soir [Friday Night] (2002)


Nearly all of you have probably heard me yammer about this before, but I’m a total sucker for movies that take place all over one night, preferably if it’s exploring different part of a large city and with an undercurrent of menace. My favorite films in this micro-genre include The Warriors, After Hours, Night of the Comet, Miracle Mile, Midnight Madness, and others. Friday Night appears that it might join this canon. Driving her possessions across town to move in with her boyfriend, Laure (Valérie Lemercier) is stuck in traffic – a Paris transit strike has turned the street she’s on into a parking lot. She sees a man cross the street and walk past her car. She gets out and follows him, and the two spend the night together in flagrant disregard for the state of her automobile. Fair warning, this is probably going to be a pretty, ahem, “romantic” film, so if you’re not into watching lingering sex and romance in the company of eight to ten other people, this might be a good time to take a walk and get a burrito or taco or kebob or pita pocket from one of the many nearby eateries.


“The film’s focus is the little things that make up sexual attraction, the situations, the glimpses, the attitudes, the predilections, etc. It manages to present this in an almost completely visual way without ever becoming dull, pretentious, or difficult to watch. The film has a minute logic to it which manages to pull the viewer along from scene to scene using humor, suspense, and a good deal of empathy for the central character.

 This film invites one to reflect on the way in which sex relates to the variety of life’s anxieties: anxieties over self-image, anxieties over one’s future, anxieties over one’s significance, etc. It also provides an interesting vantage point from which to view the over-romanticized over-serious status that sex is given in main-stream American cinema.” – imdb user “kinaidos”

“Vers Nancy” [short] (2002)


A short film of heavy philosophical discussion, from a multi-director short collection Ten Minutes Older: The Cello. If you miss this in person, you can always watch it on youtube. That might be what we’re doing if my DVD doesn’t come in on time.


L’Intrus (The Intruder) (2004)


It was this film that Phil specifically chastised me about in programming my Denis fest in the way that I did. Paraphrasing, he basically told me that “you need 10 days without watching another Claire Denis film” to process your thoughts on The Intruder! Michel Subor, the haunted but generous spirit that hovers over Beau Travail, here returns as Louis Trebor, a 70 year old man seeking a heart transplant and also an estranged son. Told almost wordlessly, with much of the most important details left offscreen, this is a true puzzle-box of a film, one of Denis’ best, but also one of her most confounding.


“Told elliptically, with few words, we see Louis as possibly heartless, ignoring a son who lives nearby who is himself an attentive father to two young children, one named for Louis. He leaves his bed one night – and his lover – to kill an intruder; he dreams, usually of violence. Will his body accept his heart? Will his son accept his offer?” – imdb summary by

35 Rhums (35 Shots of Rum) (2008)


Denis’ most and best-used actor, Alex Descas, is back in Denis’ tribute/homage to Ozu’s Late Spring. With only four primary characters, Denis achieves great moments of transcendence in the smallest, most personal gestures, as well as the love between father and daughter living alone, together. Roger Ebert gave it four stars and said “You can live in a movie like this. It doesn’t lecture you. These people are getting on with their lives, and Denis observes them with tact. She’s not intruding, she’s discovering. We sense there’s not a conventional plot, and that frees us from our interior movie-going clock. We flow with them. Two are blessed, two are problematic. Will all four be blessed at the end? 35 Shots of Rum is a wise movie, and knows that remains to be seen.” If you’re not completely gutted by L’Intrus, I think sticking it out for this comparatively open-hearted film might prove a good, warm response to a challenging, emotionally draining day.


(Ends at midnight)

Sunday, November 3

12:00 p.m.
White Material (2009)


This was the first time I’d come into contact with Denis’ films (other than endlessly passing by VHS boxes of Chocolat in the Foreign Film section of my local video emporia). I never saw this, but I remember that White Material, starring Isabelle Huppert and Christopher Lambert along with Denis regulars Isaach de Bankole and Michel Subor, had a lot of promotion and ad space in the newspapers around this time. This was very much a Movie You Should See, rather than a movie you needed to hunt down and watch at midnight in the backroom of an anonymous screening room in the West Loop or something. Returning to the French colonialist denunciations of Chocolat and Sen Fout La Mort, we get Huppert here as a coffee plantation owner in Western Africa who, despite clear signs that her way of life is going away (the fighting between armies and rebels is approaching her front door), refuses to leave. On one hand, Huppert is being driven out of the only home she’s ever known. On the other, it was never hers to own in the first place. Based on Doris Lessing’s first novel The Grass is Singing, White Material is beautiful to look at, deeply layered in its implications, and enigmatic in its resolutions. Sounds like a good fit with everything we’ve seen so far.


Bastards (2013)


Definitely should warn you that this last day of screenings really doesn’t have a lot of cool breezes in it! Pretty much from White Material onward, this whole day is going to be different piquant flavors of bummer. Bastards, as you’d imagine with a name like that, is a bitter film, compressed and often confusing in its narrative about regret and bad choices. I’ve never seen this so I don’t know what else to say, but this review from imdb seems like all the warning/inducement you’ll need:

“Oh boy. Truly brace yourself for this one.

 Read nothing about it, know that vaguely it is about evil, and just plunge into it. Others will in due time cleanly explain the plot, if they haven’t already. In a nutshell there’s a mother who is partly responsible for letting her daughter stray in drugs and prostitution and her brother who comes to investigate what happened.

 But the point is to not have a scaffold as you watch. Yes, we were all as confused as you up to some point, it’s designed that way. There’s no pretension in the sense of trying to make you feel stupid for not ‘getting it’. You have to simply stay there as sense bleeds into anxious confusion. It’s what the film is about and made so it happens across the whole film to you.” – imdb user “chaos-rampant”


“Venice ’70: Future Reloaded” [short] (2013)


“70 short films about cinema and its future” is the description of Venice 70: Future Reloaded, a collection of shorts. We’ll be watching Denis’ 3-minute entry here.

“Voila L’enchainement” [short] (2014)


Another 30 minute short, helpfully included on the Criterion edition of Let the Sunshine In. Two actors (Alex Descas and Norah Krief) practice a romantic scene while also revealing themselves in subtle ways.

“Contact” [short] (2014)


Three minutes of strange video art, and a harbinger for the final film of the day. Courtesy of Vimeo.

Let the Sunshine In (2017)


The American poster for this as well as the title itself make this look a lot sunnier than it actually is. The first of several collaborations between Denis and legendary actress Juliette Binoche, Let the Sunshine In is a look at the struggle of finding true love in middle age. If this was tackled by an American romcom director, it might be a series of comic blunders, people falling down or a never-ending successions of doofuses who’ll never measure up to our strong, self-assured protagonist. But this is French film, so everybody’s pushing everybody away all the time, but also doing the best they can.



“This isn’t a story of a smart woman making bad decisions; Denis’ mind isn’t as simplistic as that…In this film, Isabelle, as beautiful and smart as she is, feels herself constricted by forces she can’t even confront. Is it the most appropriate thing for her, at her age, to live, as she puts it, a “life without desire?” Clearly no. But the film does confront the fact that particularly for women, pursuing desire in middle age is a fraught path.” – from Glenn Kenny’s 4-star review on the Roger Ebert site

High Life (2018)


Having exhausted every wellspring of human misery to be found on earth, Denis turns her sights to outer space in this, her most recent film to date. It’s a surprisingly all-star cast: Binoche is back, along with Robert Pattison (fair enough, but he was great in Cosmopolis), Andre Benjamin (Andre 3000 if you’re nasty), and newest horror it-girl Mia Goth (Suspiria, A Cure for Wellness). Set on a space-bound prison tumbling ever-further from Earth, the occupants go about their daily tasks, tending the ship’s garden, taking their supplements, and reporting to the ship’s computer about their day – each new journal to the ship’s database releases 24 more hours of life support for everyone on board. Again, this is told very elliptically, with flashbacks, snapshots from Earth, and an unexpected flash-forward of a decade, making a little hard to follow, but worth the experience. Overrun with bodily fluids of all kinds (seriously, this is not an idle threat), frequently erupting into explicit violence, and possessing a fucking machine (yes, really), the ship operates like a cross between Silent Running and Oz. In all of this isolation and madness, Binoche’s doctor continues to run studies on her sterile population, hoping that new generations might be possible, even out in this howling darkness while Pattison keeps himself together for the sake of his baby daughter, displaying the small acts of kindness an optimism one must take to put one foot in front of another for the sake of someone else, the sake of humanity, or simply for the sake of being not-dead. There are some explicit nods to the third act of 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the short we saw earlier will make more sense here.


A beautiful, heart-sore, philosophical note to end on, because…



Sissy Spacek/K2 CD+7″ [Helicopter]

July 23, 2019

[weekly tastes of what would have been part of the review section for the second issue of a certain mag which shall remain nameless…]

Sissy Spacek/K2
Sissy Spacek/K2 CD/7-inch (Helicopter)

SissyK2“Slang Imprisonment” is 15 minutes of Spacek alone, the Wiese/Ronnau duo incarnation with tumultuous layers of grindcore blasting, doubled, maybe even quadrupled, with occasional burling noise overloads. There’s a strange mathematics to the layers dropping in and out, conforming to a strict 4/4 blast-beat arrangement pattern. It’s one of Spacek’s biggest strengths – taking chaos and sculpting it into precise, Donald Judd-like cubes.

“S2K2” is the trio (Wiese/Ronnau/K2) recorded live in Japan, and the sound is similar (grindcore cadences punctuated by blunderbluss repeats of billowy junk-sound), though with K2’s familiar sounds and gestures. And low end. Whether coming from Ronnau’s cymbals or some other type of struck metal, one still gets the feeling and rush of that classic K2 metal sound that’s been less common in the recent albums. Again, the noise and the junk naturally line up into these noisecore/grindcore sixteenth-note attacks so many times, it’s clearly intentional.

For the last half hour (two 15 minute tracks, “Lemmings March To the Abyss” parts 1 and 2), K2 stirs Sissy sources into his own mix, and it’s the first time we really move to an arrhythmic construct than the grind pattern of the first half hour. K2’s mixer hand is exceeding deft, especially in the first five minutes of part one, discrete chunks feathering into one another’s tails rather than the usual abrupt cuts. All the layers and transitions for some time seem to float away horizontally like fried eggs gliding on a layer of oil in a pan. On the other hand, with more K2 control and input, it’s a little harder to hear Sissy Spacek’s contributions to this. Very little about the sound points to SS unless you know it’s there already. The language (“Raw sound materials by John Wiese and Sissy Spacek”) could indicate an infinity of possibilities, many of them non-grind in nature. It might just as easily say “source sound from two guys doing things.” As K2 work goes, this is exceptional, utilizing Sissy’s speed and lithe frame to glide over acres of decommissioned scrapyards. As I listen to these constantly changing patterns, the word “dexterous” keeps floating through my head.

For 43 early (or financially well-off) buyers, the set was available in a deluxe edition with a letterpress sleeve containing a single-sided 7-inch featuring an additional Sissy/K2 collaboration, titled “Pierced Parallel.” This collab takes things the other way, with Sissy re-working K2’s source sounds in their precise editing style. At least, I think that’s what’s happening. The reversal of credits (“Sissy Spacek/K2” rather than “K2/Sissy Spacek”) would indicate it. The heavy junk-metal emphasis suggests Wiese and co. are utilizing a broad swath of K2 sonic history in their mix. With a different set of hands at the editing deck, it really does sound like a whole different unit, one of those A+B=C but B+A=/=C equations that noise listeners understand. Just as a pedal chain creates different atmospheres when the chain order is altered, so collaborations, even those by complimentary acts, can be completely altered depending on who was the last person in the kitchen.

Bryan Lewis Saunders: Bedbugs LP [Stand-Up Tragedy Records]

July 16, 2019

[written for a certain magazine that’s unlikely to return…]

Bryan Lewis Saunders
Bedbugs LP (Stand-Up Tragedy Records)

bedbugsThere are so many codified types of extremity, so many flavors of edgy, and yet, so few. Once in a great while, an artist comes through who makes you realize how circumscribed the current playing field really is. Bryan Lewis Saunders, a Tennessean influenced in no small part by Steven Jesse Bernstein (and John Duncan and Z’EV’s uns project), presents a truly squalid existence several Zip codes away from the tough-guy PE acts or simpering emo-noise isolationists. Saunders enlists guests to create various types of abstract sound – drones, cymbal clatters, piercing beeps tapping out what appears to be obsessive Morse code, and, on the harrowing side-long track on side B, field recordings of bedbugs feeding – but the real power is in his words, and his delivery. If you expect him to name his album Bedbugs and then not speak about them, then truly, dear reader, you are hiding your head in the dirty mattress. “Bed Bugs 1,” the opening track, tells an increasingly surreal, nightmarish tale of a woman Saunders was bedding down who suddenly became suicidal. He sees her at a party months later, and she lifts her shirt to reveal her chest, on which she’s carved with a knife, “I STILL LOVE YOU.” Later, a policeman suggests that he is the one who has been doing the cutting. Though I reckon much of this is fiction (perhaps sourced from dreams), it’s read in a straightforward manner (the Bernstein influence especially apparent in his cadences here) that allows the unreal elements to creep up on you subtly. Saunders’ litany of sexual hangups are on display without barrier. While many PE acts hide behind vocal processing and provide no physical evidence, Saunders carves it into his own chest for you to see – clearly enunciated on record and scrawled violently into a thick lyric book.

We then travel out of sequence, with “Bedbugs 3” coming next, in which an insistent beep taps out something in Morse code…I assume it’s B-E-D-B-U-G-S…while Saunders narrates a tale of funeral home queasiness in a deathly exhausted cadence. Knowing his taste for creation under the influence of various chemicals, sleep talking, and induced states, it seems plausible that this was read out after three days without sleep. Maybe more.

The most harrowing by far is “Bedbugs 2,” which takes up all of side two. Bookended by television news reports describing the infestation that overcame Saunders’ apartment complex, the side is given over to a whispered litany of bedbug eradication methods mixed with out-and-out paranoia bordering on psychosis. Like few other recordings, you really feel like Bed Bugs is invading your psyche, dragging you into its horrific landscape, begging you to be its ally in the war against the numberless vermin, these living vampires, even pushing you heedlessly into their wake in the hope that it will save Saunders’ narrator from one more horrible bite.

As with his previous LP, Near-Death Experiences (Erratum), Saunders has not created a new art form, but revived a near-dead one, the surreal long-form monologue. As with Z’EV’s uns project, the Radius series of abstract radio plays, Gregory Whitehead’s cut-up academics, and speech forms going back to the Firesign Theatre and the Goon Show and Dada theater and Futurist micro-plays and before, Saunders helps remind us of how torturously circumscribed our experimental music experience really is, how tight, controlled focus into a handful of arenas (harsh noise, fuzzy drone, power electronics aggression) can force out other, equally viable forms. But of course, this is not a call for more monologists, more dark narrators of pure human fear. Just a desire for the most experimental gesture of all, the answering of one’s own inner voice.

(Copies ordered direct from the artist featured a postcard, hand-painted by Saunders and featuring a dead bedbug taped to it. The process of sending the postcard through the mail and the way the processors messed up the paint job “completed” the work.)

The Stiff-Legged Film Festival presents: YESTERDAY’S TERRIBLE TOMORROWS

September 4, 2016

Quick schedule (scroll down for pics and descriptions):

[Last Man on Earth Scenarios]

7:00 p.m. – Where Have All the People Gone? (1974)
8:15 – The Omega Man (1971)
9:55 – A Boy & His Dog (1975)
11:25 – Glen & Randa (1971)
1:00 a.m. – The Noah (1975)
[done by 2:45 a.m.]


10:00 a.m. – Quintet (1979)
12:00 p.m. – Americathon (1979)
1:30 – Sleeper (1973)
3:00 – Black Moon (1975)
4:40 – A Clockwork Orange (1971)
7:00 – The Bed-Sitting Room (1970)
8:30 – THX1138 (+ Electronic Labyrinth THX1138 4EB [short]) (1971)
10:15 – Zardoz (1974)
12:00 a.m. – Zoo Zero (1979)
[done by 1:45 a.m.]

[Brains, computers]

10:00 a.m. – The Happiness Cage (1972)
11:30 – World on A Wire (1973)
3:00 p.m. – The Mind of Mr. Soames (1970)
4:30 – Colossus: The Forbin Project (1970)
6:10 – The Terminal Man (1974)
[done by 8:00 p.m.]


7:00 – No Blade of Grass (1970)
8:40 – Idaho Transfer (1973)
10:10 – Phase IV (1974)
11:45 – Deadly Harvest (1977)
[done by 1:00 a.m.]

[Near-Future/Time Travel]

10:00 a.m. – Genesis II (1973)
11:15 – The Questor Tapes (1974)
1:00 p.m. – Planet Earth (1974)
2:15 – Strange New World (1975)
3:55 – Operation Ganymed (1977)
5:25 – The Big Mess (1971)
6:50 – I Killed Einstein, Gentlemen… (1970)
8:25 – Alternative 3 (1977)
9:25 – Silent Running (1972)
11:00 – The Shape of Things To Come (1979)
[done by 12:40]


11:00 a.m. – The Last Child (1971)
12:15 p.m. – Gas-s-s-s-s… (1970)
1:35 – Z.P.G. (1972)
3:10 – Soylent Green (1973)
4:50 – Logan’s Run (1976)
[done by 6:50]

[Gangs, Biker, Desert]

7:00 – Ravagers (1979)
8:30 – Mad Max (1979)
10:05 – The Ultimate Warrior (1975)
11:40 – Damnation Alley (1977)
[done by 1:10 a.m.]

[Gladiator, Amusement Park]

11:00 a.m. – Rollerball (1975)
1:05 p.m – Westworld (1973)
2:35 – Futureworld (1976)
4:20 – Death Race 2000 (1975)
5:40 – Deathsport (1978)
7:00 – Punishment Park (1971)
8:30 – Jubilee (1978)
10:15 – The Warriors (1979)
[done by 11:45]


THE BIGGEST FESTIVAL YET, FULL-STOP. Watch the world get torn asunder 50 different ways over eight infrastructure-compromised days.

But first, a bit of history…

The Early Years

In 2001, the Stiff-Legged Film Festival was created and debuted with a relatively modest event — a one-day screening of all seven “Nightmare on Elm Street” films. I had been inspired by a friend who had friends over to watch the “Ilsa” movies (Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS; Ilsa, Keeper of the Oil Sheiks’ Harem; Ilsa, Tigress of Siberia; Ilsa, the Wicked Warden), and wanted to do something similar. The things that appealed to me about the Ilsa fest were:

1. the communal aspect of it (at least 10 people came and went throughout the day)
2. the opportunity to create a “complete” watching experience (i.e. watch all of the Ilsas in one go), and
3. the thrill of screening something fairly exclusive — three of the films had been recently re-released on VHS, but the fourth, Ilsa, Tigress of Siberia, was technically out of print, but available from a nearby old-school video store, Hyde Park Video.

In 2002, following the “Elm Street” festival, I was watching a cheaply-produced, no-budget Robert Altman documentary I’d gotten from Netflix. I had been planning another fest, but something similar to the first, like all of the “Friday the 13th” or “Halloween” franchise movies. (One early idea was a festival of the *first* installments of all the horror franchises, since the first film in the series is usually pretty good before the quality tumbles downhill with parts II, III, IV…). I was goggling at the sheer number of Robert Altman films I hadn’t seen, most of which looked pretty good!

It was then that the proverbial thunderbolt you hear before contemplating a seemingly impossible project. Oh my God, am I really going to do this? Can I even do this? Robert Altman’s filmography? ALL of it?

“The Complete Films of Robert Altman” was the most challenging and most exciting festival I’ve ever done, still to this day. In the relative dark ages of the internet, a lot of the things I take for granted now (downloadable full movies on youtube; companies whose sole purpose is to reissue classic ’70s films; fast and easy file trading; the all-pervading notion that information wants to be free, and we as film fanatics deserve to own every film that’s ever been made) were simply not there. DVDs were still kind of a luxury, and VHS was the coin of the kingdom. I had two VCRs and dubbed movies madly from multiple video stores. I traded with tape traders. I trawled the back catalog at Facets. I bought one-sheets, press books, lobby cards to decorate the screening room. I hosted nightly drawings for swag and free movies. I spent $60 on a swindler called The The Movie Hunter (I refuse to link to his dipshit site, which is still there, btw) who promised me a copy of the ultra-rare film A Perfect Couple, sent it five weeks late (it arrived a week after the final screening and two weeks after its intended screening night), and neglected to tell me that he basically charged me this exorbitant sum to wait until it played the Fox Family Channel and then record a copy of it. Wild West times, I tell you. (A Perfect Couple was later released with several other rare late ’70s Altman films in a boxset for about half what I paid for that single film.)

It was eight nights, and 47 individual screenings. And because I was a masochist, I decided to screen all the “Halloween” films on the ninth day. To an audience of one. (Briefly, two — my friend Matt took pity and sat through Halloween IV and V with me.)

In the past fourteen years, we’ve added ten more festivals under the SLFF name, most of them one or two weekends long, some just a single day. But, try as I might, I just could never quite find another director or topic who had the bulk of back-catalog to challenge Altman’s pendulous legacy, not without subjecting your poor bastards to the complete films of Ingmar Bergman. [It’s still going to happen. Someday. – ed.] Since that very first event, I’ve wanted to show you all just how fun and exhausting film can be when it’s done on such a massive scale.

To topple the Altman-fest legacy, we needed to marshal of the best things about Stiff-Leg: comprehensiveness, shockingly rare films, and daily schedules that are Jerry Lewis Telethon-grade exhausting. Plus, why not a nice, round number. Why not FIFTY films?

There won’t be any flowers growing/On the judgement day…

Once you start looking for sci-fi films with apocalyptic themes, there’s pretty much no end to them, which is why you need winnowing principles. 1970s was a given — you get the widest range between stark & challenging art films vs. bald-faced commercial cash grabs. In order not to turn this into a six-weekend event, I used a ideological decision factor: in each film, something about our downfall needs to have been our fault. We didn’t take care of our ecosystem; we didn’t prevent madmen from taking over the reigns of government; we didn’t practice sensible procreation numbers; we wasted water. At the start of each of these films is the end point of one of mankind’s bad decisions.

And of course, we start to see these very same fears rearing up again, as dystopic fiction (genre and YA alike) made a meteoric rise in sales around 2011-2012, and Cormac McCarthy’s The Road managed to make it onto Oprah’s Book Club.

From Station Eleven to yet another Mad Max sequel, we’re clearly not yet done worrying about the times to come. Come with us now and visit our visions of future dark, seen from the semi-comforting distance of 40+ years.

Where are the Disasters?

Most of you know that I’ve been talking about this fest for a while. It was originally going to be called “Disasters and Dystopias.” We were going to intersperse one ’70s Disaster film with one ’70s sci-fi dystopia, back and forth, for as long as we could stand. Once I started drilling into the research, though, it became clear that:

1. There are far more interesting and varied flavors of apocalypse, dystopia, and future-shock offerings than there are Disaster films, and
2. Disaster films, though an entertaining way to spend a hungover Sunday, are all pretty much the same theme: 1. who’s going up the ladder first, and 2. when’s George Kennedy going to save us?

We’ll have The Weekend of Disaster in the near future, but for now, soak yourself in eight days of societal collapse, with each day centered around its own theme. Whether you hanker for biker gangs in the desert or that oh-so-fresh feeling of being the last person on earth, step right up and claim your future!



Unless we’re running late (unlikely!), the start time listed is the exact time we start. No whining, no “wait wait, I’m just circling the block looking for a parking space,” no excuses. 2-3 minutes is all you’re given on average between films; just enough time to queue up for the bathroom.

Some food and drink and beer will be served (probably even themed food for certain features), but bringing some to share is never a bad idea. If you want to run out and grab dinner somewhere nearby, I have a handful of suggestions of places that are a five minute walk away. And of course, carryout is plentiful and accommodating.

FOLLOW US ON PINTEREST! Loads of film stills, posters, promo pics, and more will be posted and added in the weeks to come.

The Schedule

“Baby, If You Ever Wondered/Wondered, Whatever Became Of Me…”:
Last man on earth/earth re-population scenarios

We lead with five versions of the great winnowing, in which a few disaster-hardened souls awake to find themselves at the cusp of a new, more barren land to be explored. (hard-to-find films will be marked as such — look for the “HELLA RARE!!” graphic on every box!)

7:00 p.m.

Because dystopic and apocalyptic-themed storylines came from all places and budgets in the ’70s, we’ll be watching a surprising number of movies-of-the-week, including this rather dodgy looking one starring Peter Graves and a team of fresh-faced kids. This might already be breaking our self-imposed ideological sorting system, as the virus that wipes us all out is caused by SOLAR FLARES, which, last I checked, are Not Our Fault. I lead with this one because nobody ever shows up right at 7, and I’m usually still putting out chairs at this point. You’re not missing anything, don’t worry.


8:15 p.m.


Definitely don’t miss this one, though! Not like I need to tell you. Whether you know it from pop culture in general, the Simpsons “Treehouse of Horror” special that spoofed it (“Dad, you killed Zombie Flanders!” “He was a zombie?”), or you saw it in the theater (or drive-in) back in the day, you know that this is pretty much the archetypal “Last Man On Earth [But only for the first half hour of the movie]” scenario. Poor Charleton Heston doesn’t get much time to wander the deserted streets before he’s set upon by zombie-like mutant luddites who blame Heston and his kind for the Late Unpleasantness. This is also pretty much an archetypal “yesterday’s terrible tomorrow” in that it offers not only thrills and violence and action, but plenty of hectoring and preaching about the path we find ourselves on. But don’t worry — it’s still a good time.


9:55 p.m.
A BOY & HIS DOG (1975)


Okay, wow. Stay with me on this one. Don Johnson (yep, Crockett) plays Vic, a desert-bound scavenger accompanied only by his pet dog, Blood (played by the dog from The Brady Bunch!) who he communicates with telepathically. The dog, who is voiced by a very straight-laced voice actor, engages in witty repartee with our hero, but also alerts him about where to find nearby women to rape. They wander the landscape looking for food for both of them, and women for Johnson. Then, while chasing some strange-looking people, they find an underground tunnel and find out that they aren’t as alone as they think.

I’m deliberately holding back the big twist in the middle, because man, this is a weird film. Just when you think you have it pegged, it goes in a WAY different direction. Based loosely (looooooosely) on a novella by Harlan Ellison (who, in his usual Harlan Ellison way, denounced it via a series of expletive-laden statements/lawsuits) and featuring Jason Robards and Charles McGraw, among many other “Hey, It’s That Guy!” guys. Bleak, dark, funny, more than a bit misogynistic,  and wholly unexpected.


11:25 p.m.
GLEN & RANDA (1971)

This is right at the front end of the 1970s, and as you can see from the poster (and its reference to the Beatles) and the still below, this is apocalypse, Hippie-style. The titular Glen & Randa depart from their small tribe, a rural commune hanging together in the aftermath of nuclear devastation, in search of the outside world. Glen has read about a big, shiny city from old comic books, and he takes Randa (played by Shelley Plimpton, mother of Martha) on a quest for a new life in this possible utopia. Controversial at its time because our leads spend the first 30+ minutes of the movie fully nude. They meet people along the way, learn things, get bummed out. Praised by no less than Time magazine as a visionary movie. At its best, I could see this being an effective sister-movie to the great Idaho Transfer (showing one week from tonight). At worst, a hippie exploitation outfitted in a “War Is Harmful To Humans and Other Living Things” t-shirt. (And no pants.)


1:00 a.m.
THE NOAH (1975)

One of the good things about this fest is that it’s wall-to-wall movies, often going late into the night. One of the bad things is that some of these films look not-great. Therefore, things that look iffy can get buried in unpopular time slots, like this pacy, low-pitched Robert Strauss-led black & white art film that truly looks at the isolation and loneliness of the Last Man on Earth fantasy.

Noah, the sole remaining survivor on our planet after a nuclear holocaust, finds himself unable to to accept his unique predicament. To cope with his loneliness, he creates an imaginary companion, then a companion for his companion and finally an entire civilization – a world of illusion in which there is no reality but Noah, no rules but those of the extinct world of his memory – our world.
– imdb user “Daniel Bourla”

The Noah


“Any World That I’m Welcome To”:
Dystopias, totalitarianism, & earth-like allegories

Honestly, day one is kind of a warm-up round. You can really only get so far into a subject with four or five films. Today is the first of three all-day blowouts. This promises to be the most colorful, one might even say gaudy, day out of the eight. We’ll see futures (and near-presents) under all manner of repressive governments and morally bent systems, systems in which law and order has run for the hills and left society to stylish gangs, and a hilarious world in which all the world will be fed with giant fruits and vegetables. Watch out for that big-ass banana peel!

10:00 a.m.
QUINTET (1979)


Quintet brings us back to our starting point, the Robert Altman festival. It originally screened late Sunday night of the first weekend, and was attended by exactly one person — me. I fell asleep less than 30 minutes in, having already sat through 35 hours of films immediately before. Will we do better this time? Crystal ball says, “doubtful.” No matter how beautiful the stills look, no matter how compelling the description sounds, this is a slow go.

In an eternally cold future, people play a game called Quintet, a sort of deadly game of backgammon in which the loser is killed, for…some reason. The world is blanketed with thick, Dr. Zhivago-like snow, and everyone dresses in stylish hooded robes. Paul Newman is the lead. The camera lens is smeared with vaseline. Wild dogs can be seen in the corner of many frames, gnawing at human corpses. Sounds great, right? Well, maybe, but I doubt it. The script is murky at best, and to call this a bleak future would be an insult to Earths II, III, IV, and V combined. This is just plain hopeless. That it was filmed and released on the heels of one of Altman’s most joyous films, A Wedding, as well as the dark but brilliant 3 Women, is a further testament to Altman’s ability to ruin even the small advantages he’d built up for himself. Altman’s reputation with Fox was so spoiled by this film and his romantic comedy (?), A Perfect Couple, that he pretty much had to steal his last film owed to Fox (H.E.A.L.T.H.) and take it on the film festival circuit on the sly.

In its previous time-slot, Quintet showed Altman at the headwaters of his slow descent into the muddled madness that typified his 1980s work. Here, it illustrates just how dark things can get when you write a script near the end of the Decade of Malaise while your father is dying of cancer (as Altman’s father was at the time). The medicine cabinet is strictly off-limits (either for razor blades or caffeine pills to stay awake) during this feature.


12:00 p.m.

A couple lighter films to balance things out after Quintet‘s death shroud. Originally written as a play by Philip Proctor and Peter Bergman of the immortal Firesign Theatre, Americathon was adapted for the screen and stars John Ritter as President Chet Roosevelt, who presides over the final bankrupting of the United States. Also features Harvey Korman, Fred Willard, Elvis Costello, Jay Leno, and, perhaps most interestingly, Chief Dan George as the head of a tribe that now owns most of the US’s debt. The ol’ red, white, and blue, in a last-ditch effort to pay its bills, hosts a world-wide telethon to raise funds. Popular consensus is that this was a stinker, but if you look through the imdb reviews, a whole bunch of them start with titles like “jeez, you guys, it’s not THAT bad.” See for yourself.

AmericathonTopical Humor

1:30 p.m.
SLEEPER (1973)

“What kind of government you guys got here? This is worse than California!”

I guess we’ll find out soon enough whether it’s possible to watch a ’70s Woody Allen film without constantly thinking about what we know now (and kind of suspected then) about Woody Allen’s awful sexual proclivities. In its weird way, Sleeper is one of the most representative dystopic films of the ’70s, poking precise fun at the peccadilloes and phobias of the ’70s and extending them into the future. Plenty of great quips, but the thing one mostly remembers is how much damn good slapstick and physical humor these early Woody films had — slipping on the giant banana peel, the jetpack, misadventures with the orgasmatron, etc. Great set design, too.


3:00 p.m.

Black Moon‘s bona fides as true dystopia film, rather than some sort of weird, art-film hallucination might be debatable, but it’s a beautiful film (presented in a beautiful Criterion edition), and I’m committed to showing visions of a broken future (in this case a literal “battle of the sexes”) at all ends of the film spectrum, from Louis Malle to Samuel L. Bronkowitz. Back to the war between men and women: characters named only Brother and Sister escape, Alice In Wonderland-style, to a dreamy alternate reality with, among other things, a talking unicorn. (see fig. 1 below) A woozy, non-representational version of the future, directed by a certified auteur, and a nice transition to…

BlackMoonFig 1.

4:40 p.m.


…another strange, hyper-colorful world of radical decay and degradation. What do I need to tell you about A Clockwork Orange? I hold no illusions that I’ll actually be able to introduce any of you to this incredible film for the first time. I’m only including it because it would be friggin’ ridiculous not to include it! It’s rare to see a “disturbing” film that’s still disturbing 40 years after its release date, its themes and images and motives as raw and unnerving as they were on the day of their premiere. Wendy Carlos’ soundtrack is top-notch, too, one of my favorite film soundtracks of all time. Malcolm McDowell is incomparably sinister as Alex, and the set decoration and design has set the standard for over-the-top depictions of the near future, on one side candy-colored and fizzy, on the other crumbling and graffiti’d with dongs. Upgraded my DVD to Blu-Ray, and it really does look noticeably better.


7:00 p.m.


Richard Lester is best known for directing the Beatles’ first two films — A Hard Days’ Night and Help! He’s directed a few other films, some well-regarded (The Knack (And How To Get It); The Three Muskateers; A Funny Thing Happened On the Way To the Forum), some less so (Superman III; Butch & Sundance: The Early Years). The Bed-Sitting Room was shockingly hard to find for years (it was a regular on all the rare-movie trader pages in the ’90s and early ’00s), but has been brought back into print within the last five years, and thank your lucky stars for that. Along with Sleeper, this is one of the funniest future-shock films around. As the poster notes, “The Great Nuclear Misunderstanding Lasted 2 minutes 28 Seconds (including the Peace Treaty!).” All that remains is mountains of rubbish, a fair amount of radiation, and a few stragglers moving from garbage pile to garbage pile in search of food, supplies, and comforting routines to remind them of the good times. Full of cheeky, absurdist British humo(u)r and starring a rouge’s gallery of UK’s top funny-makers (Peter Cook & Dudley Moore, Marty Feldman, Spike Milligan & Harry Seacombe of The Goon Show), it’s rib-tickling and surprisingly sweet in its resigned glumness. For all of the mass extinction and radioactive fallout we’ll experience over these three weekends, sometimes it takes seeing a cheery, proper British family clambering over piles of rubbish, trying to hold their stiff upper lip to give us the full realization of What We’ve Lost. TOP RECOMMENDATION.


8:30 p.m.
THX1138 (+ Electronic Labyrinth THX1138 4EB) (1971/1968)


We’re watching the VHS copy, by the way. Or maybe DVD in one room VHS in the other. I don’t know. All I know is that I stand by The Guy In The Furry Costume Syndrome. Your eye can feel the physical presence of real, physical special effects (Chewbacca in a furry suit; rumpled, muppeted Yoda) in ways that CGI doesn’t have (an army of 1,000 Chewbaccas digitized and running down the mountain; ping-pong computer Yoda bouncing off walls like a ‘badass’). Not only are plot points and reactions subtly changed, you lose one the best things about this movie — its atmosphere. This feels like a movie that was shot on a fairly minimal budget, and that’s a good thing — Lucas did A LOT with a little. That he wants to go in retroactively and Photoshop his wedding cake so that it has an extra layer on top is his business. That he chooses to do it with a dystopic masterpiece in which the images that society are allowed to see or not see are strictly controlled, deliberately tossing an “offending” original version down the Memory Hole, never to be seen again, is uncut irony at its finest.

On a cheerier note, this is one of Lucas’ finest hours, a stark, visually and topically audacious film in which citizens are controlled with mood-numbing drugs, dull jobs, and endless consumption. Sex is forbidden, and everyone has a shaved head and wears white. Police have shiny, faceless masks that are creepy as hell. The title is the “name” of the main character (Robert Duvall), who is roused from his government-mandated slumber by LUH 3417 (Maggie McOmie). The sets, mood, and atmosphere are just top-notch, with Duvall sentenced to a seemingly endless white room, without walls or doors, in which he has to walk (like crossing a desert) for miles without seeing anyone. Effective.

As a bonus, we’ll watch Lucas’ 15 minute short film, Electronic Labyrinth THX1138 4EB, as well. Pretty sure it’s un-fucked-with.



10:15 p.m.
ZARDOZ (1974)


One of the weirdest, most head-scratching mainstream films of the 1970s gets the “Midnight Movies For Old People” time slot. John Boorman’s pet project (filmed on the heels of his wildly successful Deliverance) must be seen to believed. Anyone who read Danny Peary’s Cult Movies books saw stills from this movie and immediately resolved to move away from their rinky-dink hometowns to a place where insanity like THIS was happening. (Or maybe just me. I did that.) It’s odd, it’s indulgent, it’s maybe even a bit ham-handed, but what it is not is boring, conventional, or easily digestible. It’s about still-relevant things like people who avoid the privation and horror outside their front door by living in an alternate reality called the Vortex, which doesn’t sound at all like the way I’ve lived the first 42 years of my life. Connery is dressed to thrill, Charlotte Rampling likewise, and that friggin’ floating head is still weird and terrifying. NOT TO BE MISSED!


12:00 midnight
ZOO ZERO (1979)


A pretentious piece of shit starring Klaus Kinski (speaking through a vocoder!) which I’m showing only because I was able to find a copy. No one need stick around for this.

Eva is a singer in a Noah’s Ark themed nightclub, where the guests wear animal masks. She sings about a doomed love affair between a lion tamer and a lion. She is approached by a stranger who claims to know her and to remember her singing Mozart which she denies. Driven around in her midget manager’s limousine she encounters bizarre characters who turn out to belong to her incestuous family of ogres. All culminates in a bizarre finale in a zoo featuring Klaus Kinski and arias from “The Magic Flute”. – Written by imdb user Ulf Kjell Gur.



“Insane in the (Mem)Brain”:
Mind experiments, psychics, & supercomputers

“They can imprison our bodies, but they can never imprison our minds!” But what if they can? Today’s films look at the harnessing of minds (repression of violent impulses, or intensification of them), as well as mechanical super-brains tasked with controlling our nuclear arsenal. We might even find out that our whole life is a computer simulacrum! We’ll see Christopher Walken’s debut film. And it wouldn’t be the 1970s without George Segal, so consider yourself warned.

10:00 a.m.
THE HAPPINESS CAGE (aka The Mind Snatchers) (1972)


During our David Cronenberg fest last year, we watched “Secret Weapons,” a short film about a medical process that increased the brain’s propensity for violence, essentially weaponizing its recipient into a mindless barbarian. Here, we see the opposite, perhaps influenced by the protests over Vietnam. This danger is a medical process that removes a brain’s violent impulses, essentially neutralizing “problem cases.” As you can see below, this is Christopher Walken’s first film, which is the main reason why I’m showing it and not the German film I Love You, I Kill You. Not a lot to recommend it otherwise. If you want to come over early enough to see if Christopher Walken is already Christopher Walkening it up in 1972, then I will look forward to seeing you. 


11:30 a.m.


Bring an extra seat cushion, because this is a three and a half hour (!) made-for-TV movie directed by the legendary Rainer Werner Fassbinder (In a Year of Thirteen Moons, Satan’s Brew, Ali: Fear Eats The Soul). Legs will be stiff, and asses will be numb. I still intend to do a Fassbinder fest one of these years — Fassbinder’s nothing if not consistently excellent — but that’ll require some truly endurance-challenging events, like the 12-hour miniseries Berlin Alexanderplatz. This is shorter in comparison, and thanks to some really strange visuals (what’s that guy below wearing on his head??!?), I’m hoping this will be a sleeper hit of the fest. 

Wire’s” first half plays with now familiar questions of phenomenology (what constitutes experience, perception and consciousness?), epistemology (what is knowledge and how is it acquired?) and ontology (what constitutes the self, existence and reality?). Here Stiller realises that he is in fact a computer simulation of the Real Fred Stiller. This baffles poor Fred, as he has also recently created a computer simulation of “himself”. The film thus offers a series of nested realities, simulations boxed within simulations boxed within simulations. When the “identity units” recognise that they are “not authentic”, they begin to view others as phony automatons, have little existential crises and slip into depression. Some exhibit the existence denial of Cotard’s Syndrome (“I think that I don’t exist!”). Others resort to suicide. – from a very lengthy, theory-heavy review by imdb user “tieman64”


3:00 p.m.


Terence Stamp (Superman II‘s General Zod, 10 years before his iconic role) plays John Soames, a 30-year-old man who has been in a coma since infancy, and is finally brought to “life” with no past, no life, no experiences. The scientists quarrel — is it more important that this man-baby be given an accelerated lifetime of childhood affection, or that he should be put on an accelerated schedule of education and learning? Like Herzog’s tale of Kaspar Hauser, the concept of the human tabula rasa is explored again, only this time, the subject is given a lifetime of physical AND mental darkness, not just physical privation in a cave. Needless to say, the tagline for this film (“Why Does This Baby Want To KILL?!”) suggests that the right combo of nurture/education was not reached.  


4:30 p.m.


Whenever a film title has a colon in it, you can just smell the deadlock at the shareholders meeting. One faction wanted probably wanted to call it Colossus, and the other liked The Forbin Project. One had the money, the other had the ear of the CEO of the company, something like that. Anyway, despite its ungainly title, this is a pretty sharp techno-thriller that hasn’t aged too badly. The US places its nuclear arsenal under the control of a foolproof super-computer called Colossus, designed by Charles Forbin. Colossus discovers that the Soviets have developed a similar nuclear-controlling supercomputer, called Guardian, and demands that the two computers be connected. The supercomputers, now linked, control the world’s nuclear arsenal, and use their filibuster-proof negotiating place to remake the world in their own image.  A weird cast in which many of the B-players went on to have big TV careers, including Marion Ross (Happy Days), Dolph Sweet (Gimmie A Break!), and Susan Clark (Webster). If the so-called “supercomputers” look a little dated today, the writing and pacing of the film are still rock-solid. An investment of time well spent.


6:10 p.m.


Michael Crichton is no stranger to the ’70s. Thought not as ubiquitous as I thought, he nonetheless pops up frequently around this time, and would only get bigger in the ’80s and ’90s. The film of his book The Andromeda Strain almost made it to the fest until I remembered that an asteroid that hits earth is Not Our Fault, therefore we didn’t “earn” the virus that kills everyone but a wino and a baby. But then there’s this, adapted from his 1972 novel and starring ’70s acting stalwart (or nuisance, depending on how you roll) George Segal. Like our first film of the day, The Happiness Cage, a brain implant is used to curb violent impulses, though this time, the impulses come after a brain-damaging car accident that also causes seizures. When the electrical shocks meant to calm the seizures start to have the opposite effect, Segal’s zapped-up brain starts craving the shocks, and begins to commit more acts of violence to get them. A slow-paced and patiently unfolding film from an author who once was the top of the pile of science-based thrillers, before he decided that the top problems of our generation were fake sexual harassment suits and people’s limp-wristed concern for the environment.



“(Nothing But) No Flowers”:

The environment. Where would we be without it, am I right, folks? As we continue to see ocean levels rising, global temperature averages rise a terrifying one to two degrees per year, and several top scientists declare that it’s already too late, this evening’s entertainments might hit a little too close to home. Then again, maybe we can all glean some survival tips. Whether we’re already stuck in this future, as in No Blade of Grass, we time-travel to it, like Idaho Transfer, or we see it unfold in real-time, like Deadly Harvest, these films show that all hope is both lost and not lost, that the impulse to survive, even in the wake of the radioactive ants of Phase IV, is always built into the human condition.

7:00 p.m.


Cornell Wilde is best known as a character actor, with roles in Leave Her To Heaven, The Naked Prey, DeMille’s The Greatest Show on Earth, and the Oscar-nominated A Song To Remember, in which Wilde played legendary composer Frederic Chopin. His directing credits, by comparison, can be counted on your toes, and one of those piggies is this harsh 1970 eco-disaster film in which a virus wipes out the rice and wheat crops, leading to widespread famine and riots. Architect John Custance (Nigel Davenport) takes his family out of London in hopes that his brother’s farm in Scotland will be more sustainable. The foot-traveling party encounters dangerous (and hungry) gangs along the way, and even the smallest of provisions can be bartered for human life. Reviews on this one suggest that it’s deeply flawed but still chilling and prescient. Starts early so the night doesn’t go late. NoBladeOfGrass

8:40 p.m.

I scheduled this one during movie prime time because I love it. You may not, and that’s all right. This is another film directed by an actor not otherwise known for his director’s credits — Peter Fonda. The Easy Rider star and hippie-about-town put his eye to the camera for the second time for this philosophically bleak look at the near future.

(Weirdly, Fonda’s first film, The Hired Hand, will be showing on October 11, the following Wednesday, at the Northwest Film Society on the NEIU campus.)

A project has been initiated that can bring a few humans at a time into the near future (about 40 years), and is being used to find information about a virus that appears to be killing off life on the planet. The future location is shot in the barren, inhospitable Craters of the Moon National Monument in Idaho. A cast of young kids battle radiation, sterilization, and the possibility that the time-travel project will lose funding, stranding them in the future. It’s hard to know where to begin in listing the postives about this film: glacially paced. Untrained actors, often in their first (and last) role. Ham-handed message. Muddy vocal track. Incomprehensible plot. Women characters walking around in their underwear for the most spurious reasons (the time machine won’t allow anything metal to come through, so no buttons, no clasps, NO PANTS!). Yet despite all this, I love the film beyond measure. It’s earnest, passionate, dejected, friendless, and utterly unlike anything I’ve seen before, which is always the highest compliment to me — I’d rather see a genuinely new (but flawed) thing than another above-average, well-built genre picture. I wish I had the VHS copy of THIS, because it starts with an intro from modern-day Peter Fonda, who gives a PO Box number and says he wants fans of this film to write to him and talk about their thoughts on it. Clearly, the responses he got in 1988 caused him not to include this plea in the 2006 DVD.


“Whatever you do, remember….NO PANTS!”

10:10 p.m.
PHASE IV (1974)


  Unintentionally, this night turned into “films directed by people known for things other than directing.” In this case, we have Saul Bass, who you almost certainly know as a graphic artist — his influence on the film posters and title sequences from the ’50s onward is indisputable. If the name doesn’t ring a bell, just gander through those galleries — you absolutely know his style. Like Peter Fonda, Bass chose his sole directorial opportunity to be a slow but beautiful art film, this time about an aggressive strain of radioactive ants. Like that other great ant invasion movie, Them!, Phase IV does a lot with close-up shots of ants juxtaposed against other backgrounds, but its aims are more philosophic than action-packed. The ants haven’t grown to enormous proportions; rather, the radiation heightened their awareness and caused them to collectively turn against humans on a mass scale. You think you’re not shaking now, but think of those summer days when your fucking kitchen is overrun by black ants and you’re like “ewwwwwwww….” but then all of a sudden, all those ants turned in your direction and squeaked “come at me, bro!” Then multiply that by a couple thousand. Now you’re not chortling, eh? Or maybe you are. Either way, this is another unique movie experience, and one that, until a DVD reissue just a few years ago, was quite hard to come by. Until we get Saul Bass’s supposedly long-lost extended ending (chopped and ruined by the studio), this theatrical print will do nicely. Art-film people: THIS IS YOUR SHIT.


11:45 p.m.


A vintage Canadian Tax Shelter exploitation movie, this time about Global Cooling (ahhh, how refreshing!), which sadly isn’t much safer than what we’re stuck with now. Yep, it’s another food shortage/roving gang movie, this time set in Toronto (give me that grain, hoser) and featuring a young Kim Cattrall (it’s only her second movie role and her fifth role overall on imdb). Included for the sake of completeness but starting late because I assume no one gives a shit about Canadian food shortages.



“In the Year 2525”:
Near-future shenanigans, time travel, outer space, etc.

Today’s theme is a bit more spongy — basically, anything in which the theme of planetary disaster has driven us away from our present circumstances, whether back (or forward) in time, or out into deep space. We start with a deep-dive into Gene Roddenberry’s first attempts at a new series post-Star Trek; we visit Germany, Czechoslovakia, and then Germany again for three very different takes on space, time travel, and the barrenness of the galaxy; then we wrap up a very long day of viewing with a convincing faux-documentary about missing scientists, a classic Bruce Dern role set in a deep-space terrarium, and a much-reviled big-budget take on H.G. Wells.

10:00 a.m.

The premise of Gene Roddenberry’s first post-Star Trek made-for-TV movie/pilot is like a dramatic version of the show Futurama. A scientist is meant to be put into suspended animation for just a few days, but due to a collapse in the tunnel holding his cryogenic chamber, he’s stranded for 154 years. We see the world as it will become through the eyes of a man who knows what it used to be. The world of the future is divided between the scientist-led, peace-loving Pax colony and the totalitarian, military-loving Tyranians. Yep, sounds a little on-the-nose, but it does have Mariette Hartley in a space-age Bikinitron and reliable TV actor Alex Cord. And hey, it’s Roddenberry. That dude’s bona-fides as regards social critique via sci-fi tropes are beyond reproach, right? 


11:15 a.m.


Here’s one for ’90s Roddenberry fans — according to the trivia section of imdb, the lead character, a fully-created humanoid robot named Questor (Robert Foxworthy) was an early prototype for one of Roddenberry’s most beloved characters, Mr. Data of Star Trek: The Next Generation! Questor is a robotic creation with human attributes, but a mechanical error has erased half of his knowledge tapes. His robotic imperative is to find his creator, Dr. Vaslovik (Lew Ayers), but with his partial intelligence, he’ll need human help to complete his task, namely, junior scientist Jerry Robinson (M*A*S*H‘s Mike Farrell). Of these four Roddenberry-directed movie/pilots of the ’70s, this seems to be the most well-regarded.


1:00 p.m.


 John Saxon is a platinum member of the “Hey, It’s That Guy!” hall of fame. Appearing in over 200 roles since 1954 and still going strong to this very minute, Saxon has a broad-shouldered, strong-jawed screen presence that looks equally right in a police uniform, judge’s robe, or space admiral’s polyester onesie. His career spans from A Star Is Born to A Nightmare on Elm Street to From Dusk Til Dawn.

The plot of this one is similar to Genesis II, but with a small twist: Saxon’s Dylan Hunt awakes from suspended animation in the 22nd century to find a planet run by women. Men are slaves and referred to as Dinks. (Serves ’em right, I say.) Tapping into the power of  the Women’s Liberation movement (and some men’s fear of it), Roddenberry’s attempt at a matriarchy storyline looks pretty interesting. Like the other movie/pilots, it was not picked up for series. Bonus cameo: Ted Cassidy, aka Cousin Lurch from The Addams Family.

From an imdb review (thanks, “Stephen Robb”) titled “Fun Planet Earth Facts”:

Apparently, networks at the time were only comfortable with one sci-fi series at a time.

CBS picked “Planet of the Apes” over Genesis II, and ABC picked “Six Million Dollar Man” over Planet Earth.

The main character in each was Dylan Hunt, though they were played by different actors. This is interesting because when Roddenberry made the second Star Trek pilot, he gave the new lead actor a new name. (Capt. Pike became Capt. Kirk)

The name Dylan Hunt would be used in Andromeda, which was an outer space version of Planet Earth, which in turn was a land-based version of Star Trek.

The script for Star Trek: The Motion Picture was based on an unused Planet Earth script. In fact, several of the first season episodes of ST: TNG were written for either the unrealized new Star Trek series in the 70s, or Planet Earth.

Roddenberry believed in recycling.

“Recycle this, you sniggering bastards!”

2:15 p.m.

 One more attempt at the “wake up from suspended animation, find the world at war” concept, this time without Roddenberry’s input. Saxon’s back in the saddle, and there’s a small role from Catherine “There Are No Small Roles, Only Small Cutoffs” Bach. In an attempt to give the network execs a two-for-the-price-of-one experience, the returning scientists embark on two adventures: one in which they find a tribe that may have discovered the secret of immortality, the other a warlike group of forest dwellers. I’m including this fourth unsuccessful pilot attempt into the fest for the sake of completeness, and because I bought it before I realized Roddenberry wasn’t involved.

But, of course, we can take comfort in the fact that it’s….

Damn right.

3:55 p.m.


In Mr. Plinkett’s review of the Star Trek reboot, he asserts something that I’ve not heard said quite in that way before. He says, “I like my sci-fi slow and boring and my action fast and cool.” He cites Star Trek: The Motion Picture as one of the best films in the Star Trek franchise, despite its almost total lack of action, because at its core, sci-fi is at its best when it’s slowly and carefully probing themes of human frailty, the limits of our powers against and unloving galaxy, and our biological struggle between a future of cooperation and mutual understanding vs. a tribal existence of near-constant warfare and division. If that’s the case, Operation Ganymed may be the perfect sci-fi film.

Or it could just be slow and ponderous as fuck.

A German film (with sub-par English dubbing) about a group of astronauts who return to earth after years of space exploration, only to find it almost completely barren and deserted. They land in what they believe to be Mexico and travel north toward the US. It’s not high on plot, but the creepy, desolate atmospherics might be enough to justify the film’s slow pace and wooden dubbing. Might. (Taped off Youtube for maximum video-rental quality.)


5:30 p.m.
The Big Mess

 Hella, hella, HELLA rare until just a few months ago, this one here. When I first started researching the fest, Der Grosse Verhau (The Big Mess) came up regularly on lists of great ’70s dystopia films, but as far as I could tell, it was never released in any format, not even VHS. At the time I was originally programming this thing (aiming for early April), it was still the rarest of the films I was seeking. Mere weeks after I decided to reschedule for October due to work conflicts, Facets Video announced that a DVD copy was immanent, as if to reassure me that the delay was worth it.

Almost certainly the strangest (and lowest-budgeted) film on the roster, Alexander Kluge’s film is like, to quote several film critics, 2001: A Space Odyssey if it were directed by Georges Melies. The special effects are deliberately crude (cityscapes are quite clearly fashioned out of nuts and bolts and small wooden dowels) and the atmosphere stylistically antiquated, with title cards explaining the action. But the satire is up-to-the-minute sharp, with corporate-owned space exploration being subverted by small bands of garbage scavengers, living on the fringes of society. Much of the storyline is told with title cards, in the style of silent pictures, but the movie is anything but quiet — at one point, we get a musical appearance by Krautrock legends Amon Duul II! If you enjoyed Dark Star, but found it a bit too slick and refined (ho ho!), well step right up and board the junkiest ol’ ship this side of Lower Munich. (I’ve skipped around the chapters of this film a bit, and it looks completely baffling.)


6:50 p.m.


“You’ve just watched four Roddenberry movie/pilots in a row, followed by a ponderous German production where five dudes walk around in the wilderness for 90 minutes. What are you going to do now?”

“I’m going to kill Albert Einstein!”

(Anyone get that reference anymore?)

This thoroughly absurd-looking Czech sex comedy starts with a pretty loopy premise: an atom bomb has gone off, leaving behind two terrible side effects. One, everybody’s sterile, so no more babies. Two, all the women have facial hair! (And not just facial hair, but hilariously sculpted facial hair, of course.) The scientists blame not the bomb, or the people that set it off, but its long-gone inventor, Albert Einstein, for getting us into this fool mess in the first place. Their plan: go back in time and assassinate Einstein. No Einstein, no bomb, no mass outbreak of bearded ladies! Obviously, this isn’t a film that’s carefully balancing every moral and temporal implication of time travel so much as it is an Eastern European episode of Carry On Time-Travel with period decor. It’s relatively tame for the time, but looks like it probably has some good laughs, which will be much needed after the ponderous day so far. Czech with English subtitles.


8:25 p.m.

Broadcast on the UK TV program “Science Report,” this was a bit of instant mythmaking in the Orson Welles “War of the Worlds” vein. Played completely without a wink or a nod, The hour-long “documentary” told its viewers that ecological collapse was immanent, and though scientists knew what to do about it, they were suddenly disappearing from their labs. A bunch of imdb reviewers spoke up to say that this film scared the HELL out of them as kids, and that their respective fathers/uncles/friends’ relatives in the aerospace and financial industries said it was astonishingly close to several conspiracies going around at the time. The feeling was “is this REALLY happening?” The fact that the special only ran once and wasn’t repeated further fueled claims of conspiracy. Again, I grabbed a copy from youtube for that maximum “underground tape trading” vibe. (One imdb reviewer spotted that this film is referenced in the movie Slacker by the conspiracy theorist in the underground bookstore! He watched it the night before. Naturally, he believes every word of it.)


9:25 p.m.

Along with Logan’s Run, Soylent Green, and The Omega Man, Silent Running is easily the best-known of the ’70s dystopia/future-shock films. It stars a young Bruce Dern as the peaceful, slightly spacey commander of a ship carrying the last remaining flora from a defoliated earth. With only his three robotic companions (named “Huey, Dewey, and Louie” — anyone still catch that reference?), Dern’s Freeman Lowell orbits endlessly, waiting for the day when he gets the order to return and life can start over again. When he instead gets the order to terminate the mission and destroy his cargo, Lowell goes rogue and sets the controls for the far reaches of space. Directed by Douglas Trumbull, whose special effects credits include 2001 and Blade Runner, this is pretty much universally loved — Roger Ebert himself gave it four stars upon its release, calling it a film “about a basically uncomplicated man faced with an awesome, but uncomplicated, situation.” Try not to miss this one.


11:00 p.m.

After several excellent, fascinating, even beautiful films in a row, it is time once again to bury one in a late slot. Based (loosely, very loosely) on a short story by H.G. Wells, we see planet earth ruined by human negligence, leading to colonies on the moon, which are under attack by an interplanetary bad guy named Omus, played by an all-around bad guy named Jack Palance. Horrible effects. Scene-chewing overacting from all involved. Even a robot dog. I looked very hard to find a positive review of this film, and the best I could find was a guy who said it was fun to make fun of. Fair warning.



“Make Room! Make Room!”:
Overpopulation/mass sterilization

They didn’t call it the Baby Boom for nothing. For most of recorded history, humans have been worrying that we either have too many or too few people to keep the race going. Today’s films address both ends of the spectrum: on one side, an overpopulated world struggles for resources, space, and sanity. On the other, mass sterilization has rendered the few remaining births a faint flicker of hope for a species that may have just snuffed itself out of existence.

11: 00 a.m.

Another made-for-TV movie starring Michael Cole (who looks from the photos like the poor man’s Joe Don Baker, which raises the question: how rich a man do you have to be to afford full-strength Joe Don Baker?) and workhorse character actor Van Heflin. Janet Margolin plays the mother of her second child in a world so overpopulated, it’s one child per couple, please. Since their first child died at birth, they decide to keep this one, and must rely on the help of an aged senator (Heflin) to sneak them across the border to Canada and safety.

Sounds riveting, eh?


12:15 p.m.
GAS-S-S-S-S-S-S… (or: It Became Necessary To Destroy the World In Order to Save It) (1970)

Like The Bed-Sitting Room, this barely qualifies as ’70s, having been wide released in the first months of 1970. Like Glen & Randa, this is dystopia with a strong scent of patchouli on it, a Roger Corman-produced hippie allegory about a gas that descends on earth and kills everyone over the age of 25. Featuring beloved character actor Bud Cort (M*A*S*H, Brewster McCloud, Harold & Maude) and musical act Country Joe & The Fish, this is as of-its-time as it gets, including such jokes as:

Dr. Murder: Are you now or have you ever been a member of any organization which advocates the violent overthrow of the government of the United States of America?

Marissa: Yes.

Dr. Murder: Which one?

Marissa: The Paul Revere and the Raiders fan club

Have at it.


1:35 p.m.

 Up until just a few years ago, this was a really, really hard film to find. I’d see it on those great underground-film-trading sites (Subterranean Cinema, Super Happy Fun, Revenge Is My Destiny, Video Search of Miami) that don’t really exist in such large numbers in the age of universal file sharing and youtube. Kind of like a prequel to Logan’s Run, here we see an overpopulated society in which reproduction is strictly prohibited. A segment of the population seals itself off from pollution and the dying hordes outside while trying to actively squelch the motherhood instinct. Children born before the enforcement of Zero Population Growth are stamped with a “B.E.” on their forehead (for “Before Edict”). Geraldine Page (Nashville, A Wedding) and Oliver Reed (Oliver!, Tommy, The Three Muskateers) decide to have a baby against government edict. Contains creepy surrogate babies like the one seen below. The imdb reviews, not surprisingly, are filled with dipshits drawing parallels between this film and the “enforced choice” of Roe v. Wade. Might not have been worth the wait. We’ll see.


3:10 p.m.

I have a theory. Wanna hear it? Here it goes:

Soylent Green is the most spoiled movie of all time.

Point me to another movie in which the twist ending is more universally known than this one. As such, I don’t feel compelled to tell you what this movie is about. Why don’t you tell me. What is Soylent Green made of again? I seem to have forgotten.


4:50 p.m.
LOGAN’S RUN (1976)

We’ll end the day with the mother of all forced-depopulation films. Again, hard to find too many people that don’t know at least the basic premise of this film already. In an overpopulated world, a group of people living in a domed city-within-a-city enjoy a life of leisure — automation has removed the need for work, and all the pleasures of the flesh are available for the newly unoccupied. The catch: to keep the population low, residents are killed when they reach their 30th birthday. Michael York and Jenny Agutter are young and beautiful in their future-togs, and the set decoration is still the DNA of retro-kitsch furniture designers the world over. A classic for good reason.

“Logan’s Run” is a vast, silly extravaganza that delivers a certain amount of fun, once it stops taking itself seriously.” – Roger Ebert

“The Future Is All About Hexagons.” – Some shirt Wendy saw for sale on CafePress years ago



“Transmaniacon MC”:
Biker gangs, scavengers, & loners on a desert landscape

After six days of relatively nuanced, message-driven science fiction and future prophecy, we’re going to end the fest with two days of whomping on each other with flaming clubs with nails sticking out of them. Friday night’s heroes ride bikes, drive armored tanks, or just go on foot in search of peace, gasoline, or a place to plant some radiation-proof seeds. Some prevent disorder, others preserve disorder. No matter what, though, disorder reigns this final Friday night of the fest.

7:00 p.m.


I love the title. RAVAGERS. Sounds gnarly. But there’s something kind of out of time about the whole thing. It’s from 1979, near the end of this era, but the plot (two kids try to navigate past warring biker tribes called Flockers and Ravagers in hopes of reaching the rumored Land of Genesis) seems straight out of the hippie utopia-from-chaos tropes of Gas-s-s-s… and Glen & Randa. Furthermore, giving top billing to Richard Harris, Ernest Borgnine, and Art Carney gives us a sense that this might be more about the stunt casting of your average ’70s disaster film. Still, give them respect for speculating on such desolation a mere 12 years in the future (poster sez it’s 1991 when this all goes down!).


8:30 p.m.
MAD MAX (1979)


Sometimes, I feel the need to over-explain a rare film because I want to make sure that you know how great it’s going to be, even if the name doesn’t ring a bell. Here, I don’t need to sell you at all. You know if whether you want to see Mad Max again. (Hint: you do.)

10:00 p.m.


I’ve never seen this, but I have to imagine it’s good. It’s got Yul Brynner. He’s always good! And it’s got Max Von Sydow. He doesn’t always make great script choices, but he’s good in whatever he puts his mind to! So, to pair them up and make Brynner into the shirtless, bruising tough-guy whose task is to escape a gang-crazed NYC with Sydow’s daughter and some radiation-proof seeds in tow to fertilize a new world sounds pretty good to me. Plus, if you’re going to show lots and lots of shots of New York in the ’70s, set-decorated for extra decay and crumble, I’ve got nothing but time for that.


11:40 p.m.

Based on the Roger Zelazny novel, this stars Jan-Michael Vincent and George Peppard, two thoroughly midgrade action jacksons, and a huge and comically overblown battle-tank that bumps and shudders all around the desert. (it’s also got a stretchy middle part, like those bendy buses.) Ostensibly one of the influences on the role-playing game Car Wars, Damnation Alley will likely win no awards for thoughtful, well-crafted dialogue. But if you wanna watched a big ol’ battle-fortress armed to the teeth and ready to pound sand up some asses, then stick around. Or just go home and rest up, because tomorrow is going to push you to your very limit.

Damnation Alley


“Panem et Circenses”:
Feats of strength, races, contests, neo-gladiator combat, & amusement parks gone mad

So goes a nation, so goes the intensity of its bloodsports. Our final day is a bit of a mixed bag. There’s violent entertainment on skates, in weaponized cars, on bikes. There’s televised manhunts of convicted criminals. And, of course, we see what happens when amusement parks with human-like robots override the prime directive. In the future, we won’t amuse ourselves to death — we’ll have someone else do it for us.

11:00 p.m.


To quote the poster, “In the not too distant future, war will not exist. But we will have Rollerball.” Something like a cross between roller derby and jai-alai, the bloodthirsty game is an elaborate subterfuge by our future government, overseen as it is by corporations, to keep the populace both bloodthirsty and placated. James Caan plays a populist hero on the field, a Rollerball superstar who reminds his audience of their intrinsic humanity. Director Norman Jewison (In the Heat of the Night, Fiddler on the Roof, Jesus Christ Superstar), someone not normally associated with sci-fi, chose the script because of what it had to say about humanity’s inability to shake off its most violent urges and what this does to us as a civilization. It’s also super brutal and lurid in its own right. Remade in the 2000s to no great improvement, Rollerball, for all its underlying cheesiness, is an embodiment of ’70s dystopic cinema.

RollerballGotta Catch ’em All

1:05 p.m.

Written and directed by Michael Crichton, and another ’70s classic. Great premise — an amusement park of the future has realistic robots which we can interact with as though they were human. There are several worlds in this theme park, but the one where all the trouble starts is Westworld. (There’s also a Roman one, I think.) The robot cowboys are realistic — you can talk to them, buy them a drink, even insult them — but they’ll never actually shoot anyone. Or will they? Yul Brynner is great as the robot-gone-mad, and the visual effect of the faceplate-less robot heads remains disturbing. Again, both cheesy and super-rad.


2:35 p.m.


Unable to leave well enough alone, Samuel Z. Arkoff decided to go to the well one more time, this time without a Crichton screenplay. Yul Brynner is back as the gunslinger, as well as Peter Fonda (he still wants to know what you thought about Idaho Transfer — please call, he misses you very much) and Blythe Danner and Stuart Margolin. Not as great or famous as the original, but few sequels are. If you’re already here, might as well stay and see what happens next.


4:20 p.m.
DEATH RACE 2000 (1975)

Another double-dip film. We first watched this during the “Films of Paul Bartel (and Mary Woronov)” festival a few years back. I’ve seen this a half-dozen times or more, and it’s always a blast. The future again calls for ultra-violent entertainment, this time in the form of a cross-country car race in which cars are equipped with sharp objects built for impaling humans, which creates a point system for the competitors. Seniors, children, and the infirm are extra points if you impale or run them down; anyone that can run away easily is worth less points. Roger Ebert, improbably, was appalled at this film and gave it zero stars, calling it morally bankrupt. That he could work with Russ Meyer and yet somehow not spot the broad social satire in this film (for god’s sake, the leader of the resistance is named Thomassina Paine!) is a bit surprising, but it shouldn’t deter you from enjoying this thoroughly excellent, dark-humored little gem. Stars David Carradine, Mary Woronov, Sylvester Stallone (long before he was the enormous star he became) and dozen more people who are either splattered on the street or gratuitously naked on the massage table. One of Corman and co.’s very best, both exploitative and thought-provoking, the latter almost accidentally. Not to be missed, especially if, heaven forbid, you’ve never seen this.



5:40 p.m.

Man, I’m giddy with both an excitement and trepidation about this one. This is also Corman, also starring Carradine, but not nearly as righteous or convincing as its predecessor. Shot near the end of the ’70s, this was an unapologetic attempt to cash in on nearly every genre trend at the time — bikers, sword-and-sorcery, and space-laser-battles and mod-podged together without rhyme or reason. Production values are near zero — it’s rumored that Corman’s sound team went to a screening of Star Wars with hidden tape recorders and taped both laser and space sounds so that they could be inserted into the audio track of Deathsport! There’s a lot of stories about this film, in fact — the imdb “trivia” section is a gift that just gives and gives and gives, like some sort of tree that gives. Behold:

According to co-director Allan Arkush, David Carradine smoked a lot of marijuana while acting in this movie.

Tragic fates have befallen several people involved with the production of ‘Deathsport’. Lead actress Claudia Jennings was killed in a car accident shortly after the release of the film, lead actor David Carradine died of accidental asphyxiation in 2008, and director Allan Arkush went on to make ‘Caddyshack 2’. This has led many to talk of “the curse of Deathsport”.

The cave scenes with the mutants were shot at Bronson Caves in Bronson Canyon. When a stuntman playing a mutant was set on fire, another actor portraying a mutant was also accidentally set on fire.

In addition to providing the narration, Ron Gans provided voices for just about every character in the film wearing a helmet.

David Carradine hurt his knee after he leaped against his steel jail cell door.

The second nude dance sequence in the film was filmed in a jam & jelly factory where various lights would get strung up.

The film takes place in 3000.

If, like me, you’re wondering just how many “nude dance sequences” there are, you’re already clearing your calendar.


7:00 p.m.

You wanna talk grim? You ain’t seen grim. Not like this. This will bum you the hell out for days and days. You must not miss this film. It’s so outstanding. So stylistically ahead of its time, so raw in its hopelessness and contempt for the human race, seamlessly combining documentary footage, improvised acting, and bleak futuristic vision, it’s hard to believe that this film is 45 years old. It precedes the rise of the fake-documentary form by a span of several decades. Everyone in this film seems to be speaking from the heart, which is chilling. 

In the future, dissidents and “difficult” people in society (here represented by student radicals, folk singers, Black Panthers, etc.) are tried in a kangaroo court and given two options — 20 years in prison, or three days in Punishment Park, a stretch of desert as inhospitable as it is featureless. Contestants (for this is all televised) who can cross the landscape and reach the American flag at the other end will have their sentences commuted. It should also be noted that, after a 3 hour head start, they are set upon by policemen with high-powered rifles. Heat, exhaustion, dehydration, and muscle cramps are a constant companion, to say nothing of the gunfire. The action shifts between two teams of detainees — one group being tried in a Quonsett hut, essentially grilled by people yelling “why do you hate America? And after all its done for you?” while the plaintiffs shout back their rebuttals. They are restrained, gagged, tied to their chairs, and, finally, given the choice: prison, or Punishment Park. A bloodless narrator ticks off the days in Punishment Park, the struggle toward a near-futile goal.

Peter Watkins’ filmed output is hard to find, but everything I’ve seen by him (including Culloden and The War Game) is difficult, stylistically brilliant, and truly provocative. He might get his own fest one of these years. Absolutely not to be missed.



8:30 p.m.
JUBILEE (1978)

From that grim little piece, we travel into the future for something completely different. Derek Jarman, later to be known as a pioneer of queer cinema with films like Sebastiane, The Last of England, and Caravaggio, here uses his access to the cream of the class of ’77 punk scenesters, everyone from Toyah Wilcox to Adam Ant, Wayne County to Ari Up to Siouxsie Sioux, to show us ourselves through the eyes of an outsider. Queen Elizabeth I (the one from the 1500s) consults a fortune teller to see what’s in store for England’s future, and, well, it looks like Punks win the day after all! Compared with Jarman’s later films, many of which are more mannered, minimal and steady-handed, Jubilee is messy and exuberant, more in the spirit of Jack Smith or Kenneth Anger than the man who would go on to film Blue and In the Shadow of the Sun. With its colorful cast and pitched tone, it sets the stage nicely for…


10:15 p.m.

CAN YOU COUNT, SUCKERS? Because if you can, you’ll notice that this is MOVIE NUMBER FIFTY, and we’re at the end of the line. The Warriors as a dystopia is tenuous at best, but I’m crowbarring it in because it’s just as awesome as can be, a perpetual favorite among those with the most discerning of film tastes. It’s hard not to love this film — it’s got everything going for it. (Like THX1138, director Walter Hill got a hold of this film and re-released a “director’s cut” with absurd animated comic book panels and other dipshittery in it; fortunately a conventional DVD was released in the late ’90s, and we’ll damn sure be watching that one.) Our heroes, the titular gang, convene with all the other gangs of New York (many of them absurdly and improbably outfitted) for a summit aimed at unifying the disparate territories and taking over the city. When Cyrus, the leader of the movement, is shot dead mid-sentence, nobody knows what happened. But for some reason, The Warriors are blamed. (The senselessness of the whole thing really is shocking — as my friend Brian Collins said, the bad guy in this film “is the embodiment of the Nietzschean uber-mench.”

This is a cornerstone film of my favorite film sub-sub-genre, films in which people must get from one part of town to the other in the middle of the night. I don’t know what you call it — “Lost After Dark in the City?” There’s this, After Hours, Judgement Night, Midnight Madness, and plenty of others. What’s your favorite? Let’s talk about it at the fest.

Which is now over! 


Say it with me…




Review: “Gravity’s Rainbow” by Thomas Pynchon

July 30, 2016


Posted here because of Goodreads character limits on reviews…

[note: pretty good chance I’ll be playing fast-n-loose with plot points, themes, and major developments in the book with this review; I’ll try to hide spoilers, but if you’re seriously planning to read this book and want to go in Downy fresh, consider this your warning.]

One of my favorite books about music and the musician behind it is Graham Lock’s Forces in Motion: The Music and Thoughts of Anthony Braxton. It’s a book I recommend to anyone, not just fans of Mr. Braxton’s considerable musical oeuvre. Lock follows Braxton and his then-current band (his legendary ‘80s quartet) though their financially unsuccessful but artistically brilliant tour of the UK in 1985. Lock speaks to the band, follows the tour, and, mostly, lets Braxton speak at length about his music and his life. He allows much room to explore the workings of Braxton’s incredible musical and philosophical mind. As a composer, Anthony Braxton sifts through jazz, avant-garde composition (Cage, Stockhausen, Xenakis, etc.), serialism, free improvisation, gospel, court musics of East Asia and many, many other forms into a knotted polyglot of voices and inspirations. But most importantly, Braxton keeps referring to the fact that he’s just scratching the surface of his intentions.

A phrase common to Forces in Motion is “Upper Partials.” It’s a term that I believe Mr. Braxton invented himself (he has dozens of these self-made concepts: tri-axium structures, multi-language musics, gravallic weight), and it refers specifically to the ungraspable nature of his own writing and thinking. When Braxton refers to future compositions, “in which orchestras on different planets, operating via interplanetary interlink, will perform together, conducting an individual concert for people who will each have their own planet in the galaxy,” it sounds like a joke, but Braxton is dead serious. “Of course, I can still compose this knowing that it might not happen in my lifetime.” In particular, Braxton refers to Upper Partials when explaining his hieroglyphic-like (and ever-refining) collection of symbols and diagrams that he uses to title his works (for ease of reference, he also assigns them alphanumeric titles, i.e. Composition #96 or Composition #23B). Lock attempts to understand these titles as they relate to the music (go to and look at the Braxton discography section to see dozens of examples), and doesn’t get the answer he hopes for. Braxton tells him that even *he* doesn’t understand them all!

“Upper Partials,” in other words, refers to forces, energies multi-directional musical approaches that Braxton is attempting to harness in his own music, symbols and systems of energy and tonality and rhythm and harmony and movement that he hopes will coagulate into new ways of thinking the feeling that will uplift the human race, that will be understood by future generations (insert now-standard cynic’s footnote: “…if we’re still here….”) and used to build new artistic movements, new systems of thinking and living, new modes of empathy and universal understanding.

Now that that’s out the way, let’s talk Gravity’s Rainbow.

Y’see, I just finished it this morning. I read the final words, read the last of Weisenburger’s notations, re-read his section intros (definitely save those until you’ve finished that section of the book – spoilers ahoy!), skipped past the last of the Pynchonwiki entries, scrolled around the huge flow-chart detailing the ways the major characters are related (sadly, Joaquin Stick did not warrant a mention), and kept thinking about Upper Partials. Weisenburger makes a pretty good case that GR is intensely circular in its structure: circular like a Mandala, circular like the 12 Test-Stands (rocket launch stations) arranged in a ring at Peenemünde, and, in one of the book’s most confusing explanations of ballistics, circular like a rocket’s path in the absence of ground – without an impact site to stop it (replaced perhaps by a perfectly-constructed tunnel back to the launch site), a rocket’s path would, in theory, loop back around under the earth and form a perfect circle.

Pynchon uses circles and cyclical narratives as well as reversals of cause and effect as structural aids. Over them, he layers religion and ritual from some very specific, obscure sources – the Kabbalah, Teutonic mythology, the Tarot, Rosicrucianism, Herero legends, Native American storytelling – over his story and characters. He finds the overlapping circles in each and overlays them on atop another. He does this to zero in on a target he can’t quite locate – how we as a species have become so desperate to fire missiles and drop bombs on one another.

Like Anthony Braxton, Pynchon is happy to let his reach exceed his grasp. The pieces fit together in an architecturally complex (even staggering) way, and the result is a piece of art and thinking that’s founded its own industry of fact-finders and theorists, but there’s no real end-point. Maybe that’s because human thinking (especially male thinking) hasn’t gotten beyond its obsession with the intermingling of sex and death, penetration and dominance. Perhaps that’s the only point, the point of any art created in response to war: not to stop war (what art could do that?), but to poke at the sore spot in the brain and the soul that the body (humankind) seeks to soothe by redirecting its pain outward, toward other human beings. The solutions aren’t big, they’re small, and they’re ultimately doomed. As a tree recommends in one of the book’s many flights of fancy – if you see bulldozers ready to knock down a forest and nobody’s keeping watch, jump up on that tractor and grab the oil filter. Anything to slow down the system. (“The Counterforce” in a nutshell.)

Beyond the Zero

Much of part one of GR is girded with strong Pavlovian and Freudian psychology. We see a wartime London bombarded by metal penises (the dreaded V-2), violence seemingly at perfect random, a Poisson distribution that, according to statistician Roger Mexico, shows no repeating pattern whatsoever, and therefore offering no way to predict the next strike, to get people to safety, to ward off this evil spell (hence the terror of the opening page. “It’s too late.”). Roger belongs to “The White Visitation” (always in quotes), an organization made up of psychics, occultists, soothsayers, telekinetics, statisticians, and other cranks tasked with predicting the pattern of the V-2 attack. It’s a perfect metaphor for the fear of the future, of war and violence – people turning to mysticism, magic, and math to try to predict the source of future pain and death and misery. But that’s hardly all – “The White Visitation” soon shows itself to be [spoiler, highlight to read]just another government agency protecting its funding even when the V-2s have stopped falling[/spoiler], just like so many other heroes in the book. Like Tyrone Slothrop, the books nominal protagonist, they seek to find the cause-and-effect mechanism of our current problems, but soon find that, somehow, forces higher than themselves have reversed it, gone “beyond the zero” (an insanely difficult to comprehend Pavlovian term that I now understand maybe 10% of) to a point where not only does the stimulus not produce the response, but the opposite occurs: the response causes the stimulus. In this, we see the horror of the V-2, a rocket so much faster than the speed of sound, it makes impact seconds before the sound of its arrival is heard by the victim. (British sources repeatedly report survivors of V-2 attacks who said you would see the explosion first, and only 1 or 2 seconds later did you hear the “screaming come[s] across the sky.”

The mysticism in part one is already overshadowed by much scarier forces in part two, as Slothrop begins to read and learn about how business cartels like IG Farben, Siemens, and the Bayer Company (yep, where the aspirin comes from, kiddies) often worked with US corporations, even in the heat of WWII, to standardize prices on gas, weaponry, and new plastic polymers. Slothrop’s inner narrator stammers into near-mania when he realizes that the missiles that are aimed at London (seemingly right at his erection) were launched from Germany, but with the assistance of radio guide towers in neutral countries. In the midst of war, corporations German and American alike gleefully click away on their adding machines, calculating profit in the face of unending loss. It may have seemed a radical belief in 1973, but our current, far more transparent (FOIA and all that) era has proved it to be true, time and again.

In the Zone

One of the most surprising things about GR as a novel is that it almost completely manages to avoid the key scenes of any WWII novel. There’s no ground battles, no monologues from generals, no tank movements across trenches, no moments of soldiers, sacrifice, and glory. GR completely subverts the WWII novel framework: there’s no beaches of Normandy, no Pearl Harbor, no Ostfront. We open on the tail end of the V-2 blitzkrieg on England, and from there, the bulk of the book takes place between V-E Day and the Atomic Bomb drop on Hiroshima, [spoiler]an event that effectively dissolves and scatters, philosophically speaking, our protagonist[/spoiler].

In this space, Pynchon treats us to the places of WWII few novelists (and not even that many historians) show us – the end of German occupation of Europe, yes, but also a time in which all of the smoking lands and resources left behind are furiously scooped up the allied forces, and, more importantly, small groups and individuals.

The true war is a celebration of markets. Organic markets, carefully styled “black” by the professionals, spring up everywhere. Scrip, Sterling, Reichsmarks continue to move, severe as classical ballet, inside their antiseptic marble chambers. But out here, down here among the people, the truer currencies come into being.

This is the entire thrust of part three, “In The Zone,” and a good portion of Pynchon’s interest from book to book. It’s one of the most fascinating things about this book – it lives almost entirely in the shadow left behind a war (with the battle in the Pacific still in full swing for a bit longer). It’s hard to imagine that “In the Zone” didn’t have a significant influence on that other, more explicit Vietnam allegory, the film Apocalypse Now. Sure, the plot is mostly based on Heart of Darkness, but it shares a lot of its weary trudging through wilderness-as-war-metaphor with GR. Slothrop traverses the gutted landscape of Europe, dressed in different disguises (including the superhero Rocketman and, later, in a colorful, stylized pig costume from a village’s parade ritual), seeing what the war machines left behind. In micro, we see small folks hustling dope (it’s hard to think of this as the “head book” it was marketed as until at least 500 pages in, when the hashish and amphetamines really start to flow) and “services,” Russian agents arguing about classical music, Spanish anarchists, a sex-crazed frigate called the Medusa, and a rundown German version of Disneyland called Zwolfkinder. Stranger in a Strange Land, indeed. It’s the war-time id, refracted through all of its most mindless pleasures (Mindless Pleasures was an early consideration for the title of the book).

Then there are the bigger hustles. Corporations can again collude in semi-public, V-2 scientists are expatriated to Russia and the US, V-2 schematics are hunted and found abandoned in shit-caked lavatories and self-sabotaged laboratories. The tool of such suffering, the V-2 rocket, has been stolen by the Allies, who use Von Braun and others to try and reconstruct it. War isn’t about stopping the V-2. It’s about grabbing it and turning it in the other direction, from the edge of the mandala and back into the center again.

Between Zero and One

Two of the most potent stories (there are at least 24 separate subplots running through this book) are the search for the mysterious Rocket #00000, and, later, the assembly and firing of Rocket #00001. The first is fired by Captain Weissman (aka Blicero, the “white destroyer” of Teutonic mythology – as with other reversals, Pynchon uses the Teutonic symbolism in which white, not black, is the color of death [one of many reasons why adding Weisenburger’s guide to your experience is 100% vital]) early in the book, though the launch itself is only explicitly shown on the final pages. There are several horrifying elements to the rocket and the launch that I won’t recount here (more for spoilers than for your gentle disposition). Weissman (who, like a dozen other characters in GR, first appear in Pynchon’s debut, V.) is an embodiment of the Nazi leadership in their final days, gripped with the inevitability of capture, defeat, and probably violent execution. His sex urge and death urge are comingled in a reverie of hysteria and homicidal impulse, a desire to win, but also to lose on his own terms. The firing of Rocket #00000, containing the mysterious polymer Imipolex G (possibly a key element of Slothrop’s Pavlovian conditioning as a baby by Dr. Laszlo Jamf), is seen as some sort of finale, a final stab from the hand of death, but it’s really not. We hear that Weissman/Blicero goes West, the way of all explorers, and our narrator warns us, “if you’re wondering where he’s gone, look among the successful Academics, the Presidential advisors, the token intellectuals who sit on boards of directors. He is almost surely there. Look high, not low.” More chilling than all the buggery and shit-eating in this book, combined.

And then there is counterpoint, his brother, his opposite, the Herero commander Enzian, of the Schwarzkommando (Black Command), who are assembling Rocket #00001, aimed seemingly in the exact opposite direction as #00000, the direction of whose trajectory is opaquely described in the last paragraphs of the book. Its purpose, other than as a symbolic counterpoint to Blicero’s sacrifice to the god of Death, is uncertain. <spoiler, highlight to read>Weisenburger’s guide convincingly posits that it is aimed toward the heart of Germany, a final destruction of the country that brought Von Trotha’s extermination order to the Herereo (a West African tribe that was subject to brutal, genocidal German rule in the late 1800s and early 1900s) people. Another possibility is that the Herero, committed as they are to a final tribal suicide, perhaps aim it straight up in an attempt to eliminate themselves.</spoiler> For more on Hereros and their part in this saga, go read V. (You should do that anyway…it’s a great book.)

Two-Stage Launch

Part of the joy of reading GR is to read it after having read Pynchon’s debut, V. The realization that Lot 49 was almost certainly a stopgap meant only to keep food on the table while working on GR is all the more obvious after we see all the ropes (tendrils? Ha ha) lashing the first and third books together. The Herero struggle, as mentioned before, is covered in a chapter of V., and several of its main characters (Weissman, Kurt Mondaugen) make appearances again. Favored Pynchon character “Pig” Bodine (here only referred to, earlier in his career of sleaze, as “Seaman Bodine”) has appeared in both V. and the short story “The Low-Lands,” and his ancestor appears, I believe, in Mason & Dixon. Like David Mitchell, Pynchon likes to let his characters spill from book to book, and in this case, a number of the scenarios begun in V. are extended philosophically as well. V. stabs into the past with each alternating chapter, sometimes as far back as the 1800s, sometimes as far forward as the lead-up to WWII. If V.’s main point was the inability to escape the endless cycle of decadence into conflict, then GR turns the microscope to 1000x magnification, focusing precisely on the tail end of conflict and its return to a period of calm which will almost certainly lead to a complacency leading to newfound violence – V. predicted the Suez Canal Crisis as the next shock point, but it would only be a few years before bombings in Cambodia and the intimations of Communist subversion in former French Indochina that would prove to be the fire under Pynchon’s anvil.

Porky Pig vs. the Anarchist

Never one to tell a joke only once, Pynchon recycles his best references from book to book. In The Crying of Lot 49, a bookstore owner tells Oedipa Maas about a cartoon in which Warner Brothers favorite Porky Pig meets a bomb-throwing Anarchist. It sounds like one of Pynchon’s usual flights of fancy (like “The White Visitation,” a government-sponsored psychic agency, or Lot 49’s alternate postal system, W.A.S.T.E.), but this one is really true. There was such a cartoon! It’s called “The Blow Out,” and it’s from 1936. You can see it at DailyMotion here:

Pynchon’s knowledge runs both deep and wide, he researches fanatically, and his interests have very little in the way of high/low distinctions. Steven Weisenburger, in his GR reader’s guide, notes again and again the depth of Pynchon’s understanding of the intricacies of V-2 production, the chronology of widespread collusion between worldwide chemical conglomerates, and the intricacies of religious and mystical systems ranging from the Tarot to Kabbalah to Teutonic myth (as chronicled by Grimm, he of the fairy tales). Yet, with nearly every head-scratching list, every realistically-plotted historical re-creation, every multilayered machination of war machine, profit center, and side-hustler, Pynchon can’t help add just one fictional element to reminder that you’ll never find every clue, and that Gravity’s Rainbow, as a book, isn’t meant to be solved like a 50-story Rubik’s Cube. It’s a parable, a movie in book form, a magic spell against future cravenness and corruption, a call to action, a big, horrible blast-mirror meant to incinerate (or at least embarrass) the homicidal, rabbit-brained profiteers in our midst.

(aside: a lot of novelists who came up in the ‘60s and the ‘70s alluded to capital-f Film as a primary influence. But in my experience, most of them only used the language of the script and the dialogue of actors, the language itself rather than the mis-en-scene as a whole. Pynchon, especially in this book, really does write a film before your eyes. Scenes open on an empty landscape, lovingly described. Sunrise over a field, a cloudy shore, a ruined flat in London. And then, several descriptive pages later, a character walks into frame, over a hill, from off-camera, like a ‘70s Altman movie, like Lawrence of Arabia slowly approaching from the endless expanse of desert. The tone shifts from sub-section to sub-section are a genre-busting mega-movie in which characters break into song one moment and deliver blood-chilling monologues about war the next, who engage in pie fights from hot air balloons and then engaging in gaggingly visceral bouts of coprophagia (talkin’ about eatin’ a poo-poo there, folks) immediately after. The scene in which Slothrop is subjected to various horrible British candies is as hilarious as Weissman’s subjugation of his slave, Gottfried, is nauseating. And through it all, we hear song after song, erupting with the non-sequiturial brilliance of Busby Berkeley, while still focusing on personal suffering as clear and unflinching as Bresson in Au Hausad Balthazaar.)

This overstuffing of research is a deliberate stylistic move. It would be perfectly possible to capture London during the Blitz without expecting the reader to have an encyclopedic knowledge of who was performing on the BBC the night of December 19. Kate Atkinson’s Life After Life certainly doesn’t suffer from this lack of embedded detail, but its goal lies elsewhere. Similarly, Elizabeth Gilbert’s wonderful The Signature of All Things barely troubles the waters at all with the fact that you’re reading about a person from the 1800s – Alma Whittaker, for all her Victorian repressions and circumscribed opportunities, could just as easily be working in the 1920s, or in certain parts of the 1950s.

Pynchon’s obsessive construction, ESPECIALLY in the first section (it’s no surprise that most people who give up on GR say that they put the book down within the first 200 pages) is a specific choice on his part. At this point, with missiles falling all around us, fear makes time go slow. Every second we wait for the next explosion, we examine our surroundings with obsessive details, looking at every piece of furniture, every stained piece of silverware, every radio program as though it’s the last time we’ll ever see it. Once Slothrop begins his cross-continent excursion through The Zone (Pynchon’s term for the shattered conglomeration of countries [including Germany] and the countries occupied by it, now entering the first days of their reconstruction and regrouping), there’s time to think as you make your way from place to place, days spend walking and without seeing anyone. The narrative slows to reflect this, and, like long-distance communications, the reports from other characters (Russian agent Tchticherine, Enzian and the Schwarzkommando, Franz and Leni Pökler and the flashbacks to Peenemünde) take on slower, more linear dispatches. Like the legendary MC5 documentary (MC5: A True Testimonial), Pynchon increases and decreases the density of information as a form of tone and shading in the narrative to stunning effect.

Beyond Beyond the Zero

There’s a notion that books like GR aren’t really a thing anymore because we as a culture have moved on from wanting or needing them. The so-called Post-Postmodernists like Wallace, Chabon, Diaz, Atkinson, and others have grown past this meta-textual deck of cards, and that characters with deep backgrounds and real feelings have trumped Pynchon’s stock players and grandiose sets. But I don’t think it’s just novels. I think there was something about the late ‘60s and early ‘70s that made people want to suck up every influence and make them into these huge, nearly-toppling rococo structures that left nothing out. If you think about GR as a mirror of its time, you also need to think about The Firesign Theatre’s avant-garde radio plays, each of the first four albums as deep and multi-layered as each of GR’s four sections. Or the dense, meta-textual historical films of Ken Russell (The Demons, The Music Lovers) and Peter Watkins (The Battle of Culloden, Edward Munch). Or even long-form PBS mini-series’ like “I, Claudius.” There was something about that specific time, that specific cycle of decadence leading to conflict anew that lead artists and documentarians toward the grandiose. When people talk about GR’s declining influence now, they speak about the fact that WWII is no longer in recent memory, its final veterans leaving the earth via natural means, and Vietnam allegories of protest no longer resonant in the modern age.

It’s interesting that, as we stand face to face with an enormous, seemingly limitless, array of information about both the past and the present – the great, hoary old series of Tubes we call the internet – art’s tendency (as far as I can see) is plunging ever inward, singular, personal. Which could be awesome, if the plunge inward tended toward philosophical transcendence from technological dependency or moral uncertainties rising from the overwhelming flood of information the internet has brought us. Think about Delillo’s “Joycean book of America…the book in which nothing is left out” in Libra. A book like that, with the resources available via the internet, would be more possible now than ever. Where are the novels dealing with the complexities of the vastly more complex-than-1972 military-industrial complex? What would a GR of 2016 look like? What would its mystic touchstones be? Scientology? Corporatism? In some ways, I think of Robert Ashley’s mountainous operas from the last three decades as a continuance of Pynchon’s book. Much more so than the novels of Mark Danielewski, which appear to be raw data in search of a guiding principle.

“It Has Happened Before, But There Is Nothing To Compare It To Now”

Certainly, plenty of other things date GR. Its depiction of women, for starters, not to mention most non-whites in the book. It’s a pretty standard trick from the early ‘70s, white dudes talking Black or Mexican to show they’re not like those regular bigots – they know the score, man! The Firesign Theatre have this for days. It was meant well – I sincerely believe is was done as a gesture of solidarity, an extension of Lenny Bruce – but as the years go on, it sounds weirder and uglier, a poor way to show solidarity with those who have less privileges in this world than you.

And yeah, when Pynchon talks about “high magic to low puns,” he also means a lot of emphasis on the lower organs. There’s a lot of rape, lotta buggery, lotta sexual slavery, lotta women giving up BJs to random dudes under the guise of “there’s a war on, and we’re all scared, let’s let off some steam!” Maybe so. This, again, is a tactic that has started to fade into obscurity, which I call “it’s gettin’ so bad, they’re even rapin’ our WOMEN!” Rape’s been a shorthand from male writers for decades to represent any escalation of decadence or war atrocity, and it’s not hard to see why it might push female readers away. As a fairly coarse, privileged white dude myself, I plowed through it with ease, but I would, wouldn’t I? I still think there’s plenty of reason to use horrific material in literature, but even Pynchon’s later books seem to approach these same topics without the nihilistic fervor on display here.

At the same time, I hope these reasons aren’t used to explain why it’s not worth approaching GR on its other merits. This is such a philosophically enormous, morally focused book, it would be a shame to see it relegated to the status of something like Memories of Things Past.

Why We Fight (and How)

No matter how smart or clued-in you are to Pynchon’s weirdo wavelength, you’ll never encompass this book in a single reading. It is an enormous, durable set of moral and philosophical inquiries (encased in a bizarre, hurtful, hilarious story) that are capable of absorbing ideas about the world and centering them to their targets, like the radio tower in Belgium directing the V-2 strikes. Already, as I start reading other people’s thoughts on GR and the whole of Pynchon’s “German Period” of writing, I see that people far smarter than me find all sorts of possibilities in this book, and many of them are pretty damn right on! I especially enjoyed Alan J. Friedman and Manfred Puetz’s “Gravity’s Rainbow: Science as a Metaphor” from Harold Bloom’s excellent compendium of essays on Pynchon’s work to 1986. “Science as Metaphor” ties all of the novels – V., The Crying of Lot 49, and Gravity’s Rainbow – as well as the early short story “Entropy,” and specifically ties notions of the scientific principle of Entropy to each of them in Pynchon’s understanding of how to order a world, the implications of a world of chaos, and the way that energy must be expended to induce order. It’s a pretty head 12 pages; I highly recommend it. Most important to my own understanding is the way that resisting entropy, i.e. adding energy to a system in order to reverse the flow toward stasis and inaction, full breakdown and energy dispersal to the universe.

One of my big questions from the book was about section four, specifically the activities of The Counterforce. What did they actually do, or accomplish? Are they only doing Merry Prankster activities like Bodine at the dinner party, grossing out executives, or peeing on boardroom tables like Pirate Prentice? Is resistance to an unacceptable system only accomplished through small, futile gestures? Is all we really have to work with the possibility of stealing the oil filter from the bulldozer? We do know, after all, that someone’s going to find another oil filter sooner than later, and the destruction of the forests will continue. The essay argues that a tremendous amount of energy must be expended to reverse the will of entropy, but that re-ordering an existing system (one that may be slowing toward total collapse itself) requires even more. They note a telling line from a person tending mice in a testing lab: “I’d set you free but I don’t know how. It’s not very free out there.”

Whether The Counterforce makes real changes or only keeps putting the blocks on top of one another, resisting the efforts of the universe to move toward complete heat death, is almost beside the point. The struggle is the thing, above all. “It’s not just a resistance/it’s a war.”

Then We Came to the End of another Dull and Lurid Year

Much like my experience reading V. last year, the immersive experience of Gravity’s Rainbow was beyond words. It made me think not just about literature, not just about the money and corporate influence behind the war machine (though that…yes. Very much of that. War is a racket. That must never be forgotten.), but in the way one immerses into the creation of a world, a master statement. The way writing is architecture, and when executed properly, architecture can make you cry and laugh and be a better person in the world. Like James Ensor’s massive, multi-panel work The Temptation of St. Anthony, it’s a testament to the desire to leave nothing out, to take a concept that seeps into our lives and pick at it from every conceivable angle, religious to scientific to philosophical to mystical to profane.

I already can’t wait to re-read it, but I’m going to wait for a while. I’m taking a few months off from Pynchon on Weekends, partly to simulate the 17-year gap between GR and Vineland, and partly so that I can do some other reading (August will be spent with Eleanor Catton’s enormous historical novel The Luminaries, an experience I expect will inform my 2017 reading of Pynchon’s next doorstop, Mason & Dixon), and partly to read some criticism about Pynchon’s first three novels and stories – when he returns in 1990, he’s a changed man. There’s hope, and light, and family, and further retreat from dull, craven society amidst the paranoia. Hopeful hopelessness?

Like Gravity’s Rainbow, I’ll end on a song:

I’m so glad we had this time together,
Just to have a laugh, or sing a song.
Seems we just got started and before you know it
Comes the time we have to say, ‘So long.’


Thoughts on Anthony Braxton

November 23, 2015

Anthony Braxton isn’t just trying to build up complexity of sound. He is working with complexity of thought. All human endeavor, to my mind, is striving toward a ambitiousness of thought. Writing, composing, filmmaking. Notwithstanding the desire to “make the complicated simple” (which is an artistic in nature and linguistic in process), we write and create with the idea of joining ideas together, making them larger, planet-sized, universe-sized. Anthony Braxton is clearly a giant thinker in his own mind. He’s blessed with more smarts than most. But in composing with these increasingly interconnected musical systems, these ways of unifying his musical output into a universe-sized system, he is trying to impart big thought (and big emotion) to his listeners, just like Aristotle or any of the great thinkers that we are still simply refining upon without ever surpassing. Once you think your though, and put it out in the world, you give the world a step upon which to climb up one level. And once enough people climb up that one level, then their own thoughts, which are like putting steps to a higher level in place, they start that much higher in the process, like mountain-climbing for altitude, but starting your journey in Denver.

The Stiff-Legged Film Festival presents: THE FILMS OF DAVID CRONENBERG

March 10, 2015

Quick schedule (scroll down for pics and descriptions):

[Pre-first feature shorts, student films, and TV episodes]

8:00 p.m. – From the Drain [short]
8:15 – Stereo [short]
9:20 – Crimes of the Future [short]
10:30 – Programme X: “Secret Weapons” [TV]
10:55 – Peep Show: “The Lie Chair” [TV]
11:20 – Teleplay: “The Italian Machine” [TV]
[done by midnight]


1:00 to 4:00 p.m. [optional] – recap of Friday’s program, guest’s choice (re-watch of rare stuff from night before for those who couldn’t make it, or even films from previous fests)

4:15 – Shivers [+ start of VHS simulcast]
5:45 – Rabid
7:15 – The Brood
8:45 – Fast Company
10:15 – Scanners
Midnight – Videodrome
[done by 1:30 a.m.]


11:00 a.m. – The Dead Zone
12:45 – The Fly
2:20 – Friday the 13th: the TV Series [TV]
3:05 – Dead Ringers
5:00 – TV Commercials + Maniac Mansion [TV]
5:30 – Naked Lunch
7:30 – M. Butterfly
[done by 9:10 p.m.]


7:00 – Crash
8:40 – eXistenZ
10:30 – Camera
10:37 – Spider
[done by 12:20]


3:35 – A History of Violence
5:10 – At the Suicide of the Last Jew in the World in the Last Cinema in the World [short]
5:20 – Eastern Promises
7:00 – A Dangerous Method
8:40 – Cosmopolis
10:30 – The Nest/Consumed
10:45 – Maps to the Stars
[done by 12:30]


Great big making-of/featurette/documentary blowout day (+ optional re-watches, if anyone wants)
[done by 7:00, if not sooner]

After several short festivals in a row (“Gene Hackman in the ’70s,” “The Films of Robert Downey, Sr.,” “The Films of Paul Bartel (and Mary Woronov)”), we’ve finally rolled up our sleeves and cobbled together an appropriately epic multi-weekender.

I’m not sure why David Cronenberg didn’t come up as a Stiff-Leg contender before. He’s really perfect for it. While really spending his entire career circling around the same topics (mutation, physical and mental augmentation, the triumph of the organism, the tribal nature of violence, fast cars, telepathy, the history of psychiatry, subversive literature), his output is wildly varying in style, impact, and experience. From his earliest days as a student filmmaker into his avant-garde period, his work within the confines of Canadian TV in the ’70s, to his early low-budget Canadian horror masterpieces, all the way into the years of filming unfilmable books, probing the core of violence, exploring the fleshy side of the internet, documenting the violent birth of the talking cure, culminating with the latest and greatest film-length “Fuck You” to Hollywood. There are at least four really violent tone shifts over the course of this festival, and we’re going as deep as my research would allow (sorry, I just couldn’t procure those CBC interstitials — I’m sure you’re weeping tears of blood like I am), but I’m so looking forward to enjoying some great films with you all and watching for little through-lines that connect them all.



Unless we’re running late (unlikely!), the start time listed is the exact time we start. No whining, no “wait wait, I’m just circling the block looking for a parking space,” no excuses. 2-3 minutes is all you’re given on average between films; just enough time to queue up for the bathroom.

This year, we’re trying something a little different, both to accommodate more people (if necessary) and just for fun. For Cronenberg’s first five major feature films (Shivers, Rabid, The Brood, Scanners, and Videodrome), we’ll have a second viewing room. A 19-inch color TV equipped with a VCR will be simulcasting VHS versions of these films in a second room. If you want to experience these visceral horror classics the way many of us experienced them for the first time, in grotty VHS fidelity, you’re welcome to do so. If nobody wants to do that, we’ll just treat it as installation art that no one’s interested in. After the first, the VHS room will stay open for the rest of the fest. If you’re not feeling M Butterfly or the Freud/Jung movie, you’re welcome to toddle off to the other room to watch Scanners on VHS again. If no one objects, you can even spend your whole time rewinding and rewatching the exploding head scene, just like the old days.

Some food and drink will be served (possibly even themed food for certain features), but bringing some to share is never a bad idea. If you want to run out and grab dinner somewhere nearby, I have a handful of suggestions of places that are a five minute walk away. And of course, carryout is plentiful and accommodating.

The Schedule

Student films, art films, and the confines of Canadian TV

The first night contains no films longer than 65 minutes, and most much shorter. This is the embryonic DNA of the Cronenberg style — the roots of a young filmmaker discovering the things that drive him the most. It might not be as fully realized as tomorrow’s program, but if you’re already a fanatic, you won’t want to miss these rare offerings. (hard to find films will be marked as such — look for the “HELLA RARE!!” graphic on every package!)

(Click images for enlarged versions…some of these movie posters are beautiful)

8:00 p.m.


This is actually Cronenberg’s second short film — his first, “Transfer,” is damn near impossible to find. (Trust me, I tried. Hard. Ask me about it sometime.) The scarcity of these works is partly due to the fragile nature of the original prints (the Canadian National Archives has them in their archive, but they might be too fragile to even run through a projector to make a digital reference) but mostly to the fact that the director has rejected them as awkward, poorly paced, and amateurish. No matter. Someone threw a timecoded print of his second short, “From the Drain,” onto Youtube and Dailymotion for our edification. It’s a really rough copy — no idea if you’ll be able to see much — but it’s presented for the historical nature of it. The plot: two men sit in a bathtub, talking about an unspecified war they fought in. A snake slowly rises from the drain and strangles one. The other keeps talking, and finally throws his shoes in the closet.  

In short: a student film.

8:15 p.m.
STEREO [short]


It was seeing this film at last year’s Sci-Fi and Horror Extravaganza at the Patio Theater that was the catalyst for this festival. (in unison: “Thank you, Stereo…”) If you only know Cronenberg from his visceral horror films, this one is a double-shocker. On one hand, the film — almost a full-length feature at 65 minutes — is eerily similar to Scanners, in which a research campus brings people with possible psychic abilities together for some hard-to-explain reason. Something about enhancing their skills through conditioning or group exercises or something. However, unlike Cronenberg’s later films about homicidal psychics (Scanners) or just people without the abilities to control their minds (The Dead Zone), Stereo is shot as a faux-documentary in beautiful black and white, completely silent save for occasional voiceovers talking some pretty nonsensical scientific gibberish. The main aim of this film is developing a visual language, and is one of the more beautiful and austere films I’ve ever seen, by this director or anyone else. It’s quiet and weird and forces you into its confusing academic rhythms. It also marks the start of the collaboration with the director’s first multi-film “star” actor, one Ronald Mlodzik (pictured below), a scholar at the school who Cronenberg describes as having a “medieval gay sensibility” and a “Catholicism [that] was very medieval.” When I first saw this film, especially in light of its release year (1967), my thought was “do they even make people who look like this anymore?” Clearly, they barely made them like him even then! He’s an amazing, idiosyncratic force in the film, and it’s hard not to be completely mesmerized by him.


9:20 p.m.


Crimes of the Future is very much in the style of Stereo, with a few twists. This one is in color, and the soundtrack is a little more populated, though still in the “silent with overlaid dialogue” style of its predecessor. Cronenberg calls it a vague follow-up to Stereo, sort of a future look at the world created at the Canadian Academy for Erotic Inquiry in the previous film. It explores a future in which women disappear from the gene pool. As a result, men attempt to adapt by adopting feminine traits. Cronenberg speaks a great deal about dealing with the contrasting energies between men and women, and though it’s still not that heavy on plot, there’s a sense of story progression that Stereo largely lacks. It is also filmed at the same architecturally impressive school as the previous film, the University of Toronto, Scarborough.


10:30 p.m.

PROGRAMME X: “Secret Weapons” [TV]

Cronenberg calls this his “suppressed film.” It was shot for the Canadian Broadcast Corporation (CBC) in 1972, right after a stretch where the bulk of his film work was a series of short interstitial pieces created to run between other CBC programming. (No, I wasn’t able to get copies of those either. Ask me about it sometime.) “Secret Weapons” is a stand-alone episode of Programme X, an Alfred Hitchcock Presents-style anthology program. It concerns a secret government organization and a scientist who creates a weapon that turns otherwise passive soldiers into homicidal killers. It also has biker gangs. Like Stereo, it’s a little egg sac filled to rupturing with ideas and obsessions that would recur again and again through Cronenberg’s filmography. It’s an essential piece of the puzzle that you’ll want to see to unlock the full fragrances of the later films.


10:55 p.m.
PEEP SHOW: “The Lie Chair” [TV]

Also filmed for a Canadian anthology series (lots of those going around in the early-mid ’70s) called Peep Show, this is considered a less compelling contract job that’s noteworthy for being one of only two or three times that Cronenbeg shot direct-to-video. The other is the “Samurai Dreams” section of Videodrome. It’s written by someone else, so the stylistic continuity with the other films might not be there. But, it still might be fun. And besides, it’s only a half hour long! (Peep Show‘s opening credits are great, too.)


 11:20 p.m.
TELEPLAY: “The Italian Machine” [TV]

Presented slightly out of sequence, this made-for-TV mini-movie was released a few months after Shivers, but made more sense to be included here with the other TV material. Funny and weird, this is noteworthy for being the first big appearance of one of Cronenberg’s lesser obsessions, namely fast cars (or, in this case, motorcycles). The Italian machine in question is a beautiful vintage motorcycle acquired by an art collector, who intends to display it in his house and found art. For crying out loud, he’s not going to ride it or anything!! Bikers come to liberate the bike to let it ride free as they know it wants to. Folks who have seen it (I haven’t) compared this to Ballard, which is no surprise — Cronenberg would later collaborate with Ballard to bring Crash to the big screen (and my TV screen). After a few years of wandering about, creating smaller works for TV while working on his long-delayed and hard-to-sell feature film, we’re now ready to go over the precipice tomorrow afternoon and re-start with a bunch of the films that made David Cronenberg the man to beat for visceral horror.



The bloody roots of venereal horror

The thing about this festival is that it’s way too large to do in one weekend, but a bit too short to stretch to two weekends. And besides, nothing lines up where I want it to when I just re-start the next day at noon, like usual. So, in contrast with most of my other festivals, Saturday’s films don’t start until 4:15 in the afternoon. If anyone wants to come out before that, I’d be up for re-watching anything from the night before (or even something from previous festivals?!). Otherwise, have your St. Patrick’s Day fun (note: you puking green beer on my floor does not count as “a piece of Cronenbergian performance art”), get in a nap, run some errands, and we’ll see you later in the day for…

4:15 p.m.


Shivers is the one. It just is. If you only want to see one or two by David Cronenberg, make sure it’s either this or Videodrome. Or, ideally, both! Or, really ideally, this whole span of films on Saturday. Because this is the raw, nasty, ooky, brilliant stuff, the first flowerings of a new style in visceral horror cinema. Within its low-budget trappings (shot for only $180,000), the film probes every painful, lurid, and squeamish fantasy and nightmare you can imagine, and pushes buttons you didn’t even know you had. 

A strange parasite infects an isolated resort hotel (the opening credits, featuring a voice-over presentation with slide show about the virtues of the resort, is brilliant), turning its inhabitants into sex-crazed lunatics. The parasites, far from microbial, are nasty slug-like creatures that go in and out of people’s mouths and into each other’s mouths. Everyone is susceptible – women, children, the elderly — and once they’ve got it, the only thing to do is cut it out of them. Even now, it’s a pretty shocking film with ahead-of-its-time special effects and great performances by gothic horror icon Barbara Steele and others.

The screenplay was written by Cronenberg 3 years earlier, and was funded (very reluctantly) by the nascent Canadian Film Development Corporation (CFDC), who were trying to jump-start a film culture in Canada by giving opportunities to emerging directors. However, it was soon clear that their idea of great movies was something decidedly more provincial and pedestrian (think the SCTV parody “Garth and Gord and Fiona and Alice“) than stories about parasites that turn people into nymphomaniacs. After endless fights with the gatekeepers (and some help from credibility-boosting producer Ivan Reitman), the untested Cronenberg got his first big break. And, by his own admission, he had to fake his way through the first few weeks of the ins and outs of the movie-making machine. (“I knew my cinematographer, but what does a Focus Puller do?”)

Shivers was an enormous financial success for Cronenberg and the Canadian film industry (and, by extension, the taxpayers of Canada), and made its money back many times over. It was a hit in the US (where it was briefly retitled They Came From Within) and all over the world. In the early days of VHS culture, Shivers was a staple among horror fanatics, which is why we’ll be simulcasting this (and most of the other films playing tonight) on VHS in a second room. You get your choice of viewing experiences! Absolutely not to be missed!


5:45 p.m.

Noteworthy as an extension of the contagion idea of Shivers, this time with an affliction that rampages through the entire city, the real story of Rabid is its lead actress. Marilynn Chambers, the former “Ivory Snow” cover-girl was only recently being discovered as one of the first queens of the newly decriminalized X-rated movie circuit. Beyond the Green Door and The Resurrection of Eve are porno classics, largely on the strength of their lead’s sexual charisma and girl-next-door beauty. Cronenberg originally wanted Sissy Spacek (based on her performance in Badlands) for the lead, but she was already booked to film Carrie and was unavailable. Chambers was eager to try her hand at a serious acting role, and Cronenberg was more than happy to give her the chance. The symbol of her infection — a throbbing, mutating pustule nestled in her armpit — still makes my toes curl a little bit. Jury’s out on whether Chambers really rises to the acting occasion here, but Cronenberg has indicated time and time again that he thinks she did great work for the film.


7:15 p.m.


Sometimes art imitates and life, and sometimes art is created as a bastardized reflection of life. The Brood was written during a particularly acrimonious divorce between Cronenberg and his first wife that involved messy custody of their children. The film’s a harrowing look at a marriage in ruins, with a reveal at the end that’s among the three or four most well-known Cronenberg images, right up there with the exploding head in Scanners. Cronenberg calls this his most “angry” film of the time, and its nasty edge is still there. While we’ve all seen our fair share of “creepy kids” as horror villains, the sum total here is a pint-sized terror that packs a full-size wallop. Again, not to be missed.


8:45 p.m.

fast company poster

 Here’s one of those oft-spoken but seldom seen gems from Cronenberg’s early canon. Following along from “The Italian Machine,” we again return to one of his lesser obsessions — fast cars. In the book “Cronenberg on Cronenberg,” he speaks of obsessively subscribing to hot rod magazines as a pre-teen, learning everything there was to learn about motors and engines and the different ways they can be put together. He has also said that he’s had many different life-changing experiences; not just books or movies, but scientific discoveries and even driving certain high-performance cars. All life-changing, in their way. So, even if it’s mostly a by-the-numbers ’70s drag racing movie, it’ll be interesting to see what Cronenberg-specific details make their way in. And yes, as the pic below attests, there’s a bit of nude frolicking involving a can 10W-30. Get stoked.

(fun trivia: there will be no VHS simulcast of this film because “Fast Company” was the only one of Cronenberg’s early films to come out exclusively on Betamax! [No, I did not buy a copy {though I saw one on Ebay} and a Betamax player. I’m obsessive, but I have my limits.])


10:15 p.m.


I should hope I don’t need to tell you that this is one of the three or four films you MUST see by Cronenberg, if you haven’t already. An enormous hit on release (it even spawned several sequels and reboots, none of them by the original director) and a visually iconic movie of the ’80s. If you didn’t see the exploding head in the theater or on video, you probably heard someone talking about it on the playground. It’s just as rangy as you’d expect it is, and was accomplished by taking a balloon, filling it with animal entrails, and exploding it from behind with a shotgun. (A featurette about the special effects in Scanners will be shown a week from Sunday.) The rest of the movie is no slouch, either, a taut and compelling techno-thriller about the hunt for a new breed of mutated humans with dangerous telepathic abilities. It has a great soundtrack, great locations, a terrific story, and a bad-ass final showdown. (It also has some nice footage of vintage Canadian shopping malls, if that’s your thing.) NOT TO BE MISSED!


12:00 midnight


I’m hoping that something blows me away at this festival even more than Videodrome, but I seriously doubt it. Do I really have to sell this one to you? This is IT. Videodrome, man! C’mon! Simply the apogee of the VHS-era horror genre, and has the added bonus of being about VHS and underground horror and public access culture. It also has a fairly high-profile cast (James Woods, Debbie Harry), incredible special effects, and a nasty bite to it that leaves all predecessors in the dust. It also turns its cameras on its own fans, positing hardcore pornography and violence as almost cancerous agents to the human body. You won’t soon forget these images — the hand with the gun trying to poke through the skin-like TV screen, the fuzzy underground programs, James Woods’ gnarly stomach-fissure and his work with a bullwhip and a TV set. It’s fuzzy and ambiguous in all the best ways, and it’ll linger with you for ages and ages. It’s also the best of the early films at blurring the lines of what’s really happening and what might just be a dream or a hallucination. If you’ve seen it before, you already know this and want to see it again, either in a tight and shiny Criterion edition, or in a just-as-God-intended VHS variant. Starts at midnight, because it’s a Midnight Movie. TOP RECOMMENDATION.



Big budgets, big stars, big transformations

Videodrome‘s massive success lead to higher-profile work and much bigger budgets, but the animus that drives these films is still the same. Cronenberg still films in Toronto, still gives us visceral imagery, and writes his stories with more complex and ingenious plot lines than ever, whether adapting previous books or movies or creating his own. Last night was the best night, but Sunday has a lot going for it, too.

11:00 a.m.


The massive success of Videodrome raised Cronenberg’s profile significantly, and he was now being offered opportunities like this one, to direct with a bigger budget ($10 million), bigger stars (Christopher Walken), and with a story from the biggest writer of the time (based on a novel by Stephen King). The overt gore of the previous films is toned down here in favor of another Cronenbergian theme — psychic powers. Considered one of the better Stephen King book-to-film adaptations, it’s still kind of a low-key film in the Cronenberg universe, hence its early-Sunday start time.


12:45 p.m.


One of the best intersections between Cronenberg’s big-budget/high profile Hollywood hits and his queasy body-horror films. This time its Jeff Goldblum, clearly quite in love with his physique (check the left photo below), as a scientist who is a bit too eager to use his own biology in his studies of other organisms. I mean, I’ll stop here — whether you know the original from the ’50s or the Simpsons parody, you know the bones of the story. Once again, this had really wide distribution and a big budget, and I suspect that a lot of people expecting a fun, campy remake of the ’50s so-scurred-I-dropped-my-popcorn classic got more than they bargained for. 


2:20 p.m.


 Because I wanted to make this as complete as possible, I found a copy of Cronenberg’s episode of the weekly anthology show branded with the Friday the 13th name. It’s a good premise, this story — a fraudulent faith healer finds a magic glove that allows him to actually heal people. However, there’s a tradeoff: for each person he heals, someone else must die. Since it’s made-for-TV, I don’t know how explicit it’ll be allowed to get, but we’ll see. 

Friday the 13th2

3:05 p.m.


Another all-time classic, including a classic double performance from Jeremy Irons, who plays twin brothers who are also gynecologists. The impression of twin Ironses is achieved not just through excellent motion-capture work, but by Irons’ skill at creating two siblings who are identical physically but thoroughly contrasted emotionally. There’s drugs, double dealings, sexual role-swapping, and some truly horrifying gynecological instruments that you can see below, so tread lightly. Beyond all of that, though, we get a really nuanced and disturbing story, almost like a Phillip K. Dick novel of the ’70s, in which peoples’ perception of the world and themselves starts to blur through paranoia, drug use, and stress (I’m thinking “A Scanner Darkly,” especially). I found an out of print Criterion edition of this which all the internet fidelity nerds say is the cleanest and sharpest print of this you’ll see until a blu-ray happens.


5:00 p.m.

 Maniac Mansion1

I was told that Cronenberg directed an episode of this strange, short-lived, largely unfunny but apparently beloved Canadian sitcom starring Joe Flaherty and based very loosely on a computer game from the ’80s. But it’s not true — he just makes a cameo appearance. But I’m leaving it in, dammit, because as the icon says, it’s HELLA RARE!! (And I had to pay more than I wanted to to get it.) Also, I found a clutch of TV commercials Cronenberg filmed around this time, for what reason I don’t know. Watch a tycoon try to protect the Caramilk secret, a Nike shoe hatch out of a Alien-like egg pod, and the cleaning men of Ontario Hydro beg of you (BEG OF YOU!) to turn off the lights and electrical equipment at the end of your work day.




5:30 p.m.

Cronenberg doesn’t just film books — he seems to specifically go out of his way to film what are generally considered unfilmable books. In Cronenberg on Cronenberg, David mentions that his twin loves in his youth (apart from race cars) were literature and science, and that “William Burroughs, Henry Miller, and some of the people T.S. Eliot introduced to America” were his earliest loves. He wisely avoids a literal and “faithful” rendition (which he and others have said would cost hundreds of millions of dollars to be done right and would be banned in every country) in favor of a woozy, hallucinatory combination of elements of the book with highly fictionalized and altered details from the life of Burroughs himself. The fabulous Peter Weller plays Bill Lee, an exterminator in Tangiers who has gotten hooked on his own supply…of bug powder. The shifting realities are so pervasive through the film that it’s hard to know from step to step whether your foot is coming down on solid ground. It’s funny and creepy and it has great bug-riddled special effects and the soundtrack (by Ornette Coleman) kicks fucking ass… I mean really, it’s as good a Sunday blues chaser as you’re likely to find without resorting to Bug Powder.


7:30 p.m.


Closing the night on a film I kind of suspect nobody is going to stay for. Oh well…there’s one in every bunch. That said, what would make Cronenberg want to direct a film based on a 1988 play about the relationship between a French diplomat and a male-dressed-as-a-female Peking Opera singer? Is this an update of Crimes of the Future, in which gender roles and identifies are ever-shifting? Maybe! Come and find out. Your DVR can tape your Sunday night stories for you.

M Butterfly


Crash into the future, live in the past, game in another world

A bit of this and a bit of that as we channel J.G. Ballard, get jacked in video-game world, and untangle the filament-thin threads of memory and pain.

7:00 p.m.


Unfilmable book, part II. J.G. Ballard’s Crash is absolutely positively one of my favorite books of all time. I discovered it around the time this movie came out, but didn’t see the movie until much later. It’s really a masterful book. It’s clinical and precise and exacting and lurid without being leering or cheap. Ballard basically creates a fetish — people who are sexually aroused by the sight of, and being involved in, car crashes — out of whole cloth, and follows it down to its final, monstrous conclusions. It was written at a time when Ballard’s every new book seemed more extreme and stunning than the last (starting with Atrocity Exhibition and following through with Concrete Island and High Rise), creating a completely unique corner in the world of dark, exotic fiction — it would be misleading to call his work from this time “sci-fi.” And of course, Crash influenced so many Industrial bands, especially The Normal, whose song “Warm Leatherette” is one of those songs it’s impossible to cover poorly; I’ve heard five different renditions, including one by Suzi Quatro, and they’re all great.

Anyway, Cronenberg doesn’t stick strictly to the book, taking the case history feel of the book and translating it more into a linear story. The movie has its detractors, mostly Ballard fans who feel outraged on his behalf of some of the big changes in look or style, but Ballard himself heartily approved the final product, saying that it was everything he could have hoped for.

Because we’re all adults here, we’re watching the NC-17 version (the DVD includes a tamed-up R rated version), so don’t come crying to me.


8:40 p.m.

Arriving in theaters in the same year as The Matrix, critics tended to pit these two films against each other. Both deal with a “real” world and an artificial world achieved by technology. The Matrix is a more straight-ahead adventure story with a glossy sheen, state of the art CGI, and a taste for Chosen One mythology (and, of course, two piss-poor sequels). eXistenZ (man, that fucking spelling…) is Cronenberg, so of course it’s a lot more fleshy and pulsating. It’s dark and psychotropic and intellectually calculating and brooding. It has loads of great performances (Jude Law, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Ian Holm, Willem Dafoe) and it’s a great return to his most body-mutating style with the benefit of next-generation technology and of-the-minute obsession. You really ought not miss this.


10:30 p.m.
CAMERA [short]


A little 5-minute diversion, created for an anthology short-film collection. Story is based on a dream Cronenberg had about rapidly aging while watching a film in the theater.

10:37 p.m.


A dark-horse contender in the canon of best Cronenberg films. Snapping back from eXistenZ and its focus on the body surrounding the mind, Spider takes us into memory, mental illness, and childhood trauma, with one of Ralph Fiennes’ best performances ever. Based again on a novel (by Patrick McGrath), it’s just heavy and beautiful and intense, so stop pretending like you’re going to leave early tonight, dammit.



Violence of the body, violence of the mind, violence of the market, and violence of stardom

We start in full-on brutality mode with two of Cronenberg’s neck-breaking best, then put our clothes back on and talk it out before crashing the system and clawing our way to the top. Cronenberg’s latest films are a crazy-quilt, but still very much of a piece with his classic work. No downdrafts here.

3:35 p.m.


The first part of a diptych of films exploring very similar themes, namely the primal human impulse toward violence. Viggo Mortensen plays Tom Stall, a mild-mannered family man who becomes an overnight hero after violently confronting a robber in his diner. The act of violence brings him national attention and unwanted hero status, as well as the attention of some much more violent people who mistake him from someone they knew before. The man who made the split-second decision now must fight harder for his family and his life than he ever has. This is another violent tone-shift in Cronenberg’s work, in which all sci-fi, horror, and psychic undertones of scrubbed out in favor of a story about violence. And sex. Bit of sex.


5:10 p.m.


Another short created for an anthology collection called To Each His Own Cinema. Cronenberg plays the titular character, contemplating suicide by pistol while a pair of announcers provide color commentary. Unsettling, but maybe a bit corny?

5:20 p.m.


The other half of our diptych about violence. And tattoos. And the Russian mob. Again starring Viggo Mortensen. This one is a real gut-churner — check the image below. You’ve been warned.


7:00 p.m.

Huh. didn’t see that coming, did you? Following an afternoon of films all of which promise “Strong Brutal and Graphic Violence, some Graphic Sexuality, Language, and Nudity,” we get…a period piece based on the working relationship between Sigmund Freud (Viggo Mortensen again), Carl Jung (Michael Fassbender), and their star patient (Kiera Knightley), who wishes to become a doctor herself. Again, all of the tendrils in Cronenberg’s catalog of obsessions keep tying and re-tying themselves. All the way back to “Transfer,” his first short film in which a patient won’t stop following his shrink around, the psychiatric profession has fascinated him, and with movies about schizophrenia, psychic powers, and shifting interior worlds, maybe it’s less than surprising that he’d take it all the way back to its core. Still, if you’re waiting for someone to pull a strop razor or detonate someone else’s dome with brain rays, you’re going to be waiting a long time. This is all talking cure, all the time. Kiera Knightly does give a fairly heated performance as a patient being treated for “hysteria.” Also noteworthy for being one of the few Cronenberg films not to be shot in Toronto.


8:40 p.m.

Another novel adaptation, this time by my homey Don Delillo. One of Delillo’s late-period novels (2003), Cosmopolis is one of his shorter works (as they’ve all been after Underworld), taking place in one day in the life of Eric Packer, an obscenely rich asset manager who takes a limo across town to get a haircut. Structured loosely on Ulysses and predicting the rise of Occupy and the collapse of the Western economy, it’s not a half-bad book, if a bit slight in the Delillo corpus. Having read it just a few weeks ago, it’s fresh enough in my mind that I can image all of the touches Cronenberg will add to certain key scenes to make them his own. Of course, because I sort of knew who the cast was going in, I couldn’t see Eric Packer in my book-mind without imagining his screen equivalent, Head Vampire in Charge (HVIC) Robert Pattinson. Might not be for you, but I’m rooting for it to be good.


10:30 p.m.

Two more nasty little short films, basically promotional work for Cronenberg’s recently-released first novel, Consumed. The jump to print isn’t that surprising — Cronenberg on Cronenberg points out that he basically started out aspiring to be a novelist after switching to the sciences and before switching again to filmmaking. His treatment for Stereo was basically written as a novel in order to secure funding from an arts company that was more interested in print than film. Anyway, it’s a topless woman in a grotty examining room who thinks she has bugs inside her or something. I haven’t watched it yet.

10:45 p.m.

“Damn, Sienko,” you’re asking, “how’d you find this movie? I thought it just played at the Music Box for the first time two weeks ago??” You’re right, it did. But you’re going to get to watch it in my living room instead! (Thanks, UK!) Another hard-right-turn from our venereal horror man, this time a scalding attack on Hollywood and everything it represents, using his trademark body disfigurement and psychic breakdown to make visual the subtitle of Cintra Wilson’s book A Massive Swelling: “Celebrity Reexamined as Grotesque Crippling Disease.” Julianne Moore goes full-on terrifying for this one, along with Pattinson again, John Cusack, Olivia Williams, and Carrie Fisher as herself. What might seem on the surface to be a modern re-work of The Player is likely going to be a lot nastier and heavier. Unsurprisingly, it got no Oscar nods. 

Maps to the Stars


Documentaries, making-ofs, interviews, ephemera

The last day of any of these festivals ends with a day of going through the DVD supplements, featurettes, and special effects documentaries that come with each DVD. In addition, I found some rare TV appearances (Late Night with David Letterman, Canadian news broadcasts of Cronenberg on the red carpet, local TV interviews, Cronenberg self-spoofing appearances on Canadian sketch-comedy shows) and other weirdness. It’s all a bit too loosey-goosey to give you a full minute-by-minute rundown of what’s going to happen, but I’m sure you’ll have fun. And if you don’t, we can always put in Shivers on the VCR again.

1:00 p.m.

The first big career-wide documentary about Cronenberg, and still the one most people think of. Features interviews with Martin Scorsese, Stephen King, Jeff Goldblum, and critic Robin Wood.

And with that…


Dalton Minor & the Ladies of the Canyon

May 30, 2009


No, no, that’s a common mistake…you’re thinking of KAREN Dalton, the ’60s folkie with authentic Billie Holiday replica pipes under the hood and Fred Neil compositions in the glove box. This is KATHY Dalton. She had a record on Zappa’s label in the ’70s. No, DiscReet, the one after Bizarre/Straight, I think. Something about one-night stands. I know it’s not “Whiskey Bars and One-Night Stands” because that doesn’t rhyme, and the title rhymes, but it’s something like that. Just found it on Wednesday, only five bucks!

Kathy Dalton is the latest pin in the map of one of my favorite areas of musical geography, the ’70s female singer-songwriter genre. I’m not sure what vitamin deficiency suddenly manifested in my bloodstream, but about six or seven years ago, with no real precedent or reason given the rest of my musical tastes, I started getting really itchy to hear any records from Women On Their Own in the ’70s. All of a sudden, Joni Mitchell, Carole King, and Janis Ian were especially fascinating to me. Whether weirdly abstracted (Joni’s The Hissing of Summer Lawns, featuring the otherworldly “The Jungle Line,” played on Moog, acoustic guitar, and tapes of Burundi drumming), AM golden (Tapestry, duh), hide-the-razorblades depressing (I will gladly pit Janis Ian’s Between the Lines against ANY Jandek record you care to throw at me for uncut, 24-hour-suicide-watch depression), or just plain anemic (even the Muscle Shoals rhythm section just can’t inject much oomph into the iron-deficient vocals of Ms. Joan Carol Butler, but I’ll never sell it), it all sounded good. The sound, style, and frayed-nerve emotions of these tough ladies of mellow music really zonked me! Even now, as I feverishly attempt to fill in the gaps in my Crawl Unit collection, or squint my ears in hopes of decoding the threads of variation that differentiate assorted practitioners of Wall Noise, I still get mighty giddy when stumbling upon a confessional classic like Wendy Waldman’s Love Has Got Me, Bonnie Koloc’s After All This Time, or Teresa Trull’s femme-secessionist classic The Ways A Woman Can Be, in which the all-woman/all-lesbian production company really take the phrase “Sisters are doing it for themselves” to its impeccably-designed conclusion.

Obviously, the gingham dresses (or smart pantsuits), absurdly long and straight hair (or giganto poodle-fros) and soft-focus album covers evoke a comparatively innocent era of instant Sanka, hiding the therapy session bills from your husband, A-Frame houses in the Valley, and Mary Hartman as feminist hero, a time before Phillis Schlafly and took a riot hose to the ERA, and a time that feels, as my friend Eddie Flowers once put it, “like a comparatively saner era, unlike our present day, which resembles a William S. Burroughs novel.” But I don’t think I can lay thanks (or blame) purely at the feet of historical escapism.

There’s a toughness at work in these albums that is completely different from just-one-of-the-lads machoness of Suzi Quatro, Betty Davis, or The Runaways, but without being coy, male masturbatory fantasies like Olivia Newton John, Linda Ronstadt, or, well, The Runaways (all of which I love, don’t get me wrong). It may be maudlin, it may be pithy, but damn it, it’s real, and it’s homemade…except when it’s contrived and studio-glossed, and even then, it’s great!

The best part is that “female singer-songwriters of the ’70s” is not a strict genre classification, so my obsession can shuffle seamlessly between folk, country-rock, piano ballad, and L.A. “Mellow Mafia” pop morsels. Artifacts of this era can be found as far back as ’68 or ’69 (the title track from Joni Mitchell’s Ladies of the Canyon kind of sets the template, enough so that I’ve decided to appropriate the title to classify this loose conglomeration of women/styles/albums), and credible classics (or at least intriguing missteps) can still be found well into the ’80s (check out Janis Ian’s crazed handshake with techno-disco, 1983’s Uncle Wonderful), with Joan Armatrading proudly carrying the flag forward well into the era of Reagan/Thatcher. At which point, it seems like the roles for musical women further polarized into sexy-slinky or butchy-punchy in the style of Riot Grrl. No room left for a gal and her piano to bend your ear about last night’s mistake at the bar, and the stranger in her bed this morning.

Several times in last few years, I’ve seriously considered creating a really janky-looking Geocities web site under an assumed character name, a housewifey fan of this type music who has been listening since the ’70s, but just now set up a web page to talk about “all these great albums from when I was younger, back when I had less problems in my life,” and have her critique the albums as I find them. I think I was going to call her Lynn something-or-other. I’m not sure why I felt I needed a pseudonym to write about this music…I just thought it would just be funny. For now, this blog will suffice…truth be told, I don’t have time for costume parties these days, anyway.

There will be lots more on this subject, including copious reviews of individual albums, but until then, here’s an annotated Hot 10 to get you started. As you can imagine, you probably won’t have to pay much more than a tenner to pick up most of the entire list, and you’d probably have just as much luck finding these at your local Goodwill as any high-end record store.

1. Janis Ian, Between the Lines (Columbia, 1975)

This is the blueprint for the whole damn thing — the icy piano, the pristinely-recorded accompanists, melodramatic strings, songs of loneliness and alienation, somehow appropriated as music to do macrame to. Starting with a relatively upbeat number (“When the Party’s Over”…seriously, “When the Party’s Over” is the UPBEAT number here!), the album spirals quickly into a funnel of gloom, regret, and anxiety, starting with the alienated classic, “At Seventeen,” surely one of the most morose songs ever to make it onto the top 10 in the pop charts, right? My favorite is “In the Winter,” a fable of fears of impending spinsterism that includes a cruelly clammy encounter with an ex-:

I met your friend
she’s very nice, what can I say?
It was an accident
I never dreamed we’d meet again this way
you’re looking well
I’m not afraid.

You have a lovely home
just like a picture. No, I live alone
I found it easier
you must remember how
I never liked the party life
up all night, lovely wife
you have a lovely wife.

(And yes, I am aware that decisions in Ms. Ian’s life a few years later made the gender of the person being spoken to quizzical, but it in no way blunts the impact. So don’t hand me that smirk.)

We only get a spoonful of relief at the record’s closer, the elegiac “A Lover’s Lullaby,” a song that comes at a point when you pretty much need a shoulder to sob on, and possibly, a talking-down. I admit, I only came upon Ian’s music after her brilliant essay on file-sharing, which spurred me to pick up some of her early classics. I love that her brilliant career has had not only a second act (this album and the albums that followed throughout the ’70s and early ’80s), but something of a third one as well from the late ’90s/present, crafting her bitter anthems into a format that casts her as the matriarch for modern bile-spitters like Ani DiFranco (not my cup of tea, but I dig the fact that she and Janis are BFFs very much). Her recent autobio, Society’s Child, is very near the top of my to-read pile.

2. Joni Mitchell, Court & Spark (Asylum, 1974)

Sometimes, the obvious choice is the best choice, and with Joni, you don’t have to traverse the deep cuts or hard-to-find obscurities to hit gold. (Doing so will yield rich fruit, though: I highly recommend Hejira, The Hissing of Summer Lawns, and the double-live Shadows and Light for more spot-on ’70s Joni.) Blue is perhaps a more solid album from end to end, but this one gets the tone just right for the purposes of this list, from the smooth horns on “Help Me,” to the chooglin’ L.A. Express rock of “Raised on Robbery.” Plus, as anyone who’s ever tried to actually play a Joni Mitchell song can tell you, these deceptively straightforward hooks are girded on their undersides with all manner of stinging nettles and sharp barbs, so watch those wandering hands, fella.

3. Essra Mohawk, Primordial Lovers (Reprise, 1970)

Possibly the one album on this list you’ll have to spend more than a fiver to acquire on vinyl, due in part to her connection with Frank Zappa (she played in an early, pre-Freak Out! incarnation of the Mothers, and various legends contend that she was the first person to be named “Uncle Meat” by Frank, long before the album of the same name) and also to the relatively small copy run of this Reprise album. Rhino Handmade recently published an essential twofer pairing this one with her hit-and-miss third album, both of which are well worth your ears. (Her debut, recorded under her birth name Sandy Hurvitz, is titled Sandy’s Album is Here at Last! [Verve/Straight, 1967], and is recommended mostly for fanatics, Zappa or otherwise.) Most of the tracks are piano/vocal, with long, meandering, cyclical structures, and accompaniment ranging from sparse to overblown, conducted by Essra’s occasionally childlike, frequently feral vocal gymnastics. “I Have Been Here Before” was the partial inspiration for CSNY’s “Deja Vu,” and the countrified “Thunder in the Morning” was a “cheer up, honey” song for her then-lover Graham Nash, giving you a sense of whose coffee nooks she was using to scribble lyrics into a notebook in those days. She later went on to write “Change of Heart,” which was a huge hit for Cyndi Lauper in the 1980s (you might also remember her for her vocals on the Schoolhouse Rock! classics “Interjections!” and “Sufferin’ ’til Sufferage“). She also tried her hand at a new wave album in the mid-’80s which I will never sell, and you probably do not want (but should). The weird-girl-in-her-bedroom-vs-the-world vibe on this record, combined with its frequently shocking references to physically and emotionally-fulfilling sex (gasp! put the kids to bed before they hear!) make this record a hard act to follow.

4. Wendy Waldman, Love Has Got Me (Warner Brothers, 1973)

Bit of a left-fielder (seriously, Wendy who?), and maybe not as lyrically astute as any of the above (okay, DEFINITELY not as astute), but never fear: this album is a perfect, sunny little nugget of goofy-grin pop with mild musings about smart women making bad decisions in their choice of suitors (“Vaudeville Man,” for example). “Gringo en Mexico” is absurdly first-world (and yes, she pronounces it “Mehico”), but I love it just the same. “Train Song” has the type of sun-pouring-into-my-third-eye harmonies seldom heard outside the best albums by Saint Emmylou. The rest of her output’s got no flies on it, either.

5. Carole King, Tapestry (Ode, 1971)

I really, really, REALLY wanted to give this slot to Carole’s solo debut, Writer, mostly for its slightly rockier sound (thanks in part to the sizzly guitar of then-beau Danny “Kootch” Kortschmar on “Spaceship Races,” “Raspberry Jam,” and others) and its ramshackle, rough-around-the-edges sequencing. But I just couldn’t do that in good conscience. To ignore Tapestry is to ignore the 2000 lb. elephant in the room — an elephant in a loose-fitting cableknit sweater with a cat in the foreground. This record is straight-up unfuckwithable: “It’s Too Late,” (I realize that I’m the last person on the face of the planet to be an electric piano apologist, but seriously, the el. p. fills in the chorus are just SUMPTUOUS) “I Feel the Earth Move,” “You’ve Got A Friend,” “Smackwater Jack,” “So Far Away,” “(You Make Me Feel Like) A Natural Woman,” “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?” and on and on…anon anon anon. Ignore the 10 million who have bought this record before you, and pretend that you’re the first person on your block to own this. It might just set your puny mind on fire. (Alternate theory: I could be full of shit.)

6. Laura Nyro, Eli & The 13th Confession (Columbia, 1968)

As mentioned before, the form definitely got its start in the late ’60s, and lady Laura’s hot platter number deux hits all the right buttons several years before this style became an industry. You may know many of these tracks from charting versions by the 5th Dimension (“Stoned Soul Picnic,” “Sweet Blindness”), Three Dog Night (“Eli’s Comin'”) or Blood Sweat & Tears (“And When I Die”), but Laura’s got her own thing going, working both ends of the spectrum, both fussy perfectionist and skinny-white-lady-sings-great-big-gospel bawling, pretty much simultaneously. After a few more great albums in the early ’70s, she took a hiatus to raise a family, resurfacing in ’76 with Smile (more Joni-ish), up through the early ’90s, before dying of ovarian cancer in 1997. (Essential bookend volume: 1971’s New York Tendaberry, which is probably even more LOTC than this, but is a bit involuted and rococo as an introduction to Ms. Nyro’s work. As graduate-level LOTC studies, though, it’s worth 2 solid credit hours, one for each side.)

7. Bonnie Koloc, After All This Time (Ovation, 1971)

A local Chicago lesser-known who came up in the same coffeehouses as John Prine and Steve Goodman. Her debut contains an indelible image of Ladies of the Canyon-ism, Bonnie sitting in an antique armchair, decked out in a heavy peasant/folk-inspired muumuu, eyes closed in throes of moderate ecstasy, gray light coming through heavy drapes, surrounded by potted ferns, antique lamps, and a shaggy dog (probably named Boo, or possibly Sinclair). My girlfriend says it reminds her of every image in the book Our Bodies, Ourselves that isn’t a drawing of a uterus. I think it looks like a conscious attempt to take the visual motif of Tapestry and amplify it to the next level of the absurdly womblike. Heavier curtains! More comfy furniture! A cuddlier pet! Comfier clothing! The weather outside is more grim! Bonnie is too deep in contemplation to even look wearily at you! The inside cover paints another picture, the band (plus a young child) giving off that “desperate hippie enclave” vibe I usually associate with edge-of-towners like Amon Duul, MC5, or Ya Ho Wa 13 (albiet with more clothes and less shotguns). Starting with the roiling psychedelic opener “Don’t Leave Me,” the album simmers down quickly into less occult waters, including a song called “Jazz Man” that’s totally different from the song which would later become a hit for both Carole King and Lisa Simpson. Bonnie would later have a local hit in “You’re Gonna Love Yourself in the Morning,” a sunny ode to the one-night-stand (?) without shame or regret, doing for it what Altman’s California Split does for gambling — both are morality fables where the moral of the story is “try it, you’ll like it!” (Released on the Glenview, IL-based Ovation Records, a classy bunch if ever there was…all their albums were pressed in Quad!)

8. Maggie & Terre Roche, Seductive Reasoning (Columbia, 1975)

Best known at the time as Paul Simon’s backup singers on There Goes Rhymin’ Simon, these two Roche sisters later added younger sister Suzzy, amping up their (last-)name recognition in the late ’70s and setting the bar high for ambitious dorks with vocal harmonies from a land far beyond our comparitively tin-eared one. This record keeps the sexual tension, but roots it in a country-rock framework with a more standard ’70s presentation. Less jokes, more heart, and more ache. No Robert Fripp interjections here, but at the same time, you get far fewer faux-Andrews Sisters moments, either, so it balances out. “Telephone Bill” is a favorite (and is no relation to Bootsy Collins’ “What’s A Telephone Bill?”).

9. Ellen McIlwaine, We The People (Polydor, 1973)

Ellen’s flowing red tresses fill the field of the album cover, her face downcast in some sort of serious contemplation (the farm problem, the afterlife, how much bourbon was really in those “doubles” last night). Most of the Ladies in this canyon play either acoustic guitar or piano, and Ellen’s no different. She plays guitar. But man, she PLAYS guitar! A short-time mentee of Jimi Hendrix (she claims she was more influenced vocally than instrumentally), Ellen’s hyperkinetic slide work gets a bit much at times, as do her constant post-verse vocal interjections, especially recurrances of phrases like “yes I do!” or “no I won’t!” to reinforce something she said in the verse. But it hardly matters when they’re harnessed to the service of ripping through a cover of Jack Bruce’s “Never Tell Your Mother She’s Out of Tune,” which transform the original’s convoluted riff into a propulsive, streamlined equivalent (avec cowbell) that makes the song feel like a funky streetcar thundering off the tracks down a hill in San Francisco. Also, a few instrumental tracks showcase McIlwaine’s jaw-dropping slide work and vocal interjections in a seriously in-the-pocket way, especially the opener, “Ain’t No Two Ways About It (It’s Love)” and the omomatopoeic “Sliding.” When it works, it works, and when it doesn’t, it’s pretty overdone (“I Don’t Want To Play”). Bonus: a capella take (with The Persuasions!) on the gospel standard “Farther Along,” and a seriously locked-down rendition of  “Everybody Wants To Go To Heaven (But Nobody Wants To Die)” that just kills. Oh, and lest you think I’m stretching the boundaries of my own personal canyon to absurdity, I promise you that tracks like “All To You” and “Underground River” provide this album with ample mellow, contemplative, moody faire. Whatever, man, don’t sweat it — sometimes just undulate in the kitchen isn’t going to cut it. Sometimes, a lady’s just gotta be like Jazz Jermaine and go downtown to DANCE!

10. Teresa Trull, The Ways A Woman Can Be (Olivia Records, 1977)

She smiles a toothy smile. She holds a spotty dog. And inside, she introduces us to “The Olivia Records Collective,” a women-run organization that attmpted to make recording facilities, graphic design, and record distribution available to other sisters in the community. And don’t think me flippant with that out-of-vogue piece of terminology…The Ways A Woman Can Be is spilling out on all sides with sisterhood, with tracks like “Sister I Love You,” “Woman-Loving Women,” and “Don’t Say Sister (Until You Mean It).” And man, do I mean it! Everything about this record, EVERYTHING, is a treasure. The band is shit-hot, and every style, from pop-rock choogle to rim shot-heavy, percolating ballads hit all the right spots, both inside and outside (and underside!). Most songs have rousing backup chorus vocals (presumably some or all of the “Olivia Records Collective” joining in during coffee (light with sugar) breaks), and a lot of good feelings in its lean 34 minute playing time.  A certified jam.

One modern classic that is firmly “in the tradition”:

1. Azita, Life on the Fly (Drag City, 2004)

I refuse to stop quarreling with Blastitude‘s Larry Dolman about which is the better Azita album, this or her debut. I know he might be qualitatively right, but I stand my ground here. Empress Youseffi has made her love of Steely Dan and their influence on her music plain, but there’s more at work here than just Becker and Fagan…I hear flecks of Essra Mohawk’s lurchy angst, Laura Nyro’s intellectual defiance, and Janis Ian’s bags-under-the-eyes world-weariness on both this album and Enantiodromia, her debut. The instrumentalists flash their stuff throughout these often-convoluted choruses and strange structures, creating both snapping pop and convoluted, rather prog-like sequences, with Azita’s pinched, nasally vocals dancing on tip-toes through the minefield of changes. One of the few CD-era albums that must be had/heard on vinyl; it just feels so right.

Most honorable mentions: Bonnie Raitt (pre-’80s), Karla Bonoff, Phoebe Snow, Rickie Lee Jones, Carly Simon, Jessi Colter, Joan Armatrading, Joan Carol Butler, Mary MacGregor, Cyndi Grecco, Dana Gillespie, The Roches. Honoraries to Maria Muldaur and Mary Kay Place, even though they were more “interpreters of the canyon” than anything. All will be revealed soon.

Oh yeah, the Dalton LP. How is it? It’s pretty good! I find myself playing the last track on side one, “A Light That Shines,” over and over. An upbeat, anthemic number with a background “la la la la” chorus that makes me think of vintage Coca Cola commercials for some reason, with Dalton’s vibrato-heavy croon waxing majestic, reminding me of Bonnie Koloc before she smoothed it out in hopes of a big AM hit.

My Top 10 poses for a group shot, Azita bemusedly standing off to one side of the group:

Ladies of the Canyon - Group Shot

Coffee Made Me Do It

May 24, 2009

That’s my story, and I’m stickin’ to it.