CHUD.com - A Movie Website and SO MUCH MORE. - Blogs

DD: On Being Applauded

no@spam.com (Andre Dellamorte) — Sun, 20 Sep 2009 00:00:00 EDT

Okay, all I care about is movies, dancing, fucking and drinking. Oh and writing. I've gone on and on about this before. I fear that I become redundant. Because though I might watch a ton of movies a week, each film offers its own commentary. Whereas dancing isn't something that one can talk too much about. You either get it or you don't.

I am good at it, though. I know this because people tell me this. I go to the Short Stop. The Short Stop is owned by (among other people) Greg Dulli. I had never met him before Wednesday. Wednesday night I showed up and ran in Joe, who is one of the Stop's biggest regulars, Justice the bouncer, and Terrell, the manager. I showed up around 10:30, because the Kogi BBQ truck was going to be parked a block and a half away. In Los Angeles there's a number of taco trucks, but Kogi's has distinguished itself by being a Twitter phenomenon. They post where they're going to be on Twitter, and usually there's a crazy line around it. They use Korean barbecued meats and foodstuff (like Kim-chi) in their tacos and burritos to make some interesting taste combinations. Bottom Line: The shit's delicious. And such is why people like Gwyneth Paltrow have brought the truck to the set of Iron Man 2, etc. I've talked it up to my friends at the Short Stop, but most of the gang hadn't been there before.

Justice was drunk. He had been there since the afternoon, because there was a Dodger game, and the bar is right near the stadium. Justice told me that during the course of the day one guy started flashing his sheriff's badge. Joe started going on about how he didn't know that cops were allowed back in the bar. I've always had a fascination with the Biggie/Tupac killings, and am fascinated by the tangential elements. What I didn't know is that when the Rampart scandal went down, it was The Short Stop where the tapes were made that implicated a lot of cops. Such may explain why for a couple of years there was no dancing at The Short Stop. Cops were barred from the Short Stop, but I guess that got lifted. There's always cops driving by at night, but such is life. I am intrigued that a number of the people I dance with are cops. It's sort of like a secret identity.

So a whole group of us walk over to the truck, including Terrell, who've I've become friendly with, and he'd never had Kogi's before. Justice was a bit pickled, so he kept saying he had no money, and no one would step up to say "hey, I'll cover you" until I finally did. As we head over Greg Dulli shows up with a musician friend, and I look at him with that "that must be the guy" eyes but I wasn't totally sure, as I was never an Afghan Wigs fan. As a reg at The Short Stop, everyone who doesn't go to the club likes telling me that Dulli owns the joint. I talked mostly to the musician friend of his about burgers in LA, and the Apple Pan and Umami's came up. I was hearing a lot of talk three months ago about Umami's, and it is fucking delicious, and it is one of LA's best burgers. Supposedly they're opening a new joint on Vermont St. in Los Feliz. If that's the case, I may make it a weekly stop. LA has a weird, kind of awesome foodie culture. Justice, drunk, puts me in a headlock and tells Greg that I'm one of his best customers. This is funny because I generally don't drink whilst at the Stop. Or at least not that much. Greg asked if I came on Sundays, I told him yeah, that I was often there for Soul Sundays as it was often my favorite night. He told me I was an inspiration, to which I responded "You mean like a lifetime movie of the week?" To that I smiled but in that way where I tried to show that I was happy to get the compliment. Terrell decided to buy everyone everything, which was nice, and Joe ordered two burritos, but Justice, in his state, told Joe that he was taking his second burrito. And he did. And such was life. I had to order for both Justice and Joe, who wanted the chef's choice. I got them the Pork and Beef burritos. I hope Justice got on of each. Hard to know. At one point Justice said I was his nigger. As one of the whitest people who aren't albinos, I was delighted to say "yes, I am your nigger" to a group.

Last night I went out again. Such is my life. I showed up around 10:20. I stopped at Ralph's beforehand to get an energy drink and some beer for later. As I was driving to the club, I had that 50/50 "Do I want to go out" feeling. The Short Stop has the Lord of the Rings pinball game. I often carry change with me so I can play it. I played three times last night, winning one replay, which made me feel good.

I came to the dance floor. I went over and saluted the DJ's, as I have to. Tonight is Sunday, and I am probably staying home. The DJ Dia will notice that I am not there, and if I go next week will mention it. I will feel bad about missing tonight, mostly because Sunday has the best boobs-to-wiener ratio. But I was out Friday and Saturday, and I didn't get to bed last night until 5:30 in the morning. I hit the floor after my pinball, and there was a girl who I could tell wanted to dance. The floor was empty, but the tables around the floor were mostly filled. The bar was not full crowded, but it was a person deep. I like to look around before I get going. If there's nobody there I generally won't hit the floor by myself because I'm pretty much doomed to cut the rug alone. But if I can tell that there's enough people that if I start dancing by myself, then I know two songs later, the floor will pick up. And I have no problem dancing by myself. I can use the whole floor to my advantage.

Side note: Girls dancing by themselves can be hella slutty and often don't want other people on the floor. Men dancing by themselves - no matter how lascivious the dancing may get - either come across as confident or gay. Maybe it's just from my perspective as a dude. Because of this, I want to enact the musical number from Purple Rain, when Prince does Darling Nikki. If I were to writhe on the floor, I think people would be amused. I know I would be.

Oh yeah, on Friday Anderson Cooper shot an interview with Drew Barrymore at The Stop. I was hoping both would hit the floor at some point, but that didn't happen. Neither are my type, though.

Anyway, around 10:30 last night, I looked at this girl, and she wanted to dance, and I wanted to dance, and so I hit the floor, and so did she. We danced around each other, giving each other shit in that playful way that happens on the floor. The performance aspect. When the floor is not that full, I get into walk around it, dancing around it. Strutting. Getting full peacock.

That reminds me, on Friday night some girl was totally grinding on me, and all that, and we dance together a couple of times during the night, then at the end, she told me we had met before, and was actively annoyed that I didn't remember her. Yeah, sorry. Note to self: Attractive women don't like not being remembered.

Anyway, at the end of the song applause broke out. I looked around and riled the audience, smiled, bowed and flicked the "come out here" hand to those around. I realized that I wasn't surprised that I inspired applause. This has happened before. Today I thought about this. When do adults get applause? Post high school, it's quite possible that there's a high percentage of the population who never get people to clap at them again. Basically, you have to be put in a position that requires a group of people to look at you. I think that sort of reaction is why I love to go out dancing. It's an addiction. People respond to me in a usually positive light. So that affirmation is definitely something I like/crave.

My friend Nayla showed up around midnight. I am blond. She is blond. We're both very Nordic. She's a good dancer, together - if we were on Solid Gold - we'd be the Aryan Nation dancers (reruns for my twitter peeps). We went to the bar after a bit, and the bartender bought us our drinks, because - as Justice calls me - I'm the firestarter. This was awesome because Nayla is a woman, and it's nice props, though my favorite was a week ago when Justice called my name on the dance floor, and brought me over a shot. Nayla and I talked for a bit, about Michael Jackson and movies and such. I hadn't thought about it before, but my opinion on Michael Jackson molesting children is that I think MJ was a fucked up dude, and though there may have been nudity and touching, I don't really think it was malicious. I think Michael Jackson regressed at some point, and young children have a more exploratory attitude toward sexuality. I'm not saying that what Michael Jackson didn't do inappropriate things, and hell, he may have fucked little boys, but I also think he was doomed.

Nayla and I hit the floor some more, and at some point a guy was just on her back. I grabbed her and kept repositioning her to get her away from the dude, who was not taking the hint. There was a guy earlier who said to me "Your girlfriend is fucking gorgeous" which is half rude, but you have to take it and hope they leave you alone. There is a level of inappropriateness and ignored social signals, that when avoided either lead to violence or awe. I didn't want to have to tell this guy "back the fuck off" but both Nayla and I were laughing so hard that it was hard to get my ire up. Then, after I repositioned Nayla a number of times, the guy talked to her, telling her that he was a Mormon and wanted to take her to church tomorrow, and then to the Lobster fest. Crossing the line into awesome. Nayla and I took it to last call. I bet I could have stayed there after close, but I want to call that card when it's worth calling.

DD: On Being Critical

no@spam.com (Andre Dellamorte) — Wed, 09 Sep 2009 00:00:00 EDT

This has come up a number of times. Often with people I know more than on the boards, but such is life. People think I'm super, super critical.

When this happens, I think about it, I reflect on it, and I question my own critical nature? Am I too negative, am I just being a dick? Perhaps because I have a critic's mind, I wrestle a little with this criticism, especially when it's delivered by people I respect, or have to deal with on a regular basis. I hate the idea that my opinions are dismissed simply because I don't find a lot of things that great. Though some critics don't get to a second draft, and shooting from the hip is part of the deal. I often find myself having conversations in my head, playing chess with ideas. I think part of this comes from being a writer. I find it sort of pretentious to suggest even that much, but I think it's fair to say I write, and there's a difference between being someone who does some typing and expresses an opinion and being a writer. Some might argue semantics, but there you go.

(To understand my thoughts on what it means to be a writer, please see David Foster Wallace's E Unibus Pluram: Television and U.S. Fiction. And so, by that, I admit a level of pretension. I have thought enough about writing to reference something most people haven't read, but also something by a dead writer. Such is life.)

I generally don't spend a lot of time addressing this concern of being highly critical, as I see no point to it. There is the personal reaction to things, the popular wisdom associated with a thing, and the long term. And, to a certain extent, the long term has been screwed. If you look at the IMDb's top ranked films, well... yes, it's not a bad list, but it's a populist list. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But the IMDb is a recent phenomenon which will surely be modified and changed through history, which lower certain films standings that are overly inflated by the immediate. We've also crossed the 100 year threshold of cinema, and expecting people to know the history in its entirety is beginning to be a fool's errand. Some films are gone (though not that many), and some films will never have champions, whilst some films will remain in the pop consciousness for decades because they have been codified as great. Wizard of Oz is a very strange movie, but for a generation of now, it's hard to remove the ember that encases it, just as is the case with a lot of films of that era. Citizen Kane, etc. They have been so long championed and appreciated that it's possible that their very acceptance is such that it's common nature. And the goal of anyone should be to have both a learned perspective when watching these movies, but also a sense of fresh eyes.

I have said this before, and I will surely say it again, the two critics who taught me the most about film were Pauline Kael and Joe Bob Briggs. Kael taught me that passion is everything. You don't have to read too many of her 80's reviews to see how the decade was wearying for her, but when you read a review of a film when she is engaged, it soars. And she taught me that films are like fucking, and if you love it, you better moan in pleasure for those around you. When Kael had a film orgasm in print, your fingers can tremble reading her prose. Joe Bob Briggs taught me the second most important rule of criticism: You have to judge a film for what it is, not what you want it to be, and if it succeeds on those terms, then it is good. I recently had the pleasure of seeing Dave Parker's THE HILLS RUN RED, and rather enjoyed it, because it was a slasher movie made for a limited budget. I had a great time with it, because the film knew what it was and it delivered on its premise with a level of wit. Such is why films like Wrong Turn 2, or Bloodsport can be like mother's milk. That doesn't mean a film can't exceed expectations, and when they do (arguably those films do), when they take it to the next level, then you can have a transcendent genre work. But most cinema is genre trappings, especially of the Hollywood variety. And there's nothing bad about enjoying a genre film that works on the level its intended to. It's just so much easier for to make apologies for the cheap and well intentioned than the expensive and flawed. Call it a class thing, but I feel you should save your best intentions for those who have only limited means to work with than Hollywood product, and such gets me in trouble.

And that I think is one of the critical differences between being a critic of some sort, or a scholar, or a filmmaker, and being a general movie goer. I don't watch films for escapism. Or at least, that's not the only reason. I watch films to get something, hopefully unexpected, or at least the sum of its parts. I will settle for craft, which is why I like something like Deep Blue Sea, though I can't imagine intentionally throwing it on again. It took me ten years to watch Eyes Wide Shut again, but not because I disliked it, whereas there were a number of films from ten years ago I had seen numerous times that left a much smaller impression.

But then it gets interesting. I do not like Boogie Nights. This has been discussed ad naseum, but I have reasons for not liking it, jut as I have for not being truly impressed with Paul Thomas Anderson until There Will Be Blood. TWBB is a masterpiece, and I felt the man had that in him. But that was the first film of his where he didn't feel the need to indulge himself at the expense of story, and fully ruminated on his characters to create something that more rounded. That said, even though I found Magnolia to be insufferable (it reminds me of Peter Biskind's description of Bob Raeflson's Head, in that it's a young man's stab at saying something whilst having nothing to say or express) Anderson is obviously a talent. I can't stand The Life Aquatic, but there's no denying Wes Anderson's craft. It just felt like re-runs. But on some sort of cosmic scale, I would argue that I was happier to suffer through Magnolia than enjoy the pleasant craptitude of Deep Blue Sea, because I don't think I've thought about the latter, but I can still argue why I don't like the former. And that's why a filmmakers history is important. You might forgive early efforts from people like Kevin Smith, or Robert Rodriguez, but if they don't develop their skills, than those apologies for initial awkward craft mean nothing.

On to the modern blockbuster. I am not opposed to these things, nor am I an Armond White type. I don't care what other people think. That said, though I don't actively root against films like Iron Man, The Dark Knight, or Star Trek, I can see what works and what doesn't. Iron Man has a fairly terrible third act, punctuated by a scene where Gwyneth Paltrow has to psyche out Jeff Bridges. There are no stakes to that scene, and the conclusion is not set up as narratively satisfying, which is the problem with two machines clobbering on each other. We are in the final act, and we know the conclusion by the nature of the title. and yet I like that film okay because Robert Downey Jr. delivers such an entertaining performance that I look forward to the sequel. I just don't plan to watch the original again. The Dark Knight introduces two boatloads of characters we've never met before to raise the stakes, and has a fairly pedestrian action set piece in its conclusion. Though I love Christopher Nolan, and walked out of the film jazzed, I have to say I've fallen asleep twice during the third act at home. It's a good film, but masterpiece? Not on your life. Memento remains Nolan's greatest film, though I have a soft spot for The Prestige.

Star Trek is an even stickier wicket for a number of reasons. I get why people like it, and I respect that. But the film doesn't advance the ball at all. The new Star Trek is about resetting the universe with new characters, but the same characters we know and love who have all the same catchphrases. What was accomplished by its makers was lensflare, and reminding why you liked these guys in the first place, while resetting them for new adventures. This get complicated because, obviously, films like Ghostbusters 2 and hordes of other requel, sequel, prequel films have failed at recapturing any magic of their predecessors. I get that. My problem is that the filmmakers only set about to do that, and did so by the skin of their teeth (there was a lot of post time on the film, and it seems to have served the film well, as the narrative is shit). Is it mean of me to acknowledge that some dialog seems to have come about because of a different draft, or to suggest that the villain's motivation, plan, the whole magilla kinda sucks? Is it also assholish to suggest that settling for shitty movie means that we will only see more of the same? I say all of this while knowing that every single Next Generation Star Trek film was and is terrible, and worse than JJ's film. I get into controversy because my favorite of the bunch is Insurrection, and only that because it's the only one that punches its weight class. So the Abrams Star Trek is good at best, but less than the sum of its parts. McCoy is great, and it's great that Karl Urban does a good McCoy, but this McCoy shows up, lets us know who he is, and acts like old McCoy. Slightly different Kirk and Spock settle into their old roles. People have said they don't understand how I can describe this as a pilot, but what a pilot does it put characters in place for their furthering adventures. When the film ends with everyone on the bridge ready to do what we know they're going to do, how is that not pilot-esque? I've raised this question before, but no one's suggested to me how I'm wrong. i've described it as an act, and the movie reminds me of the first episode of Eastbound and Down, how it establishes the characters, their relationships, and then sets them up for their further adventures. That's what I got out of this. I would love to know how I misinterpreted this film, if I did. And that's honest, I love to hear new perspectives on things.

But, also, when it comes to this, I feel it's fair to say I've seen more movies than the average bear. Shit, outside of old critics, Martin Scorsese and Quentin Tarantino, I'd argue I'm of a rare lot. I thought that wouldn't be the case, that there would be more movie mad people like me, but most people stop, and don't keep going. In some ways, the worst part of living in LA is that video stores aren't as much a part of the life style. Netflix is the way to go, I guess. But even with Netflix, I don't think that many people bother with Lola Montes, Partner, The Long Goodbye, Ball of Fire, etc. etc. The Apu trilogy. And for that, when I see a film that is slightly above mediocre, that delivers on its premise, it's hard for me to go buck wild about a film like The Hangover, which is inarguably successful at what it does, and gets by on craft. And I respect craft. On some level I was more excited by Land of the Lost, which took chances, and made transgressions. I saw both opening weekend, did expectations play a part? Maybe. But I can't get too excited about films that manage to live up to certain expectations. Transformers 2 is the most successful film of the year and has a lot of robot fighting, but the story is garbage, and few scenes actually build on the next. Where a film like District 9 succeeds by being slightly bigger than the sum of its parts, whilst also not having a very deep metaphor at its center. I like the latter a lot, but acknowledging that it's drawn from the treatment of blacks in South Africa as its central thesis, while using it for a genre exercise is fair. It's stile excellently crafted. Up will probably be in my top ten of the year, but I wish that there hadn't been the end credit montage without the passing of the main character, as showing the passage of time at that point would suggest that Carl would be comfortable with his own death, as should the narrative. Talking about small things that tweak you, or what have you is never an out and out dismissal, the problem is that mitpickery on the Internet, along with contrarian takes, have become so commonplace, and often misguided attempts at getting attention.

One of the best things I've participated in at CHUD was the You've got it All Wrong lists, partly because I love the idea of taking on sacred cows. Not that the Internet leaves many. But the idea of someone putting forth an argument to why a film is loved or loathed for the right or wrong reasons, if that thesis holds water, is one of the great parts of criticism. I have never always agreed with anyone. And I never want to. I think that goes to the Boogie Nights thing. I love to argue about it. I didn't like Raging Bull for a long time, until I saw it uncased from amber, until I saw it as a black comedy/tragedy. Once I saw that I could love the film. And I will admit my opinion of that film has changed. and I love that it has. Because I always saw merit in it. But that's the difference. The difference between something worth struggling with, and pepperoni pizza.

Dellamorte's Dugout: The Polanski Defense

no@spam.com (Andre Dellamorte) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 00:00:00 EDT

John McCain has been defended for doing a lot of things because of his five and half years in a prison camp. He cheated on his first wife numerous times, and then married a beer heiress. When Colmes compared John Edwards affair to McCain's, Hannity's response was "Don't you know he was a POW?" When accused of cheating "Don't you know he's a POW? Why would he cheat?" When accused on not remembering how many house he owns "Well, there's was a five and a half year period where I didn't have a home, or a kitchen table."

I'm not making any of this up. This is what he and his surrogates have said.

Roman Polanski survived the holocaust. lost his mother in Auschwitz. Spent the years in a ghetto, and then sleeping in a cattle stall as forced labor. After he moved to America, his wife, Sharon Tate, and unborn child were murdered by Charles Manson. A couple years later he had sex with a minor, may have raped her.

We are dealing with apples and oranges here. Though, that said, McCain cheated on his wife a number of times, so you can longer call it a crime of passion. But you can say he was in a bad emotional place, just as you can Polanski.

But who forgives Polanski? Could someone tell me how they can support McCain and not feel that Polanski got a raw deal? And if you suggest that surviving something horrific is a way to forgive smallish or largish things, how then does Polanski weigh in this moral judgement. I have no idea.

Dellamorte's Dugout: Fuck You, Chewbacca!

no@spam.com (Andre Dellamorte) — Sun, 29 Jun 2008 00:00:00 EDT

The short list of technological terms to understand going out dancing:

10:45 PM: The perfect time to show up at The Short Stop (for me). The line out front (which I can shank regardless, regardless) is never that bad, the DJ is just getting ready to hit his stride, and I'm usually going to get at least a song or two to which I can get down on it in full showcase mode. Coleman Francis, my nerdy but attractive Red Zone Cuba friend will often share the floor with me at this time.

1 AM: The moment the dance floor gets to maximum skeezy. Though this can happen earlier (Friday night it started around 11:30), generally around one men start realizing they have less than an hour to put themselves in a position to take someone home.

1:35 AM: If a girl wants to get fucked, she will throw herself at you around this time. Subtlety is out the window at this hour. If she wants a dick, she might want yours.

Binary: one or zero is the binary system, to which all coding is done. It is also the yes/no to which I spend all night judging every single woman I see as a single man.

Chewbaccas: Tall guys with no sense of rhythm. See also 99.5% of all tall guys. The problem with them is that they're usually so used to being the only tall people in their universe (hence, Chewbaccas) that they will raise their arms up and use them while dancing. The problem is twofold. One, using the arms as they do emphasizes the fact that they have co-ordination problems (hands up is good for moments when songs say shit like "throw your hands up"). And, even worse, two: when there are other tall people around (such as myself) the idea of hands/fists being thrust about with no great sense of co-ordination coming near one's face turns a dance floor into an obstacle course. I was concerned this evening that if one Chewbacca hit me in the face, I would have to punch him in the face, and get kicked out.

Circle, The: When a group of friends come to a dance club, they often start a circle. There are a number of reasons for this, but primarily it's not about being good at dancing, and therefore, allowing "ironic" dancing to take center stage, or - even worse - breakdancing. The problem with this is that the circle will often take up valueable dance flor space with negative space, which is frustrating when it starts getting crowded. The problem also is that a lot of people who are the dance floor are happy - delighted even - any chance they might have to not dance. But for those who want to dance, the circle represents the least attractive part of going out dancing.

Ginger Mountain: A tall redheaded woman.

Personal Space: something that gets treated with less and less respect as the night goes on. I am a very tall man, with enough weight to theoretically pose a threat to people's safety. I will use a strong arm to back people off if I feel uncomfortable. There are two sides of this coin. Women and men. When dudes crowd, I assume drunkenness, and a strong arm comes into play, or the reduction of movement to nothing. But with women, the dance floor is what it is. If a girl keeps backing herself into me, I must assume that she is comfortable wih my penis conceivably rubbing against her backside, and in that interaction becoming possibly stimulated. I always give this the "one accident" test. Or, that is to say, there is nothing more than contact until the appropriate time has passed until the act can be nothing but pre-meditated. That said, one can plant one's feet and not take up much more space than the box o which one creates with one's feet. If you can move without moving you feet.

Reggae: Either warm up or cool down music. Basically, Reggae is not great for dancing, but it can either get things going, or slow them down. If it's 12:30 and you get a half hour of reggae, you got fucked metaphorically.

Tonight, there was a bad Chewbacca, and the floor was crowded early. At least there was no circle, but the Binary was bad from the get go, and by the end of the evening, te personal space became overwhelmingly awful.

DD: Dellamorte Remembers... Batman (1976)

no@spam.com (Andre Dellamorte) — Fri, 27 Jun 2008 00:00:00 EDT

Fascism is a subject that seems to plague Clint Eastwood in his crime films. Or perhaps it's the specter of Dirty Harry that hangs over his Bruce Wayne. It's hard to say. But it's also impossible to think Sam Peckinpah would have cast Eastwood if it weren't for Callahan, and it's impossible to think that Eastwood would be willing to work with the director of Straw Dogs if he didn't understand that there were some kinky aspects to his most famous lawman.

Then again, calling Eastwood Bruce Wayne in Peckinpah's version of Batman is almost unfair. Gone from this mid-70's film are the euphoric bam's and pow's, the psychedelica of the television version (all the drugs seem to have been kept behind the camera), gone are Alfred, Robin, the bat-signal, and virtually everything that made the kid's version (though this version is perversely cut to a PG) so much fun. Indeed, Eastwood makes his leather mask (mixed with his rough, leathery visage) into something akin to a fetish show. And I wouldn't put it past Peckinpah to play up the S and the M of a character who deals out vigilante justice.

One wonders if Peckinpah, who loved his alcohol and was no stranger marijuana, spent a day or two running Two Lane Blacktop and Vanishing Point in a 48 hour marathon while on a peyote high. That's really the only explanation for his fusion of his macho aesthetics with - what amounts to - a car movie. And that's the amazing thing about the film, and what Peckinpah brought to the mythos: so much of Batman's masculinity, so much of his (dare I say) drive is tied into his car.

The film starts with a scene in a pool hall. Three roughnecks (two seem to be stuntmen, with Jamie Sanchez playing the lead) harass a group of women when Batman shows up and we enter slo-mo city. They have knives, but this Batman (with no real tricks up his sleeve) is a born brawler. That doesn't stop him from breaking a bottle over one of the stuntman's head's in a shot that is amazing for cutting from one angle of slow motion to another slow-mo overhead shot (running the same speed) as the bottle disintegrates. The cadence of action was never more heightens when Peckinpah was let loose, but - sadly - the early sections show more care, as Bloody Sam was removed from the editing of the final two reels. When Batman finally beats the crap out of the three guys, he looks at the women with a vacuous stare. One wonders if Peckinpah cribbed from the Anna Christie/Greta Garbo school of blankness/the Kuleshov effect. I wouldn't doubt it. The credits then play over Batman listening to a cop radio mix with Quincy Jones's score.

I should stop for a second. Peckinpah was fairly public about his disappointment that he was denied Jerry Fielding yet again, but there's no complaining about Jones's work here. Not to stretch too much here, or whatever, but the film is discordant in so many ways; this would be no one's dream Batman project - even if such an amazing team as this was assembled - and you can see why they let Burton go lighter when they decided to rejigger the whole thing 13 years later. But the funky soundtrack (that out funkifies Lalo Shiffrin) adds to the outer-space disconnect of Eastwood's Batman prowling. Only in the last moments of the film does Eastwood ever take off the costume (and then only to lie down and go to sleep at 7 am in his nice home), so calling this picture a dream-state fugue-piece is applicable, and when applied to the sensibilities of the violence (and the lack of much blood) helps the picture along, even if it may be overcompensation on my part.

It's only after the extended (six minute) credit sequence that we are introduced to Bo Hopkins's Joker. A street thug with an oddness that can not be denied, his performance here is mostly done sans dialog. Hopkins's malice is mostly implied, and when he does talk (as the IMDb states, he only has sixteen lines of dialog), I - for one - get chills. There's something about Bo that says "yeah, I'd rape your sister if only she was a little younger" and never has his just unpleasant demeanor been put to better use. And his laugh is perfect. It rings like a death rattle around his throat, gurgling and slurping to the surface. There is an implied sense of back-story, but the film is about constant motion. In his first scene Hopkins says one line "Get Him. Get the Bat... Man," And it defuses whatever sense of arch or camp might be expected. Hopkins in this film lays claim to being the American Klaus Kinski, if Kinski only worked for Werner Herzog ever. Muted is the word for this film as Eastwood says even less. There is no jibber-jabber in this film. Only engines revving, stopping, tires squealing, and hits connecting.

From there on out (the 20 minute mark) - as some critics have suggested - the film resembles Eastwood's later The Gauntlet, in that it is not much more (or less) than a cat and mouse game played between the Joker's pawns and Batman. And Peckinpah is ingenious in ramping up the stakes with each encounter (must have been an influence on Walter Hill's The Warriors). Peckinpah - perhaps concerned after his recent efforts that his violence would be trimmed without mercy - seems to have worked here specifically without gun violence for that very purpose. It may seem a bit absurd that Batman stops and gets out of his car on four different occasions to get into fist-fights/brawls, but the energy and tempo of each sequence is dynamic enough to give each fight a different an exciting pop. After the opening three against one, you've got the clever stand-off fight of the heavyweight boxer type against Bat-Man (who uses his clever Karate moves to his advantage, and also picks up a strange zen-like theme to Batman's violence), the forty-against-one stand-off in the alleyway (which starts at the beginning of a dead end, goes up a fire escape, through four apartments, then goes to four different roofs, only to go back into an apartment - eat your heart out Chan-Wook Park,), the marksmen fight (which I think Peckinpah put into to acknowledge guns) with its constant zoom-ins, and then Batman's raid on Joker's palace. Had Peckinpah directed these last two sequences (and not - as has been credited - Eastwood with an assist from Hal Needham), it might be one of the greatest films Peckinpah ever directed. But where the first hour (of this 87 minute film) wastes no time with back-story or any of that nonsense, the final showdown is bogged down with flashbacks (which - to be fair - are at least done silently) that explains the two's relationship. But already the film had created a sense of duality, something Eastwood came close to exploring with films like In the Line of Fire and A Perfect World (though never as successfully), but never dipped his toe in as well as he does here... at least until it all goes a little south.

At this point Walter Hill had worked with Peckinpah, and I wonder if they didn't compare notes as Hill was working on The Driver around this time, and they both have that zone-out feel, though Peckinpah took Detroit as his playground, and Hill took Los Angeles.

I write this now, partly because I don't think the film ever recovered from Pauline Kael's evisceration ("Bats in the Belfry"), though I guess she and Sam were drinking buddies at one point, and this was something of a pissing match. I know she felt for him, but perhaps she never got over her distaste of Eastwood. Which is interesting as this film undercuts his mythos more than even Unforgiven does/did. Batman - as Peckinpah said in interviews - was a fucked up individual, and he saw the film in some ways as a sequel to Straw Dogs, but he also said he never told Eastwood that. Peckinpah's career was already headed to the shitter, and he obviously got fired off the film (as the last reels show), so it's hard to say if he wasn't just squeezing some sour grapes. Still, when people ask me what's my favorite superhero film, I usually point to this one. Or Ang Lee's Hulk.

DD: When I Feel Like I'm in a Movie.

no@spam.com (Andre Dellamorte) — Sat, 21 Jun 2008 00:00:00 EDT

I'm getting old. We all are. But I'm now in my 30's. 32. Still. I can't drink like I used to. I've cut out caffeine (mostly just because), and I've cut down my cigar smoking to none. About two weeks back I bought a rice cooker. My evolutionary leap was similar to the time cut in 2001. I went from making beans and rice with some cheese, to herb and lemon chicken with broccoli and rice, to last night's Tandori Chicken with quinoa and green beans. Tomorrow I'm making myself some orange chicken stir-fry, though cooking may get curtailed by the heatwave that has turned Los Angeles and the Valley into a literal melting pot.

Going to the supermarket before meant getting simple things, now it's about hitting the meat section, while also getting sauces, stuff and stuff. This week I went to Trader Joe's and I got the obsession among many in my transitioning-to-adulthood set. I discussed this with some of those of that set, and they poo-poo'd TJ's for Whole Foods. Snobbery within snobbery. Some of this may be LA culture, as Portland has some different shops. In the same way I doubt I would have bought an iPhone if I lived in Portland. Here it makes sense on a level that it didn't in Portland - where I didn't get a cell phone until 2004. There is goodness in TJ's that I appreciated, and good prices, and great hummus.

I've spent the last week re-writing. When I work on my own, I tend to know structure so tightly that I don't do much more than tweaking. But when I work with other people, I find that structure can change much more whimsically. I wonder if that means I can't see outside of my own head, or if my structure, when I sit down to write something, is much stronger in a solo outing.
I literally have no idea.

I never feel cinematic. I say clever things from time to time, to which sometimes people remind that I've said at later dates. To which my writing partner in LA will stick into scripts and then remind me that I said off-handedly. But when I hit the dance floor, sometimes it's like I'm Tony Manero. Or, more to the point, Gordon Cooper. Tonight, when I came I knew the DJ, and one of the other regulars, a lady, who is also a student, and has a name that rhymes with mine. The DJ put on Like a Virgin for her after the three of us had a pow-wow, and I got hoots when I rubbed my hands all over myself when Madonna sings "touched for the very first time" and giggles from my dancing partner. She likes open floors, and we danced for a bit, but she didn't go crazy for the music like I did. The DHplayed California Soul, which I told him was my hot button song of the moment, and you can read the latest BO report and know that it's my song of choice at the moment.

The girl didn't go crazy for the music (which turned hip hop), but as I told her I like my fan club, and at about midnight when The Jackson 5's "ABC" came on, I felt like the floor was mine. The whole club was mine at that moment. When I worked at a video store I would have moments where I felt like I was the best video store employee in the world, for an hour or so. It would pass, but I knew that it was true. And I recognized the absurdity of it, but still, it felt good. When I was on the floor tonight for a brief moment, I felt if I said it was my floor, and that everyone around would have to agree.

A little bit after that, a girl came over and said "I love to watch you dance!" I said she should dance with me, then. She then said her boyfriend was nearby and would get a bit jealous.

Story of my life.

Dellamorte's Dugout: Sex and the City and My Mother

no@spam.com (Andre Dellamorte) — Sat, 07 Jun 2008 00:00:00 EDT

My mom called to tell me she was seeing Sex and the City later in the week. Even though she thinks it will be horrible. Shit like that makes me love my mom.

This neighborhood's different. It's like gentrification. Dunno how comfortable I feel in her with all this khaki.

My back started tweaking when Jeremy and I were having post-Zohan beers and burger, but I went out last night anyway. Simply the worst spinnings I've heard in a very long time. Thursdays at The Short Stop, they often go latin, which only works if the floor is crowded - otherwise people get intimidated and no one dances. But this guy was playing junk all night. He started off with at least a half hour of Reggae, and then was playing stuff like "Waiting for My Man" which I like, but it isn't much of anything for the floor. and it went from there. I ended up talking to someone I know who works as an animator, and away from the floor. I left around one-ish, which is silly. So sad.

Dellamorte's Dugout: Ramblin' Guy

no@spam.com (Andre Dellamorte) — Sat, 17 May 2008 00:00:00 EDT

I was in Vegas last weekend, and I'm going to London on Wednesday. I've never been a big traveler. I think - if I'm to be honest - it's because there's generally a lot going on in my brain, and so I often crave less stimuli than more. I wasn't sure if my brother (who I'm visiting) will be crazy busy, and so if my vacation consists of me working on my latest instead of wandering around London, well, hell, there's that - it's still a vacation. I've been to Abbey Road, I've been to Shepperton Studios, I've been to Leicester Square, pretending I was in American Werewolf in London. Hell, I even had drinks and dinner with Edgar Wright, Simon Pegg, and Nick Frost a day after seeing Hot Fuzz, so how I top that this time, I have no idea. Suggestions welcome. I'll be there from the 21st through the 28th. Which is why I begged my way into the Indy screening this weekend. Curious to see how that will play. I'm happy to see it before I will hear anyone else's reactions, other than the test screenings, and a friend who told me it was a miss, instead of when I return, when the picture will be autopsied.

Writing is primarily a narcissistic act. I read something this week about someone dying, and I couldn't get over how the writer inserted himself into the person's life in a way that made him the main focus of the narrative. When you write, it is always about your perspective, your take. To make yourself the focus of that is like putting a hat on a hat. When I wrote for the DVD Journal, the editor always removed first person pronouns unless absolutely necessary. I get that even more now. Granted, when you write about someone else, you have to cede that your perspective is your own, I mean I just wrote about Doug Holm from my perspective, but in doing so I thought the point was to say how Doug shaped my life, not to say how I knew him, and how cool I was to know him, or whatever nice things he did for me in the context of "how awesome is that?" 90% of the super-awesome things that happen to me I don't share (like getting a blow job, etc.) simply because all it does is engender distaste, jealousy or annoyance from the reader. I only want to talk about those things in the context of a discussion. That is to say, if I quote someone super-awesome saying something that I witnessed, I might trudge that out if the situation calls for it, but I'm not going to drop "Ghostface Killer and I were hanging out on Tuesday, and we got really high and had sex with groupies" just cause. Even though that didn't happen. Though I wish it did. But if it did, I would only write about it to be an asshole. And I might do that, but probably not. I would probably keep it to myself.

I linked an article about Sex and The City on the boards, and Devin wrote an article about dude-distaste for the movie. I never liked the show, but I never liked Friends on the same principle. What was great about Seinfeld is that the stars were not super-photogenic. I like my ennui and every-day problems and that sort of stuff told from the perspective of schmucks. If Daisy Steiner wasn't on the verge of being chubby, if that wasn't an issue for the character, then I wouldn't love her, and it defines her relationship with Twist. But the interesting thing about the combination of those two essays is something I have been thinking about and incorporating into something I'm working on lately, which is that men want to be super-heroes, and women want their Prince Charmings. This can be read that men and women want men to be men. The problem is that men are codified by violence and alpha-ness, and in the 21st century, that has less and less place in our society. I haven't hit a dude in years. Probably decades. Which all ties into the fact that so many rom-coms are actually geared towards dudes. Like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Money and power still trump shit (which ties into the earlier sentiments), but everyone wants either to be thrown against a wall or throw someone against a wall and fuck them. It's just that our society, with A.I.D.S. and date rape issues, and all that make it harder and harder to gauge if that's cool.

And no one wants to be asked "Would you mind if I throw you against a wall and fuck the living shit out of you?" Though I'm sure I would say that just because I find it funny. Perhaps I might.

DD: My Drunken Iron Man Review

no@spam.com (Andre Dellamorte) — Sat, 03 May 2008 00:00:00 EDT

I went to see Iron Man today at the Arclight, with one Mr. Jeremy Smith. He may chime in with his thoughts as well. I liked it well enough. Afterwards we went to Lucky Devils, and I had a Kobe Bacon Blue Burger (which may be the most perfect burger ever) and knocked back some Racer 5 IPA's, which is a 7% beer. After talking about the movie on the walk over after the film, talk turned to cinema at large - as it often does with us - and other bits of business, and after going off on Stanley Kramer, I realized I hadn't thought about the movie for at least an hour. At all.

I just got home, and have not entirely sobered up, and am contemplating whether to keep drinking and play GTA IV all night, or try and sober up over the next three hours and go out dancing. Decisions. Decisions.

My thoughts on Iron Man:
- When I was talking to Quentin Tarantino (yeah, I know) he asked about Horror Express, which played at the Dante fest at the New Beverly, and Edgar Wright (again, I know) brought up a scene where someone says to Christopher Lee "You expect us to believe that a million year old fossil thawed out and is now sucking the brains out of its victims and, absorbing their learnings?" and Christopher Lee responds with "Yes, that's exactly what I want you to believe." And I chimed in, "And that's the only time it comes up and that's never held in doubt! There's no character wasting fifteen minutes saying 'Oh, medical science has never seen something like this.'" to which Quentin added "Yeah, we hate scenes like that." And it strikes me that I hate scenes like that. The film presents information that is understood and if the very premise is rested upon that, then wasting screentime dedicated to explaining to characters why what is what is useless. Sadly, Iron Man has a corker of a bad scene like this (which Jeremy brought up immediately, to which I wish I had beat him to it, because it was my least favorite scene in the film) where a character has to do something that doesn't reveal any information that is revelatory. I get why it's there, but it's a waste of time, and the audience doesn't need it. Since the film is a little fat, I don't know why it's in, except that Jeff Bridges adds the grace note ("Puzzle") that almost redeems the whole thing.

- In that, such reveals that Favreau and his scripters really don't put enough English on the ball. We see Stark's two "hearts" as it were, and we get the set up, but a good scenario twists what we know, and that sequence is again only redeemed by the grace note. But it's ploddingly linear.

- Jon Favreau is not a particularly good director. He's got something of a car commercial sensibility. The action sequences are perfunctory at best. And when you compare Stark and Hulk's trips to outer space, well, Ang Lee wins.

- What makes the film work is the performers, specifically a one Robert Downey Jr. But Gwyneth Paltrow is also excellent, and so is Jeff Bridges considering what he's working with. Terrence Howard seems signed on for the sequel, which the film acknowledges in a ploddingly obvious way (though the bit with Clark Gregg - or is it Gregg Clark - caught me by surprise, though if his character knows what he knows, his inaction is borderline wii-tarded.)

- Man, would I love to watch Tony Stark in the party period of his life. Him on the plane with Rhodes, I get why it's all there, and partly to sexualize a character who goes chaste after fucking Leslie Bibb. Which, you know, bully.

- Robert Downey Jr. is really amazing in the film. He makes so much work, it's like the Jack Sparrow 2.0 performance. He comes to bring the surprise, but he also gives the character a humanity that you buy. He's the only performer who could spell everything out for the audience in a show don't tell moment, and make it magical. He can give a "well" or an "oh" and give it layers. The man is a heavy lifter, and this franchise couldn't happen to a better actor.

I liked the film for the most part, but it is the very definition of ephemeral. So are most comic book movies, which have too much origin and too much Godzilla.

The Dellamorte Dugout: Movie Orgy

no@spam.com (Andre Dellamorte) — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 00:00:00 EDT

In 1984 my parents took me to Gremlins. I was 8. I was likely never the same again.

But that goes for many of my generation, and as much as the exposure to Looney Tunes cartoons (in my case, through Ramblin' Rod's morning program) and Mad Magazine helped cement our off-beat and sardonic humor, Joe Dante was one of the best at gently tweaking the nipples of Reagan's America oh-so-not-so-gently. When I was 15, Joe came to Portland for what was the Portland Creative Conference, a series that may still be going, but for $125 or so (a shit-ton of money for me at the time) I got to hear people like Dennis Murren, Rick Baker, Martin Sheen, Matt Groening and others speak about their art. There was a party at the end of the conference, and I saw Joe standing around. But I was too young to ever build up the confidence to just start bullsitting with him. He did show clips of Matinee a couple months before it came out. And like any fan, I went opening day to the picture, which was greeted uncerminoniously by the box office, and immedately became one of my favorite films.

Video stores - back in the day - had what should be called unreliable back catalogues. And so I joined one video store for the sole reason of renting Piranha. Hollywood Boulevard would come later. And currently I've seem almost everything the man has done, excepting Explorers - as I've long held out hope for the non-existent director's cut. Hell, I have a soft spot for everything of his I've seen, including Looney Tunes: Back in Action, which strikes me as horribly underrated. One of my favorite moments of cinema (such as it is) in the last year was watching The Screwfly Solution, and realized that opening sequence was making me uncomfortable, and then doubly realizing that it was because Joe Dante is a really good director. It wasn't just that it was hand-held (anyone can do that) it was hand-held done right. Dante is one of the greatest working directors, and on top of that, an incredible film scholar.

Cut to: Late last year. When The Wright Stuff was going, planning to get seats for the rest of the Chud gang, I walked over to the theater and into Edgar Wright and Joe Dante. Edgar introduced us briefly, and we chatted about movies and Blu-Ray vs. HD. I correctly predicted the winner, but -more importantly - I made up for the boy inside of me who was too shy (hush hush) to bother the man. And this time, I wasn't just a fan, but I was someone who knew someone! Triumph!

When Dante's Inferno was announced at the New Bev, I had a solitary mission: 100% attendance, and through dilligence was able to attend them all, and was afforded the opportunity to BS with Dante almost every night, and he was nothing but a gentleman. When I told him my internet name was Andre Dellamorte, taken from Cemetery Man, he said "I know that!" And I said "Of course you do."

But nothing compared to last night. As a Dante-ologist, I was well familiar with his Movie Orgy, or as it was once known, the All-Night Once-In-A-Lifetime Movie Orgy. As I said beforehand "This isn't The Day the Clown Cried" - to which Quentin Tarantino added "Yeah, this isn't The Day the Clown Cried or the twelve hour cut of Greed, alright..." - but it was definitely something I thought was lost to the sands of time. And then, to watch it in the front row with Edgar Wright (whose thoughts on the night are here), Drew "Moriarty" McWeeny (who wrote about it here, and gave me the greatest intro ever), Bill Hader (who loves Chud's DVD coverage), my friend and New Beverly godess Julia, and Tarantino all in a (murderer's) row, it was a truly singular experience. And it was truly a Rosetta Stone, as so much of Dante's sensibilities emerged from the piece. There were things that - as Dante said beforehand - were taken and put into his films, including a bit with Abbot and Costello that was an obvious infuence on Innerspace.

I'll take so much from last night, from having the chance to chat movies with Tarantino, to seeing Hader lose his mind over a gag or two, to talking with Drew afterwards, to watching Edgar watching and listening to himself watching the Suspiria trailer for Trailers from Hell, to the thing itself - which will never be released on home video and may never be screened in a theater again - that are indelible, that are singular. That are why I love films, and part of why I love to be in Los Angeles. Gags where an entire episode of a TV show are reduced to two lines of dialogue. Really smart cuts from a dog training commercial to an army commercial. When the show ended, Dante got a standing ovation. It's probably the most heartfelt and earned standing O I've ever been a part of. It was one of those moments where I wish I could get taller or duplicate myself simply to add to the moment.

During the course of the 4 1/2 hour marathon, and after three cocktails, I ran into the bathroom and almost ran into Joe Dante while he was taking a pee, not realizing there was anyone there until I almost colided with him. Had I not had those drinks beforehand, I would have said what came to me moments later: "I didn't mean to crowd you." About two hours in, Edgar ran for coffee, and was generous enough to bring espresso shots for all of us. I had one, along with a refill of Diet Coke, and it kept me going through the whole thing. But when I got home last night, it took a long time to get to bed, and I surely got less than four hours of sleep. But I doubt I could have slept better. I was still glowing and buzzing from one of the greatest nights of cinema I've had. And I'm still glowing.