Junta Juleil's Top 100: #100-#96

Alright, here we go, ladies and gentlemen:

#100. AMERICAN GRAFFITI (1973, George Lucas)

Ah, how I love the late 50's, early 60's nostalgia pic, of which AMERICAN GRAFFITI is the beloved grandaddy. Though I and many of the genre's admirers cannot lay claim to having experienced the era firsthand, so many films which I deeply enjoy (THE WANDERERS, STAND BY ME, CHRISTINE, etc., etc.) use it as an effective template for imparting profound lessons about the nature of adulthood and what it means and feels like to be on the cusp of it, the cusp of that storied abyss. (They also use it as an effective template for cramming in as many great Oldies tunes as is humanly possible!) In retrospect, I can't help but feel that these films go even further, sort of imparting mythical lessons about what life was like Before Things Got Shitty, or the fairy-tale time When People Had Something To Look Forward To. Now perhaps I'm being somewhat facetious, but it certainly feels that way these days. Regardless, this is a humanist masterpiece with a vital young cast (Ron Howard, Richard Dreyfuss, Cindy Williams, Charles Martin Smith, Paul Le Mat, Candy Clark, Mackenzie Phillips, among others) and a bittersweet ending that speaks toward What Came Next. It's George Lucas (or was it really Marcia?) at his best.

#99. SOMEWHERE IN TIME (1980, Jeannot Szwarc)

I'm not exactly a fan of the 'Romance' genre by any means, but the genuine aura of tenderness and melancholy which flows forth from this movie can play my emotions like a piano. As he has proven again and again, Richard Matheson's mastery of time travel as a narrative device is rarely (if ever) matched; he tackles it not as science, but as a reverie, an abstraction, a wandering sense of nostalgia and regret. John Barry's score is a pleasure to the point of pain, and Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour's connectedness easily make us forget about pop culture personas like "Superman" and "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman." A beautiful film, and one which didn't blow 'em away at the box office, but which has inspired a rabid cult following, including an extremely dedicated fan club which predates the Internet.

#98. RUNAWAY TRAIN (1985, Andrei Konchalovsky)

A prison escape film, of sorts, which passed through the hands of Akira Kurosawa, Paul Zindel, Eddie Bunker, and Golan & Globus before it became white-knuckle reality. RUNAWAY TRAIN is scraping steel, snowy vistas, blood and oil and grease and steam. The sheer, absolutely brutish intensity of Jon Voight and John P. Ryan is mind-blowing- we see men become animals, we see animals become men. Eric Roberts gets in on the action, too– this thing is a goddamn master's course in acting. One of the most potent, well-constructed thrillers in recent memory.

#97. THE PENALTY (1920, Wallace Worsley)

Some of you know that I'm quite the Lon Chaney devotee; I've said in the past "from his achievements in self-mutilation to his mind-blowing makeup effects to his mastery of the crazy-eye to his portrayals of mad jealousy, mangling frustration, and unfettered pathos; he assembled a vast body of work that really can't be matched for variety, commitment, or poignancy- and half of his films are lost!" The man's masochistic streak and tortured countenance are well-demonstrated here in THE PENALTY as he plays a frightening gangster named "Blizzard" whose legs were mistakenly amputated as a boy. The apparatus he uses to sell the effect is astounding, as are the nuances in his facial expressions, particularly given the fact that he was in enormous pain and hence prone to losing consciousness for the duration of the shoot. This is silent melodrama at its finest: whether it's slugging you in the gut or tugging at your heart-strings, you feel as if you've utterly surrendered yourself to the experience– it grabs you by the lapels and takes you for a ride, and isn't that what cinema's all about?

#96. ACE IN THE HOLE (1951, Billy Wilder)

Ah, the "newspaper flick." They're full of gritty, fast-talking men who're part-time wordsmiths and full-time swindlers, the sort of men who'd rather die than see some rival publication get the scoop. Enter Kirk Douglas, a gal-slappin' sonofabitch named Chuck Tatum who turns manipulatin' the masses into a spectator sport. I applaud this film and its ridiculous cynicism; it knew that that the days of aw, shucks truth-bending ("when the legend becomes fact, print the legend," anyone?) would one day give way to poisonous, THEY LIVE-grade distortions on a global scale. The alternate title was THE BIG CARNIVAL, and how goddamned right they were, what a big fucken carnival, indeed. As this list progresses, I'll likely say that a number of films seem prophetic in today's world (including this one!), but then again I suppose the repressers of the truth have always been sonsabitches; just who knew to what scale they'd end up takin' it? ACE IN THE HOLE is a movie that takes you by the throat, leads you toward the glory of "The Information Age," and shows you a few of the uglier pit-stops along the way. I also highly recommend: SWEET SMELL OF SUCCESS and NETWORK.

Coming up next...some Carpy, some Polanski, and possibly the biggest, baddest tear-jerker of all time!

The Runners-Up to Junta Juleil's Top 100, Part 2

Ah, more spillover. But next, we'll be cracking the Top 100 for real.

DRACULA (1931, Tod Browning)

I've said before that "DRACULA is a monster classic, full of fleeting, mystical moments and ethereal majesties. Exceedingly atmospheric and possessing one of the most iconic leading performances in film history, DRACULA is a Halloween fixture and a classic of early sound cinema; it's mandatory viewing not only for horror fans, but for cineastes in general." The maniac élan of Dwight Frye; the ineffable, funereal poetry of Lugosi's performance; the weight and the torment of centuries... while it may not be an objectively perfect film, dammit, it's close enough for me.

STROZEK (1978, Werner Herzog)

"No one kicks you here, Bruno." –"Not physically...here they do it spiritually." So Herzog tackles the American Dream, er, let's make that the American Nightmare. How do we get from a point where the emotionally and institutionally damaged German street performer Bruno S. (played by the emotionally and institutionally damaged real-life German street performer, Bruno S.) is escaping thugs in Germany to find a better life in America, to the point where a cop is screaming "WE CAN'T STOP THE DANCING CHICKENS! WE CAN'T STOP THE DANCING CHICKENS, SEND AN ELECTRICIAN!?" Well, I'm not going to tell you how. See the film for yourself. But be prepared for more humanity in non-actor Bruno S.'s little finger than in the entirety of your average, unfortunate member of that species we call Homo sapiens.

THE MECHANIC (1972, Michael Winner)

A Michael Winner movie permitted to even bask in the presence of the top 100?! Yeah, you heard me right. While this might not be the best movie that Bronson was ever in, this is probably the best "Bronson movie." I've written of my love for this flick before: It's a detached, melancholy thriller with crisp, artistic cinematography; a dissonant, unnerving Jerry Fielding score; and perhaps Bronson's most complex, compelling performance. And, boy, has it got a doozy of an ending. Highest marks. (Plus, this might mark the beginning of Bronson's love affair with ice cream– not to be confused with his love affairs with chicken or bananas.)

THE LIMEY (1999, Steven Soderbergh)

The style of swingin' 60's Godard, but without all the pompous, pseudo-revolutionary hogwash and self-congratulatory pretension that've infected his films sometime since 1965 or so, THE LIMEY has what every movie should have: an aged, blood-spattered Terence Stamp screaming at the top of his Cockney lungs, "Tell him I'm fucking comingggg!" The brutality of a POINT BLANK or an OUTFIT combined with the thoughtfulness of a Jean-Pierre Melville or an Antonioni, THE LIMEY is, hands-down, Soderbergh's masterpiece. Cliff Martinez's somber, furtive score; the use of counter-culture icons like Peter Fonda, Barry Newman, and Joe Dallesandro; the lunatic improvisations of a pony-tail'd Nicky Katt; brilliant, deadpan sidekickery by Luis Guzman; and the ethereal cinematography of Edward Lachmann all revolve around the furious, uncompromising, force-of-nature lead portrayal by Terence Stamp. It's THE REMEMBRANCE OF THINGS PAST for the Sons of Lee Marvin.

EXTREME PREJUDICE (1987, Walter Hill)

Because I can't really think of any way to put it better than I already did, I'll say this: "Before you stick this thing in your player, I want you to mark out an 8 foot radius around your TV set. Then I want you to make sure there's nothing in that zone that you wouldn't mind having 40 gallons of testosterone poured over. EXTREME PREJUDICE has been proven to make wombs shrivel and has turned the frilliest of ladies quite husky; it makes men stumble, confused, into the street with a mysterious desire to chomp on cigars and arm wrestle. It's robust, potent, severe, and is completely safe when used as directed." It's the ultimate manly man's 'manly man' movie, and just about the most fun you can have indoors on a hot summer's day. And I'll leave you with two words that you should always remember: "Michael," and "Ironside."

THE SADDEST MUSIC IN THE WORLD (2003, Guy Maddin)

"If you're sad, and like beer, I'm your lady." To that, I answer "why, I'm all of the above, but I thought Isabella Rossellini was already my lady." Guy Maddin, George Toles, and Kazuo Ishiguro put their heads together for a completely deranged, nostalgia-soaked, impeccably-desinged paean to silent and early sound cinema, a film so utterly bizarre and completely sincere that it avoids the typical pitfalls of pastiche. And even though the ending is borrowed from HANGOVER SQUARE, by God, it still takes the guts outta ya. (Also: Isabella Rossellini has prosthetic legs filled with beer, which might be enough to get this near the Top 100 alone.)

DOWN BY LAW (1986, Jim Jarmusch)

Picking a favorite Jarmusch film is a lofty task; I've got major soft spots in my heart for STRANGER THAN PARADISE, DEAD MAN, GHOST DOG, and MYSTERY TRAIN, to name a few. But nothing can match what Tom Waits called "a Russian neo-fugitive episode of THE HONEYMOONERS," the dingy-bayou prison-break (that doesn't actually show the prison-break) classic, DOWN BY LAW. You can almost touch the peeling paint, feel the haze of everpresent New Awlins humidity, smell the stench and stagnancy of the swamps... And that's not the half of it- there's the inscrutable John Lurie, the drunken Tom Waits, and the never-better zany Eye-talian, Roberto Begnini!

LE TROU (1960, Jacques Becker)

Speaking of prison breaks, this one's all about the logistics, the timeframe, and the little details that make it feel real. Jacques Becker's observational style is applied to a group of desperate, jailed men, and the results are astounding. He documented the behavior of criminals before in TOUCHEZ PAS AU GRISBI, but these men are anguished, doomed souls, yearning for freedom– they aren't zoot suit-wearing bon vivant gangsters; they're working-class buddies who had to push the acceptable limits of human behavior to survive in the free world (until they got busted), and now they have to push the limits of their own ingenuity if they want to survive a caged world. Often, in a film of this type, we'll see a man digging with a spoon or a toothbrush or a what-have-you, and then, via montage, we see the completed tunnel. There's an economy of storytelling in that, but it occasionally feels staged, contrived, or worse. In LE TROU, some men in real-time pass around a steel bar, taken from a bed, and smash at the concrete. When one man tires, he passes the bar to the next, and then to the next. Finally, with nary an edit, they break through, creating a hole. We've just seen the process and the effort which went into making the hole, and that is strangely satisfying. No smoke and mirrors here; it's real men doing real things. Strange that a genuine moment as simple as this should stick out to me in a life-time of film watching. Of course, it's not as simple as pointing a camera at someone doing something real and recording it– but I suppose therein lies Becker's genius.

BLOODSPORT (1988, Newt Arnold)

"What?!," I see you saying, way in the back, lurking in the darkness. "Who the hell lets BLOODSPORT within 30 miles of a Top 100 list?!" Well, 'Mr. Too-Fancy-to-Appreciate-Van-Damme's-Mastery-of-Splits-and-Full-Contact-Martial-Arts,' I do. Because there's something to be said for a movie (even if it's a big, dumb, fun movie) that can be watched again and again and again and again, forever. Cannon Films churned out some silly content and some serious content, but it was always audacious– ballsy, even- brimming with a genuine joie-de-vivre that was infectious then, and it's infectious now. Golan and Globus were producers who allowed their directors artistic control, who refused to stomp upon their creativity, and infused their production company with the sense that something new and exciting was happening– yeah, what were they thinking, right?! "Golan and Globus used to be big," says the naysayer in the rear. "No," I say, "they ARE big– it's the pictures that got small! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE! KUMI-TE!"

THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING (1975, John Huston)

A grand adventure film from a time when that didn't mean a CGI fuckfest with a heavily airbrushed poster, a $200 million budget, a cast of brain-dead fluffballs for the younger demographic and "wait, do we have a script yet?– here, let's assign these eight guys to it, each of whom has a notable credit from a high-profile reboot." Rudyard Kipling's tale of fortune and glory and deification has been laid out on the screen here by John Huston, perhaps the best-suited man for the job from Kipling's time to ours. Somehow, all at once, he captures rollicking fun, the absurdities of imperialism, the outrageous hubris of man, and the pathos which often swells beneath it. And rarely have two lead actors (here, Sean Connery and Michael Caine) been so perfectly cast, so full of life, so connected to material that flits to and fro from the light-hearted to the downbeat like the oscillations of a river's current, flowing through a dramatic, uncharted slit of a canyon, somewhere on the other side of the world...

HIGHBALL (1997, Noah Baumbach)

Though this film's cult following outside of my apartment is likely pretty slim; I will say, that inside my apartment, said cult following is rather extensive and rather rabid. I've spoken of my love for this film before, and I have to say "it's the ultimate party movie for people who generally dislike party movies." Rae Dawn Chong as herself, Chris Eigeman, Carlos Jacott, John Lehr, Peter Bogdanovich... it's fantastic. Acerbic wit, low-budge' moxie, and an incredible re-watchability factor.

THE SCARLET EMPRESS (1934, Josef von Sternberg)

Holy shit– let von Sternberg do whatever he wants, and this is the result: a cast of thousands; imposing, grotesque statuary and sets that spiral toward the heavens; intertitles and silent film techniques in the midst of sound film; Sam Jaffe leering with half-witted insanity (he gives Dwight Frye a run for his money); and Marlene Dietrich in opulent period costume pieces and shot with starry-eyed closeups. Some have described it as "kitsch," and maybe it is, but it's really a weighty examination of the nature of power: we only see Dietrich become the "Scarlet Empress" at the film's close, in fact, we spend the majority of our time with her as a frightened young woman spirited away to a foreign land, yanked to and fro by forces beyond her control. Ultimately, she embarks on an inevitable, fascinating journey towards becoming the sort of deadened, manipulating individual capable of wielding absolute power. It's pretty damned spectacular.

THE GARBAGE PAIL KIDS MOVIE (1987, Rod Amateau)

Now I've done it– I've put Josef von Sternberg and John Huston in the same room as the Garbage Pail Kids, and I'll defend that decision to the death. Rarely does a movie achieve such a perfection of badness; not even TROLL 2 can quite compete with this schizophrenic tale of one-dimensional misfits. Take Ali Gator, for example. His dogged, single-minded quest to eat people's toes quickly vaults him onto the shortlist of my favorite characters in all of cinema. Seriously, his only character trait is that he longs, unswervingly, to hasten the union between your toes and his teeth. We've got little people in hideous, quasi-animatronic costumes. We've got "Captain Manzini," a sort of gutter-Shakespeare stock player. We've got bodily functions. Vomit. Farting. Musical numbers. We got a plot that revolves, entirely, around a fashion show. There's underage romance. Genuine rage. Powerlessness. Cries unto the night. Biker gangs. Toxic sewer sludge. Is it burlesque? Is it grotesque? The modern-day GARGANTUA AND PANTAGRUEL? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS THING?! All I do know is that it's truly something special, and if you'd caught me on a different day, hell, this thing could've cracked the Top 100 proper. So consider yourselves lucky. For now.

-Sean Gill

The Runners-Up to Junta Juleil's Top 100, Part 1

Ah, so many films and so few spaces on the Top 100. Naturally, there had to be some spill-over.

IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS (1994, John Carpenter)

"Reality isn't what it used to be." A Lovecraftian ode sung, naturally, toward the abyss, it's Carpy's last (thus far!) unadulterated, undeniably "Great" film with a capital G. IN THE MOUTH OF MADNESS prints the fall of man upon celluloid, shows it to our protagonist- shows it to us- and together we cackle in the darkness, senselessly, because there's nothing else we can do. Previously reviewed HERE.

BABY DOLL (1956, Elia Kazan)

Kazan can wring more forbidden sexuality from the subtle rocking of a porch swing than all the R-Rated movies ever made, put together. A Southern Gothic chamber piece like no other, it develops into a tête-à-tête-à-tête between long suffering perv Karl Malden, the creepily childish Carrol Baker, and the inimitable Eli Wallach, and it's no exaggeration to call it a blazing tour de force and perhaps the most vigorous, deranged examination of American repression ever made. It's a bottle of cheap champagne on a hundred-degree day, only someone's been shakin' it up for twenty years, and you have to open it without spilling a drop– good luck!

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE (1965, Sergio Leone)

FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE is not, in fact, Leone's greatest achievement, but it's probably his most fun. In fact, perhaps one could go out on a limb and say that it's one of the first "buddy movies;" or at least the first "spaghetti western buddy movie," but even if that's true, it's a more-than-occasionally dark one. From a raging, hunchbacked Klaus Kinski to Lee Van Cleef's flinty, hawk-nosed countenance to Gian Maria Volante's wildly hallucinating madman to Clint's cigarillo-chomping roughneck with no name, one might call this film a meditation upon faces. Faces and guns. And it's all tied together by Morricone's sweeping score, which pendulates between primal grunts from the pit and overpowering Bach organ fugues!

BLACK BOOK (2006, Paul Verhoeven)

After a few explorations of hollow men, CGI bugs, robot cops, showgirls, ice-pick murderers, and the like, Verhoeven returns to where he began– visceral, dark, Dutch art film. Verhoeven usually takes the dim view of mankind, and here he quite effortlessly develops his hypothesis that we exist in a state of neverending war; it's just that big men with small ideas are always submitting these arbitrary labels, like "1914-1918," or "1939-1945," and to tell you the truth, Verhoeven doesn't know quite what those are supposed to mean...

DIRTY HARRY (1971, Don Siegel)

I said before that DIRTY HARRY is "a complex dissection of the 'man of values' in a world that has none, with our hero gradually realizing that his supposed values systems are in fact shadowy and undefined, and aww, who the hell cares anymore, let's shoot some people." Sure, it's sorta fascist. Sure, it stacks the deck, unimaginably. Sure, it has laughable depictions of hippies. But dig that groovy Lalo Schifrin score! Check out that classic a-hole authority figure, John Vernon! Behold the simpering, insane majesty of psycho-killer Andy Robinson! See Clint Eastwood's noon-day hot-dog interrupted by the magnum-blasting of goons! You know, just another Don Siegel masterpiece.

CREEPSHOW (1982, George A. Romero)

As I have written before in these hallowed pages, I would like to invest in a bumper sticker which says "I'd rather be...watching CREEPSHOW." Now I could say that this film flirts with the Top 100 entirely by virtue of "Ed Harris disco dance mania," but it's really because Romero lovingly recreates the morbid fantasias of childhood, the sensation of reading a book beneath the covers with a flashlight; the impressionability of youth, whereupon a dark and stormy night can inspire a sense of unrestrained, gleeful dread... Also: Tom Atkins.

EATING RAOUL (1982, Paul Bartel)

"I'm the host here, goddammit, now get out of your clothes and get into the hot tub, or get out! We don't want any wet blankets or spoilsports at this party...we're here to SWING!" "-Yeah, well, swing on THIS!" EATING RAOUL is probably Paul Bartel's (DEATH RACE 2000, SCENES FROM THE CLASS STRUGGLE IN BEVERLY HILLS) greatest, loopiest trashterpiece, and it's one that pushes the envelope considerably. Comedy this quirky can be a slippery slope, but Bartel and Mary Woronov, who were quite obviously born to work together (as our 80's cult Hepburn and Tracy), soon brush aside our fears with an impossibly perfect combination of slapstick, refinement, and obscenity.

MILDRED PIERCE (1945, Michael Curtiz)

"That Ted Forrester's nice-looking, isn't he? Veda likes him." –"Who wouldn't? He has a million dollars." Film noir, melodrama, woman's weepie, whatever the fuck you want to call it, MILDRED PIERCE (based on the novel by James M. Cain) is goddamned fantastic. Joan Crawford, as a hard-workin' small businesswoman who can't seem to catch a break exudes genuine frustration, pathos, and the weight of life's disappointments...she's at the height of her shoulder-padded powers. I don't wish to reveal much of the plot, but Ann Blyth's spectacular, spiteful portrayal of Mildred's money-hungry daughter, Veda, has got to be one of the most hate-able screen villains of all-time.

STAR WARS (1977, George Lucas)

One of the most enjoyable adventure movies ever made. Continuous revisions, CGI shitstorms, and seemingly endless, doltish pop culture quotings cannot dampen the effect of the Star Destroyer thundering overhead, the menagerie of rubbery buddies at the intergalactic dive bar, Harrison Ford's lopsided grin, Alec Guinness' soothing self-assurance, Carrie Fisher's privileged but gutsy revolutionary, the cathartic roar of the angry Wookiee, the sad bleeps and bloops of a forlorn R2-D2. The attention to detail in the starship models; the sprawling, ramshackle sets and rundown futuristic equipment; the imaginative aliens and innovative special effects; the nods to Kurosawa, Curtiz, and Hawks; the childish wonder and excitement... ah, the heart swells! (But goddamn, what a pity the way things have turned out...)

JFK (1991, Oliver Stone)

Whether or not you agree with Stone's politics, or all, or none, or 10% of the conspiracy theories contained within the hefty treatise that is JFK, you must admit that it is something of a piece de resistance in terms of the fusion of editing, music, narration, and camerawork. At times it feels as if you are situated upon the tail leader of the Zapruder film; it's already been projected, and you're whirling around in the darkness afterward, confused, spooked, disoriented... A monument should be built to Joe Pesci's eyebrows in this film. And Tommy Lee Jones' mysterious, frightening portrayal of Clay Shaw just might be his finest work. Also: Gary Oldman, gay Kevin Bacon, Jack Lemmon, and Donald Sutherland... as "X!"

HOUSE (1977, Nobuhiko Obayashi)

Though it pains me to say that HOUSE does not quite pack the same punch the second time around, nothing can compare to the feelings of sheer shock, confusion, elation, and general bogglement that HOUSE instills in the first-time viewer. As I've written, "To avoid comparing it to other films, I would simply describe the HOUSE experience as akin to being trapped inside a kaleidoscope as a cackling madman rams and twirls and flips and submerges it with reckless abandon as upbeat music and ludicrous sound effects ricochet here and there and everywhere, dueling one another for dominance." Theoretically, I feel as if I've often thought that there were "no rules" in cinema, but only after seeing HOUSE did I realize that such a seemingly meaningless conceit could actually, successfully be put into practice!

TRUST (1990, Hal Hartley)

Hal Hartley's a personal American indie film hero of mine, and it was difficult to decide whether TRUST, SIMPLE MEN, AMATEUR, or HENRY FOOL belonged on this list. I settled on TRUST, a film I've described as "REBEL WITHOUT AN APARTMENT." It's a stirring, contemplative, and frequently deadpan hilarious tract; suburban malaise in a world on the verge of... something.

Junta Juleil's All-Time Favorites

I've received a handful of emails over the past few months asking about my all-time favorite movies, and so I thought I'd reassess the canon (and the Cannon, if ya know what I mean). Generally, I shy away from these sorts of lists as reductive, onanistic exercises, but what the hell, they're sort of fun. So, in the next week or two I'll reveal my list, piece by piece, along with some new commentary...

HOLY CUCKOOS...

A few of the highlights of HOLY CUCKOOS WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO MY LIFE, captured vividly by amateur photographers.


Jillaine Gill (left) and Meghan Holland (right), contemplate their impending doom in "Chainsaw Alley's a Helluva Place to be at 3 O'Clock in the Morning, or at Any Other Time."


I meet my demise at the hands of the diabolically cuckoo Jake Thomas (left) in his short play, "Absolutely Cuckoo."


The Preacher (Don DiPaolo) energizes the crowd in "A Sermon."


I regale the reluctant spectators with a dramatic reading from CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE #100: THE WORST DAY OF YOUR LIFE.


(From left) Robyn Nielsen, Danielle Marie Fusco, and Abbie Hawk confront the jazz-dancing slasher in Rachel Klein's "Killer Workout."


Peaches (Eden Foster) is worshiped by Robyn Nielsen and Jose Ramos as a dejected, pantsed Chris Cipriano looks on in my short play, "Peaches."


I'm all out of quarters; the machine bests the man. From "Hyperspace," my tortured performance piece on the frustrations of arcade games.

Tonight Only: HOLY CUCKOOS WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO MY LIFE

Tonight;s installment of our residency at the Bowery Poetry Club will be an ode to quotidian horrors, instability, and unspeakable madness. The variety hour will be curated (and often performed by) Junta Juleil Theatricals in association with Bluebox Productions and the Rachel Klein Theater. It's called HOLY CUCKOOS WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO MY LIFE, and will commence at 9:30 PM on Sunday, May 22nd at the Bowery Poetry Club (308 Bowery between Houston and Bleecker, take the F train to 2nd Ave, or the 6 to Bleecker.) Tickets will be $10, cash only, available at the door.

Featuring:

•Chainsaw Alley's a Helluva Place to be at 3 O'Clock in the Morning, Or At Any Other Time

Written by Sean Gill, Performed by Meghan Holland and Jillaine Gill, Directed by Booze E. Thymes.

•Comedy by Kerryn Feehan

•Absolutely Cuckoo

Conceived by Jake Thomas, Performed by Jake Thomas and Sean Gill.

•He's Mine
Conceived and performed by Kristy Hasen.

•Choose Your Own Adventure: The Worst Day of Your Life

Performed by Sean Gill.

•Killer Workout

Created and choreographed by Rachel Klein, Performed by Abbie Hawk, Scooter Pie, Freddy Mancilla, Brian Rubiano, Robyn Nielsen, and Danielle Marie Fusco.
•A Sermon
By The Preacher
•Peaches
Written by Sean Gill, Directed by Jillaine Gill, Performed by Chris Cipriano, Jose Ramos, Robyn Nielsen, and Eden Foster.
•Comedy by Brandy Rowell
•Hyperspace
Choreographed and Performed by Sean Gill.
•I Never Sprang for my Father
By Black Temple Shirley

Hope some of you can make it out!

Film Review: THE BURNING (1981, Tony Maylam)

Stars: 3.3 of 5.
Running Time: 91 minutes.
Notable Cast or Crew: Brian Matthews (THE YOUNG AND THE RESTLESS), Leah Ayres (BLOODSPORT, THE PLAYER), Brian Backer (FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH, THE MONEY PIT), Jason Alexander (SEINFELD, JACOB'S LADDER), Fisher Stevens (SHORT CIRCUIT, MY SCIENCE PROJECT), Lou David (THE LAST DRAGON, THE EXTERMINATOR), Larry Joshua (UNFORGIVEN, SEA OF LOVE), Holly Hunter (CRASH '96, RAISING ARIZONA, THE PIANO). Special makeup effects by Tom Savini (DAWN OF THE DEAD, FRIDAY THE 13TH). Music by Rick Wakeman (LISZTOMANIA, CRIMES OF PASSION). Edited by Jack Sholder (director of ALONE IN THE DARK, NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET 2: FREDDY'S REVENGE). Co-written by Harvey and Bob Weinstein (it's the first "Miramax" movie) along with director Tony Maylam (SPLIT SECOND, WHITE ROCK), Brad Grey (who later co-produced JUST SHOOT ME and THE SOPRANOS), and Peter Lawrence (THUNDERCATS, HIGH SCORE).
Tag-line: "Today is not Friday the 13th. But if you see this movie alone... you'll never be the same again!"
Best one-liner: "Man, this guy is so burned, he's cooked! A fucking Big Mac, overdone! You know what I mean?"

While summer weather isn't quite yet upon us, I'm going to use the excuse of high, nearly unbearable levels of humidity to leap headlong into "Summer Slasher Season." Today's specimen, THE BURNING, is by no means an upper-tier slasher (like MY BLOODY VALENTINE or SLEEPAWAY CAMP), but it's still a damned enjoyable film, and one which offers early performances from up-and-coming stars (Jason Alexander, Fisher Stevens, & Holly Hunter), over-the-top gore effects by genre master Tom Savini, and, co-produced and co-written by the burgeoning, wheeling-dealing Weinstein brothers, merits the perhaps dubious honor of being the 4th film ever released by the Miramax Films company.

While the Weinsteins later claimed that their film had been in development longer than FRIDAY THE 13TH (1980), THE BURNING is, at best, a cash-in on that earlier film's success (though by no means whatsoever is FRIDAY THE 13TH a paragon of originality). I mean, look at the tag-line for godssakes. Regardless, Tom Savini signed up to sculpt the gore for THE BURNING instead of FRIDAY THE 13TH PART 2 because he thought that the concept of reviving Jason for sequels was senselessly misguided. (That didn't stop him from returning to collect a paycheck and dispatch Crispin Glover in FRIDAY THE 13TH PART 4, however!)

The plot is about as stock as they come. "It all started with a prank gone wrong!" I suppose you could say that about PROM NIGHT, LEVIATHAN, GHOULIES III, APRIL FOOL'S DAY, etc., etc., but I digress. Anyway, some campers seek revenge on the sadistic groundskeeper, Cropsy.

He accidentally gets set on fire, spills a tub of gasoline that he keeps by his bedside, and dives into the lake in a spectacular display of asbestos-suitery.

We soon learn that Cropsy has survived as the world's most sensitive hospital orderly tells us "Man, this guy is so burned, he's cooked! A fucking Big Mac, overdone! You know what I mean? No way I'd want to be like this freak!" After several years of therapy, Cropsy leaves the burn unit and immediately murders a random hooker, Argento-style. We're talking black gloves, black trench coat, extreme close-ups, and the backwards smash through a plate glass window. The works.


Why he murders this random prostitute remains unclear for the remainder of the film, since the indignities he suffered were at the hands of pranking summer campers, not big city hookers. In fact, the revenge angle isn't even really worked as he seemingly murders campers at random. In retrospect, we are told that pre-burn-victim Cropsy was "really mean."


(We are shown no evidence of this, other than the fact that Cropsy had a few bottles of booze in his shack when he was assailed by pranksters.) In any event, the prostitute murder was probably inserted so that A., Savini could play around in the style of Argento (something William Lustig had him doing quite well in MANIAC), and B., so that there'd be some "early in the game" bloodshed. If we take away the hooker killing and split the film in half, we're faced with the following statistic– part 1 possesses 0 murders and 5 fake-outs, and part 2 possesses 8 murders and 0 fake-outs. Clearly, the hooker-murder is necessary. I apologize, Random Hooker (K.C. Townsend), you were simply collateral damage from that eternal tug-o-war between "slasher film murders" and "slasher film fake-outs." It could have easily turned out the other way, with the killer startled and thwarted by, say, a random alley cat leaping on the windowsill or a young street urchin saying "Heya, mister, did you drop this knife?" Ah, well.

Anyway, we soon find ourselves at a nearby summer camp, soon meeting the motley crew of summer camp regulars.

Like– The Bully!


That's Larry Joshua there as the bully, and he really pulls out the stops for this one. His tormentee is Tony-winner and FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH player Brian Backer.

There's the likable frat boy-type played by Jason Alexander (with hair!), who's entertaining and engaging even within the constraints of a slasher film role.

On the left is Ned Eisenberg, who plays the smooth-talkin' New York guido-type. Then there's Leah Ayres as our female protagonist,

you may remember her as JCVD's hag– I mean, love-interest in one of the finest movies ever made, BLOODSPORT. KUM-ITE, KUM-ITE, KUM-ITE! Er, what was I saying?

Oh yeah– there's young Fisher Stevens, too! (third from left)

He's hasn't quite hit the ("Sayonara, dicknose!") heights he would achieve as he matured, but he's damn great here as a scrappy l'il prankster, fond of shooting people in the ass with pellets and then, as if to pour salt in the wound by displaying a non-pellet-afflicted ass, mooning them.

Holly Hunter's in there, too, but she's mostly in the background. She has a couple of lines, but the DVD was skipping, so you don't get a screenshot.

Rick Wakeman, formerly of Yes, composes a generally atmospheric synth soundtrack which is occasionally bland, occasionally prefigures the "DUNHD-DUNHD...DUNHD-DUNHD" rumblings from Carpenter's THE THING, and occasionally bursts forth with blasts of intricate, quasi-Classical brilliance. As a fan of Wakeman's solo work (I highly recommend the albums NO EARTHLY CONNECTION and THE SIX WIVES OF HENRY THE VIII for the interested), I would have to say that for the most part he's phoning it in here. Still, it has it's moments.

Savini's gore picks up where FRIDAY THE 13TH left off, more often than not dedicating itself to neck trauma. From a practical standpoint, it's extremely impressive, using optical illusions and well-constructed dummy parts to masterfully deceive the eye. Take that, CGI!


The film also features editing from Jack Sholder (his only editing credit) who also directed 80's horror trashterpieces NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET PART 2: FREDDY'S REVENGE and ALONE IN THE DARK.

Anyway, I don't really have much more to say. I can't say that it's a film that inspires or a film that sparks the imagination, but I will say that it's a film that kills about 91 minutes and five cans of Schlitz, and I'm pretty sure that's the purpose it was designed for.

Oh, and here's a picture of Cropsy wielding a flamethrower:


A little over three stars.

-Sean Gill