Hell is double-faced Black dudes and Peter Frampton-looking motherfuckers prancing about in G-strings

"What's up, baby!" yelled the homie leaning out the passenger side of his best friend's ride, trying to holler at one of the ladies waiting in line outside the Nuart Theatre. After receiving zero response, he reiterated with "I SAID WHAT'S UP BAY-BEEEE!" and then the car was gone to whatever awesome most likely alcohol/rape-based event those motherfuckers were going to. Anyway, I assume he was yelling at one of the women. Maybe he was trying to hit up some cute guy, I don't know.

What I do know is that we were all there for the midnight showing of The Apple, Menahem Golan's far out musical from the far off time of 1980. I'd never seen the film, but I knew of it from its reputation of being a classic in the WTF genre of so-bad-it's-good filmmaking; the dude behind me told his Apple-virgin lady friend that "after seeing this, you're gonna wanna buy the DVD, the VHS, the laserdisc!" Her response to that was "Now I'm afraid." A guy behind me had a paper-bagged can of the Good Stuff, and after popping the top, the people in front of me turned to glance at him like Well I Never and he almost didn't, because the line started being let into the theater, causing him to panic and gulp as much of that stuff as possible before finally placing it down on the sidewalk and declaring to his friend, "Man down!"

Inside, I saw Marc Heuck talking to two patrons, telling them that they had to see the manager about....something. I don't know. I just hear these things in quick bursts as I pass by, plus I'm drunk right now. (I never tried Buchanan's Scotch Whisky before, but now that I have, I can tell you that it does the job.) While looking for a seat, I noticed some confetti on the floor in one section near the back, which either had something to do with the Lukas Haas/Madeline Zima joint that was playing there earlier that evening or some Apple fanatic had decided to spread some Apple cheer in only one small area of the auditorium for some reason. Some of the audience peeps had on small triangular stickers on their faces, and one dude had on a skinny headband. A deep-voiced well-spoken gentlemen in a mustard and black suit walked up the aisle and pointed out some of these people, saying "I see lots of BIM marks!" and that's when I put two and two together and figured that's what the triangles were, BIM marks. As for what the fuck a BIM was, I'd find out soon enough.

One woman asked out loud to her group of buddies taking up an entire row whether The Apple was a good movie or not. "Yes!" said one friend, while another said "It's terrible", but in an agreeable tone, so I guess that tells you everything right there. She then jumped (as did I), after the voice of God yelled out "BEEEEEEE!" only it wasn't the voice of God, it was one of the Nuart dudes on-stage with a microphone. He was a fan, this Nuart man, and he told those who had never seen The Apple that we would pee our brains as a result of the experience. He then told us about the upcoming midnight shows (Battle Royale! Overboard! Weekend at Bernie's!) and that the upcoming screening of Raiders of the Lost Ark is now cancelled for whatever reason (I assume it was George Lucas being George Lucas...again) and instead, the studio was giving them The Lost World: Jurassic Park as a replacement. Because why watch one of Spielberg's best when you can watch one of his worst instead?

So, the movie. The Apple takes place in the futuristic setting of New York 1994, or at least 1994 as envisioned through super-tacky late 70's eyeballs. (At least I think it was supposed to be New York. It could've been Boston, for all I know.) In this world, people are either dressed like extras from Doctor Who circa 1972 or dudes on their way to the set of William Friedkin's Cruising or a combo of both. Here, ballers roll in souped-up motorcycles and stationwagons that look a lot more cumbersome than practical, because practicality left this world long fuckin' ago; we're talking buildings with entrances that consist of signs like "Music Dept" hanging over escalators that lead to upstairs rooms, yet they only go down. Figure that shit out, my man. Me, I'm still trying to deal with people who are down with drinking out of "BIM glasses" that are obviously vases, or that mothers push their babies in strollers that look like they were made by the same folks who built that bubble-topped motorcycle sidecar in Mad Max. I can only hope that the air system in those things work well, otherwise the infant mortality rate in 1994 must be, like, really fuckin' high. In that case, the future ain't that bad.

Now as we all know, 1994 turned out to be one of our great years for Cinema, but in this film 1994 is a time of lame-ass music that is being forced down the public's throat and the grateful public votes on this shitty music and somehow this tells the world that this awful music is the Best Music EVAR, case closed, no arguments. It's a good thing we dodged that bullet in real life and 2012 is a paradise of top notch tunes on the radio and great music videos on MTV, rather than the cesspool of soulless manufactured dreck and reality shows about nothing it could've been.

But there is hope, people, because two fresh-faced innocents from Canada have come down to compete in this worldwide song contest with a love song that eventually wins over the souls of the audience -- until some fey foreigner in charge of Everything orders his way-past-fey Number Two man to throw a wrench into the proceedings by playing some micro-cassette filled with high-pitched squealing that apparently causes the audience to forget the lovely music they were falling for and now they're like Fuck That Noise We're Giving This Shit Two Thumbs Down. By the way -- in addition to colorful bling-bling all over his self (and teeth), the Number Two guy wears a huge star & crescent earring that may or may not be some kind of DUN DUN DUN TERRORIST visual cue telling us that homeboy is not One Of Us or something. I don't know.

The fey foreigner is named Mr. Boogalow (which no one can agree on how to pronounce -- some go with "Loo" for the last syllable, while others stick with "Low") and he's kinda like the taller, leaner, Semitic answer to Swan from Phantom of the Paradise crossed with all the corporations that control everything in this country/world/universe. He runs Boogalow International Music, a music company that somehow manages to have its fingers in everything -- media, food, even a government-mandated daily BIM workout hour where every citizen must stop what he or she is doing (including surgeons and firemen) and rock out.

So big is BIM, that people are even declaring their allegiance by placing triangular stickers (BIM marks) on their faces, and those who refuse to wear the mark of the BIM get ticketed for it by The Man. But at least The Man's cool enough to let you wear it anywhere on your body and not just your face, which left me thinking that if I was living in that world and wanted to be rebellious, I'd just stick a couple BIMs on my fat hairy asscheeks, then that way whenever some blocky-costumed police officer ordered me to show him my BIM mark, I can just moon that fuckin' pig while displaying good citizenship. But with my luck, he'd probably call in for backup and here comes Henry Silva and his Disinfestation Annihilation Squad and all of a sudden I'm getting the barbecue treatment for my smart-assery. That's what I get for not leaving the Bronx.

Anyway, Boogalow knows what's up; when you're a Bad Motherfucker who's Running Shit, and you have any kind of force (however small it may be) that threatens the tranquility of the Good Thing you got going on, you don't destroy it -- you buy it out. That's what he does to a journalist who gets a little too journalistic about BIM's endeavors, and that's what he plans to do with our Canadian Innocents. He offers each of them recording contracts that promise fame, fortune, and the whole nine -- but of course they only have 20 minutes to sign the line which is dotted, so it's not like they have time to read the fuckin' thing, let alone bring a lawyer into the proceedings.

It turns out that there's a whole Adam & Eve thing going on with our Canadian Innocents, and Mr. Boogelow is the snake in this garden of Eden that is the German locations being passed off as New York Of The Future. In case you don't get it, Golan then gives us a musical sequence where the Male Canadian Innocent envisions Mr. Boogalow as the Devil (albeit a glittery, fey, Dracula-looking Devil with one horn) and his entire crew and stable of music-making bitches are making like Deney Terrio in a fiery netherworld. He tries to convince his fellow Canadian Innocent not to sign with BIM, but c'mon, this is Catherine Mary Stewart we're talking about and Catherine Mary Stewart will do whatever Catherine Mary Stewart wants to do and you can't tell her otherwise, especially if you're some vaguely Ralph Garman-looking motherfucker who sounds kinda like Paul Koslo.

The actors are all game for these proceedings (did not expect to see Miriam Margoyles and Diplomatic Immunity! from Lethal Weapon 2 but here they are), and the choreography during the musical sequences is top notch (even if what they're actually doing is pretty fuckin' goofy in context), but it's all in the service of a ridiculous ninety-minutes of WTF-ery. You have these (mostly) catchy songs with fucked-up lyrics (there's one song called "Coming" that might as well be called "Put Your Penis In My Vagina And Ejaculate Inside"), you have the hilarious costumes and production design (too many male g-strings for my taste, and that Hell set is straight out of a sitcom), and it's all coming from Menahem Golan's goofy-as-fuck mise-en-scene that stems from the deepest grounds of sincerity (of which only Great Success or Massive Fail can grow -- guess which one grows out of this film).

I mean, I could be wrong, but I think Golan was really coming from a I Want To Move The Audience state-of-mind with the ending -- which of course makes the ending the most hilariously wrong part of the entire picture. This is also one of those movies that sucks the viewer into an interdimensional portal between Meant To Be Funny and Not Meant To Be Funny and then leaves you stranded without a fuckin' map or compass or whatever the fuck you'd need to figure out which way is North. As a result, I laughed quite a bit at this flick, but I kinda felt for it, if that makes sense. Best example would be a scene where our main characters are separated by distance and situation, yet manage to sing longingly towards each other during a rainstorm -- dramatically I didn't really see anything wrong with the idea of that scene, but the execution (not to mention the tools provided for the job) falls on the wrong side of the Good/Bad spectrum.

OK, I feel like passing out, and besides, this is one of those joints you want to go into fresh and just let happen to your unsuspecting ass, so I'm gonna wrap this up by saying that if you like not-quite-Disco music, fey Devils, old hippies, surprise vampires, Yiddish-speaking landladies who cure life's ills with chicken soup, and turning to your friend while watching a movie and giving him-or-her the WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING look, then you'll definitely want to take a bite out of this Apple!

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to ask someone to beat the shit out of me for that "take a bite out of this Apple" part, I mean even Gene Shalit would've been like "Bitch, are you for real?" after reading that shit. I mean, really! I'll just redo the ending: If you want to see a really goofy cult musical, look for The Apple on Netflix Instant or rent it from a cool video store and may God have mercy on your soul or something like that, I don't know, drinking scotch on an empty stomach wasn't the best plan, I gotta go.

For the record, that grindhouse "Our Feature Presentation" clip is just as awesome when run backwards

It was a pretty good night for midnight flicks in Los Angeles; Joseph Kahn's Detention was screening over at the Cinefamily, and if I had to bet money on it, I'd bet on that flick popping up in a big-screen setting again eventually, so I didn't go to that one. Meanwhile, the Nuart was going to show Beavis and Butthead Do America, which would've been a hoot to watch again but then I realized that movie is almost 16 years old and I was frozen with a sudden awareness of my age and mortality, so needing to calm down, I picked up a joint at a nearby dispensary and went to the New Beverly to catch the discotheque comedy Thank God It's Friday, because that movie was made in 1978 and I hadn't been born yet. Besides, I remember catching it on cable back in '94 and kinda liking, despite Leonard Maltin having given it a BOMB rating in that book of his. 

I must be in a real betting mood, because here I go again with this shit and I'm only on the first sentence of the second paragraph – anyway, I'd wager that of the three midnight movies that night, ours was the least attended. I'd say about 20-30 people made like sparse attendees and created much open space between rows and seats, which was kinda disappointing, because this was being sold as a tribute to one of the film's stars, the late Ms. Donna Summer, she of the orgasmic "Love to Love You Baby" song, among others (not to mention her riveting performance as Aunt Oona from Altoona in "Family Matters"). Damn, I thought we were over the whole hating-on-Disco thing, but I guess not. Me, I always dug that music -- I like all music, really -- and have a passing shade of fascination with that culture. I mean, you had these people dressed up in outfits of such beautiful ugliness, getting down and doing their thing. Then of course, there was the banging and the drugs and the unknowingly (or unwilling-to-know) excessive habits that came with them. Because if it feels good, why not?  

Anyway, the crowd was few, but spirited; I saw Clu Gulager and his son John up front, which I thought was kinda sweet, father and son going to get their disco cinema on. At least I think it was John, because I was kinda gone around that time from the cheeba, so maybe it was just a lookalike trying to move in on John's position. While waiting, people were digging the 70's disco tunes playing over the sound system as well as during the film proper, when they occasionally made their digging audible. Summer, of course, got applause upon her first appearance in the credits. Some people applauded Neil Bogart's name in the credits, as well.

Aside from Summer and an appearance by The Commodores (I wonder if these guys know anyone from East St. Louis), the cast is an impressive line-up of mostly Nobodies who eventually became Somebodies, or at least Kindabodies; actors like Debra Winger as some klutz who never met a drink she couldn't accidentally knock over or a table she couldn't sit on and bring down, that chick from the group Berlin as some under-21'er who came to the disco with her friend to enter a dance contest for KISS tickets (which I assume the winner will then sell/exchange for tickets to the Bee Gees), and my man, muthafuckin' Jeff Goldblum, playing a smooth motherfucker who goes through chicks like I go through tissues when thinking about chicks -- all day, everyday. 

So like I kinda mentioned earlier, this is a disco flick from the late 70's, and it's like the Magnolia of disco movies (or Short Cuts, if you want to be that way), because we're cutting between various men and women as they all go their respective ways at some Los Angeles disco owned by Goldblum's character, and like Magnolia (or Short Cuts), some major biblical/earthshaking event happens near the end and the characters are all connected somehow. In the case of this flick, it's a dance contest/Commodores performance that proves so fuckin' hardcore, it causes a huge structural crack in the wall of the disco. They didn't raise the roof, but the insurance people are still somehow gonna find a way to slither out of paying for it, that's for sure.

The disco D.J. is named Bobby Speed, and I think he got his last name from taking too much of that shit. He's so goddamn tense and worried, no wonder he's so skinny. He's even more freaked out because he's scheduled to go live on his radio show with The Commodores, only they haven't shown up and their instruments are being brought separately by an undependable associate (or "nigga" as Speed sensitively refers to him during a phone call) named Floyd, who has a habit of getting lost and getting pulled over by the police. I guess I can excuse Speed's dickish behavior due to his nerves about this important night, but that doesn't excuse the harsh way he keeps turning down Donna Summer's character. All she wants is for Speed to listen to her demo but this motherfucker will just slam that fuckin' record to the floor like he was trying to swat a fly with it. 

Treating women like shit is kind of the name of the game for half of these motherfuckers here; you have Speed getting all aggro on Summer, Goldblum loving and leaving the ladies, you have some short fat guy who is an absolute cunt to a tall woman with the bad luck of getting hooked up with him on a blind date, and just all the guys in general, with their polyester wear and horrible pick-up lines (made even more horrible when you realize that some of these lines probably worked). If they're not prowling on women like a bunch of coked-up drunk too-tight clotheshorses, it's because they're too busy pretending to be women, like the Transvestite in the men's room of this particular disco. By the way, was that a big thing in the 70's, crossdressing? I notice a lot more of it in movies of that period, or maybe I'm just secretly hope-projecting. 

The movie begins with the Columbia logo chick getting her groove on to the title song, before morphing into a star that turns into a neon blue melon slice, and then the characters are introduced in a long-ago Los Angeles I'd love to visit but something tells me never really existed except only in the movies. Or maybe I'm just trying to make myself feel better, by thinking Of course there was probably undriveable horrible traffic back then and crime was probably even worse and people were probably more open about their prejudices towards the Brown, so don't fall into that Good Ol Days bullshit.

There's a character here by the name of Marv Gomez (played by Pesto the Pigeon himself, Chick Vennera) -- and of all the boogie shoe-wearing folk here, I think he's the only person I can kind of relate to, and not just because we share the same ethnic demerit; he talks about how the only thing that matters is Dancing and everything else is bullshit. Replace "Dancing" with "movies, substance abuse, and getting fatter", and that's kinda my worldview too. He calls himself a "leatherman", because he felt his life was shit until he found the freedom denied his boxed-in soul in the form of leather clothes, because back then, you had to have the right material object in order to be content and shit. 

Gomez later hooks up some goofy white boy with a leather coat, before displaying the exuberance of a Free Spirit by dancing all over the disco parking lot, specifically the cars themselves. So happy and careless is he, that stomping his leather disco boots all over these poor dancers' automobiles is nothing but a justified means to an end -- the end being joie de vivre, acquired by the means of dented hoods, scuffed-up windshields, and caved-in ragtops. Who cares about those people and their cars and the money they're gonna have to spend to fix Gomez's bullshit -- it's DANCING! 

In the film, his dance is met with applause from the onlookers (and the audience at the New Bev), but in real life, he'd probably be met with an angry patron from the club who just caught the sight of his '76 Fiat 124 Spider getting the Fred Astaire treatment. "Hey Pancho! What the fuck are you doing to my car!" Fiat Man would say -- cursing himself for leaving the familiar club scene back in Orange County for this Hollywood bullshit -- before threatening bodily harm to the Chicano (because that's what they called them back then). Eventually, Fiat Man would start beating up the Dancer-Not-Fighter, and then -- WHOOP WHOOP -- the cops would show up, give Fiat Man a stern warning while carting Gomez off to the nearest jail cell, where a fancy leatherman like him would then get fucked with by the brothas inside. "You's a pretty looking spic, ain't ya?" the head Negro would coo, and then they would all rush him. Gomez would use all his remaining energy to unleash a defensive dance-based kick, which unfortunately would cause one of the assailants to fall against the bars the wrong way, breaking his neck. Now Gomez is facing 25-to-life in prison, meaning his illegitimate son won't be able to see him until he's old enough to hate/forget him, the lesson here being: Get Permission Before Dancing On A Motherfucker's Car. 

So while I kinda identify with Gomez -- dancing on cars aside -- my favorite character was probably the nurse (or whatever the fuck she was) by day, spacey disco hippie by night named Jackie. She was cute with all that fake shit on her head and face, and she didn't care for identities other than the one she assigned you, which is very welcome for an anonymous coward like me. Best of all, she's a walking medicine cabinet, carrying with her so many beautiful colors of pills. This chick carries with her all kinds of drugs except for the most obvious one in this setting; of course, I'm talking about that fine Colombian coffee. 

The movie is pretty drug-friendly in that people are happily tokin' that reefer or popping pills, and yet I never caught a single motherfucker doing a single fuckin' line. (Or maybe I did, but I'm pretty sure that was amyl I saw that dude sniffing on.) Are rails not allowed in TGIF? I thought Cocaine and Disco had a kind of symbiotic relationship in the 70's, but you wouldn't know it from this film. Really, who made the decision not to include that shit? I bet it was some studio exec, telling screenwriter (and future producer) Armyan Bernstein and director Robert Klane (creator of the Weekend at Bernie's diptych) to cut out all the coke references because it's in bad taste or something, right before offering them each a bump. 

Another executive decision was probably made to include a well-to-do square couple into the film, in order for the "regular" people in the audience to kinda have someone to pull for. These two have just come from an anniversary dinner and decide to make a stop at the disco because the wife was kinda being a nag about it. The husband just wants to go home because he has that terrible well-paying accountant job of his tomorrow morning, but thankfully, he goes along (despite being a whine about the $5 cover charge and $2.50 drinks), allowing the events of the film to complete his character arc of cutting loose a little more in life, while his wife is taught by the film not to be so dim the next time some smooth Jeff Goldblum motherfucker steps up to her, acting like she's the love of his life. That dude's a slut, lady, don't get mixed up with them sluts. 

Really, man. Goldblum is getting all up in these chicks' guts, but I dug how unapologetic he was when confronted by his past conquests all throughout. He never plays the defensive, he just makes them feel more loved or makes them feel like shit, or in some masterly cases, both at the same time. This is a man who rolls through life with a Scorpion/Frog mentality and even if you think he gets off relatively lightly in this flick, keep in mind that this dude is probably gonna fuck around too much without a jimmy hat and eventually catch a date with that omnisexual mistress of death herself, Lady HIV, and once she's got you, you're in a relationship with that bitch whether you like it or not, and it's only a matter of time before her asshole rage-head boyfriend AIDS shows up, and that short-tempered motherfucker is always packing heat and he never misses 'cause his aim is true.

Come to think of it, going by what history has taught us, I'm sure similar fates will befall some of the other characters: only a matter of time before my spacey druggy dream chick Jackie is found dead in the women's restroom of some half-empty nightclub in a bad part of town, keeled over on the toilet, eyes milky white, a stream of saliva frozen between her vomit-crusted mouth and the piss-puddled floor; Bobby Speed will eventually drop dead of apoplexy over yet another band not showing up on time for a gig, my man needed to invest in some downers but instead worked himself into an exploded heart; the Transvestite in the men's room is going to hook up with a dude too drunk to notice until it's too late, and once that cock is exposed, so too will the poor unfortunate crossdresser's carotid artery; Floyd will be pulled over on the way to dropping off band instruments on yet another last-minute run, and when he reaches for the drumsticks in his pocket -- BLAM BLAM BLAM -- the nervous rookie cop will have emptied all six .38 caliber bullets into Floyd's shiny jacket. "Thank God for the stinger" says the rookie cop's experienced partner, as he shoves a small .22 caliber compact piece (a Saturday Night Special, funnily enough) into the dead man's hands, forcing his fingers to squeeze off a few rounds out into the dark. Floyd's family will never believe the official report, but what can they do, fight the police? You can't. You can only hope that your luck is better and Fate doesn't have a hard-on for you in this cold, cruel world. 

Thank God It's Friday is a fun film that left me with happy thoughts. The humor's pretty lame and so are the dramatics, but the music is groovy and the actors really make the most of what they've been given. It's also, for the most part, pretty innocuous and by 1970's standards, it's pretty P.C. as far as the way dudes like Gomez and Floyd are handled. That was interesting. I don't even know how to call a movie Good or Bad anymore, I just know if I dug watching it or not, and I dug watching this one. It was entertaining. Maybe it's just one of those time capsule flicks that didn't do much for anyone at the time and is ultimately harmless fluff, but it improves with each passing year from the simple virtue of giving us a taste of that particular place and period (albeit a very safe & sanitized Hollywood version of it). The audience seemed to dig it as well, applauding once again during the credits (giving Summer and my man Goldblum the most clapping) and everyone stuck around for the entire end credits roll to take in Summer's signature "Last Dance" song. 

I know it's too soon, being that it's a film from 1978, but I'm going to spoil something I had a serious issue with. Those two under-21'ers eventually get friendly with Gomez the Leatherman, and want to use him for the dance contest because he's just that fucking good. Problem is, he already has a dance partner. So what do they do? They trick the dance partner into locking herself in a staff only stairwell, and hook up with the now partnerless Gomez. In the end, they win the dance contest, which comes with the KISS tickets and the money. Now, the last we see of the dance partner, she's hooking up with this other dude in the stairwell and they're both having a good time. Fine. Except only we in the audience knows about this, the two girls don't know and apparently don't care about her. They're too busy counting their money and headed over to some other club's 1:00 dance competition. If they even bother to have a passing thought about her, all they'll know is that they fucked her out of possibly winning some tickets and cash. And then they'll move on and continue having a good time. Holy shit, these broads are more than ready for the 1980's.

Chomp-Élysées

(UPDATE, 6/12/12, 4:45pm) Shortly after posting this, the following article came out with some promising news from Mr. Barker himself. Sounds like Morgan Creek is making the move to do right by Clive and the fans, allowing this cut to be screened worldwide in an effort to fund a Blu-ray of the his original cut. Well, right on. Anyway, keep that in mind while reading these ramblings. 

“Oh look, it's Clive Barker” said the man behind me in line, referring to the man who had just exited the New Beverly Cinema, headed for a car that was waiting in front. I decided to butt in and correct him, identifying the not-as-tall-as-I-thought (being a shorty myself, perhaps I was projecting) individual as one Mr. “Rowdy” Roddy Piper. People in the line began to cheer upon seeing him, and he was pretty gracious about it. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you; we were all in line for a screening of Nightbreed: The Cabal Cut, sponsored by Fangoria and Days of the Dead. Piper had just come from doing a Q&A for an early afternoon screening of They Live, which I would have gone to were it not for having made out with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black the night before and needing the extra sleep.

I'll admit, I was starstruck; here was the man so fuckin' badass, that just when you thought you knew the answers, this son-of-a-bitch changed the questions. Here was the man who took it upon himself to shotgun as many of those formaldehyde faces as he could, after discovering how our species was getting royally assfucked by the extraterrestrial 1%. Here was the man who'd I put on the Mount Rushmore of kilt-wearing Men of Manly Stature alongside Sean Connery, Christopher Lambert, and the homie, Mel Gibson. And yet, the only thing I wanted to scream out was "Holy shit, it's Da Maniac from 'It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia'!"

Anyway, the Cabal Cut. What happened was that back in 1990, Clive Barker followed up his feature directorial debut, Hellraiser, with a flick based on his novella "Cabal". He went in wanting to make the Star Wars of horror, a Gone With The Wind with monsters, but apparently he must've been fucking with Lemarchand's Box during post-production, because once he got that Lament Configuration worked out -- WHOOSH! -- out came the Cenobites known as Morgan Creek Productions and Twentieth Century Fox, hooking their chains into his film, tearing out about 50 or so minutes from it, and selling it more like a slasher flick, because that's what people in the movie biz do to a motherfucker's vision.

While Morgan Creek is busy trying to make up their minds whether or not they're the Good Guys or the Bad Guys in this ongoing tale, some dudes got together to put together a cut reflecting Barker's original intent; Mark Miller (from Seraphim Films) acquired the existing VHS workprints, Russell Cherrington oversaw the restoration, and Jimmi Johnson had the unenviable task of editing the workprint footage and the DVD footage of the 1990 theatrical version into the composite we now know as the Cabal Cut. Cherrington admitted that originally he just wanted to have a version that he could watch at home whenever he wanted to, but soon a movement was created with the intention of getting a proper Blu-ray/DVD made. Hopefully with these screenings, the word will get out and the Powers That Be will finally listen.

The screening was scheduled for 7:30, which meant that we didn't go in until about 7:25. The New Bev is usually pretty good about that, so I can only assume it was a matter of clearing up after the They Live screening, as well as getting everything properly set up, since this would be a DVD projection -- GASP! HORROR! DVD? DOES QUENTIN KNOW? It was shortly before 8:00 when the Fangoria peeps started with a trivia contest, followed by Brian Collins having to vamp up an extended intro for a while (at one point, asking a trivia question of his own and giving away his water bottle as a prize) before star Craig Sheffer came down to help buy some time, because Miller and Cherrington weren't there yet. Sheffer talked about how his co-star, muthafuckin' David Cronenberg scared him; they'd be chilling at the make-up trailer and Cronenberg would start in on the non-existence of God and the afterlife. Sheffer's cell phone then went off and he answered it; it was his daughter, leading him to go into a routine where we only heard his side of the conversation that involved various illicit substances -- or as I prefer to call them, daily vitamins.

Finally, Messrs. Miller and Cherrington arrived, joined by Mr. Clive Muthafuckin' Barker himself. From what I understand, the guy was in a coma a few months ago and is still recovering; he ambled down the aisle, his upper body crooked down at a low angle, like if God himself was trying to bend the man down to His will, because God's a fuckin' player hater. Barker wasn't having it, though; the motherfucker was operating at 110-percent awesomeness. Always quick with a joke, this one. The body may have not been willing that evening, but the mind and spirit sure as fuck was. Call it a man recovering from illness, but I'm going to go with the theory that here's a man so full of Win, his own body couldn't keep up with it and had no choice but to shut down out of pure fuckin' exhaustion. But if you believe certain rumors and lawsuits, it could be something else exhausting the man.

He was a little difficult to understand from where I was sitting, because evidently ninety percent of New Bev guests forget that they're holding onto a microphone and it helps to speak near it. At one point, Barker asked the people in the back if they could hear him. After one person said “No”, he responded with “Then why did you say 'No'?” He made it very clear that only one version of this film exists -- this one -- so this isn't some Lord of the Rings Extended Edition shit, where the director approves of both versions. While enjoying his red licorice and tea (I assume it was tea, him being a Brit and all), he talked about stuff like having had breakfast once with Iron Lady Margaret Thatcher, and how she gave him shit for the way he dressed. He then went on to trash her fashion choice and color combinations. I'd be absolutely content with hearing this dude talk shit about others for hours, but soon, it was time for the movie.

Well, not yet. First there was a few ads for conventions and Fangoria magazine, giving my fat ass time to hit the snack bar for some of that delicious New Bev popcorn and Cherry Coke. The total came out to about the same price of a small anything at your average multiplex. Bless your dear heart, New Bev.

We were warned ahead of time about the quality of this presentation; the movie would intercut between the DVD footage and the VHS workprints; Cherrington said that at some points, the quality would be similar to watching a umpteenth-generation porn bootleg. These kids today, with their Internet porn and its crystal-clear titties and ass, they don't know how good they have it. When editing the Cabal Cut, Johnson went as far as to add sound effects and music (from the CD of Danny Elfman's music score) into the workprint sequences, and not in a haphazard fashion either, he did his best to time it to coincide with the on-screen events, not to mention matching it with the emotion/psychology therein.

During the opening credits, some people booed at the Morgan Creek logo and applauded Barker's name. I don't know, I thought that was funny. If anybody at Morgan Creek is reading this, don't get all butt-hurt, just realize that you can turn those boos into cheers by going in for the Big Win, rather than being all corporate and shit. C'mon, don't be a bad guy, be a nice guy.

So, the film. If anything here sounds unfamiliar to you Nightbreed fans, well, that's because that's what you've been missing from the original cut. Sheffer plays a dude named Boone, living this idealized best-of-both-worlds male fantasy of being a hard-working blue collar with a nightclub singer for a girlfriend; work hard with the boys during the day, play hard with your girl at night. Homeboy must be in the union or something because his insurance affords him a fancy-ass psychiatrist, but then again, it is a union and they ultimately fucked him over because the psychiatrist is a creepy motherfucker named Dr. Decker (played by my man, the Crones, who was way too good in this role, if you know what I mean). 

Turns out Boone's been having dreams of some kind of monster haven called Midian, and Decker feels that there might be a connection between homeboy's dreams and some real-life death shit going on; someone's out there slaughtering innocent families (an oxymoron, if there ever was one – you procreate, you're part of the problem, ultimately) and all fingers point to Boone, even though it's Decker doing the finger-pointing and the Psycho Freaky Jason slicing up breeders is kind of a slender type and Boone's a little more of a beefy dude. I don't know, I'm just saying.

Boone eventually travels to Midian to join the monsters and play in their reindeer monster games, in a tale made up of various elements that will probably please you if like the following: fantasy; mythology; impressive make-up effects; kinda impressive visual effects; romance; fuck yous to organized religion; fuck yous to the police; fuck yous to gun collectors; fuck yous to rednecks; Romero-esque bad guys who are not even one-dimensional, they're half-dimensional idiots who love it that way; easy small-town bar sluts; happy fat couples all smooching on each other; decaptiations; flesh-chomping; cute mutant dogs turning into cute little girls; black dudes with more sense than dumb whiteys; weird half-naked monster innocents who skip about with their little pug dogs; David Cronenberg wearing a scary mask with button eyes, fucking shit up slasher-style; killing; fire; killing things with fire; Danny Elfman's music from that '89-'95 era when it all sounded very epic superhero-y and baroque; and many, many monsters in various states of grossness/fucked-upness, etc. The most disturbing part, though, was watching some chick fail at eating a nasty-ass looking pastry of some kind. That is seriously the sickest imagery I've seen come from Barker's mind.

It's all pretty entertaining for the most part, but even at 155 minutes, I feel it could stand for the occasional trim (just not the studio-mandated kind of trims), which is funny that a long-winded cunt such as myself is giving shit to a movie for not shortening it down a tad. Anyway, it's kind of like a Sam Peckinpah director's cut, in that it can be a little sloppy and unwieldy at times, but it's also as pure a vision as you're gonna get. I liked the theatrical, but after the Cabal Cut, it's obvious that what came out in 1990 was really just a distilled form of the story Barker wanted to tell.

It got a tad laggy during the go-for-broke climax, which certainly feels at least twice as long as the climax of the theatrical version, but I'm going to give this cut the benefit of the doubt and blame some of that on the quality of the video; these dudes did their best to give us something watchable, but ultimately the Cabal Cut can't escape its mostly VHS-duped (lack of) quality, and trying to make out something through all the darkness and grain can be kind of tiring to the eyes. Again, it's the climax that I feel suffers the most from its workprint origins. It's not surprising to find out later from Cherrington that a public screening of one of the VHS workprints resulted in people walking out every minute. That's why I hope this flick gets its due and comes out in 1080p (or even 480p), so I can spend my ocular energy on taking in the on-screen events, rather than on figuring out if that's yet again the same slow-motion shot of a Midianite getting blasted in the back or if it just looked that way because of the below-par quality.

As far as the differences between the theatrical and Cabal Cut -- aside from length, obviously -- the biggest one (for me, anyway) is that the main villain in the theatrical cut (Dr. Decker) comes off more like a mere slice of the douchebag pie in this long version. The main conflict in the Cabal Cut ultimately comes down to the monsters of Midian going up against what appears to be an army comprised of hard-drinking redneck gun nuts (in other words, a militia), in a climax comprised of a first half that feels like the Liquidation of the Ghetto sequence in Schindler's List, and a second half where our heroes finally make the choice to Fight Back and begin owning other motherfuckers like they just came from a garage sale where weak-ass bitches were being sold 10 for $2.50. But in the theatrical cut, the climax between the Midianites and small-town miliita feels more like they're running interference while Boone and Freaky Button Eyes are headed for the fuckin' end zone. 

The most interesting -- and telling -- thing about the Cabal Cut is that while the extra footage adds a lot more character development to the protagonists -- I really liked an early sequence that details Boone's descent into his bad drug trip far more convincingly than in the 1990 cut -- the antagonists only get more to display more examples of what a bunch of goofy unlikable jerks they are. The Cabal Cut does to them, what the theatrical cut did to the monsters -- making them more like freaks. It's like Barker figured, “I don't give a shit about how the bad guys feel, because they're the fuckin' bad guys. Fuck those guys.”

I really did get a kick out of these small-towners, these are some bordering-on-offensive lame-asses who are really just a nuclear holocaust away from rollin' with the Humongous; these yokels literally hang out of their pick-up trucks, wearing their flannels and caps, drinking and spewing out alcohol in every direction, hooting and hollering, firing their guns because the 2nd amendment said they have the right to bear arms and if that goddamn socialist commie Obama wants to take 'em away, well he's gonna have to take 'em from their cold dead hands NRA FOREVER IT'S ADAM AND EVE NOT ADAM AND STEVE THIS IS GOD'S AMERICA DON'T TAX ME IT'S MY MONEY FRY THEM ALL LET GOD SORT 'EM OUT LIFE BEGINS AT CONCEPTION ROMNEY 2012 FUCK MEXICO.

The sympathetic characters are rendered more sympathetic, while the unsympathetic assholes are rendered more asshole-ish, for the most part, anyway; the drunken priest character, for example, seemed more like a tortured soul in this version, while in the shorter cut he just seemed nuts. And the character of Decker is shown to have something of a split personality -- the mask is almost like Spider-Man/Venom's symbiote, mentally conversing with him at one point, convincing him to put it on and get down with some stabby stab stab. Also, some characters who died in the 1990 cut survive in this one, and vice versa. While both cuts have open endings, the Cabal Cut replaces the theatrical slasher movie-style DUN DUN DUN ending of the 1990 version (which was a result of studio-mandated reshoots) with one that is more befitting of the epic story Barker had wanted to tell -- a more solemn yet hopeful closing that hints that this is merely the beginning of a saga. A saga we never got to see, and probably never will.  

After the film, Cherrington, Miller, Sheffer and Collins came back down. Cherrington asked the audience if they felt that this was the better version of the film, and it sounded like only a couple people clapped, which I think was less a reflection of the Cabal Cut and more a reflection on how tired we were. At least I hope that was the case, I mean, who knows, maybe they didn't like it. Maybe they were more accustomed to the Nightbreed they spent the last 20 years geeking out on, and weren't expecting something of a different tone. But everyone applauded when the credits came up. I don't know.

There was a Q&A, where among other things, we found out that the original producer, Christopher Figg, was fired for no real good reason other than that the Powers That Be demanded a fall guy on the chopping block, after some difficulties during production. Then they gave out the website, Occupy Midian, where you can get updates on screenings, as well as sign the petition to hopefully help convince Morgan Creek that there is an audience for a Blu-ray/DVD release of Barker's cut. They already said they'd do all the work, they just need the Creek to give 'em the thumbs up. Many involved in the production of the film have already said that they'd be down to help out for free; the cinematographer of Nightbreed is already on board to oversee the transfer. 

But even if they were to meet the 10,000 signature goal, get Morgan Creek's OK, and go about financing a proper restoration through Kickstarter, it will still be an uphill battle; according to Miller, there is no evidence that the lost elements even exist anymore. If that's the case, he said, they can always go about trying to digitally fix up the workprint cut into the best possible quality a la the extended version of The Wicker Man (the original, bitch) put out by Anchor Bay last decade. Jesus Christ, it's been that long?

Anyway, Cherrington is positive they'll be found, since the movie is about 22 years old and he doesn't think movies that relatively young get their elements junked. I mean, hell, the VHS workprints were discovered in Barker's office, next to a print of Lord of Illusions, so who's to say that the lost elements to Nightbreed aren't chilling out in a vault somewhere, hiding behind a reel of outtakes from Freejack consisting solely of Mick Jagger doing a shitty job saying "I'm not testing you, Ripper, I'm testing the machine"?

When we got out, there was already a large line formed outside for the second showing of the Cabal Cut (the first showing sold out); I recognized Clu Gulager and his son, the director of Pirahna 3DD as well as some other familiar faces. It was around 11pm and the showtime, of course, was for 11pm. It was going to be a long night for everyone. 

That goddess is fit for burning

(The piece below was for a series of articles at the LAMB website on this year's Oscar nominees. Anyway, it's been up on that site for about a week or so, so I figure I can put it up here now as well.

Of the 5 nominated films in this category, I only missed out on "W.E." (I watched about a reel of "The Artist" before having to leave on some work-related shit. I'll definitely come back to that one soon). Anyway, I had stepped up to the ticket counter, asked for 1 ticket to the Madonna joint -- then promptly changed my mind. I just couldn't do it, folks. If I did, I'd know that she got the best of me  -- and my eleven dollars -- every time I see her do something self-aggrandizing/lame on television, acting like she was Queen Awesome. FUCK THAT SHIT.)

Old, irrelevant, and painful to watch. But enough about Billy Crystal, let's talk about the Oscars – particularly the category of Best Costume Design. Why? Because that's my assigned category for The LAMB Devours The Oscars, brother. But it's just as important as the more popular categories, considering that without costumes, we'd be watching a bunch of naked thespians doing their thing. That can be a good thing or bad thing, depending on who's in front of the camera. So I'm gonna judge the nominees on that aspect, as well as how well the costumes look on the actors, in a sex-type way, of course. Because as they say, clothes make the man...want to have sex with someone.

And now, the nominees:

Anonymous – Because this film takes place during the Elizabethan era, costume designer Lisy Christl had to bust out with the gowns and doublets. This kind of clothing works when you have an attractive bird like Joely Richardson looking all elegant and queen-like, which might have something to do with her portraying the young Queen Elizabeth I. But it also works when you have a cast that primarily consists of pasty Englishmen like David Thewlis and Rafe Spall.

Also, Rhys Ifans is in this flick, and if you've seen his bright white beanpole physique in Notting Hill, then you know Christl was doing us a favor covering that shit up from head to toe. Some of these guys are old too; so I'm giving this movie props for covering these dudes up in a way that leaves everything to the imagination, provided you even want to imagine someone like Derek Jacobi completely starkers. I sure don't. I couldn't handle that much sexy.

The Artist – This is probably gonna win, because nominee Mark Bridges did an excellent job in evoking the Hollywood fashion style of the late 20's/early 30's, and because the Academy is full of oldsters and this flick probably brought up happy memories of a bygone era -- the Good Ol' Days That Never Were (but nostalgia's quite the convincing beast, so good luck telling them otherwise). Some of them are probably old enough to remember dressing up in the same style as the characters from the film, either for the movies or for getting laid (or both).

Bridges had to deal with attractive actors, though, so he couldn't fuck it up, he had to make them look like the 20's/30's equivalent of Damn I Want To Bang Them. He succeeded; the French actor whose-name-I-don't-know looks dashing and debonair, the French chick whose-name-I-don't-know looks glamorous and gorgeous, and Penelope Ann Miller looks happy to be in a good movie again. They look as good in their tuxes and flapper-wear as they probably look when naked, so thumbs up to Mr. Bridges for working his magic in a costume-designing way.

Hugo – Man, I don't want to see little kids with no clothes on, and neither did Sandy Powell (thank God), so she clothed them up real good. While this film takes place around the same time as The Artist, Powell couldn't just dress these tykes like they were in a Hollywood film from that era. She had the unenviable task of having to clothe the actors in costumes that were both 1930's Paris authentic and have a touch of the fairy tale about them, because Hugo's one of those magical stories that could only come from a storybook (which is exactly what it is).

I liked Sacha Baron Cohen's station inspector costume the most, because it's the most representative of the real/slightly-unreal combo look they were going for (his blue getup looks like it was cut from the same material used for Adam Sandler's suit in Punch Drunk Love), and because it covers the actor from head to toe -- a fitting punishment for an actor with a tendency to show off his hairy body whenever possible. He did it in Borat, he did it in Bruno, and he'll probably do it again later this year in The Dictator. That's enough, Ali G, maybe your wife Australian Amy Adams likes looking at that, but as far as I'm concerned, you can take it outside, Cohen.

Jane Eyre – Costume designer Michael O'Connor covers up the actors in frumpy clothing, but hey, it was the 1800's, that's how they dressed. Plus, thanks to Shame, we've already seen about as much of Michael Fassbender as he's willing to show in front of a camera (everything), so being covered up in riding coats and breeches does him some good. And you know what? Mia Wasikowska and Jamie Bell are cute enough to wear their frumpieries well, so no complaining there.

But that still doesn't excuse O'Connor for bringing down some serious fashion hurt on poor Imogen Poots. Just look at that picture of her. I mean, it's bad enough that she has that name, but now she's got to deal with wearing this shit and looking happy about it. For that awful joke, the Academy should take away his previous award for The Duchess and not give it back until he apologizes to Ms. Poots (without laughing, of course, I mean c'mon -- Poots? She should hook up with fellow unfortunate-named thespian Alison Doody, they can make a buddy film together -- Poots & Doody).

W.E. - For this flick, nominee Arianne Phillips had to create costumes that represented late 90's New York fashion, in addition to recreating the kind of fancy duds worn by Wallis Simpson in late 30's England (on account of being one of those films that jumps back and forth in time & place). All this, and she also had to deal with working for Madonna as a director; I'm pretty sure Mads was a lot like fellow diva filmmaker Barbra Streisand and put a lot more thought into the wardrobe than most filmmakers usually would, so can you imagine being a costume designer and having one of those hens micromanage your shit? Damn.

Just on that, I'm not only gonna demand that the Academy give the Oscar to Ms. Phillips, they should also give her a fuckin' medal for putting up with Madonna's shit. Barring all that, she definitely deserves a win for coming up with some really nice outfits for the actors to wear -- and they sure do wear the hell out of them, as you can see. Even the biggest nerd around is gonna look too cool for school while wearing some of these clothes. Or at least come off as a well-dressed nerd.

Who will win? - If I had money, I'd pay my bills. Then I'd put the leftover money on Mark Bridges' work on The Artist taking home the golden Emilio Fernandez statuette. Having said that, I'm not sure how to feel about the Academy only honoring films that took place in the past – hell, three out of the five nominees take place in the 30's. They should've thrown some love over to the more modern joints, like Sanja Milkovic Hays' work on Fast Five; she had to create costumes with material strong enough to contain the gallons of torrential downpour sweat coming from Dwayne Johnson's 'roided-up body. Or how about Michael Wilkinson's pelvis-inspired costumes for the wanktastic Sucker Punch; man, those outfits were like the Albert Brooks-in-Drive of costume design -- criminally overlooked.

In conclusion, I'm probably gonna DVR the Oscars this year and fast-forward through all of the Billy Crystal hilarity, because he's too hardcore for me. If he starts singing songs based on the nominees, I don't think I'd be able to handle that much awesome.

"With Nonoxynol 9, knock that shit right out."

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Flawed creatures, all of us, some more than others -- some WAY more than others

For some reason, my friend Moshe cancelled his plans to join me at the Mad Max triple feature last Saturday night at the American Cinematheque/Egyptian Theatre. If I had to guess, it might have something to do with him finding out that Mel Gibson was going to be there, and since Moshe's a fuckin' Jew bastard who's only a couple years away from joining his fellow Christ-killers in their secret underground Hebrew cabal where they run all of the world's affairs, he knew he wouldn't be able to handle my man the Gibs preaching the gospel of Truth. Whatever. By the way, don't tell Moshe I said any of this, because I don't want to ruin my chances in Hollywood.

Anyway, I arrived and tried to get a refund on Moshe's ticket but the guy said No Can Do, but if I wanted to sell it to someone in the standby line, then Yes Can Do. So I went to the line and told the folks that I had one ticket for anyone who wanted it, and a man in a track suit -- who in the movie of his life would be played by latter-day Barry Bostwick -- raised his hand. I gave it to him free of charge, because unlike Moshe and his people, it's not always about money for me. As I walked away, I thought about what I just did, and rather than feel good about it, I felt like an absolute schmuck.

It was a long line that snaked out into the sidewalk, forcing the movie lovers to mix with the tourists, the homeless, the fake homeless, mi gente waiting for the bus to take them to their second (or third) job, the increasingly drunk club/bar-hoppers, and of course, the unsettlingly nice Scientologists. With all of this local color around, it was easy to miss the folks from Wasteland Weekend who prowled the Egyptian grounds while dressed as characters from the Mad Max series. The Last of the V-8 Interceptors was also there; parked in the courtyard, it was available for pictures to anyone with a cell phone camera worth a shit -- which my camera most certainly was not because money-wise, a good phone takes a back seat to rent & movies.

I recognized some of the volunteers; there was the long-haired dude in glasses from the Aero who seems like a nice guy, and there was Louis C.K.'s future wife, Jade Luber, taking surveys from the people in line. The introduction was handled by Grant Moninger, also of the Aero, and he did the usual spiel of the upcoming films playing at both American Cinematheque joints. But this time he said something that was new to me -- for these kinds of intros anyway -- he mentioned how one of the upcoming films on the schedule was going to be shown in a beautiful digital presentation. He talked about how the theaters were equipped with the various filters and line-doublers/triplers/quadruplers/whatever-the-fuck-they-are and that it wouldn't be like watching a Blu-ray at home, it would be better.

Film is Q from Juice and Digital is Bishop. You da past, bro. My time is now. It's a pixelated world and we're just a bunch of 1's and 0's occupying it.

Ah, what am I am saying. It could be worse, you know. We could be living in the pre-apocalyptic world of Mad Max; "a few years from now..." where one can't drive without getting fucked with (and then just fucked) by the motorcycle gangs. They chase you down, smash up your vehicle, and if you're lucky they just kill you. But most likely, you won't be lucky and you'll end up as violated as your ride by the end of the ordeal. Some of these gangers, they're not just psychopaths, drug fiends or a combo of the two, they're also these fuckin' sexual monsters who evidently always need to get off and they will get off -- to either gender.

And not in a bisexual way, either; like Red from The Shawshank Redemption would say, you'd have to be human for that, and these assholes sure as fuck don't make the cut. I'm sure even animals and the recently deceased are on the menu with this scum. I don't know about gang leader Toecutter and his boy Johnny, though, they might have their own little thing worked out; something about that scene when he shoves the shotgun barrel into his boy's mouth -- telling him to keep his sweet mouth shut -- that just gets me sooo  hard  creeped out.

So yeah, the near-future is all kinds of fucked up. On the one hand, you have these motorcycle hooligans doing their thing and terrorizing all those wide-open spaces & highways (aka Australia), but on the other, the captain of the MFP is a big, bald, mustache-wearing bear of a man named Fifi who likes to water plants half-naked with only a pair of leather pants and a scarf around his neck, so obviously there's been some social advances at least. Good for the citizens of this blighted place, I say, that's admirably progressive. Or maybe shit's so fucked up that people have other things to worry about, like hoping that a train carrying the recently deceased member of a particularly dangerous gang doesn't stop in their small burg.

That recently deceased motor-ganger was some psycho named Nightrider, and he got his trying to outrun the MFP -- which was working for him until they got Mad Max on his ass. Something else that came to mind while watching Nightrider's car turn into various fireballs and plumes of smoke; Nightrider was driving with a female passenger when his shit got exploded, and this chick must've been very lacking in the Good Impression department, because no one ever mentions her ever again, she didn't even get the train-riding coffin treatment. Either that or she was a real bitch and not deserving of acknowledgment. But how do you come off as a bitch to a bunch of animals? Holy shit, she must've been really fuckin' depraved, then.

You know how these movies go; it's just a matter of time before the leader of the gang and Max tangle assholes in one way or another. It's all going to be played out in the Thunderdome that is the highway --
and it's going to involve a lot of awesome sound effects of engines revving the fuck up and tires peeling the fuck out. C'mon, you've seen this film already, you know how much it owns. Those shots of motherfuckers' eyes popping out before eating shit permanently? That might as well be our eyes while watching this film (and the second).

I used to watch Mad Max and Duel so many times as a kid, which is probably why I'm all fucked up, but unlike Duel, I think I liked Mad Max even more in my horrible state of adulthood. It wasn't just the car/motorcycle chases, it was the style of the film that really got the ol' cinematic geek muscle pumping. George Miller directed the shit out of this movie; it's like maybe it was bugging him how small and practically non-existent the Australian film community was, like it fell on his shoulders to really make a name for his country and show the rest of the world how they fuckin' do shit Down Under.

He got cinematographer David Eggby and told him this wasn't some fuckin' television cop show where the photography endgame was to put the thing on sticks and make sure they got the proper focus and exposure -- NO! They were gonna take that camera, strap it down to a vehicle and place it as low to the fuckin' street as possible, and then...then they were gonna gun it down the highway, all the way to redline levels. You can tell when they did it that way, and you can tell when the actors were probably like "Fuck that shit, I'm not gonna do my thing while riding a motorcycle at top-speed! I'm an actor!", because that's when the occasional use of undercranked cameras, sped up footage and skipped frames came in, to make that shit look even faster than they were really going.

Any other film, that would've looked weak. But because Mad Max is a film that feels like somebody's fucked-up dream after drinking a gallon of Victoria's Bitter the night before (followed by a pint of XXXX), even the goofy shit feels right at home. In your face shot compositions, Kurosawa wipes, dissolves upon dissolves -- and that's just the visuals, man. The music, holy shit, the music -- it's from a dude named Brian May, not to be confused by the Brian May from Queen, but it's an easy mistake to make because the score is a 6-ft. muscle-bound bully of operatic emotion that kicks sand in the face of the 90-pound weakling known as Subtlety. The sound mix is all kinds of tainted Monster Energy Drink; in addition to the aforementioned awesome sounds of highway-rapeage, there's also fucked-up sounds of birds on meth or something, along with whatever other weird tragedies of nature they got going down in that country.

The print we watched was the original Australian version; the American one that came out back in the day, that was dubbed with Yank accents and even had some of the slang changed so that we can understand what they're talking about, on account of us United Staters being dumb assholes, I guess. I have to admit, though, I actually prefer the American soundtrack; even when it's expertly matched with the lip movements, dubbing never sounds completely natural, it sounds off. In the case of Mad Max, that just adds another welcome level of otherworldly-ness to the proceedings. It's one thing to hear Fifi declare "We're gonna give 'em back their heroes!" in his natural Aussie dialect, but it's another more awesome thing to hear that line in a voice more befitting a super-villain on some long forgotten 70's cartoon.

Following the first film, Geoff Boucher of the L.A. Times' Hero Complex site came out and introduced Mr. Gibson, who received a standing ovation from the packed house. The guy sitting in front of me seemed particularly happy about Gibson not being very tall; "He's like a midget!" I'm not sure, but I think it went for about 30-40 minutes, this interview, and you bet your sweet ass they weren't gonna open this up to the audience for a Q&A, what are you, crazy?! And just to make sure some evil Jew terrorist wasn't gonna jump down and stab Mel with one of his horns for speaking the truth, there were big Black men in suits situated near both aisles, who I reckon were there to protect The Gibs from Hebrew vengeance. They've seen Inglourious Basterds, they know how Jews get down.

He was very restrained; this wasn't the Mel Gibson you would see yukking it up/pranking it down with his co-stars during an Entertainment Tonight behind-the-scenes exclusive, this was Braveheart audio commentary Mel Gibson. He made the occasional joke and funny aside, but something tells me that he'd have been a lot more animated and there'd be a lot less of him looking down on the ground, had this interview been done 8 years ago, pre-Passion, pre-Sugar Tits, pre-You Should Just Fuckin' Smile And Bloooow Meeee. At one point, he started hitting himself on the head while trying to remember something, which amused me and made me think that maybe he was about to pull a Riggs and poke Boucher in the fuckin' eyes or something. But aside from that, the content of the Boucher/Gibson tete-a-tete (plus approximately 650 other tetes) was pretty average when you get right down to it.

The elephant in the room was briefly acknowledged in a vague way, the whole "recent events" thing; Gibson's response got applause from the audience.

The Gibs gets more out of being a filmmaker than an actor, says the man; you're in charge and you get to tell the crew where to put the camera and you get to tell the actors how you want them to fuckin' perform. He brought up a couple projects he's been working on; the let's-get-these-Jews-back-on-my-side film about the Maccabees, and another collaboration with Randall Wallace about the Vikings, called Berserker. Both films sound like they're gonna be bloody, and at one point Mel said something about the "art of torture" or something like that, which I think confirmed to the audience that yes, torture and Mel Gibson go together like bagels and lox. Also, he referred to Tina Turner as "Thunder Thighs", so that just might be a Gibson thing, giving nicknames to the ladies based on their physical attributes. So calm down, police woman, that Sugar Tits thing is just my boy Mel being Mel.

He spoke about all three films, mostly confirming stories about the making of Mad Max from the IMDB trivia page and audio commentaries on the DVD, like how he got the role, or about the fate of the stuntman who got smashed in the back of the head by a fuckin' motorcycle (he bled profusely but shook it off and survived). He mentioned stunt coordinator/Stunt Rock-er Grant Page (to some scattered applause by people who know what the fuck is up); Page taught stage fighting and various other physical things at a drama school (where Gibson and the actor who played the Goose attended), and he got the gig because he was pretty much the only guy in Australia who knew his shit when it came to stunts.

Some choice quotes were posted on this awesome Twitter page, thank God. Saves me the time of trying to remember. But I'll bring up a few things, anyway. He said that George Miller was a cool dude, he was very precise and analytical with his planning and shot lists, and as a result, there was very little wasted footage. Also, Miller had no problem whatsoever with telling you what he was doing and how he planned to do it, if you asked him. He wouldn't pull some filmmaker's secret bullshit on you. Sometimes Miller would insist on doing things his way, even if they weren't necessarily the way things were done in films (like screen direction), and that might have been a result of Miller and company pretty much learning as they went along.

Regarding the 4th Mad Max film that's in the works, Gibson said he was involved for a while until a few years ago (he didn't elaborate on why he's not involved anymore, but he and Miller are still buds). He thought Tom Hardy was an interesting choice and a good dude; about 6 months ago, they had lunch together and this was apparently Hardy's doing, as a way to get the old man's approval. Gibson gave Hardy his blessing and then told him something fucked-up and sprinkled it with passive-aggressiveness (which of course I can't remember) to basically keep the motherfucker on his toes and not make it THAT easy for the guy.

The second film is his favorite, the one that he felt totally accomplished what they were trying to accomplish with the first film (but didn't from lack of doing shit like this in the first place); he praised it for being kinetic and relentless. Most of the climactic truck chase was done by never moving the vehicles at all, they'd just shoot it at angles where you couldn't see the road and intercut it with the insane stunt footage. The third film, he said, wasn't sure what it was trying to be (I heard some audience members mumble in agreement). Based on what Mel was saying, it sounded like Miller had lost the heart to continue filming Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome because his producer/good friend/brother-from-another-mother Byron Kennedy had died in a helicopter crash. That's why the last one is credited to two directors, George Miller and George Ogilvie.

The Gibs left and the second film, Mad Max 2 (or The Road Warrior, if you wanna be that way) was next. Dude, I already wrote too fuckin' much, I'm gonna give this one short shrift because I love it so much. I almost don't want to ruin such a masterpiece with my bullshit about how much it owns -- which it does. Besides, you already know that Mad Max 2 is the shit, one of the best sequels ever made -- sure, it kind of pulls a Phantasm II and sacrifices some of that nightmare feel for a more straight-ahead manner of storytelling, but action-wise this motherfucker takes it to another level.

This film is another badass example of stunts being performed in that long-gone era that Stuntman Mike referred to as the "all or nothing" days. I have no idea how half of the shit done here did not result in either a sudden boom in business for Australian cemeteries or at the very least, a bunch of drunken Aussies tearing paralyzed ass and burning wheelchair rubber down the highways. You have guys jumping onto moving vehicles, jumping in between moving vehicles, or being strapped to the fuckin' things.

This time, it's a post-apocalyptic world; humanity finally finished with what it does best -- destroying each other. Now Max is aimlessly driving through the wastelands, with only his dog for company and that bad V-8 to take 'em both. Unlike today, gasoline is an issue and that's why he, the psycho-gangers, and the lucky unfortunates occupying an oil refinery are all up in each other's business. If that wasn't bad enough, it's pretty obvious that baths won't be in anyone's life itinerary. But at least there's a cute chick who looks like a member of some 80's Aussie pop band AND a hot Amazon chick with a bow & arrow to scare the creeps away. Fuck showers.

All this, plus Vernon Wells as Wez. The audience applauded when his name came up in the opening credits, as they should. In the cinema of my imagination, there's a totally fucked up buddy movie starring two Vernon Wells characters: Wez from this film, and Bennett from Commando. I don't think Gus Van Sant is interested in action movies, so I'd probably have to settle for Roland Emmerich.

I guess David Eggby had better things to do, because for this one they got muthafuckin' Dean Semler to step in and it's like this guy didn't miss a goddamn beat. If anything, this one has more of a Just Do It attitude in the lensing department; he and Miller were probably like Who gives a shit if the sky and lighting constantly changes in-between shots, the audience is gonna be too busy trying not to have their asses handed back to them for the 17th time, on account of all the hyperkinetic ownage we're doling out, mate.

As far as the dialogue goes, Mad Max is a fuckin' Woody Allen joint compared to Mad Max 2; there are plenty of sequences that are all visual and no dialogue. Max himself is a man of very few words, leaving it up to those settlers at the refinery and Lord Humungus (who just might be one of my all-time favorite film creations; he looks like something Miller doodled up in junior high during class and always remembered to use him one day, and to make things even better, he gave him a foreign accent) to do all the blabbing.

Which is why it's disappointing to see Max chatting motherfuckers up again in the third film, Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. Now, I'd seen this flick way back when I was a kid. I remember thinking it was OK. But over the years, it's developed a reputation as the Godfather III of the Max trilogy. Me, I liked The Godfather Part III. As for Thunderdome, I knew one day I would watch the film again, with older eyes, and give it the chance that many would refuse to give; by the time of the third film, the theater had lost about 2/3 of the crowd.

It means well, this movie, it really does. I'm giving it props for trying to take it to another level entirely; no longer content to be a lean-mean street battle joint, this Max is trying to go all epic on us -- even going as far as chucking composer Brian May for Lawrence of Arabia's Maurice Jarre. No dissing Jarre, he was the man and all, but c'mon Miller, stay true to the homies, man. Besides, you lose an important element in making it feel like part of the trilogy by pulling that shit.

With the first film you watched a decent dude lose his way and become the worst case scenario of a Hard Motherfucker -- he lost everything and really had nothing to live for. He became just another road killer and that's why to me, that final shot in the first film kinda breaks my heart because you're pretty much watching a fuckin' zombie, a terminal crazy. Then in the second one, you watch Max slowly, gradually learn how to give a fuck about others. By then, I think that was all you needed to tell in the Max saga. Where else are you gonna go with that character?

But I guess Miller had to continue with the series, mostly because of his growing obsession with pigs -- pig wind chimes in part one, random pigs at the refinery in part two, and pigs pigs pigs in part three. Not only pigs, but pig fecal matter as well. Jesus Christ, Miller, what the fuck? Why did you have to go there? Fuckin' pig shit everywhere, fuckin' huge tanks of pig shit to create methane as fuel for Bartertown, one of the main settings of this joint. This is one of those unfortunate films that manages to convey how horrible everything must smell, which is a real accomplishment given how unbathed part two was.

In a way, Beyond Thunderdome is a test run for George Miller's pig & penguin joints; it's family friendly (before Live Free or Die Hard and The Expendables 2, we had Conan and Mad Max losing their balls, ratings-wise) and involves a strong main character surrounded by a battalion of colorful wackadoo characters. Also, I guess Miller figured that since the audiences loved The Feral Kid in the last sequel, well, hey, how about a whole group of children for part three! And in this one, they'll talk! Money in the bank, mate! Then Miller's lackey said "Maybe the audience wants more of Mel crashing vehicles and double-barrel shotgunning them?" and Miller responded with "You're fired, mate."

The first third of the film is decent enough in a slightly diminished returns sort-of-way, but after the Thunderdome duel, the Give-A-Fuck factor falls hard. I don't know, maybe if this was just called Beyond Thunderdome and was about someone else other than Max, it would be OK. But no, it's a Mad Max movie, one with no chases until the end, and even the chase is frustratingly hot and cold. It's not a piece of shit, just a depressing drop in Good Times compared to the last two. At least it's primarily about the main character, unlike Once Upon A Time In Mexico, where Robert Rodriguez took the Mariachi series to Epic-ville but relegated Antonio Banderas to damn near second banana status.

Eh, at least Tina Turner was fun to watch. That's why we see less of her and more of those goddamn kids.

Anyway, I'll forgive George Miller for this mistake, the same way I forgave the Jews for murdering my Christ. MEL GIBSON FOREVER.