Saturday Matinee: Kingpin

Why I love Kingpin – A crude comedy about horrible people

The Farrelly brothers’ reached their vulgar, freewheeling peak with this 1996 bowling comedy.

By James Oddy

Source: Single White Lies

Irecently bombed a job interview that seemed a sure thing. It was a job I wanted and, even worse, a job I needed. I got the rejection call, then I missed my bus and had to wait in the rain. Then I lost my wallet. I felt like a real Munson. A born loser. Give me a wide berth.

So I went home and (re)watched the Farrelly brothers’ 1996 film Kingpin. I know what you’re thinking, it’s not the most obvious candidate for a feel good film. Actually, it may be one of the scuzziest films ever produced by a major studio. For the uninitiated, it tells the story of former “man-child” bowling prodigy Roy Munson (Woody Harrelson). An alcoholic, and devoid of his bowling hand after an unfortunate incident involving nemesis Ernie “Big Ern” McCraken (Bill Murray), Munson believes he’s found his ticket out of poverty with Ishmael (Randy Quaid), an Amish man hailing from rural Pennsylvania.

Subtlety isn’t this film’s strong point – most of the jokes concern some bodily function or another, or slapstick violence involving someone’s testicles, sometimes at the same time. What really sets it apart from other ’90s gross out comedies is how genuinely nasty the characters are. At the time of its release many critics, even the ones that liked it, described it as tasteless, vulgar and crude. In one of his most underrated performances, Harrelson is simply hilarious as the stupid, lazy and self-serving Munson.

Meanwhile, Bill Murray ad-libs almost every time he is on screen, giving a masterclass in smart arse performance as the womanising sleaze ball Ernie. Farrelly bros’ regular Rob Moran somehow manages to be even more unpleasant as a domestically abusive “bowling enthusiast” and sometime gangster called Stanley. Vanessa Angel’s Claudia is a born grifter and a bowling groupie. Even Ishmael is all too eager to abandon his Amish ways to enjoy the earthly pleasures of coffee and cigarettes. Along with a colourful supporting cast, this is one of the most glorious collections of freaks and weirdoes you’re ever likely to see on screen.

Kingpin also has a refreshing, freewheeling approach to genre. It’s a romantic comedy, a clash of cultures played for laughs, a buddy movie, a road movie and a underdog sports story all rolled into one 113-minute caper. It should also be noted that this is very much a film for adults, with explicitly adult themes. Yet it’s undercut with the universal message that, just maybe, everything will be okay in the end.

Ultimately, this is a story of redemption. A film that says you can always turn things around, that it’s always worth persevering. The 1990s and early 2000s saw a rise in “adult genres”, allowing filmmakers to take greater risks on mid-sized studio films. Kingpin is one of the finest examples of that trend, a film in which nobody involved is particularly interested in focus groups or target markets. It is what it is, warts and all.

After Kingpin, the Farrelly brothers began to scale back the sleaze, retreating to the safer shores of more formulaic rom-coms like There’s Something About Mary and Shallow Hal. But we’ll always have Munson to remind us that you never know when an Amish bowling prodigy might walk into your life and change everything.

Saturday Matinee: Split!

Fractal Accidents: Attachment and Agency in Chris Shaw’s ‘Split’

By Jonathan Lukens

Source: We Are the Mutants

As a young man, I felt that most people conceived of memory differently than I did, believing that failures of memory were errors of playback more than of recording. This idea, that memory works like a vinyl record in which everything we experience has its groove, supposes that it’s just a matter of knowing precisely where to put the needle down to replay the experience. In contrast, my younger self operated with the also erroneous belief that our memories are only hazy recordings of what we have somehow deemed worthy of recalling—that memory is like finding old semi-legible notes to ourselves written in an old notebook and trying to  figure out what they mean.

It was with this theory of memory in mind that I had begun to consider Split, a movie that I thought I remembered renting from a video store up the street from my childhood home sometime around 1990. For over a decade, my occasional recollections of the film, often spaced years apart, might prompt a web search with no results, which would then introduce a sense of disorientation: I could not experience the instant gratification of finding some online mention that might confirm that what I remembered was real. Was Split (that was the name, right?) just an Easter Egg written into the script of my past—some sort of Berenstain (sic?) Bears thing? After all, and with all due respect to the films’ creators: if my adolescent mind was going to fabricate a memory, this is the sort of thing it would have come up with. 

Originally released theatrically in 1989, and subsequently on VHS in 1991 by Futura Home Video, Split was reissued on DVD in 2018 by Verboden Video and is also available through Alamo Drafthouse’s streaming app, which is how I was able to confirm its existence and watch it again. Spoilers of the film follow, but only insofar as my synopsis is veridical to the plot—a nested disclaimer I wouldn’t need to make if the film were less fractured. Whether its cracked mirror nature is a deliberate mindfuck, the result of freshman filmmaking hamfistedness, or both, is not something I can tell you. 

The film opens with Starker, our hero, wandering the streets of San Francisco. His ripped jeans show his bare rear end, and he’s wearing the sort of jagged and discolored false teeth that might have been advertised in old comic books alongside fake vomit and squirting flowers. He walks through a parking lot full of city buses, suddenly looking directly at the camera and yelling, “Stop following me. Leave me alone.” At first, we believe he is addressing us, the viewers, and breaking the fourth wall, but the camera cuts to two men dressed in a mid-‘80s Ivy League casual style—like they just walked out of a JC Penny catalog shoot. One sits at a computer; the other, older and mustachioed, is framed over his right shoulder. The younger man was surveilling Starker, and, as the dialogue reveals, the populace more broadly. He rewinds a recording of Starker’s camera-facing monologue and consults with the older agent, who says Starker is just crazy, but capitulates to the younger agent’s desire for further observation.

They run a face recognition program, presented as a musical montage, in which we see Starker’s head rendered as a 3D model as the camera hops around a black and white grid of similar hairless heads looking for a match. The sequence is still enthralling and somewhat hypnotic after 30 years. This isn’t a real 3D scan of a human head; rather it’s a painstakingly created proof of concept showing us what the technology that would soon become ubiquitous might look like. It dances. We hear pitch-shifted human voices of the sort we might associate with Laurie Anderson’s “O Superman,” and they create a synthetic and escalating harmonic pattern as the facial recognition nears completion.

This is the first of a few similarly rendered and soundtracked scenes that make Split worth more attention than it will ever receive. Analog processes are used to pre-mediate future digital operations, and there is a lo-fi poetry to them. These skies are the color of the ancestors of our flat-screen TVs, their saturations and frequency roll-off the stuff of a time when there really were dead channels, and tuned-in heads bobbed to the tangible yet barely audible click that the phone made just before it rang. Different media have different dispositions, and I explain these in the hope of being descriptive, while mindful of any argument about the veracity of concepts of authenticity.

Jittering a bit and mumbling, Starker heads into a diner and has a seat at a booth. He orders coffee from a waitress we’ll meet again later while speaking in a hybrid of fake European accents. Making a mess while examining a ketchup bottle, then pouring a packet of artificial sweetener onto the table and snorting it up his nose like cocaine, he talks to himself as the surrounding patrons begin to grow nervous. One of them gets up, takes him by the shoulder and leads him outside. At one point the camera lingers for a moment—letting us know that a brightly colored fabric pouch that Starker has left behind means something. 

As the film progresses, we watch Starker give the agents surveilling him the slip. After being knocked out and having his jacket tagged with a tracking device, he discovers the device, removes his jacket, and changes clothes to elude his pursuers. To illustrate the process of his being tracked we are treated to a primitive color representation of a 3D vector map of the city. It’s like an isomorphic video game built of an extruded and pastel colored De Stijl painting that says, “Welcome to the control society. Now you’re playing with power.” The whole sequence provides a taste of the ‘90s to come, bringing to mind critiques of the automatic production of space and tactical media projects like the Institute for Applied Autonomy’s iSee and the performances of the Surveillance Camera Players.

Starker retrieves the brightly colored fabric pouch from the trash outside the diner. He dons a new—and more ridiculous—disguise: a stick-on mustache and goatee paired with wire-rimmed glasses, a brown turtleneck, and a beige corduroy sports coat. Setting the scene for an art gallery opening, a lovingly blocked shot of Starker creates the sort of recursion we would associate with a Magritte or Escher through a row of champagne flutes. The camera lingers over a series of paintings reminiscent of Basil Wolverton’s or Erol Otus’s more psychedelic work. Gallery patrons talk trash about the paintings and each other while Starker shoves food in his pockets—John Belushi in Animal House style—as a lovely minimal synth piece by Robert Shaw, the director’s brother and creator of the computer generated effects seen through the film, begins to warble and flutter.

Conversing with the fictional creator of these paintings (in reality those of writer/director Chris Shaw himself), a flat-topped New Waver wearing a mustard yellow dinner jacket over a t-shirt, our ludicrously costumed hero mentions preparing to “wake people up.” As they discuss the artwork hanging on the gallery walls, they stop to look at a storyboard—which we realize is the storyboard of the current scene. As the artist begins to realize the same truth, he becomes enraged. He screams, but none of the patrons seem to notice or care.

The film meanders for a while, if it was not already meandering. We see the junior and senior agents discuss an analysis that reveals no discernible patterns in Starker’s behavior, and they escalate their attempts to find him. Now at the artist’s apartment after the art opening, Starker is coaxed into revealing his plan: “All we have to do is change the program!” he says, later addressing the painter’s skepticism with, “I have the way. The way is here—in my package!” Removing the pouch from an inside coat pocket, Starker then opens it to reveal a white plastic disc approximately the size of his hand. The artist remarks that it resembles a urinal deodorizer.

Starker goes on a tear: “Science is a jealous god.” The mystical “separates us from robots.” “What I am holding is a mutant biological organism.” He almost immediately contradicts himself and says the substance is just a placebo because people require a scientific reason to believe in something and that that is necessary for “the dream” to have power. He explains that he is going to dose the city’s water supply with this substance and then it will spread around the world as people excrete it through their urine. Sort of an Amanita muscaria re-trip meets infrastructural schwerpunkt: The MacGuffin is Elan Vital as urinal cake.

A few meaning-laden but plot-insignificant scenes later, Starker heads back to the diner. After a scuffle in which he startles Susan (the waitress we saw earlier) and she kicks him to the ground, he pressures her to let him hide out at her place. Reasonably viewing him as a crazy and potentially dangerous creep, she declines his offer. But, after following her to her car, he convinces her to relent by claiming that he used to be a veterinarian and that he may be able to explain the lethargy of the cat in a carrier in her back seat. The absurdity of this caged animal suddenly appearing to move the plot along is rendered even more absurd when Susan later explains that she already understood that the cat was lethargic because she had had it sterilized earlier in the day. There is something so metaphorically overt about this detail that I can’t tell if it’s a bad joke or a catastrophic mistake. In any event, Starker seems no less concerned about going home with a woman that left a post-op feline in the back of a car all day than Susan is about bringing home a man who claimed he was being followed and sat in her place of business snorting Sweet and Low through a straw while ranting in a fake French accent.

I will omit a lot of interpersonal awkwardness, strange dialogue, and things that may be significant to alternate interpretations in revealing that Starker crashes at Susan’s place (Pop Tarts and chill). The time they spend together only serves to make her subsequent death at the hands of the Starker’s pursuers insufficiently tragic to motivate his subsequent attempt at revenge. Discovering her murder at the hands of the Izod-clad archons, Starker—now in drag and blackface—follows the agents back to their bosses’ HQ. They enter through a large circular metal door, and Starker, who they don’t realize is following behind, is unable to enter.

Their boss, perhaps too obviously referred to as the “Agency Director” in a film about agency panic, laments his “monstrous” newly installed cybernetic arm. In an abrupt spasm of the plot that seems to indicate that the Director’s body is deteriorating, a lab-coated flunky soothes him by explaining that he has created that ultimate mad-scientist expression of mind-body dualism: a machine that can transfer a mind into another body. The camera cuts to Starker, unseen on the Agency Director’s CCTV, who is loading a pistol. He tries to find a way to open the door while the minions inside hurry to find a body to receive the Agency Director’s mind. The agents open the door and grab Starker, having seemingly no idea that they have apprehended the very person they were relentlessly pursuing earlier. Starker drops his gun in the struggle, and they strap him to a chair and lower a brain transfer apparatus over his head.

“Let me out! It worked!” Starker says, but it’s not clear if the process was successful or if Starker is trying to convince the agents that it was. We’re left to wonder if this Camp Concentration-style mind transfer worked at all. It’s set up as a techgnostic climax that never happens, as if this cyberpunk yacht rock anthem makes it to the guitar solo just as the amp blows. The enraged Agency Director yells and tells his minions to get rid of “her.” They throw Starker out, not seeming to care that this random person just entered their secret bunker, and still not realizing that it was Starker himself. 

The final quarter of the film involves agents pursuing Starker while the Agency Director’s body is gradually replaced with a mechanical one. The music is great here and evokes both a sort of period instrumental soft rock call-center hold music and early Chrome. Someone with disposable income should release a proper soundtrack.

Now looking like a lo-fi Robocop or a reject from a Shinya Tsukamoto film, the Agency Director’s cybernetic augmentations (or too on-the-nose self-amputations) have endowed him with new powers. He accesses satellites while issuing abrasively vocoded directives that also appear on a camera-facing screen, perhaps to ensure intelligibility to the audience. Starker’s location is revealed on a map as crescendoing lo-bit sound effects accompany synth pads and drums. “Eradicate!” The Agency Director yells in a Davros-like moment. The camera cuts to Starker hopping over fences and traversing a roadside embankment, while the Agency Director seems to glitch out as he installs one last bionic eye into his head. 

Now fully metal-skinned and ambulatory, he walks over to a pool of water inside headquarters. Elsewhere in a meadow, Starker stumbles into a pool himself, grabbing the white disc he revealed earlier. Somehow, both pools have become a sort of fold in space—the Agency Director reaches through and grabs Starker. They struggle, each remaining primarily in their own physical location while their arms bend through each others’ space. Starker breaks free and releases the chemical in the white disc. White dust floats in the air.

The end credits roll (well, melt, actually) and no further explanation is given.

***

Ultimately, outside of the beauty of the graphics and soundtrack, the joy and frustration of Split is that we are confronted with something that we can’t quite classify. Foregrounds and backgrounds of plot and image oscillate and change places, but so do the cues we’d typically use to determine whether or not we approached the material as comic or tragic, accidental or deliberate, high brow or trash stratum.

Watching Split (had I really seen it before?) left me with the distinct feeling that I just missed five minutes of it without leaving my seat. Shaw never really makes it clear what we should focus on, and the director’s commentary on the DVD doesn’t provide much help. There Shaw describes the film as “a dream that doesn’t really explain itself.” He does, however, talk a bit about chaos—not just disorder, but the branch of mathematics we might associate with Lorenz, Mandelbrot, the butterfly effect, and fractals. While history might provide examples of minor perturbations in complex systems causing them to collapse or toggle into alternate states, it seems here that chaos is really just used as a sort of “magic” (in the same way that “science” is used in superhero comics) to attempt to explain how Starker has a capacity for action that exceeds that of the archons that surveil him.

Really thinking about agency as contingent and distributed means something quite different and perhaps far more unsettling. I’d like to tell you that Split reveals a negotiation between ideas of cowboy individualism on one end, and on the other an appreciation of the behavior of complex adaptive systems of which human “individuals” are both composed of and parts of. In reality, the film presents 20th century ideas of autonomy and individuality taken to such an extreme that they become a bit goofy. The film presents an inverse relationship between attachment and individuality. Take, for example, this dialogue between the two primary agents who discover and begin tracking Starker, in which the frustrated junior agent asks:

How can he make it? We all have something: our family, our friends, something, but he… he gets by on nothing. How can he be that free? No human needs, no weaknesses, no feelings, nothing.

As they discuss their pending report to the Agency Director, the senior agent explains that they will just have to tell it like it is:

       No recurrent behavior, no attachments, no soft spots: superman.

So, the superman, the “free” man, is the man who cares about no one and has no routine. Attachment to others is presented in the same way that an ascetic might present an attachment to material things, but also as a commodity that the system of surveillance capitalism depicted in the film exploits. In the world of Split, one can either be “free” and thus detached from social forces one can’t actually detach from, or part of some sort of winkingly self-aware Matrix.

Many of the characters, including Susan, the painter, some street crazies, and the pursuing agents, seem to have some awareness that by participating in society they are being had. It’s as if they are wearing the glasses from They Live (1988) but realize that if they call attention to their alien overlords they will just be ignored anyway.

Shaw’s broader argument seems to be that as an “individual” who is truly “free,” Starker exists without a data-body; he’s an Übermensch who cannot be profiled or reduced to his so-called statistical self. As such, Starker stands outside of culture—the infrastructure of shared social and material substrates that both the one and the many call upon to act. But he still has the magic urinal cake, the fulcrum and lever by which he is super empowered.

Like a bad haircut, dosing the water supply with mutagenic hallucinogens seems cool in high school, when we are naive enough to dream that control is simply a matter of centralization and that shocking the dupes out of their somnambulism is something they will high five us for afterwards. But while portrayed as some sort of systems-disrupting black swan herald of a “new age,” maybe Starker—and the film itself—just represents a dance around the collapse of any sort of shared systems of meaning. After all, at the climactic moment when Starker releases the mutagen, the end credits roll. Were not shown what comes next—just the end of the now.  

Saturday Matinee: Shapito Show ( aka Chapiteau Show)

Realist Dreams

Sergei Loban’s Chapiteau-show (Shapito Shou, 2011)

By Moritz Pfeifer

Source: East European Film Bulletin

Chapiteau-show may be the most untypically Russian film to come out in years. It neither resembles one of those spiritually drenched films about characters in the search for the meaning of life; nor is it close of becoming a naturalistic drama about crooked cops and suburban violence. Chapiteau-show is colorful, and chaotic; there are musical interludes, and dances; characters dress up, or go naked. Chapiteau-show is unorthodox. But despite its almost four-hour length, the film is remarkably straightforward. There are four stories entitled love, friendship, respect, and collaboration. Each of these stories is about a young man trying to find more of the category that gives his story a title, but they end up where they began. What they were looking for was an illusion. Each episode closes in the circus called Chapiteau-show, where the protagonists are invited to give a show, and meet again – in a sort of therapeutic ritual – to acknowledge that the world is made up of theatrical tricks, dreams, and fantasies.

In the first part – love – Aleksei (Aleksei Podolsky), a balded gamer, goes on vacation with the beautiful actress Vera (Vera Strokova). Having only met on the internet, they try to get to know each other, but it quickly turns out that they are too different to match. In the second episode – friendship – a deaf baker leaves his deaf friends behind to join a group of boy-scouts. He wants to prove to himself that he can also hang out with people that are not like him. But his new friends have a different idea of “friendship.” Some of them turn out to be lovers, so when his old friends swear true brotherhood he begs on his knees for them to accept him again. The third episode – respect – is about a son’s relationship with his father. The depressed son, Petr Nikolaevich, tries to impress his father by going on a venturous hiking trip with him. But he doesn’t make it all the way, breaking off the trip during a hunt in the woods. A producer is in the midst of the last episode – collaboration. Sergei wants to make money with so-called “ersatz-stars.” But his idea fails when he hires a carpenter to represent Victor Tsoy. In the end the carpenter is hired by the Chapiteau-show, and the producer left off without ideas, stars, or money.

Chapiteau-show shows how people are unable to significantly change the specific environment they live in. The irony of the film is that while in each of the four episode someone sets out to go on a road-trip to find a meaning in life, the only meaning presented to him at end of the trip is right where he left off. The film’s four variations have a clear message. It doesn’t matter who one wants to be. It is who you are that matters. The encounter with the young men’s desires and dreams shows them who they really are. The deaf baker is only forced to think about friendship when he sees how other people behave that also define themselves as friends. But instead of holding on to his dream or destroying the dream of others, he simply appreciates his own reality. It is this notion, that makes Loban’s film so unique. It may have parallel realities as a plot subject, but not as as moral suggestion.

I recently wrote an article on how birch trees, in Russian cinema, represents spiritual longing, the search for truth, peace and harmony. There is one scene that takes place in a birch tree forest in Loban’s film, too. It is when Petr, in the respect episode, decides to abandon his father and his wish to impress him. One could say that the choice of the birch tree forest for this particular scene is ironic. Whereas in most Russian films, like in Zvyagintsev’s The Return, or Federochenko’s Silent Souls, the trees underline the spiritual force of the characters dreams, Loban turns the signification around and makes his character’s dream die in the same setting. But the point is, in my opinion, not to provide an anti-metaphor, or to deconstruct the symbols of Loban’s cultural forefathers. Loban acknowledges the artistic meaning of the trees. He doesn’t deny that dreams for peace and harmony exist. Indeed, the motivation for Petr to impress his father is similar to the narrative of Zvygintsev’s The Return. This film is also about the relationship between two boys and their father, and a voyage the three make into wilderness. Even though Zvyagintsev’s film is far from reconciling, the film lacks Loban’s realism. It has a deep nostalgic feel to it. The distance between father and sons is like a lament, like a a betrayal. Unlike Chapiteau-show, The Return hangs onto the dreams of reconciliation. Even if it there is no space for real harmony in his film, there are the birch trees, and the equilibrium of nature to tell us that harmony is possible and that violence, hatred, and angst are opposed to it.

Dreams are part of reality, they may even shape reality, but the naked, commonplace, boring reality is different. Where one may think that Loban’s characters celebrate their dreams in the performances of the Chapiteau-show circus, they really celebrate their dream’s farewell. Loban follows this plea aesthetically. His film is full of pop-cultural and sophisticated references from Marylin Monroe to the Pirates of the Caribbean; from Levi-Strauss, and Goethe to Kubrik and Lynch. But these citations don’t have a chaotic postmodern feel. They simply show, on an artistic level, what the characters already told us. It is impossible to escape imitation; to be more beautiful, fancy, glorious, and glamorous is part of life. But there is no need to be nostalgic when life still turns out to be the boring, commonplace reality one tried to escape.

Watch Shapito Show: Love & Friendship at Soviet Movies Online here: https://sovietmoviesonline.com/comedy/shapito-shou-lyubov-i-druzhba

Watch Shapito Show: Respect and Cooperation at Soviet Movies Online here: https://sovietmoviesonline.com/comedy/shapito-shou-uvazhenie-i-sotrudnichestvo

Saturday Matinee: Psycho Goreman

[Movie Review] PG: PSYCHO GOREMAN

By Sarah Musnicky

Source: Nightmarish Conjurings

It’s not often that you find a movie that is completely batshit crazy, all the way extra, yet entirely wholesome all in one package. Yet, this is what we have in PG: PSYCHO GOREMAN. Coated with ounces of blood, campy humor, and adolescent sassafras, audiences will be taken through a wackadoo journey that will have their heads spinning. While not quite the type of family film one would put on family night, there is enough family-fun goodness to add this to the list once all members are grown and prepared to have their eyeballs explode. By film’s end, you’ll find yourself unexpectedly wanting the best for everyone, even if it means pure, utter destruction is the end result.

Siblings Mimi (Nita-Josee Hanna) and Luke (Owen Myre) accidentally awaken an ancient alien overlord with no name from a millennia-long prison sentence. Why was this overlord imprisoned you ask? Well, he attempted to destroy the universe after working under an oppressive system that exploited his labor. While the creature has no chill, Mimi is undaunted, especially when it’s discovered that she is in possession of a magical amulet that enables her to force the creature to obey every single command she makes. Every. Single. Command. If you know children well, you know this is an absolutely awful idea.

They decide to give the evil creature the name Psycho Goreman (Matthew Ninaber), which they shorten to PG to keep things easier. PG’s re-appearance, though, triggers attention across the galaxy. There are those who want to destroy him, remembering the destruction he caused eons ago. And there are others who wish to help him, for a price that is. As the galaxy’s creatures start to zero in on this small Earth town, the fate of the galaxy may be up to Mimi and Luke. But first, we get a heavy dose of sitcom-style shenanigans, which sow the seeds of heartwarming payoff that we experience at the film’s end.

Where should anyone really begin when discussing this film? First off, PG: PSYCHO GOREMAN is a practical effects wet-dream. From slowly crawling brain-boys to a suicidal melty zombie police officer to every alien character having their own specific costume that almost reminds of classic Power Rangers episodes mixed with Doctor Who flair, there is so much craft-based love in this film that it made this reviewer positively giddy to see what we’d see next. Knowing the amount of work that went into the effects onscreen, it’s an extraordinarily ambitious undertaking in this day and age. But, in all honesty, it is so worth it to see it come to life onscreen. Forever pro-practical all the way!

With the practical effects aiming to seduce our hearts, we have to keep in mind that this is not all that writer-director Steven Kostanski is bringing to the table for us to consume in PG: PSYCHO GOREMAN. The writing and the delivery of performances from the actors really help to sell the chaos that is taking place onscreen. Matthew Ninaber’s PG’s sinister, almost deadpan delivery contrasts nicely against Nita-Josee Hanna’s manic over-the-top energy she delivers for Mimi. While this reviewer would have loved more levels in Hanna’s performance, the direction and delivery of her character performance still worked well for the over-the-top nature of the film. Adam Brooks is also a notable standout, with his comedic timing and everyman performance providing a much-needed contrast to the adventures of the children onscreen.

The script itself is hilarious and heartwarming, with lines about hunky boys coming out of PG’s mouth that would seem out of place in any other film. Yet, this is a heartwarming, tongue-in-cheek type of film that lends itself to these subtleties, where each character undergoes their own spiritual journey. Just, with wallops of blood, gore, and viscera. These little moments are subtly interwoven in, which maximizes their impact upon arrival due to the black comedy that Kostanski leans into. And, if that isn’t enough for you, the various homages paid to family-style shows in the script really help remind the viewer of the lengths this film will go to remind of what PG: PSYCHO GOREMAN is really about – love and finding your own family. Even if that family consists of a psychotic girl, a mom-turned-administrator of misguided justice, or – even – a bloodthirsty alien warlord.

Overall, PG: PSYCHO GOREMAN is a film that would make an epic Midnighter event at any film festival. It would have been a crowd-pleaser pre-COVID and it certainly will after. This reviewer would argue that it’s the alien warlord version of the little girl paired with bodyguard/former military turned babysitter trope. It’s heartwarming, bloody, incredibly fucked up, and extra as all get out. And, while at times the performances can be more one-note than not, the film just really works. It’s a family film gone wrong, which seems perfectly fitting for the age we’re in now.

Watch Psycho Goreman on Hoopla here: https://www.hoopladigital.com/title/14004800

Saturday Matinee: Zerograd (aka Zero City, City of Zero)

Review by Movies Unchained

Absurdity can take many different forms, particularly when it comes to artistic expression, with many individuals over the past century making their living from subverting the central tenets of reality. One such artist was Karen Shakhnazarov, whose ambition film Zerograd (Russian: Gorod Zero) holds the distinction of being one of the most bizarre works of cinema produced in the last few decades. A strange, hypnotic voyage into a darker version of the world, this film feels like the perverted offspring of David Lynch and Andrei Tarkovsky (especially if they collaborated on a twisted version of Alice in Wonderland), and I don’t think there is a single moment in this film that I was in complete awe of. Cinema is supposed to be challenging, and it doesn’t get more impenetrable than this, where Shakhnazarov takes us on a voyage that is somehow both hilarious and utterly terrifying, showing us a side of society that isn’t familiar to anything the best of us have experienced ourselves, but still manages to be as captivating as anything else. A deliriously work of experimental dark comedy, Zerograd is quite an achievement – and kudos has to go to Shakhnazarov for managing to construct something so bewildering, yet so deeply brilliant in both how it provokes certain ideas while remaining quite stable and consistent in its message (at least after we actually figure out what this film is attempting to convey), which creates a sensational piece of filmmaking that tests the boundaries of reality and presents the viewer with something so singularly unique, one would be forgiven for believing that Zerograd isn’t actually a film, but a fever-induced bout of delusions – and for all these reasons and more, we can easily proclaim this film as something of a hidden masterpiece, an outrageous, disconcerting surrealist odyssey that is as entertaining as it is wholly disruptive, both to the art form in which it was made and in terms of the broader socio-cultural implications embedded within it.

The film centres on Alexey Varakin (Leonid Filatov), a regular civil engineer who is sent to a small town in the middle of nowhere to meet with the owner of a factory to discuss some of the products they have been supplying. What was supposed to be a brief day-trip turns into what appears to be an eternity, especially when it becomes clear that everything isn’t what it seems in this mysterious countryside hamlet. His visit takes a horrifying turn when Alexey witnesses the suicide of a chef, which not only traumatizes him, but also places him at the centre of a conspiracy that points to him as the chief suspect, especially when the perspective of the event changes from suicide to a murder. What Alexey doesn’t realize is that he is stuck here – it is physically impossible for him to move beyond the borders of the town, since there are certain metaphysical forces keeping him there. This is made clear when he visits a museum, where the crotchety curator (Yevgeny Yevstigneyev) gives him a tour, taking him to subterranean levels and relaying the history of the town, which stretches all the way back to the formative years of the USSR and the rise of communism across the Soviet Union. Despite being a mild-mannered working-class man, Alexey is seen as something of an anomaly in this town, a stranger sent there by some celestial being to disrupt the lives of the residents – but it soon becomes clear that he’s not the one to fear, since a looming sense of foreboding lingers over the town, and causes the protagonist to reevaluate not only his own life, but the entire concept of reality in general, as everything around him is starting to point to the fact that everything Alexey knew to be true is quite possibly false information, and he himself is at risk of losing his identity as a whole if he doesn’t solve the problem before its too late.

Zerograd is a very different kind of film in every conceivable way. It positions itself as something of a mystery film, but one that dares to ask what happens when someone is investigating something and searching for the truth when every clue not only distances him further from the answer, but proves the incredulity of reality as a whole. This is a mystery film that struggles to even ask a coherent question – if anything, the answers are there, if only we knew where to start looking for them. Shakhnazarov masterfully constructs one of the most fascinating films of its era, a hauntingly dark comedy that eviscerates the very idea of plausibility, going beyond the confines of surrealism and becoming something else entirely, a kind of cold-blooded psychological horror that is more terrifying the more we realize how the sense of danger isn’t just constructed for dramatic purposes, but rather a fundamental aspect of the story. Modern audiences tend to equate the concept of surrealism with the idea of weird works that are artistically transgressive and show a lack of logic – and while this is often very true, its a baseline assessment that can’t apply particularly well to a work like Zerograd, which thrives on its ability to deconstruct nearly every sacrosanct truth while still retaining a coherent, concise narrative that goes to some bizarre narrative territory, but only for the sake of supporting its own ambitious ideas. There are many aspects of Zerograd that positively yearn to be discussed – and I’d expect some background knowledge of Soviet-era politics, while not essential in any way, would only enrich the experience, and help add context to a work of unhinged socio-cultural satire that masters the fine art of amusing the audience while gradually dismantling their deep-seated beliefs, to the point where we too get lost in this world, and begin to question our own individual realities.

We never quite know where this film is heading, and like any work of great surrealism, a clear sense of direction is entirely inconsequential. A brief roadmap of ideas is presented at the outset of Zerograd, but for the most part, it functions as a stream-of-consciousness odyssey that launches us into an uncanny world that feels familiar, but where the smallest inconsistencies prevent us from ever being at ease. The character of Alexey is our surrogate, an ordinary man thrown into these strange circumstances, and forced to navigate a side of the world he isn’t only unfamiliar with, but struggles to understand in any meaningful way. There is certainly some strange occurrences that take place throughout this film, with these events ranging from mildly amusing in how offbeat they are, to fully terrifying, especially when they hint at something far more sinister lurking beneath the surface. There’s quite a bit to digest when it comes to this film, where each individual idea can be unpacked – but as should be familiar to any devotee to the school of surrealism, the more you provoke a theme, the less effective it is. Zerograd works most effectively when each individual concept is taken as part of some larger whole, and while the details make for a fascinating film, the brilliance comes in the cumulative power, the gradually-compounding unearthliness that indicates that the eccentricities embedded within this story are not there merely for the sake of perplexing the audience, but rather to manipulate the entire concept of reality and everything it stands for, which is precisely what makes this such a remarkable film. It only makes the actual filmmaking more effective – Shakhnazarov constructs such a magnificent odyssey, where each frame is stunningly detailed, detached from reality in a way that doesn’t confuse us, but still points towards a more haunting alternative. There are some unforgettable images in this film, such as when the main character is served a cake that is modelled after his own head, or the striking final shot where he is finally able to makes his escape – and when taken alongside the brilliant story, we have a truly memorable work of speculative fiction.

Zerograd is a film in which the plot doesn’t revolve around the fact that nothing seems real – this is a film where we know for a fact that absolutely nothing we are seeing makes sense, but yet it is so grounded in some fundamentally realistic ideas, it never feels too far-fetched. There is an eerie sense of foreboding that intermingles with the darkly comic underpinnings to create quite a memorable piece that delves deeply into looking at the themes of identity and freedom, two concepts that are often explored in Soviet-era literature, albeit not in quite as bizarre a way as here. Shakhnazarov is a masterful filmmaker who produced something truly incredible with Zerograd, crafting a surreal odyssey that feels so compelling, even when it is clear that it is not afraid to venture beyond the confines of all known logic. This is the kind of film that people should be referring to when they’re describing the concept of a Kafka-esque story, since everything about Zerograd feels like something the esteemed but troubled author would write – a mysterious setting, a protagonist thrown into a world he doesn’t understand, eccentric characters that are so familiar yet so deeply unsettling, and a general sense of danger that never quite abates, constantly following the protagonist (and by extension, the audience) the further we journey through this strange world. This is a film that should be seen and discussed, even if the most insightful academics would have trouble coming to terms with the ideas Shakhnazarov uses throughout the film. In short, Zerograd is an astounding achievement, a bewildering but truly worthwhile absurdist masterpiece of Russian cinema that traverses reality and comes out of it stranger and more profoundly fascinating than ever before.

Saturday Matinee: Sound of Noise

‘Sound Of Noise’ A Clever, Unique & Musical Heist Film

By Gabe Toro

Source: The Playlist

“This is a gig!” screams a gang of masked assailants as they enter a busy Swedish bank. The customers are pushed and prodded, forced into a corner, hiding behind their ruffled suits as the perpetrators begin to activate the shredders, printing cash and destroying it in front of them, an activity that involves the ruffling of dollars, the tapping of keyboards, the clang of coins against glass, and yes, maybe some added percussive activities. It’s music, and it’s only one of many “attacks” from this ambitious group.

A terrorist group by definition, these musicians, who won’t sing or dance, instead perform acts of disruption, seeking no material gain aside from bringing the sound of chaos to everyone’s doorstep. To them, the enemy is convention, and while they arrange their attacks as “movements,” each with its own separate attack point, their weapon of choice are endless looping drums. Essentially, what if “Stomp” had an agenda.

Directed by Ola Simonsson and Johannes Stjärne Nilsson, “Sound Of Noise” is cleverly, strictly defined as a heist film, honoring the conventions of the genre before we even realize nothing is being heisted, exactly. Early on, the two leaders of the gang are even seen scouting and recruiting fellow drummers, reading off dossiers as we watch these musicians struggle in unnatural habitats. This is all straight-faced, of course. Drums are not a joke, they’re a way of life. These guys can’t even flee during a chase scene without picking up some drumsticks.

In hot pursuit is a rogue cop, the only one on the force who seems to understand what this group is doing. Unfortunately, not only is he tone-deaf, but his hearing is dropping out as well. He announces that he will “rid this city of musician scum” but clearly he sees something in this group that he’s been denying about himself for years. Oh, and by the way, his name is Amadeus.

Based around one central gimmick, the otherwise skimpy “Sound Of Noise” doesn’t overstay its welcome, paced in accordance with its musical set-pieces. Not necessarily a musical, it’s moments of downtime still seemingly choreographed by the insistent whir of a Metronome, much like the one our gang leaves at the scene of the crime. As such, it’s terrific fun, building to an unlikely climax involving entire city blocks and a confluence of light and sound more exciting than most climactic blockbuster explosions. Movies have long thrilled in teaching audiences that some problems can be solved with a punch or a finely-tuned monologue or two. Finally, someone has substituted percussion instead. 

Watch Sound of Noise on Kanopy here: https://www.kanopy.com/product/sound-noise

Saturday Matinee: Harold and Maude

Review by Brian Eggert

Source: Deep Focus Review

Harold and Maude is the most positive expression of counter-culturalism to come out of Hal Ashby’s career. Unlike Ashby’s other pictures released during his zenith in the 1970s, it does not concentrate its message against flawed American institutions or oppositional forces such as the military, government power, the Vietnam War, or institutional racism. Instead, the film builds up an audience of outsiders, misfits, disaffected youths, and even senior citizens who grew up on the margins, stifled by a world built on the establishments and conventions of a dominant culture. Through its unorthodox romance between the death-obsessed youth, Harold, and the vivacious, indomitable Maude, who, approaching eighty, preaches the gospel of living life to the fullest, it blithely celebrates nonconformity and independence. “If you want to be free, be free,” sings Maude, quoting the film’s essential songs by Cat Stevens, marking herself as an aged symbol of the how the counterculture movement of the 1960s had, in many ways, grown old by the film’s release in 1971. Nevertheless, Harold and Maude resists becoming an adversarial political statement or dialectical argument designed to reignite a movement. Its strength resides in a philosophy rooted in self-exploration through personal fulfillment, bodily acceptance and exploration, artistic creation, and spontaneity, endearingly represented through its eccentric humor and a love affair for the ages. 

Ashby had one of the best careers of any filmmaker in the 1970s. However, everything after Harold and Maude, his second film, became more cynical and confronting, even his comedies. The Last Detail (1973) exposed the senselessness of the Vietnam War and inhumanity of military law, offering a portrait of male bonding and innocence lost. The downfall of Warren Beatty’s womanizing hairdresser in Shampoo takes place against the backdrop of Richard Nixon’s presidential election in 1968, a parallel no viewer of the 1975 film could miss after Nixon’s resignation. Bound for Glory, the director’s Woody Guthrie biopic from 1976, explored the folk musician’s life singing about freedom and humanism in the Dust Bowl, while protesting the exploitation of workers. Ashby’s searing drama Coming Home (1978) considered once more the soul-crushing effect of the military and the human toll of Vietnam, concentrating this time on a paraplegic veteran and the moral awakening of an army wife. His last great film, Being There(1979), condemned American politics, mass media, white elitists, and one-percenters in what might be Ashby’s most outraged and funniest work. And whereas these other films adopt a confrontational and polemical perspective against a well-defined mainstream system, which usually overcomes the individual and remains at odds with the sympathetic view, Harold and Maude offers a rare glimmer of hope and happiness from Ashby. 

The pale-faced Harold (Bud Cort), lives in an elaborate estate with his grating, English-accented, conservative mother (Vivian Pickles). They have an unspoken agreement: She ignores him and almost willfully refuses to see him as a person, and he responds in a series of faked, symbolic suicides that seem to say, “You’re killing me.” The film opens as Harold prepares to hang himself, a scene played as tragic until his mother enters the room and, rather than call 911, she arranges her evening’s dinner party. Suspended there on a rope, presumably tied around his torso, Harold’s mouth spews drool and his eyes fill with pressure tears. His mother pays him no mind, leaving her son’s behavior for the psychiatrist (George Wood) to figure out. Harold, who drives a hearse, also attends funerals just for fun, and that’s where he sees Maude (Ruth Gordon), a woman approaching eighty with a vibrant attitude toward life. But she’s also the resident Earth Mother who teaches Harold life’s many joys: she compels him to create music, disobey pointless rules, enjoy olfactory sensations, not feel reserved in his own body, and even steal the occasional car. Maude practices what she preaches—she poses nude for an ice sculpture and lives in an old train car, transitory symbols of impermanence and movement that capture her way of looking at life. And as Harold and Maude spend time together, color seems to return to Harold’s face. 

Harold’s mother, who knows nothing about the budding romance between the two, fills out computer-dating forms for her son, though she answers the questions as she would respond. “‘Do you think the sexual revolution has gone too far?’” she reads aloud from the questionnaire. “It certainly seems to have,” she responds to herself. A few feet away, Harold loads a gun and, after pointing it at his mother, he turns it on himself until—BAM!—he’s dead. Except, Harold is some kind of magician, capable of faking his death with a series of tricks, usually accomplished between cuts. His fake suicides are less cries for help than a plea for someone to meet him on his terms. They’re also among the funniest moments in the film, a detail that sets Harold and Maude’s sense of humor on another plane from other, more mainstream films. After he seemingly sets himself ablaze to bring an abrupt end to a date his mother has arranged, Harold turns to the camera and smiles—but not a perceptible grin, just a hint at something comically sinister that the knowing audience will recognize. It’s a playful touch, like a secret between the audience and Harold that demands we take his side. In any case, Harold’s mother’s efforts to marry her son are pointless. From the moment Maude invited Harold to “stroke, caress, explore” the curvy wooden sculpture in her traincar, which looks like a deconstructed vagina, he lusts after her. Before long, their love for one another is consummated. Harold goes from staging his own death to somersaults and singing. Then Maude turns eighty, marking a self-imposed end date that she has been hinting at all along. But the film acknowledges that, despite death’s inevitability, life persists if we embrace it. 

Although far warmer and less defeated than Ashby’s other films, Harold and Maude does not aim itself at a particular target; however, its portraits of authority figures such as Harold’s mother have a mocking, sardonic quality to them. Contenting herself with Liberace records and social gatherings, Harold’s mother believes he will find adulthood after she thrusts him into a marriage; to that end, she values the computer dating service for screening out “fat and ugly” candidates, and she gives her son a Jaguar sports car to attract women and replace his less appealing hearse. Elsewhere, Harold’s military-devoted Uncle Victor (Charles Tyner), once the “right-hand man” to General MacArthur, has no right hand—but he has a picture of Nixon hung on the wall behind his desk and remains able to salute the flag thanks to a ridiculous pull string solution. Harold’s mother plans to have him enlisted with the help of Uncle Victor, but Harold and Maude finds humor in a sequence where Harold fakes psychopathy and murder to escape military service. Also, the traffic cop (an uncredited Tom Skerritt) who stops Harold and Maude for speeding is shown to be powerless, while the local priest (Eric Christmas) is bedeviled by notions of sexual idealism. Still, these counter-culture jabs feel more in service of a positive story about nonconformity, anti-establishment, and free-spiritedness—all terms that could be used to describe the soul-searching quality of a director known as “Hashby” for his omnipresent marijuana use. Indeed, Ashby wrote friend Sue Mengers that he had spent “the better part of my life just wondering where I am, or even if I am.” Harold and Maude is a searching film by a searching director.

Perhaps it’s surprising, then, that Ashby was initially uncertain about whether Harold and Maude should be his second feature. He had just released his debut, The Landlord from 1970, starring Beau Bridges as a privileged white man who takes over a tenement building in a predominantly African American neighborhood. Its representation of the culture clash between races aligned with the types of films that interested Ashby at the time. He had spent more than a decade editing pictures in Hollywood for some of the finest directors of the 1950s and 1960s—William Wyler, Franklin J. Schaffner, George Stevens—learning the craft of filmmaking from a dark editing room. But his friend, mentor, and closest collaborator during this period was Norman Jewison, the socially conscious director of In the Heat of the Night (1967), who made civil rights either an outward theme or an undercurrent in his films. Ashby had earned an Oscar for Best Editing on In the Heat of the Night, after which he voiced a desire to direct. Jewison, who was originally slated to direct The Landlord but passed to make Fiddler on the Roof (1971), agreed to produce Ashby’s first feature as a director. The film’s notoriously bad marketing campaign, with its poster of a finger about to ring two doorbells that resemble breasts, confused audiences, resulting in a box-office disappointment. Still, those who saw The Landlord were impressed. 

Ashby had started to receive scripts for his next project, and among them was Harold and Maude, which Paramount executive Peter Bart thought would be perfect for the budding director. The material originated as a screenplay by Colin Higgins, written as his Master’s thesis for UCLA that, in 1971, he published as a book. Higgins worked as a pool boy for a producer at Paramount, who got the script in front of Bart and studio head Robert Evans. They had bought the script after agreeing to allow the writer to direct his screenplay, but Higgins’ test footage demonstrated he wasn’t ready to helm a major motion picture. Ashby then read the script and enjoyed it, but he was concerned about whether its laughs would translate to the screen. He also worried about resentment from Higgins, so he asked Paramount to give the screenwriter a shot. Paramount refused, saying it would be Ashby or someone else, but not Higgins. Ashby agreed to direct and overcame the Higgins hurdle by making him a producer, which would allow Higgins to observe and learn. Higgins would eventually get his chance at the director’s chair. After some additional work as a screenwriter on Silver Streak (1976), which proved he could write a hit, Higgins directed the comedies Foul Play (1978), 9 to 5 (1980), and The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas (1982).

Casting Harold and Maude presented a particular challenge for Ashby, given the nature of the story and the images it projected. An offbeat romance between a twentysomething, suicide-obsessed boy who befriends an energetic, uncontainable woman about to turn eighty, certainly would not appeal to marquee names, regardless of its message about the value of unrestrained and unconventional lifestyles. Paramount’s modest budget also prevented any major stars from joining the cast. For Maude, Ashby had a long list of mostly British performers in mind, and he planned a trip to London to meet many of them, even though Paramount pushed for the 75-year-old New York native Ruth Gordon, who had just earned an Oscar for Best Supporting Actress in the studio’s 1968 hit, Rosemary’s Baby. Gordon was the obvious choice, and many of the actors he interviewed suggested Gordon over themselves. But Ashby was notorious for floundering around big decisions and met them with anxiety and self-doubt. He described the decision of casting Maude as “one of the most taxing in my lifetime.” To be sure, Ashby had a tendency to dramatize the stress he felt during the preproduction process. When he couldn’t secure cinematographer Gordon Willis, who had shot The Landlord for him, Ashby wrote Evans and Paramount and threatened to pull out of the production, claiming, “I feel I could make this film about as funny as the Viet Nam war.” Then again, Ashby biographer Nick Dawson suggests that Ashby’s letter was designed to give the director some wiggle room, as Evans convinced him to remain on the picture by increasing the budget from $800,000 to $1.25 million.

For Harold, Higgins had written the part for little-known actor John Rubenstein, but Ashby wanted then-unknowns such as Bob Balaban, Richard Dreyfuss, and John Savage. Bud Cort, who had just appeared in Robert Altman’s Brewster McCloud and MASH, both in 1970, was another option. After casting Gordon, Ashby shot screen tests of his various Harolds, and the baby-faced Cort was the choice. A former stand-up comedian, the young actor had an improvisational style that suited him on the free-wheeling Altman sets, but it clashed with Gordon’s commitment to the screenplay. Gordon was a Hollywood veteran, a “careerist” as she told The New York Times. She had been in the business since the age of four, posing in advertisements before graduating to small roles in silent films and a few supporting roles throughout the 1940s. Much of her career was spent alongside her husband, Garson Kanin, as part of the writing duo responsible for A Double Life (1947), Adam’s Rib (1947), and Pat and Mike (1952)—all of which earned Gordon and Kanin Oscar nominations for Best Screenplay. And so when Cort attempted to improvise on Higgins’ script during the Harold and Maude shoot, Ashby had to support both acting styles while preserving the peace. Cort spoke at Ashby’s memorial service and remembered the experience: “Hal was so sympathetic, so understanding. And I think back on it now, I must have driven him crazy, but he never ever complained.” 

Whatever anxieties Ashby had during the preproduction phase usually dissolved by the time cameras were rolling. Harold and Maude shot in a perpetually overcast Northern California over two months, using locations in San Mateo County such as the Rosecourt Mansion, the sprawling mansion that served as Harold’s home. Much to the relief of Ashby, the location shooting meant his crew of hippies and introverts would be left to their creative devices, as their director wanted nothing more than autonomy from Paramount’s executives (Ashby’s brief appearance in the film shows the director at his shaggiest). However, after a month into production, Ashby was behind schedule and had to contend with Bart arriving on set with a ticket back to Los Angeles, along with a warning that he would be replaced if the production was not back on schedule. Despite a few delays due to weather and a motorcycle accident involving a stuntman, Harold and Maude proceeded smoothly, even if Cort occasionally caused a row among the crew for his performative commitment to the role. The young actor wanted to fool the crew with his character’s fake suicides and nearly strangled himself in the process. He also told Leticia Kent of The New York Times that he planned to have actual sex with Gordon—a remark believed to be a stunt until he told Ashby the same thing. Reportedly, Cort and Gordon did not have sex for the film. 

Ashby originally wanted Elton John to write the music for Harold and Maude; in fact, the pop star was one of the director’s first choices to play Harold. John couldn’t commit to either, but he recommended Cat Stevens for the music. The director didn’t reach out to Stevens straightaway; instead, he began playing Stevens’ songs over the dailies for the first several weeks of the shoot, using songs from the albums Mona Bone Jakon and Tea for the Tillerman, both released in 1970. Ashby eventually reached out to Stevens and made a deal to use the performer’s music in the film. But after the production had wrapped and Ashby entered the editing phase, Stevens claimed he was too busy to be involved or write any additional songs. Ashby, whose controlling tendencies and experience as an editor led to his taking over control from the editing team of Bill Sawyer and Edward Warschilka, had already shot and had been cutting Harold and Maude to the tempo and tenor of Stevens’ songs. Without Stevens, the film simply wouldn’t work. He resolved to fly to Paris to convince Stevens to use existing songs and write additional music for the film. Stevens eventually agreed to allow the production to use existing music from his albums, including two additional songs, “Don’t Be Shy” and “If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out”—which have the most imperative lyrics to the film’s themes. Anyone who has seen Harold and Maude knows it is inextricably linked to Stevens’ music, as his solo acoustic performances echo its gentle optimism with an air of solitude that accompanies both of the film’s main characters.  

By the time Ashby had prepared Harold and Maude for preview screenings, it had become a stabilizing project in his life. During the production, he had divorced his wife, and his brother died, making Ashby particularly sensitive to the success or failure of his endearing romance. Fortunately, the preview screenings were wildly positive, complete with standing ovations and enthusiastic crowds of youngsters. Everyone was sure they had a hit, and Paramount resolved to release the film around Christmastime. Then the reviews came in. Amid a few positive notices were scathing indictments of the film’s theme and subject matter. In the infamous Variety review, the critic wrote, “Harold and Maude has all the fun and gaiety of a burning orphanage,” then continued to spurn Maude as “an offensive eccentric” who engages in “specious philosophizing.” In his review for The New York Times, Vincent Canby called the characters “creepy and off-putting,” while Roger Ebert compared the experience to attending a funeral: “all the movie lacks is a lot of day-old gardenias and lilies and roses in the lobby.” Harold and Maude opened not long after The French Connection and Fiddler on the Roof, in the same month as A Clockwork OrangeDirty HarryThe Last Picture Show, and Diamonds Are Forever, and was almost destined to be ignored and misunderstood.

Unlike most critics, Ashby found the single sex scene between Harold and Maude to be a beautiful testament to flesh, both regardless of age and in the juxtaposition between the young and old—something his crowd, the hippies, counterculture groups, and liberal-minded types, would appreciate. Paramount’s executives didn’t agree. Ally MacGraw, then married to Robert Evans, complained after a preview screening that the scene was disgusting and should be cut. Evans backed his wife and demanded that the scene be removed. Ashby got around this by sneakily inserting some of the footage into the film’s original trailer. This was long before the contemporary norm of trailers containing footage, from alternate takes to entire scenes, that never make it into the final film. If the footage was in Harold and Maude’s trailer, it had to be in the film, and so it was—albeit in truncated form. Whereas Ashby shot scenes of Cort and Gordon kissing, the studio demanded that Ashby cut around the actual lovemaking, revealing only a shot of the lovers in bed together the next morning. Paramount’s marketing department also downplayed the nature of the relationship between Harold and Maude after the negative press. The studio released a new poster that gave no allusions to Harold’s penchant for faking suicides or the fact that Harold’s so-called girlfriend was a much older woman. Rather, the new poster was entirely white and comprised only of text, black for the credits, while “Harold” and “Bud Cort” appeared in purple and “Maude” and “Ruth Gordon” appeared in a burgundy. No images, taglines, or accompanying critical praises donned the poster, just the facts, which was guaranteed to generate little interest. 

Despite a slowly growing crowd of enthusiasts, Harold and Maude was out of most theaters in a few weeks. The right people had seen it, though, and they assured its future. It started to appear at film societies, midnight screenings, and repertory theaters around the country. Paramount had seen so many rentals of existing prints that they resolved to re-release the film into theaters in 1974 and again 1978, this time with posters that played up the morbid angles of the film. “His hangups are Hilarious,” proclaimed one poster, featuring a cartoon of Bud Cort yanking at his neck with a tie. Higgins grasped onto the phenomenon by adapting his screenplay for the stage in a short-lived Broadway production in 1980; it closed after four performances, but the play has since been revived by many community theaters around the country. As the years continued to pass, the film became a cult object to be monumentalized in underground circles before finally being accepted by both audiences and the film community as a cherished work. In the early 2000s, Harold and Maude appeared on several of the American Film Institute’s “100 Years…” lists, such as its “Laughs,” “Cheers,” and “Passions” lists. Whether people had gotten over the hangups that prevented them from embracing the film in 1971, however, remains in question. 

If Paramount executives and the film’s harshest critics took issue with Harold and Maude’s portrait of a May-December romance separated by over fifty years, general sentiments about such relationships and the issues of bodily acceptance they raise have not been resolved since the film’s release. One might argue that the film has become accepted because it feels somewhat anachronistic, a product of a bygone era that seems distant from today’s pressing sociopolitical and cultural imperatives. It has been all but remade with younger, more attractive stars, such as the comparatively tame Anton Yelchin and Kat Dennings vehicle Charlie Bartlett (2008). It has also inspired other romances, as in 1999’s Fight Club, which riffs on the meet-cute of Harold and Maude attending funerals for fun when two interlopers find each other at a testicular cancer group. And it’s worth investigating whether the film’s idiosyncrasies have become just that—something watched as a lark, as opposed to a series of lessons in support of a worldview. Certainly, in American culture and Hollywood cinema, the nude elderly body remains stigmatized and unseen on film outside of grotesque situations, whereas the few exceptions, such as Kathy Bates’ disrobing in About Schmidt (2002), have been a source of laughter and derision. Harold and Maude treats its subject with humor but does not deny its characters humanity in their sexual relationship, which, by the final scenes after Maude has taken the pills that mean her death (“I should be gone by midnight,” she explains with relief, much to Harold’s terror), has emotional consequence for the viewer. 

Rather, Harold and Maude forces the viewer to consider the inevitabilities of time’s influence on the body and, ultimately, the body’s death. Instead of feeling revulsion and fear about these points, it views the commonplace attitude toward death as morbid. For all the film’s glimpses at Gordon’s body or hints at the amazing sex had by Harold and Maude, there’s nothing more revolting than the brief sight of a coffin branded “Permaseal”—a sign of our culture’s desperate attempts to prevent natural changes, the withering and decomposition of the body, even after death. Maude considers herself “a general reminder” of how people are “here today and gone tomorrow.” It’s why she steals any car she wants, even the priest’s Volkswagen Beetle, and drives like a bat out of hell, ignoring road signs or toll booths. “What sense in borders and nations and patriotism,” she wonders. Maude has accepted that her time on earn is limited, and much of human culture is comprised of meaningless social constructs. From a critical and analytical perspective, it might be redundant to observe that Maude is a symbol of life, Harold is a symbol of death, and together they represent the circle of life—and moreover, an appreciation of the entire experience within the circle, even if that experience is death. 

These are grand and life-affirming ideas, but they come from a film that does not sacrifice its sense of character in the broadcasting of its worldview. Harold and Maude catches the viewer off-guard more than once in its intimate scenes between the two lovers. The source of Harold’s preoccupation with death, for example, could be just another cliché of an angst-ridden young adult, except the origin of his penchant for faking suicides stems from his mother’s shallow reaction when she thought Harold had genuinely died in a chemistry accident. Gordon’s dialogue only slows from its cheery, fast-paced delivery when she gives vague allusions to Maude’s past in moments touched with melancholy and remembrance. Maude hints at her political activism and her attendance at a royal party for a king in Vienna, but then there’s also Maude’s tattoo, a number stenciled on her inner forearm at a concentration camp. All at once, the image, onscreen for just a flash, shows us what must be the source of Maude’s intrepid spirit and urgent reverence of life itself. In some way, only Maude’s philosophy toward life matters; in another way, her background enriches her perspective and boundless humanism. During subsequent viewings, after our imagination has filled in the blank spots of Maude’s past, her consideration of human dimension, regardless of appearances, feels even more meaningful. On a picnic, she observes daisies as she might faces in a crowd: “Some are smaller, some are fatter, some grow to the left, some to the right, some even have lost some petals. All kinds of observable differences.” 

Harold and Maude contains a sophistication in its simple ideas about love for one’s fellow human beings. “I feel that much of the world’s sorrow comes from people who are this,” says Maude, pointing to a single daisy, “yet let themselves be treated like that,” gesturing toward a field of dailies. Doubtless, it’s a way of thinking ingrained by Maude’s treatment as subhuman during the Holocaust, and it’s a lesson that she hopes to spread, in her way, to prevent such atrocity from ever happening again. Ashby’s films, which can feel delightful and accessible even when they take aim at a particular target or mourn the cruel realities of our systems, never contain the same quality of Harold and Maude’s tribute to life’s beauty. In his personal life and career in Hollywood, Ashby had found oppositions everywhere, even those of his own making, and he rallied against them in his 1970s output. Harold and Maude was the only film to articulate its message through positive means, whereas most other examples of Ashby’s work lean toward an antithetical mentality that captures the essence of counterculturalism. Maude’s ultimate and most hopeful lesson asks that Harold continue onward and ignore the illusory conflicts, a notion punctuated by her enduring last words: “Go and love som’more.”

Watch Harold and Maude on Pluto TV here: https://pluto.tv/on-demand/movies/harold-and-maude-1971-1-1

Saturday Matinee: Joe Versus the Volcano

My Year Of Flops Case File # 40 Joe Versus The Volcano

By Nathan Rabin

Source: AV Club

As my colleague Scott Tobias wrote in “Ten Notorious Flops Worth Seeing” John Patrick Shanley’s romantic fantasy Joe Versus The Volcano is about “nothing less than the joy of being alive.” It’s an incandescent trifle that nevertheless speaks to some of mankind’s most profound concerns. What does it mean to be alive? Is it a gift wasted on the living? Does impending death inherently give life more meaning?

That’s a lot for a first-time director to tackle, but Shanley was far from a neophyte. He’d established himself as a playwright, won an Academy Award for his very first screenplay (the swooningly romantic Moonstruck), and, for his directorial debut, roped in Steven Spielberg as Executive Producer and Tom Hanks, arguably our most beloved living movie star and the only apparent heir to James Stewart’s vacated title as America’s idealized everyman, as his star. Joe didn’t skimp on production values, either. It boasts the boundless invention and towering, gorgeous sets of a clever young prodigy who’d just been given the world’s largest toy box and was eager to make the most of it. It’s one of those rare movies where every element seems fussed over to perfection, where every molecule is perfectly in place. So if Joe Versus The Volcano was deemed a flop upon its initial release, that’s partially because expectations for it were so high.

Shanley immediately establishes a tricky fairy-tale tone with a scrawl that opens with “Once Upon a Time” before introducing us to our hapless hero, a miserable sad-sack (Hanks) who trudges drearily to work each day at a gothic factory straight out of Charles Addams or Edward Gorey’s morbid imagination. Hanks works for Dan Hedaya at a company that manufactures medical implements (“Home of the Rectal Probe!,” one woefully ineffective bit of bluster raves), but seems more intent on generating human misery for employees soul-sick from buzzing fluorescent lights and deadening routines.

At the office, Hanks lives a life that, to paraphrase Elvis Costello, is almost like suicide, so it’s pretty much a relief when he learns from doctor Robert Stack that he’s contracted a curious condition called a “Brain Cloud” and has less than a year to live. Hanks has been dying a long, slow, painful death since quitting the fire department years earlier and his impending exit from the land of the living liberates him from the grim concerns of day-to-day life, especially after manic pixie gazillionaire Lloyd Bridges offers to give Hanks a life of luxury on the condition that he eventually sail to a tropical island and jump into a volcano, thereby appeasing the native islanders so Bridges can score their precious, precious natural resources.

At each step in his journey, Hanks becomes involved with a different potential love interest played by Meg Ryan. Now normally the phrase “Meg Ryan in multiple roles” is enough to send shivers down the spine or suggest a fate worse than death. And while it pains me deeply to write this, Meg Ryan is adorable! In Joe Veruss The Volcano, at least. The film fully explores the actress’ remarkable range as she portrays everything from a mousy neurotic with a voice straight out of a ‘30s Warner Brothers melodrama to a flighty, neurotic, screwball L.A heiress to an unusually radiant variation on Ryan’s usual neurotic pixie persona.

Hanks encounters other memorable characters en route as well, especially Ossie Davis as a limo driver who views impeccable dressing as a matter of profound philosophical significance. Davis’ casually authoritative guide to the good life views luxury almost as a manner of life and death: this is poetically apt (Spoiler Alert!) in that when Hanks and Ryan are adrift in the ocean at the end of the film, it is literally Hanks’ choice to splurge on the decadently expensive luggage that saves their lives. Davis’ elegant mentor belongs to the strange cinema sub-strata of Magical Black Men, but the role is conceived and executed with such relaxed charm that he transcends stereotype.

As Hanks sheds his grim fatalism and embraces life, the film’s color palette morphs from cold grey drudgery to ripe, richly satiated jewel-box boldness. The East Coast sequences are a child’s giddy dream of New York while the island segments ooze infectious tropical sensuality. At the island, Hanks is met by Orange soda-loving Jewish Islanders led by the hilariously casual Abe Vigoda, who views Hanks less as a God-like hero than a mensch doing everyone a favor.

As Toys and Elizabethtown illustrate, whimsy is incredibly difficult to pull off. One man’s whimsical delight is another man’s cloying sugar headache. So when you’re trying to entice audiences to enter your magical little world of whimsy and delight, it helps immeasurably if your guide is Tom Hanks rather than, say, Robin Williams or Orlando Bloom.

Joe Versus The Volcano is an odd duck partially because it owes so much to Shanley’s theater background, from its extravagant, impressionist sets to its long takes to its stylized, beautifully wrought dialogue to its highly theatrical use of repetition, symbolism, and metaphor. Take Hedaya’s role for example. Hedaya essentially repeats endless minor variations on the same bit of dialogue for minutes on end. The effect is two-fold: the repetition develops a strangely hypnotic rhythm all its own and it indelibly conveys that Hedaya has probably been having this same maddeningly circular, essentially meaningless conversation for years, if not decades on end. He’s permanently locked in the poisonous, soul-crushing machine from which Hanks so joyfully extricates himself.

It didn’t make much of a splash at the time, but I can see the film’s storybook loveliness and bittersweet, child-like whimsy being a huge influence on Wes Anderson, especially The Life Aquatic, while the workplace absurdism and Bridges’ sprightly oddball turn anticipate Being John Malkovich and Orson Bean’s similarly twinkly performance as a genially warped old buzzard. But the loopy, child-like romanticism and winsome optimism at the heart of Joe belongs wholly and irrevocably to Shanley, who establishes himself as a true auteur here even as he draws extensively on the films of David Lynch, Tim Burton, and Spielberg. If nothing else, Joe Versus The Volcano should have announced the emergence of an audacious and a singular new directorial talent. Instead it was something of a cinematic dead end for a writer who went back to theater after gun-for hire work on We’re Back, Alive, and Congo, though he’s ostensibly directing a film adaptation of his Pulitzer Prize-winning play Doubt with Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Meryl Streep due out next year.

Most movies use the songs on their soundtrack like a bored teenager flipping through his iPod: a little hip-hop flava here, some punk rock aggression there, a little techno moodiness to top it off, and nothing meanders too long or makes much of an impression. But in Joe Versus The Volcano, the smartly selected songs play long enough to brood and sulk and develop a life of their own. Shanley lets Ray Charles’ transcendent take on “Ol’ Man River” linger long enough for its broken-down grace to shine through and implicate Hanks’ miserable existence in the process. Hanks’ evolution from suicidal despair to rapturous joy is reflected by a soundtrack that segues from the withering fatalism of “16 Tons” and “Ol Man River” to the infectious ebullience of “Good Loving.”

My father says Joe Versus The Volcano is held in high regard in the self-help community, which understandably embraces its narrative of a joyless sad-sack who discovers the tools to live out of his wildest fantasies. It’s a fizzy pop fable about the quirkiest possible route to self-actualization that’d probably have been better received by the public at large if it didn’t boast such a precious title or cutesy conceits like Orange-soda-loving, Volcano-fearing Jewish islanders. Which begs the question: Do movies like Ishtar, Gigli, Howard The Duck and Joe Versus The Volcano fail because they have terrible titles or are their titles only viewed as terrible because the films were such pronounced box-office failures? For this film, at least, I’d to think the second explanation holds true.

For such a strangely irresistible, life-affirming movie Joe proved awfully divisive. Shanley gave critics and haters plenty of ammunition (Meg Ryan in three mannered roles, all manner of twee cutesiness spilling around the edges), just as he gave the film’s growing cult plenty to fall in love with. Over and over again.

 

Watch Joe Versus the Volcano on Hoopla here: https://www.hoopladigital.com/title/13529408