The nearest thing I ever had to a spiritual experience was in high school. I was 14 years old and a reluctant student in a freshman biology course. This particular teacher and I did not exactly get along famously, and I found the subject matter -- i.e. the very mysteries of life itself -- just as deathly dull as anything I'd ever heard. Maybe those two facts are connected somehow. I know the class involved a lot of sitting still and taking notes. Anyway, I would get so bored in class that my soul or spirit would rise up out of my body and float toward the ceiling. I could look down and see myself sitting in class, taking (likely inaccurate, definitely illegible) notes about mitochondria or whatever it was we were supposed to be learning that day. The body stayed in class; the spirit was free to travel. I've never had that experience since then. It was the closest I ever came to believing in the existence of the soul. As for mitochondria, well, I never did figure those out. I know they're "the powerhouse of the cell," but that's as far as my understanding extends.
Conceptual artist Plastic Jesus takes a swipe at the Oscars with this public statue.
Dead 2 Rights will be going dark and staying dark for a while, my lovelies. Not by my choice. Circumstances have forced my hand. Specifically, I'm going to be doing some mandatory overtime at my job, and the Geek Squad have informed me that -- after five weeks of deliberation and analysis -- my laptop is irreparable. I learned both of these unhappy pieces of information on Friday afternoon. (Not a good day, in case you were wondering.) These are gloomy times, dear reader, gloomy times indeed. As the Walker Brothers put it back in '65, "The sun ain't gonna shine anymore. The moon ain't gonna rise in the sky." The days ahead are filled with long, tedious hours of work and very little time or opportunity for creative expression. Getting up earlier. Getting home later. Seeing very little (or no) daylight. I am currently very tired and very discouraged. But you know what? I'm only halfway through my rundown of the 2015 Best Picture nominees, and I figured I might as well finish the job before this blog goes on hiatus.
B o y h o o d
Ellar Coltrane gets older. This movie stays the same age.
The gist of it: Quiet, introspective Mason, Jr. (Coltrane) and his more outgoing sister (Linklater) grow up with a stressed-out but caring single mother (Arquette) over the course of 12 somewhat bumpy years in Texas. Mason's father (Hawke), an aspiring musician, initially struggles with being a responsible adult but does what he can to be a consistent presence in his children's life and eventually matures and mellows over time. Meanwhile, Mason's mother gets an education of her own and becomes a professor but makes some poor romantic choices and goes through two painful divorces from alcoholic men. Mason and his sister witness all of this, and it shapes who they become as they leave home and go off to college.
My take: First, an aside. I have joked, on more than one occasion, that the Harry Potter movies already did what Boyhood did, only with the addition of magic powers. At the time I first said that, I hadn't actually seen Boyhood. Well, now I know that same thought must have occurred to writer-director Richard Linklater, too, because there's a strong Harry Potter motif running through Boyhood, with at least two major scenes built around the J.K. Rowling franchise. Linklater's film is, of course, one of the most talked-about of the eight nominated movies and a perceived front-runner in the category. Much of the discussion has centered around the film's extraordinarily protracted production. (Linklater filmed the movie in pieces over twelve years so that star Ellar Coltrane would age naturally on camera.) Support for the film has been vocal, and this has triggered the usual, predictable backlash. I tried to ignore all of this and appreciate Boyhood on its own terms, which turned out to be a good strategy. This is a remarkably gentle film. Anyone waiting for a Big Plot Twist (death, car accident, courtroom trial, disease, unexpected pregnancy, etc.) is bound to be disappointed, as will anyone waiting for a Big Profound Message. Boyhood had neither, which very much separates it from most Oscar-nominated films. I, for one, was grateful. Linklater, who based Boyhood somewhat on his own experiences as a youth, does not try to force any plot complications or easy homilies onto these characters. He just observes them and lets us observe them. That was enough for me. It might not be for you.
My grade: B
T h e T h e o r y o f E v e r y t h i n g
Eddie Redmayne and Felicity Jones share a tender moment in The Theory of Everything
Director: James Marsh
Cast includes: Eddie Redmayne, Felicity Jones, Harry Lloyd, Alice Orr-Ewing, David Thewlis
The gist of it: A biopic of British physicist Stephen Hawking, following him from his days at Cambridge in the 1960s to the successful publication of his book, A Brief History of Time, in the 1980s. Just as he's starting to make some potentially game-changing discoveries about the nature of black holes and the origin of time, Hawking's body turns traitor on him. A neuromuscular disorder gradually and painfully robs him of the ability to move and speak, leaving him confined to a motorized wheelchair and reliant upon a robotic-sounding, computer-generated voice. Initially given just two years to live, Hawking manages to survive for decades, eventually being recognized as perhaps the most famous and influential thinker of our time. Helping to make all of this possible is his strong-willed, long-suffering wife Jane (Jones), a brilliant woman in her own right who makes incredible sacrifices in order to care for her ailing husband. Part of what motivates Jane is that she truly believes in Stephen's work, though they often clash over religion and the existence or nonexistence of God.
My take: Arguably more famous than anything Stephen Hawking has ever said, done, or written is the image of the man himself: the fragile, motionless frame crumpled up in a motorized wheelchair, feet turned inward, shoulders askew, head lolled to the side, with a tinny, mechanized voice squawking from a speaker next to him. It's a classic tragic image: an extremely active mind held captive in a dungeon of a body. I think, despite our admiration for his accomplishments, we can't help but feel a bit sorry for him, though I doubt he'd want our pity. It's human nature. The Theory of Everything plays a bit like a superhero origin story. Gradually, over the course of its running time, we see Stephen Hawking become the "Stephen Hawking" that we all know from documentaries, acquiring all the trademark accessories one by one. We get to see him as a young man and think, "Oh, he used to be able to ride a bicycle! How sad!" This is a sentimental, heartstring-tugging biopic which, curiously, is not that much interested in science. Sure, we get some moments when Hawking makes breakthroughs, but the movie is much more about his relationship with wife Jane, and how it is affected by various outsiders (a male choir director, a female caregiver). It's almost soapy. None of this really registered with me, but I'm not sure why. It felt like a movie I would have recommended to my mother or grandmother, if either of them were still alive.
My grade: C+
T h e I m i t a t i o n G a m e
Benedict Cumberbatch's best friend is a machine in The Imitation Game.
Director: Morton Tyldum
Cast includes: Benedict Cumberbatch, Keira Knightley, Matthew Goode, Rory Kinnear, Allen Leech, Matthew Beard, Charles Dance
The gist of it: During World War II, brilliant British mathematician Alan Turing (Cumberbatch) -- a computer pioneer later famed for his "Turing test" -- works on a top-secret British military project to decode the Nazis' seemingly-unbreakable Enigma machine, which scrambles messages to outsiders to the point that they are impenetrable. Turing pins his hopes on a self-built machine he dubs "Christopher." Although he and his team, including proto-feminist Joan Clarke (Knightley), do eventually get Christopher to work and defeat Enigma, they realize that their newfound knowledge has to be doled out subtly and discreetly, so as to avoid tipping the Nazis off. Turing's codebreaking skills secure several important Allied victories and shortens the war by years, but the public is never made aware of his great achievements. After the war, in fact, Turing faces legal troubles for his then-illegal homosexuality.
My take: It seems like it would hardly be a Best Picture Showcase if there weren't at least one movie about the plight of African-Americans (slavery and the civil rights movement) and another movie about World War II. Selma, of course, was this year's example of the former category, a slot which has been filled by 12 Years a Slave, Lincoln, and The Help in years past. And it looks like The Imitation Game is this year's designated WW2 flick. This one is sort of a "twofer," since Alan Turing's postwar legal persecution also allows the filmmakers to work in a lesson about the evils of homophobia. Mainly, this movie suggests that perhaps that the war could have been over much sooner if everyone in England weren't such an insufferable prig. The movie presents Turing as a martyr figure who faces prejudice, doubt, and pigheadedness at every stage of his life and career. He has to shield "Christopher" with his body on multiple occasions. I guess the best thing about The Imitation Game is that it gives us a new perspective on the question: how do you win a war? The movie occasionally cuts away to footage of planes and tanks and soldiers, to remind you what's happening in the rest of England while Turing is fussing over his machine. But, as this movie sees it, the war wasn't won on any battlefields. It was won by a bunch of nerds doing calculations in a little hut. That's kind of inspiring, but I'm afraid it doesn't make for the most scintillating cinematic experience, at least not for me. Of course, due to some questionable programming, I had just sat through another movie about British people working out complicated problems on chalkboards. Some "biopic fatigue" had started to set in while I watched this. Still, I don't see myself returning to The Imitation Game later in life.
My grade: B-
A m e r i c a n S n i p e r
Bradley Cooper aims to kill for his country in American Sniper.
Director: Clint Eastwood
Cast includes: Bradley Cooper, Sienna Miller.
The gist of it: Rodeo cowboy Chris Kyle (Cooper), though approaching 30 years of age, feels obligated to join the Navy SEALS in order to combat terrorism and put his fearsome sharpshooting skills to use in defense of his nation. Once in Iraq, he becomes a sniper and quickly earns the nickname "the Legend" for his long list of confirmed kills. His wife, Taya (Miller), suffers greatly as Kyle serves four harrowing tours overseas. She has to raise the couple's two children virtually alone as he risks his life in combat and sees his buddies die around him. Though he denies it, the experience changes him greatly. When he comes back home between tours, he seems to be in a daze. His blood pressure is off the charts, and he experiences bouts of paranoia. After finally coming home for good, Kyle volunteers to help other wounded and mentally-disturbed veterans, partially to help them and partially to cope with his own PTSD and survivor's guilt. This endeavor, unfortunately, has tragic consequences.
My take: I only listed two cast members up there because, frankly, Cooper and Miller are the only two people who made a strong impression on me during American Sniper. There are various supporting characters, mainly military men who exist solely to get killed and provide further angst for the hero, but I had some trouble telling them apart. This is, at heart, the story of a man who struggles with his circumscribed role as a passionless killing machine and the wife who struggles to understand the man she married. This film serves as a blunt rebuttal to The Imitation Game. How do you win a war? By shooting as many "savages" (the film's term) as you possibly can. American Sniper begins and ends as hero-making propaganda. The opening passages, regarding Kyle's upbringing and eventual entrance into the Navy SEALS, are almost painfully earnest and on-the-nose. The film's closing moments, too, are unambiguously sentimental. If you saw only the beginning and end of this film, you might mistake American Sniper for an updated version of a World War II propaganda picture. But there's a middle section full of protracted, bloody, bullet-ridden violence which may make the viewer question the nature of war and the effects it has on the men who fight. What happens to a man, for instance, when he has to kill a child in the line of duty? Unfortunately, American Sniper ultimately forgets any kind of ambiguity in its closing passages in favor of patriotic boosterism, thus (in my mind) negating much of what it had just accomplished. A shame, since Bradley Cooper labors mightily to make Chris Kyle a fascinating and multi-dimensional character.
My grade: C+
What Will Win: Boyhood What I Want To Win: Birdman
Trivia. Whether you're appearing on a quiz show or just trying to make sparkling conversation at a dinner party, there's nothing like it. And yet, there never seems to be enough trivia around when you need it. Fortunately, Dead 2 Rights is here to help. Below, you will find 17 trivial statements which you are welcome to use in any social or professional situation. Enjoy!
If you could drive your car straight upwards, you probably wouldn't want to.
George Washington was never President of the United States. The rumor that he held this nation's highest office dogged him to the end of his days.
Strictly speaking, berries are not berries, but cabbages are.
There is no "i' in "March."
If the sun were hollow, we'd all be in a great deal of trouble.
Contrary to that old wives' tale, cats do in fact feel pain.
"Hullabaloo" isn't Latin for anything in particular.
That country between Spain and Germany? Surprise! It's France!
The melting point of iron is a mystery which science has yet to solve.
The earliest library card dates back to the time of Christ. The first book checked out was Garfield At Large by Jim Davis.
Napoleon's last word was "bonkers."
Without adjusting for inflation, items today cost much more than they did a hundred years ago.
Former astronaut Neil Armstrong sadly wound up a derelict.
Saying "celery soup" into a mirror three times is entirely safe and will have no unfortunate consequences. Try it yourself and see!
Though famous for his plays, William Shakespeare would rather be remembered for his astonishing sexual prowess.
Experts agree that the funniest word in the English language is "belch."
Even the strongest ant is no match for a full-grown man.
Feel free to add your own in the comments section. Feel just as free not to add your own in the comments section.
A werewolf looms over a Daisy Duke-wearing maiden in this vintage artwork.
"And above all, never forget that the pen is mightier than the plow-share. By this I mean that writing, all in all, is a hell of a lot more fun than farming. For one thing, writers seldom, if ever, have to get up at five o'clock in the morning and shovel manure. As far as I'm concerned, that gives them the edge right there."
A commonly-repeated anecdote about the late gonzo journalist Hunter S Thompson is that, while working for Time magazine in the 1950s, he used to retype pages from F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby (1925) verbatim, just so he would know what it felt like to write a great novel. While I have never gone to quite such lengths, I have wondered what it would be like to inhabit Ed Wood's skin -- or at least his apartment -- for an afternoon or so. What must it been like, for instance, in those desperate, whiskey-drenched days of the early 1970s when Eddie would drag himself back to his trusty typewriter in order to bang out yet another short story for one of Bernie Bloom's pornographic magazines? I'd like to think that, despite his ever-worsening circumstances, Ed was able to will himself into an inspired artistic trance when he wrote these stories. The muse inhabited his ruined body and guided his ten furiously-typing fingers. Though he needed quick cash to keep his landlady at bay and settle his tab at Pla-Boy Liquor, conveniently located just down the street from his profoundly-sketchy flat at the corner of Yucca and Cahuenga, Ed Wood was never wholly a mercenary. It just wasn't in his DNA. Whatever you may think of him, Eddie was an artist. Even when he was writing pornography, he made it his own. That's why I've kept such careful records of the themes and motifs that dominate his work. Eddie may have assayed a half-dozen different genres in his novels and stories, but the only writer he could really imitate was himself, just like Hunter S. Thompson ended up developing his own unique writing style, even though he apprenticed for his trade by literally imitating F. Scott Fitzgerald. Everything Hunter wrote came out sounding like Hunter, not Fitzgerald, and everything Ed Wood wrote came out sounding like Ed Wood.
How much for the sweater?
I do not and cannot write like Eddie did. That's neither a boast nor an admission of failure, just a fact. I've spent many hours with Ed Wood's work over the last couple of years, but I can't really channel the man. Lots of people have tried -- look at the tribute films I've covered in this series -- but Eddie has proven stubbornly inimitable. If you'll remember, one week of this project was actually given over to an original short story, written by me and inspired by Plan 9 from Outer Space, but there's nothing particularly Wood-ian about it in terms of structure or vocabulary. For better or worse, that story is me, not Ed. But that doesn't mean I've given up trying to invoke or evoke the spirit of Edward Davis Wood, Jr. This will sound ridiculous, but I have actually gone so far as to price angora sweaters, just so I can wrap one around me when I write. Similarly, I don't drink, but I've considered taking up the habit, just so I can feel closer to Eddie whenever I need to. I mean, alcoholism was one of the central facts of his life. It affected so much of what he wrote, including this week's story. How can I possibly hope to understand that "glow" Eddie claimed to get from booze, unless I sample a little of it myself now and again? For the time being, I am not going to become a drunk or an angora fetishist in the name of research. Instead, what I have done this week is to faithfully transcribe a complete short story from the early 1970s by Edward Davis Wood, Jr., right down to those idiosyncrasies in punctuation and grammar. When Eddie conjugates the past tense of "sink" as both "sank" and "sunk," for instance, I have let it stand. In actuality, typing up this story did fleetingly make me feel a little like the man whose life and career I've been faithfully over-analyzing the last few months. I liked the feel of these words emerging from my fingertips. Ed wrote with a lot of verve and energy, and I felt a little of that vicariously. This is an erotic werewolf story -- and, yeah, I know how that sounds -- from the same era of Eddie's career as the short stories in Blood Splatters Quickly: The Collected Stories of Edward D. Wood, Jr., the anthology I reviewed at length and in detail late last year. "Howl" was not one of the stories in that invaluable omnibus, but it would have been right at home there. Many of the classic Wood-ian motifs are present in this tale. Sex and death are intertwined in the most literal way possible. (You'll soon find out what I mean.) Mention is made of full moons, graves, snakes, dildos, and negligees. Breasts are again fetishized. The animal instinct lurking within man is once more given free reign. Yet another one of Wood's frustrated career gals -- in this case, a restless secretary -- seeks solace in nature, only to learn too late that salvation is impossible in this fallen world. And, naturally, our heroine's drinking habits are much-discussed. (Wood's potent potable of choice, whiskey, is a key prop in this story.) As for a deeper meaning, I'm stumped. Is this a puritanical story about a female libertine paying for her "sinful" lifestyle? Is it a cautionary tale for young women, warning them to be on the lookout for predatory males? Or is it perhaps a quasi-feminist work, presenting a sympathetic female character who just wants to be taken seriously without sacrificing her own pleasure? Maybe it's all of the above. Read on and decide for yourself.
"Howl of the Werewolf"
by Edw. D. Wood, Jr.
(originally published in Deuce, vol. 2, no. 3, Gallery Press, 1973)
Deuce magazine.
It was the constant howlingwhich unnerved Rita. It hadn't ceased since the moon became full. She rolled over on her bed and looked to the bright moonlit window ... then she cringed again as the eerie howl seemed to fill the entire night. There was no other sound ... and it seemed closer ... almost as if it were right outside the window. For a brief moment she thought about closing the window. But that would have made the room impossible. It was stifling even with the window open, it would have been a complete furnace closed.
But she got out of the bed and crossed to the window. She tested the screen. It was secure. Then she went back to the bed and took up a sheer negligee which she slipped into. She hugged her arms around her breasts as the howl came again and a sudden chill shook her entire being. A chill where there wasn't even the slightest breeze.
Once more she crossed to the window and looked out into the deep shadows. The moon made the countryside almost as light as day, but where the trees and brush cast their shadows it was pitch black.
And it was from the pitch blackness that the howls originated.
"And when the moon is full," she whispered to herself, "the werewolf prowls." Then she grinned. "Bull shit!" She turned her back to the window, but still hugged her arms around her front. "Now I'm talking to myself ... and talking like a fool to boot." She began to pace the floor. "Got to get my mind off such thoughts. Damned nonsense coming out here in the woods by myself in the first place. What in hell is a city girl doing in the wild ... got to be out of my mind."
The howl came on strong, sharp, then trailed off in a long wail.
Slowly she walked back to the bed and laid down. There was one thing she could think about which might take her mind off of the present situation. SEX was a powerful mind exploder. If anything could dismiss those howls, the thoughts of sex would be that entity.
When was the last time? It seemed like a month but in reality it had only been three nights before. The night before her vacation was to start. It had been Willie. Good old Willie ... the office manager. She'd had him several times before, but that last time stuck strongly in her mind. He came at her like a tiger. It appeared almost as if he'd been sex starved for months. But that wasn't so.
"It's just something I feel about you leaving for these two weeks. It seems like such a long time," he had said.
"It will go by faster than you think."
"I hope so. But why stake yourself way out in the woods like that? Going back to nature might be alright for some people, but good Lord Rita. You're city born and bred. Take a cocktail lounge and a television set away from you and you'll go ape."
"I'm taking a cocktail lounge with me."
"It won't be the same."
"So maybe I'll become a lone, silent drinker."
"You'll be back in two days."
"Not on your life. I'm determined to stick it out. I've never been in the woods before. It's something I've dreamed of for years. Who knows! Maybe I'll like it."
"Honey you'll go ape-shit without a guy between your legs for two weeks. Look! You might kid somebody else, but I know you. You got to have a guy and his rod. You can't go two weeks without it."
"I'll take a dildo with me."
"Oh be serious."
"What makes you think I'm not serious."
"Snakes, wolves, bears ... you'll piss in your panties every night."
"Maybe I won't wear any." Then she had reached over and pulled his head down to her pubic region. "Kiss me ... kiss me there."
He buried his nose and his tongue deep into her muff and her eyes closed and her hands went to her own breasts which she rubbed rhythmically. Her head suddenly began to toss from side to side and her buttocks rose and fell to meet his every action.
The explosion, when it finally came felt as if it were going to tear her insides out. She liked that and she screamed at the height of the sensual heats.
A quick series of howls, one after another brought her back to the present ... howls which seemed to be just outside the window. She came to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. Horror, terror is a thing that comes out of the night ... an entity that does exist ... a something that no one sees, but all can feel, realize. Rita was realizing that terror more and more with each passing second. She would have screamed if it would have done any good. But what good could a scream be? There was not another house or cabin within ten miles. That was the reason she rented that particular cabin in the first place. It was far away from anybody else and it was close enough to a quiet lake ... she'd seen many pictures of the moonlight reflecting across a quiet lake. She wanted to see the real thing.
But it wasn't turning out quite the way she had thought it would. The days were fine. But the nights ... that was something else. The night before had been bad enough, but that second night of the full moon ... the howling outside had grown in intensity. She clasped her hands tightly over her ears but the sounds were not shut out ... stuffing cotton in her ears also made no difference, she found that out the night before.
Where were the cricket sounds and the other night noises? There was nothing but that wolf howl ... even more horrible when a cloud traveled across the face of the moon ... the sound was a cry for release from the grave ... a lost soul screaming from the depths of hell. She knew the sound was that of a wolf cry even though she'd never heard one before, except in the movies. And the wolf was outside, not there in the room. It couldn't come tearing through that tough screen on her bedroom window and all the other doors of the cabin were locked.
Rita had never been one to frighten easily. But she'd also never been alone in the woods, far from civilization before. The woods had their own sounds ... sounds that would take a lifetime of living with them to fully understand.
She walked back to the bed and laid down. She locked her wide eyes on the ceiling where they would remain until the sun came up and the sounds of the woods came back to a more normal atmosphere. She hadn't closed her eyes all night ... and even more so it was a long time after sunup before she unfroze her body and stood up. All night she swore she was going to get out of that cabin as soon as the day was upon her once more. But something about the sun, the daylight seemed to make everything alright again.
In the bathroom she stripped off her negligee and nightgown then lifted her breasts with each hand. They were firm and young and inviting ... even to herself they were inviting. At times she would raise them high enough so that she might kiss each nipple. The thought raced through her mind even at that moment, but she didn't. Instead she got into a lukewarm shower which she later turned into a cold one. The sparkling clear water quickly snapped all the cobwebs out of her brain, and she began to feel alive again.
"Now why in the world would a howling dog or wolf or whatever it was give me such a sleepless night?" she said aloud to her towel while she went through the drying off process. "I've waited a lifetime for a vacation alone in the woods. I sure as hell would be a creep if I turned heels and ran. Silly!" Once more she turned and viewed herself in the full length mirror. She turned slightly from side to side so that she could take in all the delights of her luscious body. "After all I'm no child. I'm a grown woman." She winked at herself.
She put on a thin nylon blouse over a matching skirt. She hated sneakers but they were comfortable for the long walks in the woods she planned. But there was something more important than a walk that she had to do first.
The village was some twenty-five miles away, but she wanted a pistol and in order to get one she had to make the drive. She hadn't really noticed the place when she drove through it on the way to the cabin. But that had been at night and she was tired. She hadn't missed much. Except for a couple of cabins there was a gas station, a beer bar and the general store. She went immediately to the general store.
"Oh no, ma'am," replied the ancient storekeeper as he looked over his steel rimmed glasses. "You can't take a pistol with you just like that. Takes three days. Got to put the order through the police and get their okay and that takes three days ... Way out here ... maybe five or six. But three days is the shortest time."
"But I need it right away. There's a wolf prowling around my cabin. I need the protection."
The old man winked, perhaps remembering incidents in his own youth. I sure bet there's a lot of wolves prowling around your door ... " Then he changed the subject back to the gun again. "Ain't nothing I can do about the pistol. but if you really got to have a gun." He turned to a gun case which he unlocked and took down a twenty-two. "Now this here's a new light weight twenty-two. Holds twelve shots, long rifle. This you can take right with you."
"Will a twenty-two kill a wolf?"
"If you hit him in the right place. You a good shot?"
"I don't know. I've never fired a gun before." "Then you better stay in your cabin at night and keep the door locked ... You don't need no gun."
"Show me how to use it."
She reached the cabin just as the sun was sinking over the distant mountain and the rays had turned to a fire red. She watched the shadows deepen for a long moment then she picked up the rifle and then entered the cabin. She put the rifle and an extra box of ammunition on the kitchen table, then went into the living room area where she sunk into a deep fur-covered chair and kicked off her sneakers.
The drive had been tiring. She had taken her time on the mountain roads, but still it had been tiring. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again it was nearly dark and the man in the white shirt and denim slacks stood looking down at her.
Rita snapped forward in her chair, startled. The man grinned but made no move toward her.
"I have a gun in the house," she said for lack of anything else to say.
"I know. I saw it on the kitchen table." Then he waved his hand slightly. "There is nothing to be frightened of. I knocked several times and when there was no answer I tried the door. It was unlocked, so I came in. It was easy to see why my knocking went unanswered. You were really asleep."
"I had a sleepless night and a very long drive today." She felt no fear of the man. She stood up. "Are you lost?"
"Something like that. I've taken a cabin in the higher mountains for the summer. I started for the village and only got this far along the road. Seems that a boulder cut loose from the high ground and fell to the road. I didn't see it until it was too late. Broke an axle I suppose. Yours was the closest cabin. Thought you might have a telephone."
"I don't."
"I guess most of the cabins up here in these mountains lack the modern means of communications. I suppose I'll have to put up a smoke signal like the Indians."
Rita laughed. "I certainly can't send you out at this time of night to roam through the fierce jungle. You know there are wolves out there."
"I've heard them." He lowered his eyes momentarily then raised them again. "A body'd have to be dead not to hear them."
"You're welcome to stay here tonight." She indicated the living room couch. "You can stay on the couch then in the morning I'll drive you into the village."
"Now that's what I call hospitality."
"Like a drink? Whiskey is all I have."
"Now that's what I call double hospitality."
She got up and went to the kitchen cabinet. The drinks were mixed with water and when the man had captured his he sank down on the couch while Rita went back to her chair.
"I'm Rita Raleigh ... secretary ... on a mountain vacation for two weeks."
"Kent Tenstyle ... rich ... young ... and willing."
Rita liked that part of it. It had only been a few nights, but she felt the crotch of her panties getting damp. "And good looking," she ventured.
"You're not something a guy could turn away from either Miss Raleigh."
"Miss Raleigh makes me sound positively ancient. Let's make it Rita."
He nodded and took a large gulp of his drink.
"I had my dinner in the village before I left. But I can get you something."
"Don't bother. I'm not hungry ... for food that is." His eyes twinkled, and Rita had been around men long enough to know what that twinkle really meant. She could almost picture his thoughts as his eyes roved over her lovely body, and she wondered if he could figure her thoughts.
He moved to stand very close to her when she went to make a refill of their drinks. She didn't turn to face him at that precise moment but she could smell his man smell behind her and again his thoughts seemed to be pressing themselves into the back of her head.
She liked what she was feeling and the closer he came to her the more that feeling was intensified. She found herself wanting to feel his arms around her ... it seemed an eternity since she had a tongue sticking into her mouth ... the male sex organ parting her pubic hairs. Her thighs trembled at the thought ... the expectancy. And when is hands came down lightly on the back of her shoulders she turned slowly. He took the glasses from her hands and put them on the kitchen table near the rifle and ammunition. They looked at each other for a long time, their eyes locked in the heat of the moment.
His arms went around her and her lips raised to his and then she was feeling his tongue slashing within her mouth. And with their lips locked together he used his right hand to unbutton her blouse and when it opened her naked breasts popped into sight. "The bedroom," she mumbled through the tight lips ...
"Yes," he sighed, but didn't release the pressure of his lips. His hand found one of her lovely globes and he placed the nipple between two fingers. "The bedroom."
The movement of light in the sky out through the open kitchen door caught his eyes. He focused them on that growing light.
Rita's eyes were closed and she clung to the man desperately, as one who is starved for all the experiences she craved.
At first it was only a crescent, but the yellow glow was quickly forming into the perfect ball it would soon be. The moon was following the sun around the earth. Soon it would be full, and clear in the deep black velvet of the night.
Kent stared at the coming event, and the corners of his eyes began to twitch. At the same moment Rita felt the change in her lover. She pulled away slightly and looked at him, but his eyes were fastened to that void beyond the door.
"What is it Kent?"
He did not answer her. In reality he had not even heard her words. His hands dropped to his sides as he turned full to face the open door. Momentarily Rita stepped around in front of him but he didn't seem to realize her presence. She moved back more to the center of the room. Her eyes dropped to the rifle, then once more raised up to the back of Kent's head.
Something strange was happening to the man. The hair, damp hair, at the nape of his neck was growing by the second. She looked down to his hands and hair was growing rapidly there. His shoulders seemed to broaden and become slightly hunched forward giving his back a rounded appearance.
"What is it Kent? What's happening?"
Still there were no words from the man, but she could hear his sudden heavy breathing and a slight gurgling sound which drifted up through his throat. His back was to her and it heaved heavily. He began to pant like a dog in heat.
Fright built itself quickly in Rita's heart. She snapped up the rifle and aimed it at his back, but she did not fire. "Kent. I want to know what is happening!"
Her breasts popped in and out of her open blouse front with every panicky breath she took. She bit at her trembling lip. One hand left the rifle to brush the hair out of her eyes, then went immediately back to steady the weapon.
Kent threw his head far back and the howl of the wolf filled the entire room and it was only topped by the piercing scream which issued from Rita's throat ... Then she fired shot after shot from the rifle. She saw each of the bullets strike their mark in the creature's back. The rifle then locked in silence when the last shot was fired. She screamed again and the rifle fell from her hands. Her eyes went wide in terror as the creature turned to face her ... The lips parted to reveal the flesh tearing fangs and the drooling saliva which flowed over the corners of her lips. His face was completely covered in hair ... the gray-brown hair of the wolf ... of the werewolf.
He snarled, then wailed again. His hands went up high as he started in for the kill.
"None but the silver bullet can kill a werewolf," she heard herself realizing as the claws tore her clothing from her body. She tried to turn and run but the claws dug into her flesh in long jagged, blood letting cuts. Then she was on the floor and he was on top of her. He felt his muscle enter her and he pumped explosively at her over and over again until that final moment of climax ... and at that moment of climax his fangs tore into her throat ...
She died with the scream and the blood gurgling in her throat, and her thighs quivering from the effects of that last climactic explosion.
"Can you relate to Lesley Gore's music?" -dialogue from John Waters' Hairspray (1988)
I feel I should say something about Lesley Gore, who passed away today from lung cancer at the age of only 68. It's not a topic to which I have given a great deal of thought, but I suppose it's fair to say that I've been a fan of Ms. Gore for most of my life, from the time when I first started hearing her songs on the radio until today. Due to laziness on my part, I don't claim to be familiar with much of the music she wrote or recorded after that initial burst of hits in the 1960s, but those hit records from the JFK/LBJ era still resonate with me.
Everyone remembers "It's My Party" and its soundalike sequel, "Judy's Turn to Cry." But don't forget "Maybe I Know," which was covered decades later by They Might Be Giants, the chilly and dramatic "You Don't Own Me," which turned up in John Waters' Hairspray (1988), and the ridiculously cheerful "Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows," which was used to hilarious effect on The Simpsons once and which I semi-jokingly, semi-sincerely named as my "recovery anthem" when I was hospitalized for depression in 2012. I actually listened to that song dozens of times back then. Yes, I could relate to Lesley Gore's music. She had a clean, strong, solid voice and sounded like she really meant everything she said. When she told her boyfriend he didn't "own" her, brother, she wasn't kidding! I like emotional directness in music, and Lesley had it to spare.
If you want to remember Lesley Gore today, please watch her (typically stellar) set from the best concert film ever made, 1965's The T.A.M.I. Show. Study it, and see how female pop singers used to be able to comport themselves. Fifty years later, Lesley's still a great role model. Johnny wasn't good enough for you, honey.
Four of the films up for the top prize at this year's Oscars.
I'd like to thank the Academy... for nominating only eight movies for Best Picture this year. The number of candidates for this award varies from year to year. Back when they started handing these cockamamie things out in 1928, there just weren't that many movies to go around, so there were only three nominees total. (It was so easy to get caught up back then!) In the 1930s, however, the quantity and quality of feature films increased exponentially, as did the roster of potential Best Picture candidates. The number of nominees hovered around nine or ten in the late '30s and early '40s. In 1944, the Academy dialed it back to just five per year, and it stayed that way for decades. Slumdog Millionaire from 2008 was the last movie to win under the classic "five nominees" system. Then, apparently, the Academy got nostalgic for the '30s, and the number of nominees again shot up to about nine or ten a year. This year, they've settled on a lean, mean eight titles. Good for them. That's plenty.
Why should I care how many flicks are up for the top Oscar? Well, because every year since 2009, I've been attending the AMC Theatre chain's annual Best Picture Showcase, a marathon of all the nominated films. This is my seventh time through the process. I've seen over 50 films this way. Why do I do this? Well, it's a little complicated. I call myself a movie fan, but I really don't go to movie theaters very often. I don't generally enjoy the ritual of "going to the movies," mainly because ticket prices have become astronomically expensive and audience members have become incredibly rude. Even when I like or love the film I'm seeing, I inevitably return home feeling like I've been cheated and a little abused. But, as I've explained before, being a self-proclaimed "movie geek" and never going to movie theaters is like claiming you're a Catholic and skipping every single mass. If film is a religion, theaters are the churches. The Best Picture Showcase, then, is like a holy day of obligation for me. Holy days, actually. It now takes two consecutive Saturdays. The first of those Saturdays was yesterday. Here's what went down.
T h e G r a n d B u d a p e s t H o t e l
Tony Revolori and Ralph Fiennes have some transit troubles in The Grand Budapest Hotel.
Director: Wes Anderson
Cast includes: Ralph Fiennes, newcomer Tony Revolori, and an all-star cast including F. Murray Abraham, Edward Norton, Willem Dafoe, Adrien Brody, Tilda Swinton, Jeff Goldblum, Bill Murray, Jude Law, Owen Wilson, Jason Schwartzman, Tom Wilkinson, and Harvey Keitel.
The gist of it: The glory days and sad, decades-long decline of a plush luxury hotel are recounted during a dinner conversation between the place's melancholy owner (Abraham) and an inquisitive author (Law). At the heart of the hotel owner's story are the improbable exploits of its original concierge, M. Gustave (Fiennes), a suave and resourceful gigolo with exacting personal standards and an appreciation of the finer things in life. After inheriting a valuable painting from one of his aged paramours (Swinton), M. Gustave becomes the victim of a complicated and deadly conspiracy perpetrated by a disgruntled would-be inheritor (Brody) and his sinister sidekick (Dafoe). Prison escapes, ski chases, and several murders ensue. Complicating all of this is the beginning of World War II and the rise to power of the Third Reich.
My take: Movies are no longer the center of the pop cultural universe. They're no longer driving our national discussions the way they once did. In a sense, perhaps, movies are becoming obsolete. Most of what they used to do for us -- emotionally, aesthetically, and intellectually -- television and the Internet now do, often much better than the cinema. Certainly more efficiently. And the idea of going to a special, designated place (a cineplex) to actually sit still and view lengthy, non-interactive motion pictures in relative silence is, I'm sorry to say, a relic of an earlier, more naive, less jaded time. Downloading and streaming have leveled the playing field considerably. Movies are just more content to watch on your phone or your iPad. They've lost their cachet. In a sense, then, the crumbling hotel in this movie, which we see in both its glittering 1930s prime and decrepit 1960s dotage, is a perfect metaphor for motion pictures. And The Grand Budapest Hotel offers a pretty compelling argument for why we still need movies. It shows us what movies can offer us which no other medium can. This is a sensual experience, something to be savored. It's not realistic, but it's better than reality somehow, forged in the dreamy tradition of Walt Disney. It looks the way I sometimes wished the world looked. Plus, it's a cracking good adventure tale and maybe Anderson's most poignant meditation yet on how glory fades and why we should feel bad about that (even though there's not much we can do about it). Sic transit gloria mundi. Does it ever!
My grade: A-
W h i p l a s h
J.K. Simmons has some personalized instruction for Miles Teller in Whiplash.
Director: Damien Chazelle
Cast includes: Miles Teller, J.K. Simmons, Melissa Benoist, Paul Reiser, Austin Stowell, Nate Lang.
The gist of it: An ambitious young drummer (Teller) enters a prestigious New York music school and soon attracts the attention of a demanding, rigorous, and sadistic instructor (Simmons), who possibly goes too far in his efforts to drive his students toward attaining musical perfection. Despite the protestations of his worried father (Reiser) and neglected girlfriend (Benoist), the young man falls under the sway of the formidable, imposing professor and goes to insane, self-destructive lengths to please this impossible-to-please man. After one particularly disastrous competition, the student realizes that his very life may be in danger if he continues along this path, but he's still determined to become one of the greatest jazz drummers who ever lived. It all leads to a climactic showdown between teacher and student in an extremely high-pressure public performance.
My take: This was, hands down, the movie which went over the best with the audience at yesterday's Showcase. I have to admit, this one captured my attention immediately and held it for the entire running time, right up to and including a climactic nine-minute drum solo. That's right. A nine-minute drum solo was one of the most dramatic scenes I saw all day yesterday. Some of my involvement with this material came from being a musician myself for the last three-fourths of my life. While watching the poor schmuck in this movie pound away at the drums until his fingers bled, I actually felt a little guilty about practicing so little. I've never been through anything close to this kind of hell, and today I play strictly for fun, but I know a little something about tricky time signatures, fanatical band teachers, and those dreaded and dreadful music competitions where your whole life seems to be on the line. But, in truth, you don't have to know anything about music in order to enjoy and fully understand Whiplash. If you can understand someone wanting to be the best and being willing to destroy himself to do so, then you can understand this movie. In a way, it was a bold move on the part of the writer-director to let his protagonist be a whiny, entitled crybaby jerk who doesn't always engage the audience's sympathies. J.K. Simmons, of course, has the fun part here as the teacher. He gets to be a combination of Pai Mei from Kill Bill 2, John Houseman from The Paper Chase, Mickey from Rocky, Col. Kurtz from Apocalypse Now, and pretty much every movie drill sergeant ever, but especially R. Lee Ermey from Full Metal Jacket. There is one minor supporting character, a sad-sack trombonist, who is here specifically to be his "Private Pyle." In retrospect, Whiplash is a little predictable and a lot manipulative, but I'll be damned if it doesn't work.
My grade: B+
B i r d m a n
Michael Keaton is haunted by his superhero past in Birdman.
Director: Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu
Cast includes: Michael Keaton, Edward Norton (again), Emma Stone, Zach Galifianakis, Naomi Watts, Lindsay Duncan, Amy Ryan
The gist of it: An aging actor, Riggan (Keaton), best known for playing a costumed superhero named Birdman in a trilogy of '90s Hollywood blockbusters, is now trying to establish himself as a serious actor by writing, directing, and starring in a Broadway play based on the writings of Raymond Carver. The production is plagued by problems, many of which are caused by a talented but egomaniacal and unpredictable younger actor (Norton) who has joined the cast at the last minute. But since the writer-director-star has all his own money tied up in this play, the show very much must go on, even when it attracts the scorn of a vengeful critic (Duncan) who resents this Hollywood pretender showing up on her precious Broadway turf. Riggan's own personal life is a shambles, too, with a daughter (Stone) fresh out of rehab and an ex-wife (Ryan) who wavers between concern and contempt for a man she once loved and trusted. With all this stress in his life, it's no wonder that Riggan frequently escapes into fantasy and often has the growly, throaty voice of the Birdman character echoing in his head and giving him possibly-dubious career and life advice.
My take: Of all the movies I saw on Day 1, Birdman (whose subtitle is The Unexpected Virtue of Ignorance) is the closest in spirit to the kind of movie I would want to make myself if I had a cast, crew, equipment, and several million dollars to spend. Maybe as I age and get closer to Sad Old Bastardom myself, I have greater and greater affinity for movies about sad old bastards like Riggan, guys who are just barely hanging on by their fingernails. I may also be losing my appetite for cinema-verite-type realism in the cinema in favor of surrealism, parody, and exaggeration. But don't call it escapism! No, I've found that the real truths of life can, paradoxically, be revealed more fully in fantasy. Lies, artfully told, somehow bring out the truth. And Birdman is full of absolutely impossible, magic-realism-type stuff. Hell, it starts with Michael Keaton clad only in his tighty-whities floating three feet off the ground as he meditates in the lotus position. And don't think that just because his character, Riggan, has retired from his superhero days that we're denied any comic book-inspired action scenes. This may not have been the most stylized movie of the day, since Grand Budapest is practically a living cartoon, but it may be the most stylistically-bold of the four films, with the majority of the film shot and edited in a way which makes it seem like it's composed of long, uninterrupted takes, a la Hitchcock's Rope. And Inarritu is daring in his use of the camera, swooping and soaring (like a bird, get it?) over his actors and letting us sneak all around the corridors at the theater so we can snoop on people's arguments and meltdowns. This is my idea of a fun time at the movies.
My grade: A
S e l m a
David Oyelowo prepares to accept the Nobel Peace Prize in Selma.
Director: Ava DuVernay
Cast includes: David Oyelowo, Carmen Ejogo, Oprah Winfrey, Tom Wilkinson (again), Tim Roth, Giovanni Ribisi, Martin Sheen, Wendell Pierce, Cuba Gooding, Jr., Stephen Root
The gist of it: A biopic of civil rights leader Martin Luther King (Oyelowo), focusing especially on his famous 1965 protest march from Selma to Montgomery in the racially-divided state of Alabama. Having won the Nobel Peace Prize, King hopes to use his prestige to get President Lyndon Johnson (Wilkinson) to enact legislation which will ensure that Southern blacks are allowed to freely register to vote without such impediments as poll taxes and voting vouchers. Afraid of damaging his own political career, however, Johnson begs off on this issue and tells King to "wait." Since African Americans are being killed by whites without legal consequence in de-facto-segregated states like Alabama, Dr. King cannot wait any longer. Until they are allowed to vote, he argues, blacks have no say in their own destinies. The march, of course, meets with violent opposition from white law enforcement officials, thanks to Alabama governor George Wallace (Roth). It is even controversial within the civil rights movement itself, which is plagued by schisms and fierce philosophical and tactical disagreements. The clergyman's marriage to Coretta Scott King (Ejogo) also suffers during this time. But King presses on anyway, certain that he's doing what's right for the cause he holds dear.
My take: Once someone's birthday has become a national holiday and his name has become synonymous with heroic or virtuous, how do you turn him into a human being again? How do you find the man behind the legend when the legend is 100 feet tall and chiseled out of marble? That was the problem facing Lincoln a few years ago, and it's the one facing Selma now. Martin Luther King lived and walked and breathed not that long ago really. Literally billions now living were around when he was assassinated in 1968. And yet, he seems no closer to our time than Abraham Lincoln. Both appear to have graduated from mere humanity and become something more evolved. How can they be made into flesh and blood after that? Maybe comedy is the answer. Louis CK starred as the tortured 16th President in SNL's brilliant Lincoln parody a few seasons back, and the Adult Swim animated series The Boondocks hilariously brought Martin Luther King into our time for its "Return of the King" episode in 2006. But Selma mainly belongs to the tradition of stately, respectful, tasteful, and eminently serious biopics. There is some effort to introduce domestic turmoil, as in a tense scene in which Martin and Coretta discuss the former's infidelity. But the real order of the day here is solemn speeches (often, eulogies), punctuated by scenes of horrific, slow-motion violence. This is all very well-done, though, and there are some tremendously effective scenes, as when Dr. King pays a late night visit to a coroner's office in order to comfort an old man whose son has been gunned down by racist cops. But, ultimately, Selma is the kind of movie which feels like the cinematic equivalent of a homework assignment. I respect it, but I wasn't sorry when it ended.
My grade: B+ NEXT WEEK: Boyhood, The Theory of Everything, The Imitation Game, and American Sniper
Tor, Dolores, Vampira, Bela, and Ed sing their hearts out in Rick Tell's Ed Wood: The Musical.
I am truly sorry to have abandoned you this last week, my dears. It was not by choice, believe me. Work has been very heavy lately, so I've had precious little free time to devote to Dead 2 Rights recently. The real culprit, however, is technology. My poor computer, my beloved Gateway laptop, is still in the clutches of the Geek Squad. The original time frame they gave me for its repair was "two to three weeks." Well, that was three weeks ago today, and as of now, it looks like I won't have my computer back for another week and a half at least. Can you imagine? Five weeks in the shop for what I feel was a very minor issue! (The power cord would occasionally come loose, so the machine wouldn't charge properly.) So now I am in technological Siberia. All because I decided -- stubbornly and and not a little foolishly -- to have my computer repaired rather than replaced! They're punishing me, the bastards! This is punitive.
Anyway, in the meantime, I am forced to work on my all-contingency emergency backup computer: an obsolete Sony Vaio first purchased during the days of George W. Bush. Like Mr. Bush's cerebral cortex, this computer is slow and unreliable and freezes up often. Working on it is a stone drag. I simply cannot do the kind of pieces I like to do for Dead 2 Rights on this machine. It would take a lifetime! Doing that last Ed Wood Wednesdays piece about Jesse Berger's Glen or the Bride nearly killed me! I only did it because I loved the film and wanted to write about it. But working on this machine is just no fun, and I want blogging to be fun. It shouldn't feel like a chore, right? So that's why there's been no new content for a while here. Again, I'm sorry. I really hope to have the blog up and running at full capacity soon.
In the meantime, please please please enjoy Rick Tell's new trailer for Ed Wood: The Musical! This is a wonderful little three-minute highlight reel of songs from the show, accompanied by historically-appropriate film clips and pictures from Ed Wood's career. I know Rick has put a lot of work into this trailer, and it definitely deserves to be seen. So see it already!
Here's some good advice for us... and for the characters in my dumb play.
The things you find sometimes, huh? I was searching through the files saved to this old computer and happened upon a script for a radio play I wrote a few years ago called A Spot of Tea. Please don't get the impression that this thing was ever, even once, performed on the radio. Oh, no. Never that. This was written for some Chicago-area creative writing contest. I have no remembrance now who exactly was running this contest, but they were asking for people to send in original short radio plays with a horror theme. I'd never written anything like that -- and didn't even know how to format the script for a radio play -- but I thought I'd give it a go. I wrote this up, printed it (on paper and everything!), mailed it in, and... heard nothing. No acknowledgement whatsoever. Maybe a year later, an online acquaintance of mine was trying to set up a website for short fiction and was looking for submissions, so I took this play and slightly reformatted it as a short story. I may post that, too. But for now, here is my one and only attempt at a radio play. At the time, I had probably just started drinking tea. I'm a regular addict now. It's also somewhat inspired by my real-life cousin, who actually did break into people's houses (and did considerable time in prison for his troubles). Do enjoy it, won't you?
I never meant it to turn out this way. Honestly, when I started doing Ed Wood Wednesdays back in June 2013, my plan was for the series to run just ten weeks, covering two films each week. (Follow that link in the last sentence and scroll down to the comments to see my original, hopelessly naive "tentative schedule." Boy, was I a dope.)
Back then, I thought it might be interesting to format each article as a double feature and compare and contrast two films in the Wood canon at a time. Week 7, for instance, would have paired Joe Robertson's boozy softcore sex comedy The Love Feast with Norman Thomson's Japanese-set monster flick Venus Flytrap. What links these two films is merely their chronological proximity (1969 and 1970, respectively) and the fact that they were both written, yet not directed, by Edward D. Wood, Jr. Otherwise, I cannot see any obvious or hidden connection between them. What would I have come up with that week? Maybe I would have compared the protagonists of these two movies: both middle-aged, white men who cloister themselves away in large houses so that they might pursue their own strange desires without public interference.
It's all academic now, because I have long since abandoned that initial strategy. The "twofer" gimmick lasted all of four weeks and has not reemerged. What changed? Well, I soon realized that researching and reviewing two different movies each week was simply not practical. Both films wound up being shortchanged, and I felt doubly exhausted. Besides, I made a decision early on to take an all-inclusive or "catholic" approach to Ed Wood's career, covering both the canonical and apocryphal films, as well as Eddie's writing, and even making time for posthumous tribute films.
The upshot of all this is that I fairly sped through the work for which Ed Wood is best known, namely the black-and-white independent feature films he made between 1953 and 1959, starting with Glen or Glenda? and ending with Night of the Ghouls. These were the years of Bela Lugosi and Criswell, flying saucers and plywood cemeteries, Lobo and Kelton -- everything, in short, which made it into Tim Burton's Ed Wood biopic. These are also the things which had initially made me a fan of Eddie's back in the late 1980s and early 1990s, when I was a budding film fanatic. And I was done with all of that stuff by the eleventh week of the project!
It wasn't by choice. I just ran out of material pretty quickly. Also, I stepped up the research aspect of the project, so the articles I wrote became longer and more complex as I went on. As a result, I've written a great deal more about the 1970s than the 1950s. For example, my exhaustive examination of The Snow Bunnies (1972), a film I mostly detested, positively dwarfs the modest write-up I gave to Glen or Glenda? (1953), the Wood film I love most dearly. In retrospect, I've spent the lion's share of Ed Wood Wednesdays documenting Eddie's sad, Nixon-era decline rather than his Eisenhower-era peak.
Don't get me wrong. It's been rewarding. But it can also be pretty depressing, since Eddie's work from the 1970s inevitably reflects his straitened circumstances during that decade. Sometimes, it feels like all I write about are alcoholism, poverty, and spousal abuse. Therefore, to remind myself why I started writing about Ed Wood in the first place, I will take any available opportunity to bask in the glow of Eddie's more-genteel 1950s movies. As it happens, there is a remarkable new short film which has allowed me to do just that.
All of this is my way of introducing...
GLEN OR THE BRIDE OF THE NIGHT OF THE PLAN 9 FROM OUTER SPACE (2014)
A disapproving Bela Lugosi looms over Dolores Fuller and Ed Wood in this scene from Glen or the Bride.
Alternate title: Glen or the Bride... [abbreviated promotional title]
Availability: This film is available as a digital download for a mere $5 here. Or for $20 you can get a limited-edition DVD with shipping and handling included. The disc includes menus, deleted scenes, and a trailer.
Jesse Berger
The backstory: Edward D. Wood, Jr. and Jesse Berger have at least one important thing in common, a crucial factor which separates them from most of society. Faithful devotees of that strangely alluring religion called showbiz, they both made the Hajj-like pilgrimage westward to Los Angeles in order to be part of the motion picture industry. The City of Angels, an ever-glowing, neon beacon in the darkness, beckoned them across thousands of miles, guaranteeing nothing but implicitly promising everything. To such hopeful travelers as Ed and Jesse, perhaps the Chinese Theatre is a sacred temple and the Hollywood Walk of Fame a sort of horizontal Wailing Wall.
Eddie made his way from Poughkeepsie, NY out to "the great salt lick" (as it was sardonically called in the Coen Brothers' Barton Fink) back in 1947, and he was at least attempting to make his own movies as early as '48. It didn't work out so hot for Ed, but at least he tried. And tried. And kept trying. And kept trying some more, long after even the most devoted acolyte would have lost faith. In that sense, he served -- and still serves -- as a source of inspiration to latter-day pilgrims like Jesse Berger.
An Indianapolis native and alumnus of the College of Charleston in South Carolina, Jesse moved to Los Angeles after his school days were over and, in his words, was "lucky to stumble into freelancing as a film location manager," including a gig on Georgina Garcia Riedel's Ana Maria in Novela Land (due to be released in February 2015), the last-ever film to feature the late and already much-missed Elizabeth Pena. But location management isn't Berger's only talent. A multi-hyphenate, he writes screenplays, edits, and works on music as well. "The LA thing," he calls it, and he's been at it for the last ten years.
Glen or the Bride of the Night of the Plan 9 from Outer Space is a personal project for Berger, since his empathy for the plight of Ed Wood runs deep. "Living in Los Angeles and doing the whole creative lifestyle thing," he explains, "it's hard not to think of Ed Wood and the implications of how his life turned out."
By his own account, Jesse was watching Bride of the Monster (1955) one night when he realized that the same actress, Dolores Fuller, appears both in that film and in Ed Wood's earlier effort, Glen or Glenda? (1953). "The thought hit me," he explains, "that it might be possible to edit multiple Ed Wood films into one."
He embarked upon this course in March 2013, drawing heavily from Bride and Glen, as well as two Ed Wood films from 1959: Plan 9 from Outer Space and Night of the Ghouls. Berger began scrutinizing these four films, picking out "anything I found interesting." Eventually, he had a creative epiphany. "As soon as I stumbled across the idea of Bela Lugosi being Glen's father, I hit the ground running and started churning out a draft.
The result, finally released in October 2014, was an almost David Lynch-ian 25-minute short film about a disturbed and very confused young man, Glen (Ed Wood), who commits a series of murders in order to appease his always-angry, never-satisfied father (Bela Lugosi), a character described on the DVD packaging as "an evil scientist from outer space." Indeed, the father works out of a basement laboratory and regularly consorts with aliens (Dudley Manlove and Joanna Lee), who park their flying saucer in his yard. Glen consults a kindly, understanding doctor (Timothy Farrell) and also confesses his sins to his girlfriend (Dolores Fuller), but still the murders continue.
As in any true Ed Wood movie from the 1950s, there are policemen investigating the case, both uniformed (Paul Marco, Conrad Brooks) and plainclothes (Lyle Talbot, Johnny Carpenter, Duke Moore, Tor Johnson). "Will Glen stop appeasing his father's sick lust for blood," asks the DVD cover, "or will the killing continue?"
Flying saucers from Plan 9 pay a visit on Bride of the Monster.
Berger created this story, which he calls "semi-coherent," entirely out of audio and video elements from Ed Wood's own movies from the 1950s, along with a little fugitive audio from 1969's Love Feast. New meanings are created by juxtaposing scenes from these different films. An entire conversation between Glen and his father, for instance, is cobbled together from footage taken from Glen or Glenda? and Bride of the Monster.
Meanwhile, in one of Glen or the Bride's most amusing moments, a montage of Tor Johnson highlights (culled from Bride and Plan 9) is magically "narrated" by Timothy Farrell's wise Dr. Alton from Glen or Glenda. As Johnson's mute servant Lobo is cruelly whipped by his master, Bela Lugosi, Farrell calmly intones, "Modern man is a hardworking human. Throughout the day, his mind and his muscles are busy at building the modern world and its business administration." It's as if Lobo were just another working stiff with an especially unpleasant boss.
Generally, even though he is drastically rearranging this raw material, Berger leaves the various video and audio clips themselves essentially intact. Occasionally, though, there are shots in which elements from one film are actually superimposed over footage from another. The most obvious examples are the scenes in which the wobbly flying saucers from Plan 9 miraculously land next to "the old Willows place" from Bride of the Monster. The images of Ed Wood and Bela Lugosi are also layered over various scenes throughout the film, suggesting these characters' otherworldly omnipresence in this fictional universe.
For those who may be curious, 1954's Jail Bait was considered for inclusion in this project, too, but failed to make the final cut. Coincidentally, the plot of Glen or the Bride more closely resembles Jail Bait than it does any of Ed Wood's other 1950s films. Both of these movies revolve around troubled young men who are wracked with guilt over crimes they have committed and who live in the shadows of powerful fathers. In retrospect, including some scenes of Timothy Farrell as ill-tempered gangster Vic Brady in Jail Bait might have provided some interesting contrast with his sober, serious Dr. Alton character from Glen or Glenda.
As for Berger's aspirations for this material, the editor/co-director of Glen or the Bride is philosophical: "The two things I've always wanted to know were what would Ed Wood think of this project. And what a random person would think about it if they had no knowledge of Ed Wood or the fact that it was a re-edit of his films."
The first question must forever remain unanswered. The second inquiry may soon receive a response, as Berger has put his film on YouTube. Obviously, the target audience for something like this will consist of those who already care about Edward D. Wood, Jr. The film's odd length -- Berger insisted upon keeping the film under half an hour -- may eventually spell out its destiny. I can imagine Glen or the Bride having a healthy life as either an aperitif or a palate-cleanser at Ed Wood festivals, marathons, and tributes. With the exception of Vampira, who is sadly AWOL, nearly every major performer associated with Ed Wood's "classic period" is here. (Though he does not appear on camera, Criswell is frequently heard as a narrator.) Intentional or not, what Berger has created with Glen or the Bride is a video scrapbook for an entire chapter of American independent film.
Girl Talk's Feed the Animals LP.
The viewing experience: Delirious in a wonderful, wonderful way. While watching Glen or the Bride of the Night of the Plan 9 from Outer Space, I came to the realization that editing is perhaps the definitive art form of this still-young century of ours. I don't necessarily mean the literal editing of film or video, though that's often a big part of what I'm talking about. Rather, I mean taking preexisting images, sounds, phrases, and ideas and artfully rearranging and repurposing them into something else, something which is simultaneously new and not-new. Isn't that what's really happening right now in music, movies, literature, and television, not to mention the vast, disembodied expanse we call the Internet?
From where I sit, the 21st Century has not been a time of wholly new audio-visual sensations. Instead, it has been a time when clever scavengers have sorted through the accumulated detritus of popular culture and found meaning and order in what seems, on first glance, to be meaningless and chaotic. Modern-day artists are rather like birds, building elaborate and intricate nests from whatever twigs happen to be in their vicinity. You can witness this type of pop cultural nest-building in every Tarantino movie, every Girl Talk album, and every media-bending YouTube parody or BuzzFeed article. Pivotal, game-changing TV shows like SCTV and The Simpsons have largely been about conflating, commingling, and condensing many decades of mass media input, mostly from movies, commercials, and TV shows.
Without an abundance truly new things to look at, the editors of our age have given us new ways to look at the old things which were already there in front of us. Maybe that's where art and culture have been heading for thousands of years. We've been accumulating plays and books and songs and stories and paintings and films for centuries. Now, at last, we have plenty of "raw material" with which to work. It's up to us to assemble this material in ways which speak to the issues and anxieties of our own time. I cannot help but flash back to a quote from Ed Wood's script for Glen or Glenda: "Strangely enough, nature has given us all these things. We just had to learn how to put nature's elements together for our use, that's all." Even Ed Wood predicted the ascendancy of editing.
Top: Ed Wood in Glenda.
Bottom: Jack Nance in Erasherhead.
I mentioned earlier the movies of David Lynch. What I meant by that comparison is that, like Lynch's films ranging from Eraserhead to Lost Highway, Glen or the Bride vaguely sketches out a narrative but generally operates on free-associative dream logic... or the muddled ill-logic of someone who desperately wishes to sleep but cannot. (Berger revealed to me that "fatigue" and "insomnia" played major roles in the creation of his movie.) Also like Lynch, Jesse Berger tends to favor dark, shadowy, moody images and so plucks these from Ed Wood's movies with glee.
If nothing else, Glen or the Bride illustrates just how dark Eddie's movies were during the 1950s. (So many of the scenes take place at night!) One of the central images in Glen or the Bride, in fact, is a foreboding chiaroscuro close-up of Ed Wood from a Glen or Glenda nightmare sequence. This moment bears a rather stunning likeness to the definitive head-and-shoulders shot of Jack Nance in Eraserhead. They're framed the same way. At these respective moments, both Wood and Nance seem to be isolated in their own gloomy little universes.
Jesse Berger also seizes upon the sinister Devil character (played by Captain De Zita) from Glen or Glenda? and includes him, without much explanation or context, in Glen or the Bride. This is analogous to the way Lynch will occasionally include mysterious, demonic characters in his films, like the one portrayed by Robert Blake in Lost Highway. One of the better descriptions of Lynch's work I have encountered was one which suggested that his movies are like jigsaw puzzles and that Lynch gives his audience either too many pieces or not enough of them. Any viewer, then, trying to definitively "solve" a movie like Inland Empire or Mullholland Dr. is apt to become frustrated.
On the other hand, viewers more interested in the journey than the destination may find Lynch's films all the richer since the writer-director refuses to provide neat solutions, tidy endings, or easy answers. So it is with Glen or the Bride. What Jesse Berger has accomplished here is to create an integrated, inter-connected universe out of four different films, finding the strands which bind them to one another. He is playing "connect-the-dots" with cult cinema!
It should be noted that Ed Wood has given Jesse Berger some help. Paul Marco's bumbling Officer Kelton, a cowardly comic relief character, recurs in three of the original Wood films from the '50s and thus serves as a sort of mascot figure, both to Wood and to Berger. Were he alive to see Glen or the Bride, Paul Marco might well be flattered by the amount of screen time he commands in this new film. But other connections made in Glen or the Bride -- both inter-film (between different movies) and intra-film (within the same movie) -- are relevatory in their ingenuity! I'll cite examples of both types of connections.
The small window through which Dr. Eric Vornoff (Lugosi) views his pet octopus in Bride of the Monster is, in Berger's film, the porthole through which Glen's father sees into the flying saucer from Plan 9 and communicates with the snooty aliens Eros and Tanna who dwell within it. In the prologue, on the other hand, Berger takes two completely unrelated scenes from Glen or Glenda? -- one with Glen's disapproving sister, Sheila, and another with suicidal cross-dresser Patrick/Patricia -- and combines them somehow into a single, unified sequence in which Glen murders a young woman.
This is more than just a parlor trick or high-wire act on Berger's part. By taking these four movies and essentially throwing them into a blender, he has created an arty mood piece which reveals the dark, brooding, heart of Edward D. Wood, Jr. Behind those plywood tombstones and model-kit UFOs, there was a restless poet trying desperately to express himself with whatever means he had at his disposal.
Speaking of which, viewers of Glen or the Bride of the Night of the Plan 9 from Outer Space will likely notice that the entire film has a grainy, slightly distorted look, as if it were made from a second-or-third generation public domain print. This, Jesse Berger insists, is intentional. "At one point," he says, "I tried swapping the low res footage I [was] using with higher resolution footage. But the look and feel just wasn't the same. The fact that I was using multiple movies was more obvious, and it just wasn't working. I think there's something about the low-fi bootleg look that rings more true to the nature of the project." While it took my eyes a few moments to adjust, I eventually came to quite enjoy, even relish, the graininess of Glen or the Bride.
While Berger envisions his film as "something someone would find on a random VHS tape at Goodwill," I was taken back to the days when television sets had both VHF and UHF dials. I can remember clicking through all those UHF channels in the hopes of finding something cool and being thrilled when some old, weird cartoon or ancient rerun would suddenly flicker into view for a few seconds before being engulfed by static. Watching those channels was like hovering between sleep and wakefulness. Glen or the Bride offers that same kind of fleeting, intangible pleasure.
Many thanks to Jesse Berger for his immeasurable help in assembling this article.
