Tuesday, November 5, 2024

The Last October


So ends another October -- and so begins the brief depression I always fall into after Halloween. It only lasts a couple of days and then I'm re-energized for Thanksgiving and Christmas and New Year's. But this time it's a bit different, a growing anxiety has joined the race and it might even beat out my blues. How that works out is -- well, I'm getting ahead of myself. Anyway, here are a couple of horror movie marathons I attended during the month:

On Saturday, October 4th, I went to Brain Dead Studios in L.A. for They're Here, a six-movie assortment of horror films with a haunted house theme, presented in 16mm, the titles of which would be kept secret until seen on-screen.

In the Before Times, the movie marathons I've attended started in the evening and ended the following morning. But most of them have adjusted their schedules to more reasonable middle-aged-friendly hours. They're Here, for example, would start at 2pm and end at 2am, which is fine for this particular old-head because the days of staying up until 6am and sleeping in until 2pm are over for me. Because nowadays, my body insists on waking up around 7am no matter what time I went to bed. Going to bed at 6:30? See you in 30 minutes, bitch. (That's what my body says to me.)

Before the first film, our three hosts Mike Williamson of Secret Sixteen, Bret Berg from the Museum of Home Video, and Josh Miller from Killer Movies came up on stage. Williamson told us about haunted house movies being his favorite horror sub-genre. He then offered hints about our first film, by telling us that its part of possibly one of the worst horror franchises around, in that the number of installments are disproportional to the success and quality of the first film.

But first, a pre-show consisting of trailers for The Legend of Hell House from 1973, the 1999 remake of House on Haunted Hill, and 1988's Poltergeist III.

We then watched a short about the making of the original Poltergeist. Directed by the film's co-producer, Frank Marshall, this seven-minute promo piece probably gives unjustified joy to those who insist that writer-producer Steven Spielberg really directed the movie. We watch as he, uh, supervises a couple of the special effects sequences, while Tobe Hooper is only seen in very brief glimpses and is never interviewed while Spielberg does most of the talking. 

I still believe Hooper directed the film, by the way, albeit in a production that ol' Stevie had a tight leash on; his brief appearances in the short show him to be on set, at one point actually directing one of the actors. Even if didn't really direct the movie, it doesn't matter, because Tobe Hooper sure as hell directed Lifeforce -- and Lifeforce is better.

The first film was 1982's Amityville II: The Possession, directed by Damiano Damiani, which sounds like an evil name, and written by Tommy Lee Wallace, which doesn't sound evil at all, even though he did go on to write & direct Halloween III: Season of the Witch, which some people might find evil on account of kids wearing masks that causes their heads to cave in and bugs and snakes to crawl out of. But not me. I find that charming, actually.

And if you like incest, you'll find this movie charming. And I know you're like, "yeah, but what if your sister looked like Diane Franklin, the actress who plays the sister in this film?". The answer is still no, dude, because Diane Franklin or not, she'd still be my sister, and that would be gross and wrong. Now if I had a cousin who looked like Diane Franklin, well, that's a horse of another color.

So this movie is a prequel to 1979's The Amityville Horror, the one where Lois Lane and Thanos' dad move into a haunted house. See what happened was, the previous residents were a family who got offed by the eldest child, and that's what *this* movie expands on. 

We watch as this family moves into the soon-to-be-infamous abode; Burt Young plays the father, acting very much like his Pauly from the Rocky movies. He's a real cigar-chomping asshole, with a total pushover of a wife who looks like an older Miranda July who's always praying to the aloof God who indifferently watches all of this bad shit happen, because mysterious ways and all that other horseshit.

Then you have brother and sister Sonny and Patricia (Jack Magner; Diane Franklin), and I guess I shouldn't have been surprised by them eventually fucking, considering how they were discussing their parents' sex life earlier in the film. It's like, the Devil must've realized he didn't really have to do much in possessing Sonny, he just had to give the kid a little push in the direction he was already headed. As for Patricia, she was clearly just a freak from the start.

Eventually. General Franklin Kirby from Commando shows up as the local priest, doing too little too late before a fully-possessed Sonny shotguns his entire clan. The second half of the film is pretty much an Exorcist riff with Father General Kirby attempting to save Sonny's immortal soul from the flames of Hell and his sweet tight ass from his prison cellmates.

In his intro, Williamson called this movie "ill" and "weird", and I agree. The idea is supposed to be that the family is gradually affected by the house's evil, giving in to their worst instincts, but the problem is that they're shown to already have such a casually strange and off-putting dynamic before all of that. It made me question the filmmakers' sensibilities, morals, and sanity, and the entire film feels kinda diseased -- which I mean as a compliment.

Based on the audible reactions from the crowd, I wasn't alone. There were plenty of disgusted groans and laughs of disbelief throughout the movie, practically turning to each other to give a "the fuck?" look. What I would've given to have seen this at a 42nd Street grindhouse during its original release, overwhelmed by the smell of cheap booze, surrounded by drunken winos, passed out addicts, and some mohawk'd punk getting head from a skeevy hooker.  

Williamson told us that he was really excited to show us the second film, because it was the rarest one of the day, a made-for-tv movie that was never released on any home video format. One could find bootlegs of this film streaming online, but not at the beautiful quality of this film print we were about to watch.

That film turned out to be 1972's Something Evil, directed by Steven Spielberg, who was following up his very well-received tv-movie Duel with this story of a very 70s couple named Marjorie and Paul (Sandy Dennis; Darren McGavin), who along with their two young burdens have just moved into the kind of sun-dappled country home you might see in a commercial on 70s television. And if you haven't, you will, because later in the movie it is used for a commercial. (Paul works in advertising.)

Soon enough, the spooky stuff begins with Marjorie (and the audience) plagued with the non-stop sounds of a mystery baby mewling its little head off somewhere on the property. She later tracks down the source and finds it not to be a baby, but a jar containing what appears to be the Pepsi to the Coca-Cola that is the weird Antichrist liquid from John Carpenter's Prince of Darkness. Marjorie freaks out, but I'm like, what did you expect, lady? You spend all day painting pentacles and making pentacle necklaces, you didn't consider that it could possibly serve as an invitation to something...evil? 

Marjorie begins to unravel as she continues to investigate these happenings, and it doesn't help that her neighbor is 1) kind of an expert on weirdo supernatural things and 2) Randolph Duke. Worst of all, at least a couple times she ends up calling her husband while he's at work in the city. Dude's got something like a two-hour commute both ways, and now he's expected to drop everything and go all the way back home just because of her bullshit?

This movie is further proof that Spielberg always had it going on, our boy shoots the shit of this tv-movie, employing slow-motion, creatively composed shots with overlapping dialogue, long one-shot takes, split-diopters, and Richard Rush-style rack focusing. If they weren't going to give him a feature film to make after this one, it was never going to happen. But luckily it did, and people like me got Jaws, and weirdos like you got Hook.

But it's not just the Spielberg visual style, it also has some of his pet themes that would fit this film very well among the rest of his work; Marjorie is not unlike Richard Dreyfuss' character from Close Encounters of the Third Kind, following an obsession to the point of estrangement from the family. (Not for nothing, the son in this film is named "Steven".)

Overall, it's decent and Sandy Dennis is really good in it, but Duel was far more effective. This one just doesn't match in scares what it has in style. I'll put the blame on the screenplay, which was by Robert Clouse, best known as the director of Enter the Dragon and the China O'Brien movies; maybe if Clouse had written in some scenes with Randolph Duke jump-kicking Satan in the face, then maybe it would've been better. I'll take a remake with Cynthia Rothrock, except Clouse is dead now, so I guess I'll direct that one.

The third film of the day was Poltergeist II: The Other Side, from 1986. In this one, the Freeling family from the first film are now living in Arizona, living off the generosity of the wife's mother. Soon, the old lady passes away, but before they can turn grandma's bedroom into a man cave and declare party time inheritance-style, some creepy old man named Kane begins to intrude on their lives.

Kane's an evil spirit looking to use their youngest daughter, Carol Ann, for evil spirit shit. Somewhere along the way, the Chief from One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest shows up to help the Freelings out, at one point taking the dad (Craig T. Nelson), on one of those sweat-lodge vision quests they used to take White people to in movies, you know, in order to help them strengthen up to fight back against evil martial artists or big oil companies.

Nelson appears shirtless quite a bit in this, and it made me wistful for the good ol' days when leading men could just be in good normal guy shape. It's like, I look at Coach over here and believe that I can have a body like that, if I just cut down on carbs and workout 20 minutes a day. Nowadays, even the middle-aged beer-drinking fathers in movie have Hemsworth-ian bods, and that's just one of many reasons movies are going down the toilet -- the skibidi toilet, with these kids today.

In his intro, Williamson told us that despite not being as good (or coherent) as the original, he felt this was scarier and more mean-spirited, and Berg admitted to being "kindertrauma'd" by some of the sequences in this film when he saw it back in the cable days of his youth.

Cable days of youth is also the last time I saw this, and while I wasn't traumatized by it, there were certainly a couple of parts that have remained imprinted in memory; one was the part where the little boy, Robbie, has his braces grow out of his mouth, expanding more and more until he's completely wrapped up in them. Then there's the part where Coach gets drunk on tequila and starts acting like a man for once, rather than a simp, forcing himself on Jo Beth Williams and getting violent -- director Brian Gibson went on to make What's Love Got To Do With It -- before vomiting out a giant worm. 

While it doesn't manage to come close to matching the intensity and sweaty-toothed madness of Tobe Hooper's original -- yeah, that's right, Tobe Hooper's original, go fuck yourself Frank Marshall, with your Congo -- it does work it's way up to an impressive out-there climax and some of the creature designs are pretty whacked-out too, as expected when you have H.R. Giger designing them. So while it's not as good as the first, and it feels a little sluggish here and there, it still has its moments and its worth a watch. Also, it warmed my heart to hear the word "retarded" being used in a movie, and to hear the audience laugh and applaud in response.

After the film, Berg said that he felt Poltergeist II was about as perfunctory as a Police Academy sequel, which led to Williamson telling an anecdote about seeing Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol on his birthday -- he loves Police Academy 4, by the way, as do I. I love all of them, actually, except for Mission to Moscow. They then hinted to us that the fourth film would be the most recent and the most classical of the haunted house movies in this marathon, and it would be screened from one of perhaps only ten existing 16mm prints in the world.

It was The Others, from 2001, written & directed by Alejandro AmenĂ¡bar, and starring Queen of AMC Nicole Kidman as Grace, a mum who lives in a big house somewhere in the Channel Islands, and she's like the 1940s equivalent of the kind of higher-income stay-at-home moms of today who home-school their children and insist that they suffer from some fakakta condition and I'm sure they're not vaccinated either.

In Grace's case, she claims her children will become deathly ill if exposed to sunlight, which makes sense because vampires have the same  deadly allergy, and what are children if not vampires by another name, these creatures who drain others of their life force -- to say nothing of dreams, physical attractiveness, spare time, and bank accounts. 

Because Grace's husband still hasn't come home from fighting the Kraut bastards -- and probably never will -- she hires a family to help with the housekeeping. Nevertheless, she's still all kinds of fraught and a shade traumatized after dealing with the alt-righters who had been occupying her land during the war. (You see, kids, we called them "Nazis" back then.)

On top of all of that, there's now the strong possibility that there are ghosts hanging around, talking to her daughter, and playing piano in the middle of the night as if they were inconsiderate neighbors who don't have jobs and don't need jobs because they're living off their mom who has no clue that their precious son is huffing nitrous oxide on a nightly basis and tossing the empty canisters into the alley behind our houses and it's just a matter of time before I hear the screams from that waste-of-space's mom when she finds him dead with a stupid look on his face, surrounded by a bunch of empty N2O chargers on the floor.

This was my second time watching the movie and it held up over the years. Not only does it have some genuinely good jump scares and a legit surprise ending, it's also a beautifully made film with atmosphere up the ass. The indoor sets are sumptuously designed and given a candle-lighted look, while the outdoor scenes have a fitfully chilly and foggy appearance. Regardless of what time it is during any given scene, the whole film looks and feels like it takes place in the very early morning hours. 

It's also exceptionally well-acted; I forgot how stunning Kidman is -- and how stunning she looks -- in this movie, and I forgot how this was in the middle of a hell of a good run for the actress. She had Eyes Wide Shut and Moulin Rouge before this, and then she had her Oscar-winning role in The Hours not too long after. Also really good are the actors playing her children, with the daughter as a cool skeptic type and the son as a little bitch-ass mama's boy. I also forgot that one of the Doctor Whos is in this as Kidman's husband; there's a scene where they're in bed together, and he's sleeping on his side while she's curled up behind him, whisper-singing into his ear. I love that moment because it reminded me of my ex; she would do that to me, that whisper-singing in my ear thing. We're no longer together; she has her story, I have mine. What was I supposed to do, not sleep with her sister?

Anyway, the first time I saw this movie was on Saturday, September 15th, 2001. It was the first weekend following the terrorist attacks on September 11th, and my friends and I decided that maybe we could take the edge off that awful week by meeting up for dinner & drinks, followed by a trip to our local cinema to catch a screening of Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade in 70mm. So we ate, drank, and tried to be merry, but when we got to the theater later that night, we were informed by the staff that the screening had been canceled, on account of restricted air space preventing the transportation of the film print for the showing. One of my friends then turned to me and said gravely, "I've now been personally affected by the tragedy of 9/11". 

So we ended up seeing The Others instead, and we were all pretty bowled over by it. Rather than watch an old favorite, we watched a new classic, and I'd probably have never watched it were it not for that cancelled Indiana Jones screening. So...thank you, Al-Qaeda?

Williamson warned the audience that the fifth film was "the hardest" of the marathon, and that it would make some in the audience *very* uncomfortable. Upon finding out that we were about to watch 1982's The Entity, I thought to myself "no fucking shit this will make people uncomfortable". Because it certainly made me uncomfortable when I first watched it at the Dusk-to-Dawn Horrorthon at the Aero Theatre, back in 2016. 

Directed by Sidney J. Furie and starring Barbara Hershey, this harsh tale begins with a typical day in the life of single mom Carla Moran, as she works by day, goes to night school by, uh, night, and then comes home to see that neither one of her three kids took the time to wash the goddamn dishes. It's tough enough to deal with that shit but on this particular night things go from typical to Jesus Christ Please Let This Be A One Time Thing when she is sexually violated by an unseen force -- an Entity, if you will.

Unfortunately this does not turn out to be a one time thing as Moran is repeatedly attacked by this entity, anywhere and anytime, at home, in a car, at a friend's place, even in front of her family. They're rough, these scenes, as they should be, Furie clearly understood that, unlike say, Michael Winner, who was probably jerking his stubby little English pee-pee while editing the rape scenes in his movies.

Of course, the idea of being raped by something as intangible as an entity is a tough one to get through to other people, this could very well be a mental health issue, so Carla goes to see a psychiatrist played by Ron Silver. In between the horror of the rape scenes is a lot of talk between these two, but the talk -- at least for me -- had my full attention. What also had my full attention was the way Ron Silver speaks in the film; as with his other performances, Silver sounds like he could really use a glass of water.

I'll admit that the second time around, I couldn't help but notice that some of it is kinda male gaze and exploitative. Not that I'm accusing Furie and writer Frank De Felitta of having dubious intents behind making this film. In fact, I don't doubt their sincerity or good intentions in telling this tale. But they have (or in the late De Felitta's case, had) dicks, and as wonderful as it is to have a dick, they can also sometimes get in the way of having total clarity of a situation. For example, I can't see things clearly because of my giant cock blocking my view. And that's why I feel a woman should've made this film, I think having a female perspective in telling this story would've helped in avoiding those cock-shaped road bumps.

But enough about my incredibly large penis. Let's talk about how fucking phenomenal Barbara Hershey is in this. She totally sells it as an ordinary woman (albeit one who looks like Barbara Hershey) being forced into an extraordinary situation, and having to maintain her sanity, while fearing the possibility that she's losing it. Or worse, that this unexplained phenomena is actually happening to her. Because at least if she's crazy, she knows she can go get professional help. But how do you explain ghost rape?!

You can pull many moments from Hershey's performance throughout this film and make Oscar-worthy clips from them. My favorite takes place after Carla's friend tells her that she witnessed one of the attacks; the way Hershey responds with a mix of hope, relief, and utter exhaustion left me in tears during both viewings.

Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is that unless it's Dan Aykroyd getting a supernatural blow job, ghost rape is never funny.

For the marathon's conclusion, the hosts told us that they wanted close out with a fun one, and so the sixth and final film of They're Here was 1985's House, starring William Katt as Roger Cobb, a writer of horror novels who has inherited the titular domicile from his late aunt. Cobb, who was about to get started on writing a new book about his experiences as a soldier in the Vietnam War, packs his suitcase, puts on his best Garbage Day sweater, moves into the house, sets up his computer, and proceeds to find every excuse possible to not write.

At least they're good excuses. For one, there are strange things happening in and around the house, and so Cobb orders up a bunch of surveillance equipment, hoping to record some paranormal activity. We're not talking about some chairs moving and the lights turning on and off either, Cobb's dealing with honest-to-goodness monsters in the closet and various other creatures causing chaos. 

I would just hire a hoodlum to burn the whole place down, collect on the insurance, and move the fuck on with my life. But I suppose goofy & gooey apparitions can't faze a man who's not only been in The Shit over in Nam, but who's gone through some shit back home. His son disappeared and his marriage has fallen apart, and I suppose if Cobb can't find his child or get his wife back, at least he can figure out how to cleanse his aunt's place of all its unholy freakishness.

If its not the apparitions in the attic keeping him away from the keyboard, it's his nosy neighbor, played by George Wendt -- and you can bet your sweet tight ass that the audience pretty much all went "Norm!" when he walked in. They must've shot this movie near the NBC studios during summer hiatus, because in addition to Wendt, Richard Moll (aka Bull from "Night Court") shows up in Cobb's Nam flashbacks as the Animal Mother of his platoon. 

I first saw House back in 2008 at the New Beverly Cinema during their 1st Annual All Night Horror Show; one of the films scheduled to be shown that night was Piranha 2: The Spawning, but it got pulled at the last minute -- probably by Mr. King of the World himself -- and so we got this movie in its place. I understand this has a cult following, and well, I hate to be that guy, but are you sure we're not talking about the 1977 Japanese film of the same name? Because that one I could understand having its fans.

It's weird, because on paper, the whole premise and plot synopsis sounds like it should make a pretty cool movie -- a horror-comedy with the occasional touching moment. And yet, it doesn't play out that way, the movie itself doesn't work as horror, comedy, or drama. Instead, it's a shapeless, tone-deaf, slog of a picture.

I'll give it points for the performances by Katt, Wendt, and Moll, and I also got a kick out of the Vietnam flashbacks with Katt and Moll shooting it out against Charlie. In fact, I tried to make lemonade out of this lemon of a movie by imagining the Nam scenes as being what Katt's character from Big Wednesday had gone through. That helped a little.

The story is credited to Fred Dekker, the director of Night of the Creeps and The Monster Squad, which like House are horror-comedies, except those are actually fun and exciting. So I'm going to assume that between script and screen something got lost, and the wrong director found it: Steve Miner, who did a better job with his previous films Friday the 13th parts 2 and 3D. He just couldn't get it right with this one. But that's OK, Miner made up for it with his next film, which is quite possibly his best work as a horror director: Soul Man, starring C. Thomas Howell. 

They're Here ended around 2am, with everybody going outside Brain Dead Studios to pose for a picture, while I went across the street and took pictures of them, indulging the creepy stalker in me. It was a good night.

Two weeks later on Saturday, October 19th, it was time for another secret-six horror movie marathon -- Orange County-style -- at The Frida Cinema in Santa Ana for their annual Camp Frida. Like Brain Dead's marathon, this also went from 2pm to 2am, and this year's theme was "British Invasion", featuring films from our friends across the pond, those lovely people with their universal health care and strict gun laws. But what's the point if I can't use one to take advantage of the other? Here in the land of guns and medical bills, I want to be able to accidentally shoot myself and/or my annoying neighbor in his stupid fucking nitrous-sucking face, and then we can go get patched up without stressing the ol' bank account. 

Upon arrival, I was greeted with the delicious scent of tacos and music blasting from the Halloween-themed street festival, with a giant inflatable Michael Myers and the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man on each end of the block, and within it there were pop-up stands selling t-shirts, caps, pins, patches, stickers, all that stuff. 

At the Frida, I got in the line designated for both VIPs and Super VIPs; both get entrance an hour earlier, get reserved seats, free coffee all day, and some snazzy pins to take home, but the Super VIPs also get a t-shirt, a parking pass, and 2 slices of pizza during the dinner break. (I opted for the regular VIP.)  We were let in around 1pm, and the place was decorated in what I'd call 28 Days Later chic, with tattered distressed Union Jacks among the flames and cobwebs, and the two auditoriums renamed "Bloody Hell" and "Haunted Manor". 

Most of the staff and volunteers were in costume, with each member of the Spice Girls represented, as well as an undead Austin Powers, a lady made up as Ringo Starr who wished us all "peace and love", and Mia Goth's Pearl complete with an axe. Trevor Dillon, the Frida's programmer and host of tonight's event helped reserve my seats in *each* of the Frida's two-screens by placing blue tape over them.

The pre-show and interstitials on-screen consisted of old PSAs from the U.K., advising people not to buy used condoms, to dispose of glass bottles rather than leave them on the beach for children to step on, and to avoid placing a rug on a polished floor. There were also some horrific/awesome car crash and train accident PSAs, as well as one featuring the voice of Donald Pleasence as the spirit of dark and lonely water, wishing for kids playing around his pools to fuck around and find out. 

Around 2pm, Dillon came out and asked us to stand for the British National Anthem. After that, he gave shout-outs to the staff and volunteers of the Frida, and gave first-timers a heads-up on how Camp Frida is a Choose Your Own Adventure deal where both auditoriums will be opened up and during every break, we'll be told what the next set of films will play in each room. 

But first, we'd all sit in Bloody Hell to watch the first film together: Ghostwatch, a narrative presented in the form of a live broadcast of a tv-program in which Meg Ryan's favorite interviewer, Michael Parkinson is joined by a paranormal expert who has been in close contact with a family who claim that their house has been often visited by a spirit named "Mr Pipes". Meanwhile, correspondent Sarah Greene and a camera crew stay the night at the house with that family, looking to capture evidence of ghostly activity.

I've known of this TV special and how it originally aired on the BBC during Halloween 1992 and caused a stir with many viewers convinced that what they were watching was real. I watched it earlier in October and really enjoyed it. I was surprised that even after decades of harder and more extreme found footage flicks and mockumentaries, Ghostwatch still held its own as a fun and creepy viewing. 

But I'll admit that I was a little disappointed to be re-watching it so soon -- at first. Because it turned out that despite being intended to be viewed on a small square box in the comfort of one's home, this actually played very well on the big screen in a packed theater. I got a kick out of hearing the audience's reactions to the sightings and audio evidence of Mr Pipes, as well as the many laughs brought by Parkinson's skeptical reactions to his studio guest. We also had a good laugh every time a reference was made to the house's "glory hole", which evidently has a different meaning in the U.K. than it does here in the States -- either that or the Brits are a far more openly and casually kinky bunch.

After a break, we all returned to the Bloody Hell auditorium, where Dillon asked the audience what movies we'd hope would play at the marathon, before playing a loop of Austin Powers dancing to Quincy Jones' "Soul Bossa Nova". This loop revealed the next set of films that would play in each auditorium: 2011's Kill List would play in Bloody Hell, and 1973's The Legend of Hell House, would play in Haunted Manor.

I always go with the movie I haven't seen, but since I hadn't seen neither of the two, I picked Hell House simply because I'd seen the trailer for it at They're Here two weeks ago. I was pleasantly surprised to find out that it was directed by John Hough, who's Dirty Mary Crazy Larry I recently re-watched at the New Beverly Cinema, and that the screenplay was by Richard Matheson, a genre writer so legendary, his novel, "I Am Legend" could very well be referring to him.

The film opens with a most amusing statement by a Tom Corbett, credited as a "psychic consultant to European royalty", in which he basically says that this movie is fiction, but everything in it could very well happen in real life...maybe even to you! DUN DUN DUN. He didn't actually say that last part about it happening to you and dun dun dun, but it's implied. Anyway, I'm sure Mr. Corbett was well-compensated for that folderol. 

So this rich old guy wants proof of life after death, so he hires a team to go to the "Mount Everest of haunted houses" to confirm whether or not such a thing exists. This group consists of a physicist (Clive Revill), a couple of mediums (Roddy McDowall; Pamela Franklin), and the physicist's wife (Gayle Hunnicutt) because he's either one of those whipped dudes who has to bring his girl with him everywhere or because he wants to show off his hot wife to as many people as possible, or both. Either way, they have about a week to use their scientific know-how and extrasensory perception to find an answer before December 25th -- which I guess qualifies this as a Christmas movie.

The original owner was a man named Belasco, and this guy did so much De Sade-ian partying in this house that the place earned the name "Hell House". At one point McDowall lists the various offenses committed in this house by Belasco: drug and alcohol abuse, sadism, murder, mutilation, bestiality, vampirism, necrophilia, cannibalism, the use of many sexual devices. Lady and gentleman, it took all my energy not to get a boner in the theater right then and there. I'm telling you, this Belasco makes P. Diddy look like Levar Burton. Now I'm hoping it doesn't come out that Levar Burton has been up to some reprehensible shit, or this is gonna age as poorly as my review of Public Enemies. (Don't look that up.)

Anyway, the house begins to do its thing, mostly to Franklin's character, because the ghost is a dude and she's a pretty girl, and making life difficult for women has been one of Man's favorite sports since time immemorial -- even the boundaries of life and death can't get in the way! I couldn't help but make an unfortunate comparison to The Entity in regards to something that happens to Franklin later in the film, but her case she doesn't fight back against her assailant. Still, it's just as disturbing as what happened to Barbara Hershey's character in the other movie.

Far easier to watch was the scene when a black cat enters Franklin's bedroom, to which the audience rightly responded by going AWWW. The cat is cool with her at first, but then it attacks her, because you know how fickle those felines be. I wondered if this was the inspiration for a scene in Scary Movie 2, where Anna Faris' character has a similar throwdown with a black cat. Both scenes are equally hilarious though. In the end, Franklin locks herself in the bathroom, and we see the kitty's widdle paws scratching the floor, oh Franklin, let da widdle baby in.

I liked this movie, despite not finding it scary at all. But just like one of the movies I mentioned earlier, The Others, this one is overwhelmingly atmospheric -- and that goes a very long way for me. The look of the film is matched by an eerie electronic score that would make good background music for a Spirit Halloween store. Also it's fun to watch how the house affects the other members of the team; for example, it turns the physicist's wife into a horndog who gets all up on McDowall with his serial killer glasses. I also enjoyed the all-out climax, which leads into a delightfully silly denouement. I won't get into spoilers, but I will say that Richard Matheson was 6'2 and might've been prejudiced against short people. 

For the next block, we had a choice between The Descent from 2005, and The Blood on Satan's Claw from 1971. Having never heard of the latter, I went with the latter.

This folk horror tale directed by Piers Haggard takes place sometime in the 18th century, where a farmer happens to come across a mutated-looking skull on his field with an eye still on it as well as some fur. This turns out to be a quite the omen for the evil shit that is about to befall this village, mostly involving the town children, who start acting all smug and withholding and as if they were all in on some private joke of which you are the punchline. In other words, they start acting like regular kids.

But I guess back then kids knew how to act right, so this more modern type of behavior they're beginning to exhibit has to be the Devil's work. They're led by the ironically named Angel (Linda Hayden), who takes them out to the woods to play some rather Midsommar-ish games. It's not just the kids, some of the adults have found themselves misplacing their sanity after having visions of some kind of clawed creature. Both the adults and kids also start sporting patches of fur on their bodies, and begin to introduce a touch of the murderous during their cult gatherings.

I'll be honest. In the early going, I thought I was watching the worst film of the marathon. But somewhere along the way, this became my favorite. I never knew where it was going, or how it was going to go about it. I was never able to settle in and get comfortable with this flick because there isn't really a main character to center on. The movie often teases you with the possibility of a lead, only to then cruelly dispatch of them in one way or another -- it's almost as if the film itself is on the side of the bewitched. 

At one point, I thought, OK, maybe it's one of those movies where you're supposed to be on the side of the bad guys, to enjoy as a kind of wicked pleasure. But then there's a long and drawn-out scene where Angel and her gang torture and rape a very innocent girl -- again, for a little while the movie fooled me into thinking she might be the film's focal & moral center -- and none of that was fun to me, because as I said much much earlier, I don't have the Michael Winner gene in me.

Once I figured that this movie appeared to be on some pro-Satan shit, I was finally able to sit back and take in all the bad shit happening to good people and trip out on it -- only for the film to finally reveal it's morality cards to us by reintroducing a character from earlier. He's the town's judge (Patrick Wymark), and at the beginning I thought they were setting him up to be the equivalent of Mayor Vaughn from Jaws, you know, just dismissing everything and refusing to listen to reason. Well, he is that way at first, but when he returns, oh man, my dude is born again hard and he becomes the de facto ass-kicker for the lord during the film's climax and it is hilarious. As it turns out, this movie is not pro-Satan -- it's pro-Salem Witch Trials!

It's pretty wild, this one, and long drawn-out rape scene aside, I had a really good time with it. My only other complaint is that I couldn't stand the overly intrusive music score, whoever was in charge of that needed to take it the fuck easy, it's like the composer was getting paid by the minute. But if you have a woodwind fetish, well, you'll have an eargasm by the end of the first act, I'm sure.

Following a 30-minute dinner break, Dillon revealed the next block of films: We could go to the Haunted Manor to watch the 1973 film Theatre of Blood, or stay in Bloody Hell to watch...well, I can't tell you, I'm sorry to say. Dillon explained that for legal reasons, the Frida wasn't actually allowed to screen this particular film, and so he implored us not to share the name on social media. All I'll say is that it's a film from the early 00's, there's a sequel (or sequels) currently in production, and I had already seen it, so I went with the older film starring Vincent Price and Diana Rigg instead.

Directed by Douglas Hickox, Theatre of Blood stars Price as Edward Lionheart, an actor who faked his own death, and is now dishing out chilled servings of revenge with extreme prejudice to the group of critics who denied him the acting award he so richly deserved. Well, the award he believes he so richly deserved. He's aided by an entourage of homeless drunks, and maybe gets assistance by his daughter Edwina? 

Oh come on, of course she's helping him. I have no choice but to assume that the filmmakers know that you know, I mean, there's a very feminine-looking bearded guy in sunglasses helping Lionheart who sounds a lot like Diana Rigg. And at the end of the film, when that man pulls off his wig, beard, and sunglasses, revealing himself to actually be Edwina, nearly the entire audience made the most sarcastically dramatic gasp. That's the kind of shit I go to the movies for. 

In a way, this kinda reminded of another Price film, The Abominable Dr. Phibes, which would probably make a nice double feature with this. There's just something about watching Vincent Price own motherfuckers that makes me happy, and so I found this very black comedy to be lots of fun. All the kills are based on deaths from the works of William Shakespeare; for example, the first victim is stabbed to death on some "Julius Caesar" shit. The murder methods become increasingly nutty, reminding me yet again that ol' Billy Shakes had such a violent imagination that I'm willing to argue that he could qualify as a Master of Horror alongside guys like Argento, Romero, and Carpenter.

Because the critics in this film are such stuffy snobs who enjoy the smell of the printed farts that they pass as reviews -- something I would know absolutely nothing about -- the movie makes it really easy for one to sympathize with Price, even during his most diabolical act, which I won't reveal, but it's based on "Titus Andronicus", and boy oh boy is it wrong. 

Price is a blast in this, and I can easily imagine him having had fun playing this role, because there's so much for him to do. Not only does he get to deliver various Shakespeare monologues, but because he has to be in disguise during most of his missions, he gets to play in character as a surgeon, an effete hair-stylist, and an amorous massage therapist, among other over-the-top stereotypes. Logic was politely told to go fuck off by the filmmakers, and so you're expected to accept how easy Lionheart is able to pull off and get away with these murders. If you can't accept it, well, that's your problem.

Anyway, it was nice to be taken back to a time when critics actually mattered enough for someone to give enough of a shit to make a movie about how awesome it would be for an artist to kill them. 

During the break, I went outside to have a smoke -- I'm not proud of it, but every once in a very long while -- like during a movie marathon -- I'll need a pick-me-up, and non-filter Lucky Strikes are easier to score than Adderall. So anyway, I was puffing away when some dude wearing a t-shirt, jeans, and a look of absolute obliteration stumbled up to ask me what street he was on. He explained "It's because my homies left me, bro" and "I don't know where I am, bro". I told him where he was, and he bummed a cigarette from me and asked what was playing and I explained to him about the marathon and the secret movies, and he understood it about as well as someone absolutely fucking blitzed on alcohol and god-knows-what-else would. I then excused myself and went back inside. 

Dillon asked the crowd for their favorite British word or phrase, which was met with a waves of raised hands. He then added that if it was something really bad, he would kick them out. The waves immediately crashed down. He then introduced two people from HorrorBuzz.com -- their favorite phrase was "brilliant", by the way -- to talk about their upcoming screenings and to announce the next block of films: In Bloody Hell, Lair of the White Worm from 1988, and in Haunted Manor, Dracula from 1958. I hadn't seen either film, but because of my previous aborted attempt to watch Dracula a couple years ago, I decided to take care of unfinished business with the bloodsucker in Haunted Manor.

Re-titled Horror of Dracula in the States, this Hammer horror production (directed by Terence Fisher) is a nice little rejiggering and streamlining of the original Bram Stoker novel, introducing the character of Jonathan Harker as an undercover vampire hunter visiting the Count under false pretenses. Of course, Harker ends up taking a huge L, and Harker's partner/mentor Dr. Van Helsing (Peter Cushing) comes to town in search of him. 

I've seen a couple of the other Christopher Lee/Hammer/Dracula joints, but hadn't gotten around to this one until Camp Frida. It's a very short and simple film, and I don't want to give too much away, so I'll keep it short and simple: I really enjoyed it! It's a lot of fun to watch Lee effectively cuck every dude in this movie; if you have a woman, and he doesn't, he's gonna take her, man. That's just his thing. 

Also his thing: Being a total asshole and absolutely owning it, none of this woe-is-me shit with him. He's pretty miserable and he's gonna make everybody else miserable, an attitude not unlike your average commenter on social media. Except he has the courage of his convictions while the people on social media are nut-less cowards deserving of fire extinguisher beatdowns right out of Irreversible. Also, based on the red eyes he's seen sporting every once in a while, I think Drac likes to wake-and-bake as soon as he gets out of his coffin.

Speaking of red eyes, those reds and the crimson goodness coming out of the victim's bitemarks look great in eye-popping Technicolor. It's a beautiful looking flick, right up there with The Others and Legend of Hell House. It's god-tier spooky season viewing overall, the best of the Christopher Lee Dracula films I"ve watched so far, and if you like watching women getting some sense slapped into them, this movie will definitely scratch your Connery itch. (He's right, by the way.)

By the way, both Lee and Michael Parkinson from Ghostwatch are featured on the cover of Paul McCartney and Wings' album "Band on the Run". I don't know if I'd get some kind of trivia prize from the Frida for knowing that, but I do know that I should.  

Back at Bloody Hell, Dillon asked us we thought of the last 2 films, and concluded that the Haunted Manor crowd came off more enthusiastic, despite watching more old-fashioned fare. He then asked if any of us had stayed in one auditorium the entire time; I was among those who cheered in response, it just worked out that every movie I wanted to see was in Haunted Manor. He then told us that unlike previous Camp Fridas, where we'd all come back to watch the final film of the night in the same room, we would be given another set of films to choose from. 

But before revealing the final block, the audience was invited on stage to pose for a group "I Survived Camp Frida" photo. Usually, this is done at the end of the night, but because one film was going to be significantly shorter than the other, Dillon wanted to give those of us who chose that movie to be able to go home, rather than wait for the other film to end to take part in the photo. Again, I took pictures of the pictures getting taken.

After our brief photo session, Dillon then revealed the final two films of the night: 2002's Dog Soldiers and 1982's Xtro. I've actually seen Dog Soldiers at the 2nd Annual All-Night Horror Show at the New Beverly Cinema back in 2009, and I've wanted to watch Xtro ever since seeing the box art of the VHS way back in my video store childhood. Somehow over the years, I never got around to it, but it worked out for the best,  about to get to finally Xperience Xtro -- on the big screen, no less. 

Written and directed by Harry Bromley Davenport, this sticky and surreal fever dream of a movie starts with a little shit named Tony playing outside with his father Sam, when suddenly the day turns into pitch black night and his dad disappears. A few years later, Tony's mom Rachel is now shacked up with Joe, one of those Americans who sounds like a British actor trying his best to sound like a Yank, and Tony seems comfortable with the situation, doing his little shit activities such as playing with toy soldiers and making annoying machine gun sounds that go EH EH EH EH EH EH EH. This little fuck actually has his toy soldier walk on top of a stick of butter on a kitchen table, which I would've responded by giving him an alternative meal of my belt across his fuckin' face. And now you know just one of my many reasons why I don't want kids. You wouldn't want me to have kids. 

I don't recall ever seeing Rachel sneak off with a glass or two or four of wine, but I sure wouldn't blame her. She certainly looks like someone who knows her way to the end of a bottle. So I decided to pull from my flask of bourbon and drink for the burdened lady.

Anyway, things get less comfortable when Sam unexpectedly returns, although any discomfort felt by Rachel and Joe pale in comparison to what was felt by the poor lady who gives birth to a fully grown Sam. Yeah, you heard me -- she gives birth to a grown-ass man, and all which that entails. It's pretty goddamn gnarly and pretty goddamn impressive, that special effect -- and this movie is full of them.

We're not even sure if he's the same Sam who was whisked away by the you-foes or just some alien facsimile. At least I wasn't sure, and I will only blame part of my inability to recall those details on my getting increasingly tipsy from the aforementioned flask of bourbon. Because the movie itself is never too concerned about making sense to the viewer, it appears to share the same philosophy given by that basket case on wheels David Lo Pan: You were not brought upon this world to get Xtro

So yeah, Sam is back, he's some kind of alien hybrid (maybe?) and he's making phones melt, he can move things with his mind, and I suppose the scene where he bites his son's shoulder and proceeds to spew little ball-shaped things into him is the deadbeat alien dad version of giving the little tyke a hug and saying "I love you." 

There's so much gross and off-putting imagery in this weirdo movie, and even the normal stuff feels kinda diseased -- not unlike how the normal stuff in Amityville II: The Possession felt kind of infected with Something Wrong. It sorta feels evil too, which is a big honkin' plus for a horror movie. Some of the stuff here is so goddamn random, they feel like came out of nightmarish entries from a little boy's dream journal, and I was either laughing at it or feeling genuine unease -- or both. I mean, I certainly wasn't expecting to see a black panther show up at one point -- I'm talking about the animal, not the Black Power organization.

In his review, Roger Ebert called this movie "ugly, mean-spirited, and despairing". I agree, except his was a negative review while I'm coming from a positive perspective. I'm saying that those feelings are exactly what Davenport intended to generate with this nasty and nihilistic piece-of-work -- which does work. It was around midnight when we started watching this, the right time for a movie like Xtro, but I bet it plays even better around 4am, when you're bleary-eyed and not all there. But whichever hour you decide to watch it, bring alcohol -- to enhance your viewing, and to help work back up the appetite that this film will most likely take from you.

After the film, I went over to Bloody Hell to catch the final 15 minutes of Dog Soldiers, and then we all stepped out to the lobby, where we were given Camp Frida: British Invasion stickers, and on our way out, we helped ourselves to sweet treats provided by Zombee Donuts, which I had written about in my last post about Camp Frida.You should check that out, if you haven't already.

It was one of my better Octobers as far as going to watch horror movies at the cinema. I didn't even talk about the "Dismember the Alamo" marathon I attended at the Alamo Drafthouse in L.A., where I saw Blade, Pieces, The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2, and Phenomena. Well, I guess I just did.

Anyway. it was a good month, one that I wish never ended. I'm a couple days into November as I write this, and I don't look forward to joining my fellow Americans for the real horror marathon that's about to begin on Election Day. I don't know how it's going to turn out, but either way, I'm certain we'd all have better chances with ghosts, vampires, aliens, chainsaw killers, and a cigar-chomping Burt Young in a wife-beater over what 2025 has in store for us. Still, I remain optimistic. Because as long as I have access to drugs, alcohol, and a 12-gauge shotgun to stick in my mouth, I will always have hope. 

Oh, and movies too. That's also a nice thing, I guess.


Tuesday, May 9, 2023

Exact change only.

 
It was April 15th and it was a lovely 72 degrees in Los Angeles that Saturday afternoon, and I would've been able to enjoy it, were I not at that moment driving down Melrose Ave -- a particularly shitty stretch of city street with a right lane that every other block or so alternates between drive-able road and literal parking space.

Drivers like me who know better stick to the left lane, while those on the right lane wait for the last possible moment to switch onto the left in a panic, either because they're new to Melrose and weren't aware of what waited ahead of them, or the much more aggravating reason: Because they're assholes in a rush, switching back and forth to get past as many cars as possible just so they can get to their unimportant destination even faster, so that they have more time to do nothing.

I wish I could crash into these children of God, pull the dazed fucks out of their vehicle, and calmly tell them that mine is a daily battle to maintain good vibes towards my fellow humans while accepting all their frailties, because I too am human, so I too exhibit faults. But you know what fault I don't have? Driving like an inconsiderate piece of shit. And it takes so much of my life force to forgive flippant scumbags like them who with their flippant scumbaggery are needlessly causing me to waste this precious energy I'd otherwise save for the truly appreciative. 

Then I'd throw them onto the path of an oncoming bus in the opposite lane and watch the bus explode that person's body, showering the entire Melrose District in blood, bone, piss, shit, viscera, and fast fashion. Then horrified onlookers would notice my joy and have the unmitigated gall to call me a monster -- which I would then justify by grabbing and shoving them onto the path of other oncoming buses, and before their brief painful transfer from this miserable world into Oblivion, those people would learn the most important lesson of all: Don't be judgmental on Bus Day. 

But I didn't have time for any of that, because I was on my way to Fairfax Ave, to what used to be known as the Cinefamily's Silent Movie Theater, a pretty awesome place up until it became known that the men in charge did with their authority as most men in charge do with their authority: Abuse the fuck out of it in a sex-type way. (I would've done something about it myself, except the buses weren't running that day.) 

The place closed down for a few years, but has since returned under new ownership and management, and has been re-moniker'd Brain Dead Studios, after the clothing company behind it. One can only hope that the Brain Dead crew will come correct as human goddamn beings for the time being. But because I assume everybody is a secret scumbag, I figure we'll have a few good years of great times before brand new bombshells drop onto this regime.  

What I found upon arrival was the same building but with a totally different look, feel, and vibe inside and out -- even the staff seemed friendlier. But to be fair, I was a lot more standoffish back in the Cinefamily era, whereas this time I walked in with a cheery disposition, which might explain why my interactions were more pleasant with the employees as I asked about the parking situation and as I bought candy at the snack bar to help me with the later hours of this marathon. 

 

Oh yeah, I forgot: I was here for CyberJunk, a 12-hour movie marathon of low-budget science-fiction fare  from the 1980s, presented on 16mm film prints, thanks to Secret Sixteen's Mike Williamson who presents features in that format at various cinemas all throughout the Southland. Each film was a mystery title that we wouldn't know about until it actually screened, and the cherry on top of this sundae was that the marathon would begin at 2pm and end by 2am; as I learned from last year's Sunshine and Noir marathon at the Aero Theatre, the only thing better than an all-night marathon is an all-day marathon, especially when you're old like me.

Because I had arrived early, I walked around the premises to take in the new era; upstairs was a shop featuring Brain Dead clothing as well as vinyl records for sale, and in the back was Slammers Cafe, a nice shaded outdoor patio area where one could step out to have a Vietnamese iced coffee or avocado toast, among other eats and treats. 

 
I then sat down and passed the time silently judging each new person who walked in, until Williamson went up on stage, joined by Josh Miller from Friday Night Frights, and Bret Berg from AGFA and the Museum of Home Video. We were told that all the films -- except for one borrowed from a friend -- were from Williamson's collection. We were also told that they normally hold a horror movie marathon in October, and while that will continue, they will also continue to have marathons in the Spring focusing on other genres, joking that they were looking into showing dramadies and 1930s Westerns.

Williamson then talked about how the 1980s were his favorite era when it came to the visual representation of fantasy on film; this was the height of the use of animatronics, models, and matte paintings, all of it done directly by hand, rather than programmed into ones and zeroes. The films that we were about to watch, he said, were examples of filmmakers who had meager budgets to execute their grand visions, but nevertheless did their best to make it work.

Before the film, we were treated to a pre-show consisting of trailers for Tron, Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome, Return of the Jedi (under the original title "Revenge of the Jedi"), Endangered Species, The Visitor, and Galaxy of Terror

Following that was a curious short film from the 1950s titled "Bitter End", starring a young DeForest Kelley as a man who is out of work, out of money, and he's about to be out on his ass for not paying his overdue rent. There's only one thing left for him to do: Commit suicide. He turns up the gas on his stove and waits for the sweet smell of death to take him, only to be interrupted by a telegram from the gas company: Due to his unpaid bills, the gas has been shut off. Then he looks at the camera and laughs, saying "What do you know? I can't even afford to die!" and that's it, fade to black.


We were told that the first mystery film was directed by someone who recently passed away, and who in his career put out so many dystopian low-budget fare in the 80s and 90s, he could very well be considered "the king of Cyberjunk". The late director in reference turned out to be Albert Pyun, and the film in question was 1989's post-apocalyptic kick-puncher Cyborg, starring Jean-Claude Van Damme. 

It's a shame that this print -- which otherwise looked and sounded great -- cuts off the first half of the opening narration, because it's that narration that makes this one of my all-time favorite openings to a film; the narrator tells us about how civilization has collapsed and a plague has decimated the population, but now there's news that work has begun on a cure. Except it turns out that the narrator doesn't want there to be a cure, because the narrator is in fact, the hero of this film (in my humble opinion), who makes it very clear by screaming "I like the death. I like the misery. I LIKE THIS WORLD!"

His name is Fender, and he's played by Vincent Klyn, who makes quite the visual impression with his jacked bod and creepy-looking eyes that he hides behind a pair of wraparound sunglasses that he only takes off when he's about to fuck somebody up. As he said in the narration, and as he says again a couple minutes later to a soon-to-be-victim, he sees a silver lining in the deaths of billions of people, and that's why I totally relate to Fender as a fellow misanthrope. 

Hell, I'm really just a diet & exercise regimen and a pair of sunglasses away from becoming Fender. I mean, we can all pretend the pandemic is over but it's probably just doing what comic book villains do when they get defeated -- declare that this isn't the last time we'll see them. And so, now that the virus gods have seen what we are willing to sacrifice -- which is to say, very little in the grand scheme -- they're gonna come back and fuck our asses harder than the Iron Sheik in Humble mode. And once this world is decimated by the remix, that's when I go into Fender mode. 

(In the meantime, I'm taking applications for anyone who wants to be part of my gang. But understand that I will occasionally have to kill one of you as punishment for failure, and as way to show others that I mean business.)

In the way of Fender's plans is what the film and everybody else who watches this movie has wrongly designated the "hero", and that is Van Damme's character Gibson, who's some asshole all in his feelings because my boy Fender killed Gibson's wife and kid -- sparing the world more humans who will just take up space and use their phones in a movie theater. So he's on a mission of vengeance, following my dude as he and his crew forcibly escort the titular cyborg from New York to Atlanta, because her cyber-cranium contains important info that could help a group of doctors in the land of Coca-Cola and the '96 Summer Olympics find a cure to the plague. 

Oddly paced and edited fight scenes ensue, but they're enjoyable because they break the dreariness involving sad-ass Van Damme's monotonous attempts to emote. He doesn't have that much dialogue to begin with, and yet, even scenes of him just staring felt like work to get through, and maybe someone with a little more acting ability -- or hell, Van Damme a few years later, once he started doing coke -- could've made the non-action scenes less of a slog. But like I said, every time he stops being a morose mope and starts putting foot to ass -- in slow motion and multiple angles -- everything feels all right.

The other problem is the same problem I have with many of Pyun's films; they're just sometimes too downbeat. It's why I prefer his more upbeat work, like Alien from L.A. or Brain Smasher: A Love Story. I feel he often mistook abject misery for Drama, which would often result in an oppressively bleak tone that dampened any possible enjoyment. I always wondered if Pyun's favorite entry from the Alien series was the third one, simply because of how it begins and ends.

Otherwise this is an OK Z-movie given some aesthetic punch by Pyun, who in collaboration with his cinematographer, production designer and costume department, sometimes make the film look and feel like a live-action Fist of the North Star. The bad guys in particular scream Generic Post-Apocalyptic Anime, while the main bad guy just screams -- specifically during the rainy climax where Fender and Gibson face off.

That's the best part of the whole movie, by the way, and honestly, while I might not recommend watching the entire film, I do feel the climax is well worth looking up online. I doubt I'll ever watch this film again, but I am interested in watching Pyun's director's cut, titled "Slinger", and which reflects his original vision of the film before Van Damme and his partner Sheldon Lettich recut it. 

In conclusion, the screenplay is credited to Pyun's cat, Kitty Chalmers. They say if you put a hundred monkeys in a room with a hundred typewriters, eventually one of them will write the works of Shakespeare. But give one cat a computer, and you'll get Cyborg.

 

During the break, I went to Slammers Cafe; my strategy for movie marathons is to go in with an empty stomach, sticking only to water and black coffee, so as to limit discomfort and/or sluggishness. I usually wait until the last couple movies to indulge with snacks and sugary drinks. But because this was an all-day marathon, I decided to indulge a tiny bit of the sweet along with my caffeine fix, and so, for the first time in my life, I had Sno-Caps, the little chocolate drops with nonpareils of sugar on them. I loved them, and can't believed I waited so long to finally get around to trying them out.

I then returned to my seat, chomping on Sno-caps and sipping on a hot Americano, while Williamson introduced the second movie by telling the audience that it was the one he was most excited to watch with us. He said that it came out in 1989 -- the same year that Cyborg was released -- and had a decent rollout of 500 screens in the United States, only to crash and burn at the box office, opening at number 12. He excitedly told us about how it represented all the things he loves about lower-budgeted sci-fi; models, robots, and opticals, as well as a strong hook that reminded him of something you'd see on "The Twilight Zone". 

The second film was Millennium, directed by Michael Anderson of Logan's Run and Around the World in 80 Days fame, and written by John Varley, who adapted from his own short story "Air Raid". It stars Kris Kristofferson as Bill, an investigator for the NTSB who arrives at the scene of a fatal jetliner crash, where he listens to the black box recording and sifts through the wrecked remains, and more importantly, makes the carnal acquaintance of lovely ticket agent Louise (Cheryl Ladd). 

This entire section is both intriguing in regards to the investigation of the plane crash, and amusing in the casual way Bill and Louise get to know each other, flirt, and eventually hook up -- mostly because Louise is fast-forwarding to the good parts, so to speak. There's a moment that has to be an improv by Kristofferson; as he and Louise walk off together, his hand hovers over her ass as if were about to give it a nice grab, before finally moving away. The audience had a real laugh at that.

So Bill and Louise get down, and the following morning, she disappears from his hotel room, which I'm certainly used to having happen to me; every woman I've slept with leaves in such a rush afterward, and they're usually crying and muttering things like "I hope my friends don't find out" or "How could I have been so desperate" or "I'd never seen one that small before" and I have no idea what any of that means, but you try making sense out of drunk talk. Then I try calling them back and they're like "oh I forgot I'm lesbian thank you goodbye". Fickle-ass broads.

But to Bill, it's an unpleasant and unnerving surprise; he likes this lady and now she's gone. So now he has three mysteries to solve: What happened on-board that ill-fated flight, where the hell's his chick, and what's with this weird silver handheld contraption with blinking lights that he just found in the wreckage? To say more would be spoiling this 30-plus year-old movie, but suffice it to say, it turns out that Louise is from the future -- and the future's environment is all kinds of fucked up. (Thanks Republicans!)

The story plays out as if we were watching three consecutive short films -- all of them very entertaining. The first plays out like a mystery/romance, the second is post-apocalyptic future shock as we see the world Louise comes from, and the third is a fun time-travel flick where we revisit the events of the first third of the film from a different perspective. The structure kept me interested in seeing where the filmmakers were going with this, giving just enough info with each passing minute to prevent me from getting impatient or confused. 

Sidebar: If you're a fan of undercover Canadian productions that try to pass themselves off as being all-American, then put this film on your watchlist. Sure, for the leads, you have Kris Kristofferson, who is a true American hero, and you have Cheryl Ladd, who is a true American beauty, and you have Daniel J. Travanti, who played a true American pig on "Hill Street Blues". But our red, white, and blue trio are an island of Freedom surrounded by a sea of socialized maple syrup in the form of Canuck character actors who at one time or another have appeared in either a David Cronenberg or Atom Egoyan film, or at the very least attended a dinner party with either or both in attendance. 

Anyway, this played well with the crowd, we laughed at funny moments both intentional and unintentional. I think the unintentional laughs came from this feeling like a 1950s science-fiction movie, and I mean that in the most complimentary of ways, because there are plenty of classic sci-fi films of that era that remain great while being hilariously dated in one way or another, and they usually present outlandish scenarios that are played out in the most ultra-serious manner by everyone involved. Even the opening title of this film looked and felt like something from a 50s drive-in flick; it comes flying towards the screen while the music score blares in a style usually reserved for Quatermass joints.

As for the intentional laughs, they came mostly from the interplay between Bill and Louise, and I think the best compliment I can give those characters is that I would have liked to have seen them in a different movie, or a slightly different movie, like maybe she's just a time traveler who goes to 1989 for fun, you know, she just wants to shack up with a real man's man like Kristofferson while smoking all the cigarettes and driving like some scumbag on Melrose. There's also an android from the future named Sherman (Robert Joy) whose quite the sassy backtalker to Louise, and I always got a kick out of watching them together as well.

I remember this film playing on cable all the time in the early 90s, but for some reason I always ignored it, which is weird because sci-fi was my peanut butter & jam back then. Maybe I wanted a little more jazz from my sci-fi, or maybe I looked at Kristofferson and Ladd and thought to myself "who the fuck are these oldsters?" But that's all on me, I was being a little shit and I'm pretty sure I would've dug Millennium back then, had I given it a chance.

Which brings me back to Williamson's intro to the film; he admitted that the benefit of programming Millennium as part of the marathon is that he has a captive audience, whereas if he had given this film its own separate screening, there would be very little turnout. I believe he's right, because if I didn't bother watching this for free from the comfort of my own couch 30 years ago, I probably wouldn't have gone to the trouble of dealing with L.A. traffic in order to catch this movie on the big screen today. So I'm glad he forced this one down our throats, because it was good for us, kind of the same way you force fruits and veggies down a child's throat, whether they want 'em or not. At least that's how *I'd* feed a kid, fucking little fun-sucking burdens. 


Bret Berg then came up on stage to intro the next movie, which he said was on heavy rotation on cable for years, then he went on to talk about how cable taught him more about filmmaking than any other film professor. It was through cable that he learned about various directors and their distinctive visions; he discovered David Lynch on cable, and recognized that his films looked like no other. It was also through cable that he cultivated his tastes in genre, as well as introducing him to offbeat movies like The Beastmaster and The Peanut Butter Solution.

What Berg referred to as a "serious movie for adults" turned out to be 1982's Android, a film set in outer space sometime in the later years of the 21st century. Directed by Aaron Lipstadt -- probably best known for MST3K favorite City Limits -- and starring everybody's favorite psychopathic sexual assaulter, Klaus Kinski, in what's really a secondary role as Dr. Daniel, a scientist holed up in a space station located somewhere far out in the boonies of the known universe. 

His only companion is his android assistant, Max 404 (Don Opper, who also co-wrote the film), and who is the real main character of this film. When not helping to maintain the space station and assisting Dr. Daniel with his work, Max whiles away the hours playing video games on his Vectrex and listening to oldies by James Brown and Bobby Moore. Max is not unlike an awkward teenage boy in both temperament and experience, which means that among his other human traits, we see him further develop curiosity about the opposite sex by looking up files on how men and women have sex.

And so, after taking in a ship in distress, Max starts to get all tingly upon finding that of the three crew members, one of them, Maggie (Brie Howard), is a g-g-g-girl. But what Max doesn't know is that these crew members didn't just find adventure, they brought it with them, because in reality they're escaped convicts with plenty of heat on their tails.

We watch as Maggie are her partners-in-crime try to get their ship fixed before Johnny Space-Law comes along; of the two, Keller (Albert Pyun favorite Norbert Weisser) is the more level-headed one, while the other one (Crofton Hardester) is hot-headed and prone to violence, because his name is Mendes, so of course he'd be that way. Despite being the more hateable of the three, I dug Mendes the most, because he reminded me of Fred Ward, and I like Fred Ward. 

Meanwhile, Dr. Daniel has been busy building a new and better female android, and what poor Max doesn't know is that as soon as the doc's finished with his new creation, he plans to send poor Max to the scrapyard. What Max does know is that Dr. Daniel also has eyes on Maggie, and I don't know how much of the uncomfortable tension I felt during those scenes between the doc and the lady had to do with what I know about Kinski's history. 

So as I'm watching Dr. Daniel peek into a video feed of Maggie stripping down in her bedroom -- surely for scientific purposes -- I couldn't help but wonder if this ex-Nazi didn't try to strong-arm the director into, at the very least, being on set for Howard's nude scenes.

Pervy Dr. Daniel subplot aside, everything else in this film has a curiously laid back feel to it, so that even the most dramatic or violent moments never felt anything approaching aggro or intense. Which isn't to say that Android is some kind of failure, because I think the low-key tone is intentional, a kind of holdover from the 70s, when plenty of sci-fi had similar muted vibes -- specifically something like Douglas Trumbull's film Silent Running or John Carpenter's Dark Star. Later towards the end of the marathon, Bret Berg commented that this felt kind of a like a 1980s Sundance movie, in that it was a clunky American indie that just happened to be set in outer space.

I get what he means. But for me, I actually felt that it was this movie, and not Millennium, that came off more like an extended episode of "The Twilight Zone", right down to the ending where I could practically hear Rod Serling's closing remarks over the final shot. Or maybe even an episode of "Tales from the Crypt", one of the more cutesy ones, you know, like the one where Malcolm McDowell played a vampire security guard. And by that standard, it's one of the better episodes of those shows, one that maintained my interest, made me laugh a few times, and had me caring for a couple of its characters.

It's nifty, is what this is; a short and simple movie containing some interesting ideas that have since been brought up and expanded upon in other films and shows, such as "Star Trek: The Next Generation", with its android character Data. We observe Max as he watches classic films and bases his identity on them, wearing a fedora while imagining being smooth with a lady just like the cool guys in the movies. So really, he's not that much different from the rest of us assholes, except I take my inspiration from movies featuring 1970s street pimps, which is why I've never had a relationship last more than six months, but goddamn are my pockets full of those bitches' money. 

 

At this point, I went outside to find a new place to park my car, because that's life in the big city, pal. As I stepped outside Brain Dead Studios, I was welcomed by a most pleasant mix of scents both tobacco and cannabis from the crowd of smokers taking the opportunity to smoke up and toke up between films. I'm not being sarcastic either, I love those smells. I also like the smell of exhaust fumes, which is why one day I intend to treat myself to a feast of that fragrance, preferably in a closed garage while listening to my favorite music.

As I returned to my seat, Williamson was on stage introducing the next film; like most of tonight's offerings, it was a cable discovery. He decided to give us a hint by telling us that it was from Charles Band, who has been producing cine-schlock for over four decades now. Williamson felt that this movie exemplified the (possibly cocaine-fueled) attitude of Band's company Empire Pictures of taking two or three separate ideas and merging them into one film. 

He also gave another hint that this featured an early role for someone who would later become very famous in film and television, and he then concluded by wishing us "Merry Christmas!" and that's when I got very excited.

The fourth film was in fact, the one I guessed and hoped it would be: 1984's Trancers, directed by Band. I first saw this on HBO back in the late 80s, and it has remained a favorite ever since. I've even made it part of my Christmas viewing rotation, along with other holiday classics such as Die Hard and The Silent Partner. I've always wanted to see Trancers on the big screen -- and there it was, looking every bit as fabulous as 16mm would allow.

The film, also known under the alternate titles "Future Cop" and "Juice II", begins in the year 2247 in Angel City, located near the sunken ruins of what used to be Los Angeles. Things seem to be going all right in this fair cyber-city where the people dress retro but carry ray guns. On the other hand, people don't eat meat anymore, steaks are made from kelp, and if you want some real coffee, you're gonna have to pay a heavy premium for it. 

The great Tim Thomerson stars as our hero, Jack Deth, a "trooper" for the Angel City PD who is hunting the titular cult of mind-controlled zombie-like killers. As Deth describes them, they're "not really alive, and not dead enough". Each time he kills or "singes" a Trancer, he or she vaporizes, leaving behind only a scorched imprint of the corpse on the ground. At first I thought it was Deth's gun that caused the vaporization, but as we see later in the film -- and it's five sequels -- that's not the case, Trancers just do that. 

Which leaves me to wonder what happens if a Trancer just grows old enough to die of old age. I'm guessing it would end with the Trancer on his deathbed surrounded by his Trancer wife and his Trancer children and his Trancer grandchildren, maybe he has a sad Trancer dog curled up beside the bed. Then the patriarchal Trancer growls his final goodbyes out his foaming black lips and expires, scorching up the mattress of his Craftmatic adjustable bed, which his family has no choice but to throw out with the trash, because who's gonna want that thing, it's got Pop Pop's charred silhouette on it.

So Deth is called up for a special mission to go "down the line", meaning he has to take a time-traveling serum that transfers his consciousness into his ancestor's body back in 1985 Los Angeles. See, Whistler, the man who created the Trancer cult (thanks Scientology!) has already gone down the line with the intention to kill the forefathers of the Angel City council who have maintained order, and Deth has to stop him. 

Once in 20th century L.A., Deth forces his ancestor's one-night stand, Leena (Helen Hunt, the aforementioned famous film and television actress) to help him find and protect the council's descendants from Whistler, who is currently taking up residence in his ancestor -- who also happens to be a lieutenant with the LAPD. We see later in the film that one of the cops assisting Whistler has been "tranced", but during this viewing I wondered if the other cops helping him were also turned into kill-crazy zombies, or if they were just typical police officers doing what comes naturally.

For what is in all intents and purposes a cheap cash-in on Blade Runner and The Terminator, Trancers is a hell of a lot better and way more fun than it has any right to be. Sure, it's cheesy in the most low-budget of ways, but it knows it's cheesy and for the most part doesn't take itself seriously. It's a visually appealing flick too, with a cool retro-futuristic look during the Angel City scenes, a nice neon-heavy aesthetic with the modern-day stuff in Chinatown, as well as a dark and gloomy atmosphere in the Skid Row sequences, and I also dug the electronic music score by Phil Davies and Mark Ryder.

In addition to being given a special serum that will allow Deth to zap his and Whistler's consciousness back to the 23rd century, Deth is also given a special wristwatch than can slow down one second into ten. And that's the only kind of "slow" in this 76 minute-film which feels more like 45 minutes, because Band and screenwriters Danny Bilson and Paul De Meo -- who went on to write the scripts for The Rocketeer and Da 5 Bloods -- knew how to keep things moving fast, so as to keep the audience from doing something stupid, like think too hard about it. It's also very funny at times, with Deth occasionally spouting off some witty old-school-style tough guy lines. 

I especially liked how Leena first reacts to Deth's fish-out-of-water behavior and his wild stories about time-traveling and brainless killers. Hunt plays her initial disbelief and eventual acceptance in a much more down-to-earth manner, rather than the kind of dumb hysterics I'd expect from this kind of cheapie genre flick. Because it's a movie, she and Deth eventually become an item, and even that doesn't feel too shoehorned; I think a big part of that is because Hunt and Thomerson have really good chemistry together and I enjoyed their interactions.

So yeah, I really dig this movie and have watched it multiple times, but I've never seen it beyond an audience of one. So it was a real treat to watch this in a packed house, with what seemed to be a majority of first-timers to the movie -- and an even bigger treat to find out that it plays great with an audience!

The crowd laughed when Deth had to face off with a Mall Santa who went full Trancer, they cheered when Deth singed Whistler's body in the future, ensuring his enemy would not be able to leave the past, and they went What The Fuck? upon the sight of the back of Leena's jean jacket -- which displayed a full-on Stars and Bars Confederate flag. But hell, if them Dukes can rock that loser symbol on top of their winner of a Dodge Charger, than Leena can use that stupid jacket to flaunt her edgelord punk-rocker credentials. 

But I'm glad to know that people -- at least in this corner of the country -- react negatively to that horseshit flag. Because fuck that flag, fuck the Confederacy, fuck the old South, and fuck any bitch-ass apologist who tries to Well Actually away the whole slavery thing in regards to the Civil War  -- which these assholes are probably hoping for a sequel to occur any time now. Well, if it ever happens, I hope those assholes and people like those assholes get shot up with bullets painted to look like bottles of Bud Light.

Where was I? Oh yeah, as far as I'm concerned, Trancers takes place in the same universe as the film Girls Just Want to Have Fun, which came out around the same time, and in which Helen Hunt co-starred with Sarah Jessica Parker. In that film, Hunt played a free-spirited high school girl named Lynne, and I find it really easy to believe that after graduating, Lynne said goodbye to the East Coast and moved to L.A., where she changed her name to Leena and took up the punk rock lifestyle, which included wearing colored streaks in her hair and scaring the squares by wearing clothing with Confederate flags on them. I just thought you should know that.


I guess now is as good a time as any to mention that all these 16mm prints looked pretty damn good for their format, some were a bit more scratchy and worn, but the colors were always bright and the image was pretty sharp. Each film had to have a break halfway through, so that the reels could be changed, and it lasted no more than half-a-minute; most people used the opportunity to check their phones or make a quick run to the restroom. The breaks actually reminded me of the side and disc changes one would make with laserdiscs; and like those disc changes, the film breaks were placed at very strategic moments that seemed like intermissions, rather than interruptions.

After the film, I went to the snack bar; most people were ordering pizza and burritos, but I'm more of an old-school guy and got popcorn instead. Upon finding out that they don't offer butter, I felt disappointed, but only briefly, because the popcorn was plenty salty and delicious on its own.


Before Williamson's next intro, Josh Miller mentioned that someone ordered a cheese pizza during the previous film and never picked it up. He figured that there must be somebody in the audience who ordered one -- possibly while high -- and then during the movie started wondering why they were still hungry. Nobody stepped up to claim that pizza, but goddamn it if I didn't consider making that claim myself. 

Williamson then came up on stage to sadly declare that despite her amazing performance in Trancers, we all have to cancel Helen Hunt now for wearing that Stars & Bars jacket. He then introduced the next mystery film by calling it the silliest one of the marathon, but intentionally so, because when you get right down to it, it's a kids movie, albeit a kids movie that features two beheadings, because that's how kids movies rolled back in the 80s -- like a severed head down an incline.

The fifth film of the marathon turned out to be 1984's space opera The Ice Pirates, directed by Stewart Raffill, a filmmaker of such, uh, varied projects like The Philadelphia Experiment, Mac and Me, and Standing Ovation. In this film, set in a galaxy far, far away, Robert Urich stars as Jason, leader of a rowdy group of space pirates who raid ships that transport ice between worlds. 

See, water is the most valuable resource around, and of course some evil overlord types called the Templars control the interplanetary flow, on some Immortan Joe bullshit. While I normally hate on pirates, I'm cool with Jason and the aquanauts pulling jack moves on these Templars. What I'm not cool with is what I hope was a joke by Jason regarding a lack of raping and pillaging during their raids.

He makes that "joke", by the way, after they discover Princess Karina (Mary Crosby) aboard one of the ships in hibernation. Cooler dicks prevail though, and instead wakes her up and takes her captive, hoping she'll be worth big bucks, if not big fucks. 

But I guess the good Princess was able to hear Jason talk that shit while she was sleeping, because soon she's got the upper hand when Jason is captured by the Templars and is almost castrated. The only reason he gets to keep his junk is because Karina allows it, because well, maybe she is attracted to Jason, but Karina is kinda like Andrew Dice Clay, and so nobody fucks Karina -- Karina does the fucking!

But she might want to hold up on getting some of that Vega$ cock, because it turns out Jason has Space Herpes -- OK, maybe not Jason, but his ship is infested with them and it's pretty disgusting, like most things in this purposely juvenile flick, because this was made during an era when children knew how to grow a pair and not get worked up or offended by stuff like space herpes or heroes who want to rape princesses. Kids today are fuckin' pussies that need their entertainment to be soft and safe, and I think some of those kids were in the audience during this screening, because you can practically hear their assholes slam shut when a robot pimp shows up speaking in the most stereotypical of black voices.

Eventually, with the help of the Princess, Jason escapes and they and the other pirates embark on a quest to find her father, who went missing during his quest to find a fabled planet that is mostly water. We watch them get into various misadventures involving robots, time travel, swordfighting, spaceship battles, the aforementioned space herpes, and Bruce Vilanch getting his head chopped off. 

It's all very goofy, and I got a kick out of Urich and the supporting cast that included Anjelica Huston and Ron Perlman as members of Jason's crew, but overall I found the end result just plain OK. The gags weren't particularly funny to me, and I was never really engaged with any of the characters, and the standard issue bad guys hardly stood out, they were just, well, there. 

But I did really enjoy the last ten minutes, when both Jason's ship and the Templars ship end up in a time warp that causes them to rapidly age as they face off with each other. It was then that The Ice Pirates actually succeeded for me in the kind of anarchistic wackiness that it had been trying for the entire film.

But I can see why this would be a favorite for many kids who grew up watching this on cable, and I'm sure this is to many in the audience what Trancers is to me. I'm not saying I hated it, it was just, you know, meh. I mean, I can't even find much else to say about it. I already mentioned the space herpes twice, and uh, oh yeah, John Carradine shows up in this, that was cool. Anyway, I guess what I'm trying to say is that when it comes to films by this director, I'm much more of a Tammy and the T-Rex guy. There's decapitations in that one too.

 

Before the final film of the night -- which they called a "banger" and hinted as being something that everybody has seen -- Mike Williamson, Bret Berg, and Josh Miller discussed the previous films. Mike then asked the audience for their favorite movie of the night; most people said Trancers, because of course they would, it's Trancers, bro. 

Not that they're reading this, but I do want to express my gratitude to Secret Sixteen and Brain Dead Studios for essentially giving me one of my dream screenings with Trancers, a film I always wanted to see on the big screen, and to watch it with such a receptive crowd was a real bonus. 

I say that to them, so I can say this to them: Fuck Secret Sixteen and Brain Dead Studios, for ending the evening with a goddamn ringer, a heavyweight among welterweights, and thereby making it so that one can't easily call Trancers the best film of the marathon. I cannot argue with Williamson's opinion of this film being the greatest low-budget science fiction movie of the 1980s, this film which launched many A-list careers, birthed a franchise, and inspired some of the previous films of the marathon. 

(And that's when Josh jumped in and said how awesome would it be if the film we were about to watch turned out to be Mac & Me.)

But no, the sixth and final film of the Cyberjunk 16mm marathon was 1984's The Terminator, which was also the final film of the Arnold All-Night movie marathon I attended a few years ago at the New Beverly Cinema, and so I'll pretty much repeat myself with the same random thoughts, because it's not like there's anything I can say about this movie that everybody doesn't already know, we all know the deal: A cyborg from the post-apocalyptic future is sent to the past to kill Sarah Connor, a woman who is pregnant with the man who will lead the humans to victory against the machines in said post-apocalyptic future. We've got Arnold Schwarzenegger, we've got Linda Hamilton, we've got Michael Biehn, and we've got a former trucker as a director whose already got one Piranha movie under his belt -- and therefore really needs to prove himself.

The opening text tells us about the "ashes of the nuclear fire" reminded me of the low-grade anxiety people had back in the 80s that World War III could break out at any time. Then the Cold War ended and the sequel Terminator 2: Judgment Day even had a character make a comment about how the Russians were now allies to the United States; that sequel came out when the Doomsday Clock was at 17 minutes to midnight -- the farthest it's ever been since its creation. 

As of 2023, that clock is at 90 seconds to midnight, and with Putin doing his thing, it's safe to say the Cold War is back, baby -- and the unthinkable isn't just being thought of, it's being casually tweeted, Facebook'd, and hell, probably TikTok'd as well. I wouldn't know, I don't have TikTok, fuck that shit.

Between this film and the nuclear holocaust scene in the sequel, I'm sure the Doomsday Clock is something director James Cameron has often thought about. I still remember a rumor about how supposedly Cameron spent New Year's Eve 1999 holed up in a private bunker with booze and an AK-47, in case the Y2K bug turned out to be legit and the world went shithouse come midnight. Then nothing happened and he was probably like, "shit, I guess I better get back to work on another movie now, but first, let me move to New Zealand", which from what I understand, is like the safest place to be when the world finally goes Titanic. That's why all the billionaires have places there, which is probably why they say cockroaches will be the only ones left after the apocalypse.

So yeah, it's 1984 and thanks to time travel technology, the man sent to protect Sarah Connor -- Kyle Reese -- arrives naked as the day he was born and so he needs some clothes, right? He ends up jacking a pair of pants from a homeless dude and for years I was like Ewww because let's be real, those homeless pants haven't been washed in who knows how long. So many permanently embedded scents and textures and stains -- boy oh boy, the stories those pants could tell. We haven't even gotten into what's in the pockets. But any port in a storm, though -- right Reese?

But then again, maybe it doesn't matter to Reese because he just came from a time where the word "bath" probably doesn't even exist anymore. Or maybe they have do take baths between Hunter Killer attacks and eating slop in dark rubble-strewn hallways, but you just know those baths are few and far between. At most, maybe every other week, and they're probably all washing in each other's filth anyway. Plus the survivors live with dogs because dogs can tell who's human and who's a Terminator, so you know there's unwashed dog stink on top of human stink. 

Christ, the lucky ones did die in the blast.

And Sarah Connor -- freak that she is -- falls in love with this filthy White boy whose been running around in sneakers minus socks.

Maybe Sarah's just too delirious with hunger to notice, because earlier in the film, she goes to have dinner and a movie by herself. Sounds like my kind of girl. So, yeah, she's at this pizza place, with a whole pizza all to herself (again, my kind of girl) and she's about to bite into a slice but then overhears the latest report of another Sarah Connor being murdered. She freaks out and never gets around to eating that pizza, which is a bummer.

So yeah, the T-800 cyborg shows up, there's shootouts and chases, and not once did I see her eat anything for the rest of the film -- not even a bullet. I didn't see any food come out of that grocery bag of supplies Reese brings to their motel room hideout, just ammonia, moth balls, and corn syrup. I don't know, maybe she scarfed down a couple doughnuts at the police station.

At least she survived to eventually eat something after the events of the movie; her roommate's boyfriend, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky. He was about to enjoy an absolutely beautiful Dagwood-style sandwich, until he made the fatal mistake of attempting to bust up a T-800. He died hungry, which is a terrible way to go -- but at least he got to enjoy bang Sarah's roommate before being forcefully shuffled off his mortal coil. 

Speaking of Sarah's roommate, her murder is even more tragic because a woman who will lay you and then immediately go make you a sandwich is wife material, but here comes the pregnant asshole from Junior to unload his AMT Hardballer into her. She didn't deserve that, even if she was going to serve up that sandwich with a glass of milk, which is questionable at best and fucking gross at worst.

I mean, aside from inside a bowl of cereal or following a slice of chocolate cake, I do not understand milk being served with anything. But you'll see it, you'll see people having sandwiches, steaks, and mac & cheese with milk and I just, I just, I just can't, man, what is this, some fuckin' 1950s sitcom, why are you having milk with your dinner, you weirdos with your dairy depravity? 

Anyway, despite growing up watching horror movies about Jason Voorhees and Freddy Krueger, it was this film -- a sci-fi action movie -- that felt more like actual horror to me. Because if you want to avoid Jason, you just have to stay out of the woods, and if you find Freddy in your dreams, you can just Dream Warrior that motherfucker out of your face. They never scared me.

But a machine whose sole mission to find and kill you no matter what, now that is the stuff of my nightmares. The only way for that nightmare to get worse is if it were combined with another nightmare, and so there I am at school standing in front of the chalkboard in front of my entire class and I'm naked, and now all the kids are laughing and pointing at me. By the time the T-800 walks in and shoots me in the head, death will be a relief. But then the other kids are going to have to deal with this new substitute teacher with a .45 long-slide with laser sighting and a ferret.

So yeah, for those new to the world, The Terminator is a lean, mean, and relentless flick that was awesome back then and remains awesome today. It was a cinematic gauntlet thrown onto the filmmaker's table by a badass motherfucker. His name? James Motherfucking Cameron, and you haters need to keep it out of your fucking mouths. Doubt him all you want, shit on him all you want, joke about how he makes sequels that nobody asked for and watch -- just watch! -- as they gross billions. The King of the World will always come out on top, laughing all the way to the bank. Probably some weirdo hippie vegan bank, because he's one of those. Ugh.

 

And so, the Cyberjunk movie marathon came to an end a little after 1:30am. The entire audience was invited to go outside for a group photo with Williamson, Berg, and Miller, so I, of course, made sure to stay away. But I had a great time watching mostly cool movies with a good crowd in a comfortable environment -- and it was nice to be finished at a time when most movie marathons are not even halfway through, it was nice to know that I can still get a decent night's sleep and still enjoy my Sunday. 

But first I stopped at Canter's down the street for a pastrami on rye. As I chowed down on my delicious sandwich, some drunk hipster stumbled onto my booth and begin to initiate a conversation I did not want to have. (Mainly because he was a man.) He asked where I just came from, and I wanted to say I came from his mother's bedroom but instead took the honesty policy, which I've been told is best. 

I told him that I just spent the past 12 hours watching science-fiction and fantasy films featuring killer viruses, fascist rulers, violent policemen, dystopian societies, streets filled with the homeless, cataclysmic damage to the environment, natural resources hoarded by the powerful, and artificial intelligence gone rogue. 

The drunk hipster then slurred something about how none of that sounded like science-fiction nor fantasy, then asked -- rather indignantly, as if I was at fault -- "How the fuck are those movies any different than what's going on right now in real life?" 

I put down my sandwich and got up, went over to his side, sat down next to him, scooched in close, and smiled as I put my arm around him and responded:

"They didn't have buses in them."