Film Fave #13: GIDGET

I was 21, and had just returned from my second trip to California, in which I'd visited all the wrong places and done all the wrong things. The trip had been like an incredibly rotten first date -- a bad idea at a bad time, the lamentable result of an underfed imagination -- and I retreated to my parents' basement to lick my wounds and sneer at midnight television.

Gidget was one such offering. I tuned in about 10 minutes after it had started. Frances / "Gidget" / Sandra Dee (and really, which one of these monikers signified the real deal?) pined for her own surf-board, while her gray-haired, pipe-smoking father rolled his eyes and tried to pacify his hysterical wife. Everything had that bright primary color look of early "Technicolor" films, and when I saw this California Candy Store laid out before me, I belted out a cynical "bwa-HAW!", and readied myself to pounce all over it the way one's grandfather pounces all over a car advertisement 20 years after he traded in that lemon for a reliable Buick.

There was just one problem: I got hooked. Sandra Dee, for one thing, was impossibly cute -- even at her dizziest, she was incredibly desirable. She projected that precise killer combo of innocent wonder and adventurous "let's see what happens when I do this" attitude that summons and commands every iota of the Alpha Male inside the depths of any hetero male within eyesight and earshot -- even a bookish nerd who already resembled her pipe-smoking father (Yours Truly).

Still, I had come on board for the cheese -- and I was not disappointed. The "best before" date on those nicknames ("Moondoggie" "Big Kahuna") didn't exceed the 60s, providing instant irony. The beach bums jump, howl and hoot like typical 60s Hollywood hep-cats. They surf on swells that don't reach higher than their armpits. They wear tight, high-waisted trunks, and sing to the primly single-suited heroine while the unseen orchestra swells in the background. And during the final end-of-summer luau, there are bongos galore and electric guitars plugged into nothing.

The luau sets itself up as bacchanalia "lite", with bonfires and beer drinkers, and everyone in their bathing suits chasing each other in the sand and behind the bushes, like some Sergio Aragonés cartoon between the frames of MAD Magazine. But despite this clothed-yet-utterly-without-nuance setting -- or, more likely because of it -- the scene is an effectively horny set-piece for Gidget to play out her Shakespearean hi-jinx: persuading Moondoggie to kiss her in the pretense of raising Kahuna's jealousy, then turning tables to further stoke Moondoggie's desire. It backfires terribly, of course, and Gidget finds herself in a nasty state of anxiety and expectation, awaiting (in a white dress on a red couch, fer cryin' out loud!) the older, jaded Kahuna's liquored-up attention.

The movie plays like a 50s paean to middle-class values: you are to the suburbs born, and shall pursue the affections of a potential mate within the same income-bracket. When seen on that level alone, the movie's happy ending -- a defeated Gidget finally agreeing to meet the son of her parents' friends, only to discover this young up-and-comer is her beloved Moondoggie -- is pretty dreary.

But couldn't it also suggest something deeper? Think of those heady, crazy days when the two of you were so insanely in love, you were convinced you weren't just beating the odds but breaking the law. This, too, must pass, but for the truly fortunate, there comes another state, where you no longer see the other as just your gorgeous outlaw, but as your lover and incomparable friend. The enterprise of your conjoined hearts settles, and it becomes something every loving parent wants for their child. And if your kids roll their eyes at your nicknames for each other, well -- you can only hope their time is gonna come.

Film Fave #12

Film Fave #14: THE FILTH & THE FURY

If you had asked me, in the early spring of 2000, whether I was a happy guy, I would have flashed you my brightest Gavin Macleod smile and assured you, yes, I'm a happy guy. If you asked me the same question later that same summer, I would have given you the same smile and told you, no -- in fact I'm quite pissed off. If pressed for my reasons, I might have pulled together a few of the usual suspects (the gummint, blah de blah), but the reality was I had seen The Filth & The Fury: A Sex Pistols Film, and the experience had been so immersive I couldn't help but feel incredibly pissed off.

I wasn't originally a Sex Pistols fan -- I thought, back in the day, that The Clash had more musicality, more smarts and (despite Lester Bangs' articulate disappointment) considerably more charm than the Pistols ever did. I couldn't have named more than two or three of the Pistols' songs, tops. In later years I thought "Anarchy In The U.K." had a piquant Black Sabbath shock value to it, but from my perspective as a paperboy in small-town Canada "God Save The Queen" seemed kind of juvenile. "She ain't no human bean"?! Where's Pogo when you need him?

Watching this film some 20-plus years after the fact brought a little splenetic perspective to the whole Sex Pistols' phenomenon. Julien Temple splices old doc footage of the London garbage strike, union protests, race riots and spices it up with Lawrence Olivier's hammy turn at Richard III, and a montage of Merry British Slapstick artists. This MTV approach gives the rancorous British Punk Movement a jolly gloss it may or may not have actually had at the time. But whether or not this "movement" had the venomous bliss we're presented becomes, after a while, a bit beside the point. The camera lens might be showered with loogies, but the audience is safe as houses -- it's 20 years later, and though the filth is at a pleasant remove, the fury still has heat.

I rented the movie a year later, and watched it several times in the span of a week. It's clear from the interview footage that no-one in the band is too sure what they were all about. John Lydon has tremendous force of personality, and even an ideology of sorts, so he invariably supplies the strongest narrative arc. But even he seems at a loss to explain why the Pistols caught the American public's imagination. The Pistols toured the United States out of boredom and desperation, because they'd been effectively shut down in the U.K. When they did their shows in cowboy bars, they clearly had no idea what to do with their audience; audience members returned the favour. Throw in the band's escalating frustration with manager Malcolm McLaren (and the fact that none of these people, particularly the heroin addict, had pleasant personalities) and it's a wonder they made it as far as their final one-song concert in San Francisco.

So why does this film have any power at all? Well, it helps that just about everybody interviewed is funny. The archival footage is loaded with all sorts of telling little details -- you see pretty quickly the hopeless tedium that spread through England in the 70s, especially among the poor kids from families on the dole. And Temple edits it all at a snappy pace so that the moment the band strikes their first fuzzy chord and Rotten opens his mangled mouth, the brilliant Big Exit seems to finally materialize for them all. It looks better and even sounds better than it ever was (I'm particularly fond of Temple's fiddling with "Road Runner" -- Olivier barking, "Deformed! Unfinished!" is note-perfect).

In the film's intro, Johnny Rotten declares with considerable pride, "We managed to offend everyone we were fed up with." That's never been my goal, but I have to admit it's still a heap of fun living vicariously through a band of tossers who pulled this off on a near-global scale.

Film Fave #13

Film Fave #15: STAR WARS

"You've taken your first step into a larger world." Obi-Wan Kenobi 

There were people in our village who did not go to the movies -- and as a six-year-old, neither did I. The reasoning I frequently heard was, "If the Lord were to return, would you want Him to find you in a theatre?" My parents never used that line, but it was common enough to fall on my ears. I figured the chances of the Lord returning and finding me in a theatre were considerably slimmer than finding me on the toilet (which I considered the more embarrassing situation). Besides, I was told He saw me no matter where I was, so what was the dif?

And so the tiny cinema in the middle of our village represented forbidden fruit. Like Miriam Toews' Nomi, I too asked if I could go see The Swiss Family Robinson with my friends. My mother denied my request, along with enough of my following entreaties for me to get the picture: I wasn't going to see any movies in the town theatre.

Six years later, I stood in front of my father and asked the question again. This time we were in Denver, where my father was working on his doctorate. A friend in the apartment below ours was going to see Star Wars with his father, and I was asked if I wanted to tag along. I didn't know what Star Wars was, but if it was anything like Star Trek, I was in. All I had to do was persuade my father.

He hesitated. I cajoled. He told me to stifle. I did, and slunk off to my bedroom. In the morning, I again broached the subject. He said he'd prayed about it, and felt alright about giving me permission.

I'm slow to hit "post" on this scenario -- who wants to be the holopschi-eating peasant to whom the moving picture show is verboten? Furthermore, my silent justification wasn't nearly so straight-forward or nuanced: I wanted to see the movie, and I wasn't beyond employing a little manipulative sophistry when I had to. In hindsight, as I watch my daughters approach puberty, my father's hesitation doesn't seem altogether absurd. In my case, I'm not as concerned about movie content as I am about internet access. This is how a father worries.

Just before I stepped into my friend's car, my father took me aside and said, "Sometimes, just before the movie starts, the theatre shows an advertisement for another movie in another theatre. If they start showing anything that bothers you, don't worry about it. If you have to, you can just close your eyes and wait for it to be over."

The preview was for A Bridge Too Far. The movie took two years to make, and starred a hundred big names I didn't recognize. Soldiers, jeeps and explosions. It looked incredible.

And then the 20th Century Fox anthem played. Spectacle aside, what did we get? A kid who lives with his uncle and farms sand. Doesn't do anything cool, just wants to get the hell out of Dodge. Gets told his father was a legendary warrior, then embarks on a crazy rescue mission with a swashbuckling pirate and a giant ape. He rescues the princess, blows up the evil fortress and saves the day.

And there was no "spectacle aside". These were special effects nobody -- nobody -- had seen before. Do you think my 12-year-old male adolescent small-town holopschi-eating Mennonite head didn't split open like a freakin' walnut? 

"That's no moon -- that's a space station." 

So, no: I don't tire of this movie. And there have been stretches in my generally trial-free life when this movie has been, next to the Bible and the one single subject common to the thoughts of all men, the subject I've spent the most time mulling over. I'm not in that headspace anymore, mind you. Five movies later, the verdict is in -- it's the Grade Nine burn-out's attempt at The Lord Of The Rings. The series as a whole is so hobbled with flaws that questions are legitimately raised about the quality of the movie that kicked it into motion. 

And that's fine -- that there were only two movies worth watching in the entire series doesn't much bother me. This is the movie that stood on the other side of the threshold and welcomed me into a larger world. And its playful sense of perspective was one of its deepest charms. Luke, Han, Chewy and Leia can sprint all over the Death Star -- this is business as usual. But when they finally come back to their spaceship, they're at a precipice that looks down onto it. This seemingly casual attention to detail brought an unusual depth and dimension to Space Opera, and created precisely the sort of persuasive world a 12-year-old boy could get very excited about.

And when my kids are watching it, I'm usually beside them. 

Synchronicitous update: Drawn! links to Ralph McQuarrie's new site (McQ being the guy who deserves the most credit for "inventing" Star Wars)

Synchronicitous update 2: I wish this was canon: 

Film Fave #14

Whisky Prajer's Fifteen Favourite Films

"It's never the same film twice, maaaan!"

Thanks to a throw-away comment I made regarding Big Night, I set myself up to publishing another list. And with Darko's assurance that I'm a shoo-in for the Associated Society of Schmucks, I do believe I'm up to the challenge of enumerating (and elucidating upon) my fifteen favourite films.

My only criteria for these fifteen is their watchability factor -- in other words, these will be movies I don't hesitate to turn on and watch yet again. Consequently, there aren't likely to be too many downers in the bunch (i.e., no Schindler's List -- which I don't think is a Great Movie, either). Forewarned is forearmed: I'll be getting the obvious one (Star Wars) out of the way first, so if you don't feel like dropping by for a visit tomorrow, I'll understand.

I'll admit right now that I'm not 100% confident of the list's inclusions. Tastes do change over time, and movies I once thought I'd never tire of have in fact worn out their welcome. Apocalypse: Now is one such, thanks in no small part to my peculiar history with the film. My first exposure to it was on our family's b&w TV, propped on (what else?) a TV tray in a corner of our kitchen. I can't remember which of the networks broadcast the film on a Sunday night, but my parents made arrangements to keep my younger brother and sister out of the room for the full four hours while I watched the movie (and commercials).

I was decidedly underwhelmed when I finally shut off the set and went to bed, but over the next few years I did give the movie a couple of spins on a friend's VCR and colour TV, and it gradually accrued some of the gravitas the critics had accorded it. In the late 80s, Coppola re-released the film to theatres, and I went with some friends to the newest, largest cinema in Winnipeg to see this masterpiece.

The lights dimmed, The Doors began their ominous, mystical strumming, and the helicopters did their slow-mo swooshing. My heart beat faster. Finally -- the movie as it was meant to be experienced! The napalm flared, and Morrison's majestic baritone rose and sounded ... well, it didn't sound quite so majestic. It sounded a little high. And a little ... fast. Ten minutes later, my group reached consensus: the projector speeds were off. This was Apocalypse: Now as rendered by Alvin & The Chipmunks.

A dispiriting experience, but Coppola got into the habit of re-releasing this film every 10 years, and finally, in a Toronto theatre, I saw the film the way it was meant to be seen. This time there were no screw-ups, and the film was indeed a powerful experience -- powerful enough for me to agree to a "midnight matinee" just two years later.

This time my group of friends was all-male. At 11:45 we left the pub and staggered to the theatre in question, joining a short queue that was also all-male -- with one beautiful, blonde and visibly nervous exception. The fella next to her kept his hand on the small of her back and made all sorts of cooing and soothing noises -- "I'm serious: this is the best movie. Ever." -- but her shoulders were hiked up to her ears and her arms were folded tightly across her chest. Any fool could see she knew exactly what she'd been rooked into -- a Dick Flick -- and those of us who followed the doomed couple down the escalator hiked a thumb in their direction and sniggered.

Three pints of beer just before the stroke of midnight is not the best preparation to undertake for a three-hour movie. I was snoring in minutes, only to awaken during the feverish shrieking of The Ride of the Valkyries. It was just as well: my bladder could bear no more, and I executed a guffaw-inducing stumble-sprint as I desperately negotiated the wickedly steep aisle for the washroom. Once relieved, I returned to my seat and dozed off for the remainder of the movie. Then all the lights flashed on, and the lone usher walked up and down the aisle, clapping his hands and shooing us out. The blonde was nowhere to be seen.

In a reasonable world, that would have been my final exposure to Apocalypse: Now. This being anything but a reasonable world, Coppola went and released Apocalypse: Now - Redux. I was originally dubious about its merits and figured I'd just take a pass. But then The Globe & Mail gave three sheets of paper to novelist Michael Ondaatje's unceasing praise for this "director's cut". Another ten dollars left my pocket, another three-plus hours ticked off my life. And it became official: I had watched Apocalypse: Now for the last time.
But not so these next 15 -- stay tuned to glory in my taste, or to despair in the lack thereof!

Film Fave #15

Roger Ebert

I've enjoyed the recent "Whither The Movie Critic?" chatter (here and here), so reading the recent news that Roger Ebert is in serious condition after emergency surgery seems almost off-puttingly personal.

Roger Ebert means something to me, as he does to most North Americans. In my case, it was in fact his writing that turned me on. In 1982 was a kid who perused the shelves at the local library. I hadn't seen his show with Gene Siskel, but I could recognize the man thanks to a SCTV send-up I had committed to memory. And there he was, on the cover of A Kiss Is Still A Kiss. I figured if he was on TV (PBS, at the time) that was probably worth something, so I took the book home. A week later I went back to the library and took out his Movie Handbook. I read every word of that, too. Roger Ebert was my first movie critic.

Right from the start, Ebert developed the habit of including other critics in the conversation. Thanks to him, I discovered Pauline Kael. After that, it's a game of Six Degrees of Roger Ebert. Thanks to Kael, David Edelstein is in the business of good movie writing. Edelstein frequently reminds me of what Jay Scott did so well. When Jay Scott passed away, Geoff Pevere became the only Canadian movie critic worth reading. And though Pevere has participated in some grand books, none of them, alas, are devoted to the movies. For my money David Thompson's Biographical Dictionary of Film sets the standard as ideal summer reading -- for this, or any summer. And of course, there's always the Ebert canon: The Great Movies, Great Movies II and Ebert's Book of Film.

Precious few film reviewers bother the reader with anything more confidential than, "I didn't like this movie because it was too stupid for me." Movie goers might not be the cleverest people in the world, but if you're writing for publication I hope you believe your readers are. And readers know when a writer is on the hunt of something grand -- a larger sense of why identity and the ability to deal with life is dependent on what one sees on the silver screen. When a writer has that perspective, what they say has the right to be taken seriously. Otherwise, it's just one schmuck's opinion against another's -- and you can go to the blogosphere for that.

Farewell, My Lovely Novelization

Some weeks back, I came home after a day of "fetch" chores. I put the groceries away, then took a peek at the computer to check for mail. Propped against the monitor was a copy of Star Wars -- the novelization, written by "George Lucas". A sharp little birthday gift from a friend and neighbor.

A timely gift -- in more ways than one if this person's take on novelizations (and their fate) is accurate. I read Star Wars dozens of times, just because that was the only available way to experience the story. My copy of the Del Rey paperback was in tatters by the time I no longer had need of it, and I'm sure that ghost writer Alan Dean Foster's prose bears no small responsibility for the juggernaut that the Star Wars franchise became. He tucked in a number of tantalizing allusions, little timebombs of detail hinting that this epic story was considerably better conceived than it finally proved itself to be.

My other novelization experiences were entirely predictable. After watching the first three Star Trek movies, I pored through the novelizations hoping they answered some of the troubling questions raised by what I'd seen. And now that I think of it, I also received the novelization of Schwarzenegger's second Conan movie as a bonus with my popcorn. Talk about value!

The last novelization I glanced at was a true curiosity: Big Night, a sumptuous movie (one of my top 15, actually) which underwent a risible printed-word makeover by setting the narration in the brothers' pidgin English: "My brother say he no make-a the pasta!" After giggling over a few pages, I couldn't bring myself to try any of the recipes. Yep: I no make-a the pasta, either.

Ah, how the novelization becomes the blogger's Madeleine! Maud Newton remembers the effect The Rose had on her as a young adolescent, here. Any others out there?

The Box-Office is a Cruel Mistress

I like a good horse-race as much as the next guy, and Box Office Mojo is a nifty site tracking the box-office successes of various films. According to this, Superman is doing poorly by just about any standard you'd like to track (including Batman Begins, my favourite summer movie last year). And this page is charting Pixar's Cars against earlier Pixar offerings.

I haven't yet seen Cars -- an anomaly, since I've managed to catch most of the other Pixar films on their respective opening weekends. My kids have been in the right demographic since Monsters, Inc., and, thanks to a cadre of geek friends, I've been in the right demographic since the original Toy Story. But this time, when opening weekend struck, my kids voted to see Over The Hedge -- the weekend's decidedly non-Pixar CGI offering. There's a simple reason for this, chaps: my kids are girls, and a movie populated by talking Dinky Toys held zero appeal.

So it surprises me to see that Cars has done as well as it has (making a very tidy profit and just trailing The Incredibles by a few paltry millions). So much for establishing a universal standard out my personal experience. But the real kick-in-the-pants revelation on this board is how incredibly poorly Toy Story 2 did. For my money, it's still the most emotionally compelling movie Pixar has done, and the best movie sequel to hit the big screen since The Godfather II. I'm sure I've seen the movie a dozen times already, and yet Sarah McLachlan's plaintive delivery of "When She Loved Me" (which finally scored a long overdue Academy Award for Randy Newman) never fails to get me blubbering into my shirt-collar, invoking as it does the disappearance of a child's happy and unswerving love for their parent.

If you follow some of the other links on this site, you'll come across "readers rate Pixar". TS2 falls in second-last as a reader favourite (just ahead of the slight charms of A Bug's Life). I'm usually among the first to sing the tedious "They were cool before they became popular" tune, but even so, the horse-racer in me is very much gratified when the money falls in with my aesthetic opinion. "Vindication", they call it -- an experience I've enjoyed only as precious exception. I guess that's just how the chips will fall this time, as well. Toy Story 2 is Pixar's best film to date, and I'm the only one who knows it.