Hostage’s Pick: Not Quite Hollywood

•February 16, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Good day all,

I’ve wriggled my way free from the fuzzy-cuffs (she’s been kind lately, scary) to share my feelings on this little gem. I know the lady has suggested that I will try to take credit for this little beauty but she is, as always, completely wrong. I mentioned that there had been some serious nuclear testing done in the Australian outback in the fifties and the result was some spectacular films. I remembered one about a giant, wild boar wreaking havoc on the culturally challenged Aussie populace. That was when she mentioned a movie about Aussie exploitation movies. I have a stance on movies about movies, in that I mean, why not just watch movies yourself instead of watching movies about movies; it’s a waste of time and energy. I am happy to say, for the first time ever, I was wrong. This documentary about Aussie filth rocked balls, with great commentary from interesting folk. The wife would say I chose it, but I would suggest that it chose me.

This movie opens with a thorough study of Australian titty-flicks and sexual satires. It picks out all of the most ridiculously perverted scenes for you and lines them up rapid-fire; think smart porn. The movies look really cheap, the ladies are really naked and the commentators, fan and director alike, seemed to revel in knocking down the snobby side of Aussie cinema (which I dig). Any time the underdog sticks it to the rich, snobby kids from the country club I cheer, and this community of directors loved thumbing their noses at the Aussie elite (by the way, did you know Australia has an elite; and it’s snobby?). I would like to say, to the people of Australia, no offense, I’m Canadian and we get the same shit. Everybody thinks we’re hicks. Truth is, I grew up in Alberta and know a lot of hicks. This movie celebrated my inner hick to a point that made my heart smile. In fact I think what I loved is that this movie is Australia celebrating its hick-dom, embracing and moving on to the next step of the program (with a lot of boobs and low humour).

So from toilet humour and sex romps they moved to violent bullies and comatose serial killers (I paused at that myself). Basically there was one, supposedly great film about a psychic, killer in a coma and a ton of cheesy thrillers trying to capitalize on its success. Again, the whole culture of the movies was to one up each other on the crazy and stick it to the man, in this documentary represented by the douchiest, snobbiest, Australian film critic I’ve ever seen. This guy, literally, did not have a positive thing to say at any time in the movie, whether it be person or film he was discussing. So, again, I found myself cheering for these guys making, really, mediocre but violent and gory thrillers. The kicker, for me, was the passion and creativity these guys brought; think a bunch of Australian Ed Woods. The section on action movies especially blew my mind. These guys would strap themselves to the front of the car and tape, without a permit, on an open highway at 130; insane. The stunts just kept getting more and more ridiculous as the filmmakers tried to one-up each other and the action got crazier and crazier. Dennis Hopper, insane on cocaine while shooting a movie in the outback was pretty awesome too, especially the aboriginal dude that would just walk off to talk to the trees about whether Hopper was a God or crazy (seriously). I am man enough to admit that I was wrong, but this is one movie about movies that was certainly worth watching. We have already watched three or four of the movies mentioned and enjoyed their awesome ridiculousness. The footage is bizarre and the people that made it, and their stories, are even crazier. Check this thing out!

Now, before I go back to finding a way out of the bunker (I think I’m underground) I have to address what I like to call the Tarantino Paradox. Quentin Tarantino is one of my favorite directors and his knowledge of film, especially exploitation film, is incredible. The guy has seen, and remembers, everything. I just wanted to say that out loud and make sure not to anger the man’s defenders out there, so here we go: Quentin Tarantino has pretty shitty taste in movies. He makes incredible films, but God help you if you check out a movie he recommends in an interview. He compares an Aussie horror movie to The Shining and turns to the screen saying “yes, I know what I’m saying” so we think, this time, a Tarantino suggestion might hold up to how awesome he said it was going to be. Clearly, by my tone, you can tell the movie did not deserve the comparison. I really enjoy what he had to say about the films, and I loved the scenes he shared with and Aussie filmmaker he is clearly a fan of, but you have to take any recommendation he gives with an ounce or two of salt. Regardless, enjoy this gem and check out the Australian crazy that grabs your attention because they will, at least, shock you.

Until the next time I dislocate a wrist,

The Hostage

P.S. Imagine an Aussie kung-fu movie. Got it? Yeah, they looked about that good.

Posted in Action, Comedy, Documentary, Foreign, Horror
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Not Quite Hollywood (2008): “Bad Advertisements for Australia”

•February 15, 2011 • 1 Comment

Talk about going from the sublime to the ridiculous; from F. W. Murnau’s artistic vision to some of the most bizarre, obscene footage I’ve ever seen. Welcome to the world of Ozploitation! Not Quite Hollywood: The Wild, Untold Story of Ozploitation (2008) gives us insight into the Australian exploitation industry during its heyday in the 70s and 80s. Don’t believe the hostage – he’ll swear up and down this was a Hostage Pick, but that’s just because he enjoyed it so much. He hates to admit when I’m right.

Synopsis: Through interviews with filmmakers, actors and critics, this documentary explores the burgeoning Australian film industry of the late 60s, focusing on the kick-start provided by the domestic and international success of exploitation cinema.

Unlike the past documentaries I’ve reviewed, for which I had a lot of background knowledge, I knew nothing of Australia’s social revolution in the 1960s, and even less about their film industry. This flick was recommended to me by my father, a film teacher, who knows better than most my love for the absurd. According to the film, the exploitation industry went so wild in Australia as a reaction to the excessively harsh censorship laws there. As one interviewee recalled, “I couldn’t masturbate as easily as others could, I guess.” To even see bare breasts on the screen was shocking. Well, Ozploitation soon changed everything.

To give you an idea of what we’re dealing with, the movie was divided into the following sections:

Ockers, Knockers, Pubes, and Tubes (the hostage’s favourite, no doubt)

Comatose Killers and Outback Chillers (my fave!)

High Octane Disasters and Kung Fu Masters

Now, what fan of ridiculous cinema would not want to see these films? I mean, come on! Comatose killers? Kung Fu Masters? This has fun written all over it. The fun is heightened by the interviewees, reminding me again why I so love Australians. The self-deprecating insight they have regarding their work is endlessly enjoyable. One producer, when asked to comment on a particularly disgusting and excessive vomiting scene of his, and after providing the recipe for his homemade vomit, replies deadpan that it was “one of the greatest moments in Australian cinema.” Everyone seems very aware of what they were involved in, and don’t delude themselves as to the quality. “We all knew it was rubbish.” “We didn’t really know what we were doing.” “Some were good, some not so good.” All comments heard routinely throughout the film. Also refreshing was the unapologetic nature of the filmmakers. One director remarks that he knew if his films had naked women and lots of sex, people would pay to see them regardless of the quality. *Shrug* It’s not even that he thinks his work is good – it’s just that he knew what it took to make a movie profitable and didn’t really care about the rest. Kind of like Michael Bay, if he would just admit it to the rest of us.

Of particular interest to me was the response by the actresses involved in Ozploitation. I remember seeing Going to Pieces: The Rise and Fall of the Slasher Film (2006), and all the women interviewed were professing how feminist these movies were. I, like any self-respecting hypocritical feminist, greatly enjoy a good slasher flick. But female power? I think not. Ooooh, just look at the strong woman, nude in the unnecessary shower scene, being repeatedly stabbed by her attacker’s “weapon” while moaning (…in pain?). I can be president too! I know where they’re coming from: they think that because it is typically a woman who triumphs in the end, it sends a message that women are strong. You know, as long as you’re the good girl. Slutty McDrinks-a-lot and Dopey Von Puffington don’t last very long. I think that’s because it’s a lot harder to spot an attacker when you’re drunk, high, and having sex. That stuff is distracting.

But I digress. How many readers did I lose with the feminist rant? Sigh. It’s my Achilles heel. Anyway, I understand the rationale presented by the slasher women, but all I can think when I hear it is, “cognitive dissonance!” In contrast, the actresses of Ozploitation (as all the females interviewed were performers, rather than behind-the-scenes people) were bluntly regretful that they had been involved in the films at all. One poor woman was so despised by her male lead, a Hong Kong action star who detested women (especially white women), they had to have a stand-in for him during their love scenes. Others recall how at the time, they had felt empowered, or at least believed that the filmmakers did not take advantage of them; only in looking back do they realize how they were exploited. In all fairness, they were making exploitation films.

And very, very successful exploitation films. Australia After Dark (1975) opened the weekend after Jaws (1975), and took in as much at the box office as its legendary competitor. Many of the filmmakers accredit the exploitation industry for putting Australia on the cinematic map. I can’t attest to the truth of that statement, but I can tell you that my Zip list grew three sizes that day… or a lot anyway. Because these films look insane in the best way, and I eagerly anticipate checking out that comatose Patrick (1978), and the giant killer pig Razorback (1984), and the nature-takes-it’s-bloody-revenge thriller Long Weekend (1978). To hear it described in Not Quite Hollywood, this was guerrilla filmmaking, with no permits, no roadblocks, no safety precautions, no rules… people died, and much more often than they should have. There’s almost a pride in hearing those involved talk about the dangers, as if their passion for making movies (if not their skill) was worth the risk. That kind of passion comes through on film and, good or bad, makes for an interesting experience.

Favourite clip: A man… fist-fighting… a kangaroo. Hell yes.

Key Quote: “There are always morons who see satire as documentary.” – Philip Moran (producer)

MVP: Australian film critic Bob Ellis, who pops up now and then to denounce a film as “utter crap,” or insist that a director’s entire works should “all be burned to ash.”

Until the next (but hopefully not as long a wait this time…),

K

Posted in Comedy, Documentary, Foreign, Horror

Faust (1926): I’d Sell My Soul for a Donut

•February 7, 2011 • Leave a Comment

Everyone knows the story of Faust. It has been so incorporated into our cultural zeitgeist that even those who have never read or seen it produced are familiar with the man who sold his soul to the devil (or have at least seen the Simpsons’ loving tribute). I have experienced Faust formally twice: I have read Marlowe’s dramatic telling of the tale, and have seen The Magic Bullet, a “goth-rock opera” written by Tom Waits and William S. Burrough (the latter of which I cannot recommend highly enough to all, the former I recommend to any drama enthusiasts). And still, when Murnau’s Faust (1926) began, I did not know what to expect from the experimental German silent film.

Synopsis: Faust sells his soul to Satan in exchange for absolute power, and (wah-wah) learns the price he pays is steeper than he anticipated. Meanwhile, the cosmos look on, in wager over our true human nature, with Faust acting as representative for humankind.

From the beginning, this was an unfamiliar telling of the legend to me. Our story opens on an angel and a demon (God and Satan themselves?), staking their ultimate opinion of human nature on the actions of Faust. Satan argues that even the most pure among us can be corrupted, with God having more faith in his ungrateful, drunken brood. Being most familiar with the Marlowe version, I immediately felt like this was unfair – not Faust! Not that guy! He’s reckless with hedonism! Yet in this version (apparently closer to the Goethe telling), you could not hope for a more noble stand-in. He only considers the Devil’s contract after his faith and love in God has been testing beyond limits by witnessing the devastating effects of the plague (Monty Python shout-out: “bring out your dead!”). Faust is a saintly figure, pitiable at the outset for his pain and determination to help his townspeople regardless of the cost – even more so for the people’s abrupt turn on Faust as they suspect his collusion with Satan.

But alas! The devil is tricky. Mephisto (the devil’s representative to Faust – or in this telling, seemingly the devil himself) does not well conceal his nefarious intentions. He hunches over, eyes darting left to right, wringing his hands in anticipation at the devastation he intends to unleash. He looks like scum: dirty, shifty, and weasely – it would take one in dire straits to consider this gentleman trustworthy. And yet, in his sneaky cowering, he presents himself as a servant; his demeanour speaks of a lowly creature. No doubt it is this quality that allows Faust the illusion of control in their relationship, rendering the idea of their agreement more palatable. Poor Faust should have known better. He is nearly powerless in this pairing, despite his label of “master”.

For Mephisto knows what lurks in the hearts of young men. Anticipating corruption would be easier in a less experienced, less wise man, he convinces Faust that happiness lies in his youth. Once Faust has asked for youth, Mephisto uses the power of his lust for the most beautiful woman in Italy to secure a binding contract.  Ah lust, my favourite of the deadly sins. Along with gluttony. And sloth. And greed (which is good, right? I swear I heard that somewhere…). John Doe would have a field day with me. Sin-apalooza!!

Which is a good segue to the rather rapid decline in Faust’s moral fabric. Because sin he does. Over and over. At times, even Mephisto seems taken aback by Faust’s demands. When Faust initially sees Gretchen and desires her, Mephisto warns that such a young, pious girl “is not for you.” However surprised he might be by Faust’s moral deterioration, he simultaneously appears delighted that his quarry has taken such a dramatic turn to the dark side. Or perhaps he is just delighted at the opportunity to wreak more havoc, as we soon see that Mephisto’s plan is to cause as much misery and tragedy as is demonly possible. Gretchen’s ruination is devastating and heart-wrenching to witness.

Murnau is an incredibly well-known and respected director, and Faust is yet another example of why. Above and beyond the superb narrative and performances, this film should be seen by all film-lovers for Murnau’s eye-goggling visuals. Yes, they are eye-goggling; so superb as to require the invention of new gibberish. The overlay of the devil looming over the town to signify the arrival of the plague must have terrified new film-goers. Murnau’s direction sleight of hand is genius; he uses small techniques to great effect – for example, using lighting to make Mephisto’s eyes glow menacingly. Several of the visuals are so powerful  as to elicit strong emotional reactions from the a single image (for instance, Gretchen in the snow).

It is a remarkably effective picture, [for anyone not interested in knowing how it ends, SPOILER!!] at least until the overly simplistic, saccharine-esque ending. I am a bit of a cynic in this regard, I know, but I much prefer the finale to Marlowe’s play. I just cannot wrap my head around the notion that human love reined victorious, particularly when we see remarkably little evidence that Faust cares for Gretchen beyond his own personal desires (what the film classifies as “love,” I would probably consider “obsession” as his actions are not driven by her interests but by his own). I suppose we are to see his final act as redeeming and proof of his genuine affection, but after everything that has come before, it rings hollow in the moment.

Finally, I struggle with the idea that God has won the argument because Faust sacrifices himself. The townspeople throughout the film treat Mephisto’s victims with unbridled cruelty, despite being “people of God.” They shun Gretchen and leave her and her infant to die in the blizzard. While I understand that Mephisto (Satan?) created these situations with such cruelty in mind, it is the “moral,” god-fearing folk that permit the suffering to flourish. Mephisto can only exploit and destroy Gretchen so thoroughly because he understands the nature of social and religious judgment. Yet these people and their actions are not condemned; rather their behaviour is treated as the norm, as acceptable when faced with such filth.

Or were they condemned? Was part of Murnau’s intention to reveal the hypocrisy behind such thinking? I should probably watch it several more times to figure it out. Which I will gladly do. Because despite my minor reservations, this is a film that transcends the era in which was created; it speaks beyond its silent roots. It is a powerful movie and, agree with the end or not, I am still thinking about it days later.

Favourite scene: Has to be the hedonists, preparing for the end by celebrating, claiming they will die while dancing rather than knelt in prayer. I’m with youse guys!

Fun Fact: five versions of Faust are known to exist out of the over thirty original copies found across the globe. The French version is said to be the worst, with the most number of errors left in (ex: Gretchen tripping on her dress).

Until the next,

K

Posted in Classic, Drama, Foreign
Tags: , , , , , , ,

Quick Recommendation: Any Cocksuckers Out There Ain’t Seen Deadwood?

•February 1, 2011 • Leave a Comment

I know, Deadwood (2004), David Milch’s brilliantly profane western HBO show, has no place on a cinephile’s blog… or does it? I genuinely believe that Deadwood is a 36-hour film experience, conveniently broken up into episodes to allow for viewing in between work and meals and family junk. I’ve heard it described as a visual novel, with each episode representing a chapter of the story. After spending the last few weeks revisiting this burgeoning civilization, I feel the need to shout its praises to a wider audience.

Deadwood is the story of Deadwood, South Dakota, in 1876 as it makes the transition from lawless gold-mining camp to civilized town. It’s a rough ride. Seriously. It’s bloody, brutal, funny, wrenching, witty, smart… It’s modern-day Shakespeare (in so many ways, one being my need for multiple viewings to grasp all the dialogue), filled with complex, flawed characters. And with a shitload of swearing. I honestly can’t overstate the extent of the profanity. It’s an art form in itself.

The one frustration is that HBO is stupid and never gave Milch a chance to finish his vision. But it doesn’t matter – the three seasons we got are worth their weight in gold. Until the next,

K

Posted in Television, Western
Tags: , , , ,

Jazz (2001): It’s the Notes You Don’t Play…

•January 29, 2011 • Leave a Comment

When I first met the hostage, he was an enormous fan of baseball. In my hopes to ensnare him forever in my basement, I feigned an interest in baseball. My feigned interest soon became genuine interest, which became avid fandom, which turned into a ridiculous obsession. A key turning point in my baseball-lovin’ journey was watching Baseball (1994), a Ken Burns film in 9 innings: 18+ hours of baseball history, lore, legends, and shames – meticulously researched, beautifully arranged and edited, and filled with interviews of people who have played, watched, written on, studied, and loved the game. I came out of that experience with more than knowledge of the mechanics of the sport; I emerged understanding the history, the cultural need that baseball fills, and why it incites such passion in its fans.

What can I expect after traversing that same road with Jazz (2001)? After Episode One: Gumbo, I suspect a new fascination has been born.

Synopsis: Burn’s examines the roots and genesis of jazz music in New Orleans, spanning from the early 1800s to 1917.

I grew up listening to jazz music. My father is a passionate fan, and I’ve heard it all my life. But for the majority of my short life, I did not connect with jazz music. It seemed frenetic, wild, and incoherent. In the series, we learn that even when jazz began to gain rapidly in popularity, there was a resistance to putting it on record, as people were convinced it was an art form that had to be experienced live in order to get the full effect. This may not be true in general, but it was true for me. I did not begin to appreciate and understand the power of jazz until I saw my first live show.

While traveling through Europe, my friend and I decided that live music was a must, and we should try to see all kind of shows. In Munich, in a basement club called Unterfahrt (pause for adolescent giggles… or is it just me?), I had my first exposure to live jazz music. Since then, I have sought it out in San Francisco, Budapest, Prague, San Diego, Hanoi… basically every new city I visit (there are not a lot of options for live jazz where I live). And I no longer need jazz to be live to enjoy it. But my interest in Jazz has always been linked to the legends, the stories, and the people involved. Which is why Jazz is a perfect vehicle to stir my passion for the genre.

Ken Burns is a very smart man. There’s a reason he chose baseball as the sport of focus in his earlier documentary: baseball is a game with history, almost an oral storytelling quality. Jazz is similarly a musical genre with history, filled with tales of musicians and moments. People like Buddy Bolden, who “started the big noise in jazz,” blowing bolder, louder, and with more innovation than any other horn player at the time; and “Jellyroll” Norton, whose claims of inventing jazz may be erroneous, but who was  the first person to write jazz music down (and whose name may not mean what you think it means); and Freddie Keppard, who turned down a chance to make the first jazz recording because he was afraid other musicians would buy it just to steal his material. Using voiceovers, still photos, interviews, quotes, and old footage, Burns treats us to the emergence of a new art form.

Not surprisingly, this first episode focuses much of its time on racial tensions in the South and the contributions of such tensions to the creation of a musical genre, fusing Blues and Ragtime with a new beat and a new spirit. Jazz is said to be “freedom”, “musical anarchy”, a release from “the degradation of minstrelsy.” The Jim Crow laws enacted to continue the oppression of slaves freed by the Emancipation Proclamation barred classically trained Creole musicians from playing white symphony halls, forcing them into the same bars and clubs where the Blues were king. Racism always seemed to prevail back then, and even as white audiences began to appreciate and love jazz, they found ways to use it to oppress. White audiences expected jazz to be innate, believing black musicians were too stupid to learn how to read music; as such, jazz musicians memorized their material. And of course, would any oppression be complete without white musicians claiming they invented the art form, as black musicians could never have created a successful musical genre superior to white music?

But in the end, this is all background. Important background, true, but not the joyous part of the viewing experience. Jazz is at its best when relaying legends, such as how jazz music got its name: was it named after jasmine, a popular scent among prostitutes in Storyville, the red light district where jazz first reared its head? Was it an African word for “speed it up”? Another explanation entirely? As jazz spread throughout the country, we see it invade every subculture, with club names like Ching-a-ling’s Jazz Bazaar and the Funky Butt Dance Hall. But the real highlight is listening to jazz musicians talk about their art and how it came about and what it means to them. To hear them describe it, it is an ego-less genre, with everyone on stage having to work together and listen to each other to make the best possible musical experience.

Burns is a great documentarian, never shying away from the shameful or ugly parts of our past, but neither dwelling on them and permitting them to overshadow our accomplishments. Any fan of jazz needs to get this documentary set. Fortunately I’ve still got another 9 episodes to look forward to. And lo! Episode 2 has already arrived. I hope you spend tonight wrapped up warm with a passion, as I intend to do. Until the next,

K

Posted in Documentary
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