When I first saw Paul Morrissey‘s Blood for Dracula, I definitely felt like I was partaking of an illicit pleasure. A friend of mine with an encyclopedic knowledge (and equally impressive collection) of B-movies was moving to new digs and bequeathed to me, along with many other obscure relics, his VHS dub of the Criterion Collection’s unedited laserdisc edition of the film (LD spine #287, for the digit-obsessed). Based on the rumors I’d long heard, I was expecting copious over-the-top gore. The film delivered on that promise, but also unexpectedly unfolded with the langorous pace of a high-falutin’ costume drama. You know, just like Sense and Sensibility, except with more extended scenes of softcore grinding and vomiting of blood.

I later caught a midnight showing of the film at the beloved St. Anthony Main theater, just across the Mississippi from downtown Minneapolis. This time, the salacious tale of Count Dracula (Udo Kier) and his quest for the blood of a “wirgin” was screened from an authentically scratchy print, and curiously retitled Young Dracula. Although the R-rated Young Dracula had most of its eroticism trimmed, there was still enough suggestive content and bloodletting to draw whoops of approval (and sometimes loving derision) from the audience. There was no doubting the film’s ability to please fans of exploitative sleaze.

And that’s what makes the film’s appearance (along with that of its fraternal twin, Flesh for Frankenstein) in the Criterion Collection back catalog something of a puzzler. Why would the devoted archivists, who’ve so lovingly preserved the works of Resnais, Bergman and Kurosawa, deign to champion a flick in which our protagonist greedily laps away at a puddle of blood (said puddle being the sanguinous aftermath of a busted hymen)?

The glib answer is, at one point Warhol gave this thing the Factory seal of approval (yup, another of this film’s alternate titles is Andy Warhol’s Dracula). And if Warhol says it’s art, then it’s art, right? I’m totally willing to buy that answer, although doing so does something of a discredit to Morrissey’s achievement. That achievement was basically to craft a film that delivered the goods as well as or better than many of the B-horror movies which preceded it, while indicting those who mindlessly lust for the flesh and gore.

Most of the characters in Blood for Dracula might well be analogues for the audience’s baser appetites. The randy servant Mario (Joe Dallesandro) and his incestuous bedmates, Rubinia and Saphira (Stefania Casini and Dominique Darel), are constantly giving in to lust. It seems that most of the time, they’re either about to shag, are in mid-shag, or have just finished shagging.

The viewers’ bloodlust is personified by (you guessed it) the titular count. Dracula’s hunger for virgins’ blood seems less like a natural need for wholesome sustenance and more like a junkie’s craving for smack. He’s racked with paroxysms of withdrawal when he can’t have it. When he does get it, his relief is intense and short-lived. And when the stuff ain’t pure enough, he vomits violently and quite memorably declares, “The blood of these whores is killing me!”

Of all the characters, the most obvious surrogate for the audience might be Dracula’s butler, Anton (Arno Juerging). He eyes all the proceedings with lascivious glee. And a filmmaker (Roman Polanski in an inspired cameo), makes him the butt of a clever joke.

So, is Morrisey just dripping with contempt for his audience? Maybe, but I doubt it. If he were truly disgusted with those of us of who enjoy a good wallow in the mire, I think he wouldn’t bother to pander to our tastes in this and his even sleazier Flesh for Frankenstein.

I like to think that, even if he’s smugly looking down his nose at us, he regards us with the same grudging affection that he has for his characters. For as Morrissey once told the New York Times, “The characters may be losers, but they’re all kind of likable.”

Sink your teeth into more Criterion Files.

We continue our journey through a month of frightening, bloody and violent films. For more, check out our 31 Days of Horror homepage.

Synopsis: Miriam and John Blaylock (Catherine Deneuve and David Bowie) share a passionate longtime love affair, traveling the world and indulging their mutual taste for classical music and the blood of the living. Although John’s love for Miriam might last forever, his youthful vigor will not. After centuries at Miriam’s side, he begins aging at an accelerated rate. Like Miriam’s many past paramours, John seems doomed to a fate worse than death. Under the guise of finding a cure, Miriam begins courting her next conquest – sleep researcher Dr. Sarah Roberts (Susan Sarandon).

Killer Scene

The Hunger is loaded with memorable scenes, but the opening sequence gets the nod because it can practically stand on its own as a wickedly stylish short. It cuts between goth pioneers Bahaus performing their apropos classic “Bela Lugosi’s Dead,” the Blaylocks seducing and slaying a pair of New Wave swingers, an ape in a research facility turning homicidal, and the Blaylocks destroying the evidence of their previous night’s escapades. The sequence runs for 7 1/2 minutes with hardly any dialogue, just pure visual indulgence.

Kill Sheet

Violence

There’s a fair amount of bloodletting in The Hunger. Unlike conventional movie vampires, the Blaylocks lack pronounced fangs. They instead carry little blades (disguised as golden ankh pendants), which they use to slash their victims’ jugulars before feeding. Cue the extreme closeups of gushing gashes.

Sex

Plenty of giggity-giggity on display here. Deneuve and Sarandon share some steamy lesbian action, Deneuve and Bowie make out in the shower, Bowie seduces a punkette in black stockings and leather, and Deneuve gets friendly with a guy who probably thinks he’s a badass but looks more like Faith-era George Michael. And for good measure, Sarandon hallucinates at dinner and sees gorgeous women swimming nekkid.

Scares

Oddly enough, The Hunger isn’t all that scary. The kills are foreshadowed far in advance and are depicted with icy, detached glamor.

Final Thoughts

As Tony Scott’s directorial debut, The Hunger offers not one clue as to the shape his future work would take. There’s no jittery, ADHD-friendly editing here. If anything, this film feels like an homage to Argento, with its languid pacing and sumptuous cinematography.

Consider enjoying this classic with a nice bottle of Italian red.

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Synopsis: The phrase “insane asylum” doesn’t begin to describe Danvers State Hospital. The now-derelict institution is a massive ruin, shuttered in the ’80s due to federal budget cuts and its controversial practices. Gordon Fleming owns a HazMat removal business and aggressively bids on a contract to strip asbestos from the site, because he desperately needs the work. But is it just the money that’s drawing him to this project … or is he a man haunted? And as long as we’re tackling hypothetical questions, does being forcibly lobotomized on the job qualify you for workers comp?

Killer Scene

Session 9 is a subtle thriller that doesn’t drown you in gore, but twists its rusty screws bit by bit. So, it’s not surprising that its most enduring image is one that’s more poignant than shocking. It’s the second-to-the-last shot in the film, but I can’t say much about it without totally spoiling the movie. It will suffice to say that Session 9’s conclusion, while open-ended, doesn’t reek of sequel bait. It leaves you grieving for innocence lost, and dreading the prospect of an evil that never dies.

KillSheet

Violence

As noted above, this is not a particularly bloody film. But when the murders are finally shown on-camera, the imagery is suitably unpleasant. Sensitive viewers might find the deaths … uh … migraine-inducing.

Sex

No sex to speak of, unless the mere sight of David Caruso gets you wet and/or hard.

Scares

Session 9 doesn’t deliver many jump-scares. It creates a palpable, constant sense of dread through atmosphere, sound design, and vigorous mind-fucking.

Final Thoughts

Session 9 is a must-see if haunted house movies are your thing. It respectably holds its own against the classics of the genre, while bearing the unique virtue of having been shot in a real insane asylum. Although the film is a work of fiction, Danvers existed and was rumored to be haunted. Whether or not those rumors are true, there’s no denying Session 9’s menacing power.

Check out more of our 31 Days of Horror

Ever fired your gun in the air and yelled, “Aaaaaaah?”

Former college quarterback Johnny Utah (Keanu Reeves) is a rookie FBI agent in the 98th percentile of his class at Quantico. On his first assignment, he’s sent to L.A. County – bank robbery capital of the world – to bust the notorious Ex-Presidents. This unstoppable gang of thieves has hit 27 banks in three years, working with speed and surgical precision. Pappas (Gary Busey), Utah’s veteran partner, suspects they’re surfers. Obviously, Utah is going to have to learn how to surf so he can go undercover, get the girl, and bring the bad guys to justice. Whoa.

Why We Love It

Ah, Point Break. Why do I always find myself in the minority whenever I vigorously defend this film as a neglected classic?

Yes, the premise is totally silly. Basically, this film suggests that good police work consists of 5 percent forensics, 5 percent deductive reasoning. 50 percent deception, 50 percent dumb luck and 75 percent sheer manliness. “What the hell?” you’re probably thinking, “That adds up to 185 percent!” Damn straight. 185 percent f-ing awesome, my friend.

See, in order to truly love this film as I do, you’re going to have to shut off those obnoxious higher brain functions that set off all kinds of alarms at the mention of anything that sounds improbable. Improbable like, say, FBI Agent Pappas’ convoluted theory explaining why the Ex-Presidents must obviously be surfers. I won’t bore you hear with his convoluted chain of flimsy evidence and hunches. Basically, his theory boils down to this: These guys are simply to cool to be anything but surfers. And solving the case will require Utah to become cooler than he already is. How’s that for a win-win?

As some have pointed out, Point Break would be virtually remade 10 years later as The Fast and The Furious. Although the latter film would prove far more profitable, F&F is an embarrassingly tepid rehash. Its primary value is to demonstrate, by comparison, why Point Break works so well.

First off, you’ve got a rock-solid cast. Patrick Swayze perfectly embodies Bodhi’s “modern savage” with a philosophical streak. Keanu Reeves, with his ripped physique and stoner drawl, could’ve been born with a surfboard under his arm. (For his mom’s sake, let’s hope he actually wasn’t. Ouch.) Gary Busey, let’s face it, is not nearly as convincing as a mentor as Swayze. But as comic relief, he’s unbeatable. Who else could so convincingly portray a middle-aged guy who seems to possess the mind of an ADHD-addled 13-year-old? And let’s not forget Lori Petty. Successfully cast against type as Keanu’s love interest, Tyler, she’s a far cry from the stereotypical Beach Blonde or Manic Pixie Dream Girl.

The other element that pushes Point Break into the realm of aesthetic transcendence is Kathryn Bigelow’s assured direction. Her action sequences have a visceral physicality lacking in the work of so many other lesser filmmakers. Bodies collide, blood sprays, bones crunch. Bigelow doesn’t merely sublimate all that energy into sparkling eye candy. She makes you feel it in your gut. As even Hot Fuzz’s notoriously uptight Sgt. Angel had to admit, Bigelow delivers a no-holds-barred, adrenaline-fueled thrill ride.

Moment We Fell In Love

As a kid, there was one segment on my VHS copy of Point Break that I definitely wore down to a ragged thread. It’s the chase that takes place about an hour into the film, as the Ex-Presidents are fleeing the scene of the Assured Trust Savings and Loan heist with Agents Utah and Pappas in tow.

It’s six minutes of sheer madness. First, you’ve got what amounts to a high-speed, two-car demolition derby, followed by a game of vehicular cat-and-mouse through a mall parking lot. The Ex-Presidents ditch their getaway car, setting it – and a gas station – on fire. Utah catches up to and tackles Bodhi, who’s wearing white gloves, a black suit and Ronald Reagan mask, and they wrestle in the fire. A spectacle of exhilarating hand-held camera work follows as their foot chase tears through backyards and alleys, over fences and through living rooms, kitchens and glass patio doors, before ending in the L.A. River. A fortuitously timed recurring football injury keeps Utah from following Bodhi any further, and his now-conflicted loyalties keep him from opening fire. In frustration, Utah blows his full 9mm wad into the sky and yells, “Aaaaaaah!”

Well, what would you do?

Final Thoughts

It’s hard to believe Point Break is 20 years old this week. In some ways, sure, it’s dated. It definitely seems like one the last gasps of the golden age of ’80s Hollywood action cinema. But it’s no feeble death rattle. Like Bodhi himself, the film represents the last of a proud but doomed breed: Going down hard, going down fighting.

And as long my gonads continue to pump testosterone, Point Break will continue to be one of the summer movies I love.

Click here for more Summer Movies We Love

You did it, godammit. They just invited us to dinner.

Synopsis

A small band of American filmmakers departs for the Amazon to document the lives of warring cannibal tribes. Two months after they’ve vanished into the so-called Green Inferno, a rescue team led by anthropologist Harold Monroe (Robert Kerman) discovers the documentary crew died at the hands of the Yanomamo tribe. Monroe retrieves the crew’s footage and brings it back to New York. The found footage depicts an orgy of shocking sadism – perpetrated by both the cannibals and the “civilized” Americans.

Why We Love It

Let’s be brutally honest. It’s rather problematic to admit that I love a film like Cannibal Holocaust. Ruggero Deodato’s film depicts utterly reprehensible behavior, and not all of it is simulated.

Cannibal Holocaust’s first film-within-a-film, a documentary called The Last Road to Hell, consists of actual newsreel footage of executions in war-torn parts of Africa and Asia. The main narrative portion depicts actual killing of animals, as does the purported “found footage” that mostly makes up the film’s second half.

It’s the presence of that stomach churning real violence that makes the act of watching and appreciating this film a morally questionable act for me. And yet, I can’t pretend that this is merely an exploitative piece of trash with no artistic merit. Despite its flaws, Deodato’s masterpiece towers above lesser grindhouse fare as an innovative, game-changing piece of outlaw cinema.

Its central conceit – that we are watching actual footage shot by the film’s doomed victims – has been copied plenty of times since. Cannibal Holocaust is not only the first, but the best example of this type of film to date.

The Blair Witch Project, Cloverfield and Paranormal Activity all suffered because they unfolded their entire narratives in real-time. Cannibal Holocaust is faster and more uniformly paced because it’s a hybrid between the conventional movie narrative and the found-footage collage.

The aforementioned knockoffs also strain credulity in a way Cannibal Holocaust doesn’t. Inevitably in lesser psuedo-vérité works, the story reaches a point where I ask, “Who in their right mind would still be filming this shit? Why not just drop the camera and get the hell outta Dodge?” The answer in Cannibal Holocaust’s case is that, conveniently, the camera operators aren’t really in their right minds.

Rather than merely documenting the Yanomamo tribe in their natural state, they decide to spice things up by simulating an enemy attack on the village, burning and raping their way toward an appalling yet richly deserved comeuppance.

In a sinister twist, the film’s purported victims are shown to be the most diabolical of villains. They’re like droogs turned auteurs, grinning lasciviously as they hack people and critters to pieces; quite literally aroused by the sights and sounds of ultraviolence.

Moment We Fell In Love

The first time I watched Cannibal Holocaust was at a friend’s house, on an Nth-generation VHS tape originally dubbed from a twice-pirated laserdisc, or something like that. The first hint at what I was in for was the moment – about 20 minutes in – when one of the rescue team’s guides slices open a live muskrat’s jugular veins.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say this is a moment I fell in love with, because I’m not that much of a sick bastard. (While I’m not a card-carrying member of PETA or anything, I love animals. As I type this, I’m literally giving myself carpal tunnel syndrome rather than disturb the kitty that’s sprawled across my forearms.) But I recall that scene as the defining moment when I knew I was entering unchartered waters. Here be monsters? Damn straight.

Final Thoughts

Writing this appreciation of Cannibal Holocaust has been pretty challenging for me. I feel that in praising the film based on its artistic merit, I am somehow trying to justify the more-than-questionable content it contains.

I feel like I’m trying to walk the same fine line that the film itself treads, with arguably less success. While I find myself fumbling for the right words to capture my simultaneous sense of repulsion and admiration, Cannibal Holocaust cleverly has its cake and eats it, too.

During the sickening screenings of the gruesome found footage, the anthropologist Monroe acts as the film’s moral center. He repeatedly argues that the footage shouldn’t see the light of day because it’s offensive and immoral.

His foil is a television executive who cynically shares the truth that Deodato and other shock filmmakers have long understood: “Today, people want sensationalism. The more you rape their senses, the happier they are.”

We’ve now managed to write about A League of Their Own and Cannibal Holocaust in the same feature. Check out more Movies We Love

Serve the public trust. Protect the innocent. Uphold the law.

Synopsis

Welcome to Detroit, sometime in the near future. The city’s a cesspool. Its streets are overrun by homicidal criminals. Greedy industrialists, charged with protecting the common good, are bleeding the place dry. Enter Officer Alex Murphy. He’s an honest cop, freshly transferred to the city’s anarchic Metro West precinct. He’s also one unfortunate cop, savagely cut down the first day on the job. Not to worry. Thanks to the miracle of cybernetics, Murphy will rise again as the city’s most unlikely savior.

Why We Love It

Every time I watch Robocop, I’m left baffled. It simply shouldn’t be as great as it is. There’s no reason why a cheesily named ’80s action flick should double as an incisive commentary on the perils of unfettered greed. There’s no reason for a movie about a crime-fighting cyborg to wrestle with existentialism.

Frankly, all we need from a movie like this is for it to deliver a steady stream of ass-kickery, preferably leavened with some cheesy one-liners. That’s all I expected on that fateful summer afternoon when, at age 12, I settled in with a ginormous bucket of popcorn and 120-ounce Coke to watch Robocop lurch into action.

I got exactly that, but so much more. Robocop has been a film that I’ve grown into.

One of the most obvious aspects of the film that I couldn’t appreciate back then was the way it extrapolated trends in government and commerce to terrifying extremes. For decades, there’s been pressure to privatize more and more delivery of essential public services. The theory is that the private sector will always be more effective and efficient than government. Robocop humorously challenges that theory and questions whether a corporation, with the fundamental purpose of maximizing its own profit, can always be trusted to have the public’s best interests at heart. Robocop suggests that at some point, you have to draw a line.

Moment We Fell In Love

There’s one word of dialogue in Robocop that has the power to elicit an involuntary “Hell, yeah!” every time I see it.

It signals that, after a torturous journey across the River Styx and back again, our hero has emerged with his soul intact. After Robocop has just slain his arch-villain, he’s asked “What’s your name?” With a smile, he replies “Murphy.”

Is there a more perfect ending in the whole of cinema? I think not.

Final Thoughts

If the long-promised remake of Robocop ever gets made, it’s going to have fulfill a tall order. Somehow it’s going to have to, at the very least, pack the same visceral wallop and the same fast-paced but meaningful storytelling.

If it doesn’t, though, I’m not going to bitch about how Hollywood is once again desecrating my fondest childhood memories. There’s already one Robocop for the ages, and nothing will ever diminish its brilliance.

Fall in love with even more movies

Ellingson — the lead vehicle designer for James Cameron’s Avatar, whose credits also range from Battle: Los Angeles to Hellboy and Blade: Trinity — was singing the praises of Google Sketchup Tuesday night.

While speaking at his undergraduate alma mater — St. Cloud State University — he praised Google’s free 3-D modeling software as an easy-to-use tool for creating conceptual designs, including the deadly powersuits used by humans to rain devastation upon the unfortunate Na’vi.

Aside from ease-of-use, Ellingson noted the program is free which means that even you can start drawing things meant to kill other things in wonderful, violent ways.

So, as countless people are out there using SketchUp to create detailed virtual cities, you’ve got Hollywood artists using it to create equally detailed city-vaporizing toys. Is anyone else fighting back the urge to burst into “The Circle of Life“ right now?

Body Snatchers (1993)

Abandon yourself and join us.

Synopsis
Brooding teenager Marti Malone is having the worst summer of her life. She’s stuck on an extended road trip with her stepmom, little half-brother and her dad — an EPA agent. Dad’s assignment is to inspect military bases in the South. What he finds at his final stop is worse than any Superfund site: Aliens are invading the earth by cloning us out of existence.

Why We Love It

Abel Ferrara’s remake of Body Snatchers is the kind of film that seduces you by degrees. It starts off feeling awfully familiar. A family cruises down a lonely highway somewhere in the Alabama bayou. There’s a brief stop at some redneck gas station for directions — and creepy foreshadowing — and we’re back on the road.

Just when you think you’ve seen this all before, here comes the first hint that Body Snatchers is something weirder. The Malone family arrives at the military base and we’re treated to a POV shot out the family station wagon’s windshield. The only thing in focus is the dad’s (Terry Kinney’s) profile. The view through the glass — a soldier checking his clipboard and a fluttering American flag — is an eerie haze.

That’s the first in a chain of surreal, subtle cues suggesting things are horribly awry. If Ferrara’s 1979 breakthrough The Driller Killer was a gutter-punk homage to Polanski’s Repulsion, you could make a case that Body Snatchers finds him channeling the stifling paranoia of Rosemary’s Baby. As the suspense is built layer-upon-layer, you can sense dark forces swimming just below the surface.

As in Rosemary’s Baby, the trappings of polite society take on sinister meaning. Playful, even nurturing gestures become acts of sabotage. When the recently cloned stepmom (Meg Tilly) gives her unsuspecting hubby a backrub, she’s really just trying to lull him into a fatal sleep. When she draws Marti a bath, it’s not because she’s warming up to her. She’s trying to lure Marti into a slumber so the pod in the attic can do its work undisturbed.

As Body Snatchers finally shows its hand, the imagery gets even more disturbing. Example: When the time comes for me to shuffle off this mortal coil, I suppose I’d like to go in my sleep. But I’d prefer not to do so because some oversized hairy brussel sprout drained my life essence by skullfucking me with its wormlike tendrils.

Like most of Ferrara’s other films, Body Snatchers makes a virtue of its tight budget. Visual effects are used sparsely. When someone gets shot or something explodes, it’s treated almost as an afterthought. It’s not that Ferrara doesn’t know how to craft an action sequence. His 1990 gangster classic King of New York is evidence enough of his chops. No, Body Snatchers just doesn’t need explosive pyrotechnics when its slow burn approach works just fine.

Moment We Fell In Love

There’s plenty to love about Body Snatchers. I always smirk at the scene where Marti’s young half-brother (Reilly Murphy) is revealed as the only human child among all the clones in his daycare. How? His fingerpainting is the only unique creation among all the other identical, cookie-cutter works. Do you suppose Ferrara sympathizes?

R. Lee Ermey also has a small but memorable part as “head cabbage” Gen. Platt. The scene where Ermey fixes his thousand-yard stare directly into the camera and rapturously describes the virtues of being assimilated is menace made manifest.

But the moment I knew for sure that Body Snatchers would become one of my all-time favorites was far more understated. It’s a shot that comes when Marti’s dad, having seemingly survived a near-brush with the clones, is driving his children to “safety.” The camera lingers on his right hand, which clutches the steering wheel in a somewhat awkward overhand grip. Having been taught by this point to question every seemingly casual gesture, this detail was all I needed to know Dad wasn’t Dad anymore.

Final Thoughts

Body Snatchers was never given a chance to thrive in theatrical release. It premiered at Cannes, was shelved for a year, then given a limited release. Even with a relatively small $13 million budget, it failed to break even, grossing about $425,000.

Ferrara has blamed studio politics for its shabby treatment, but there are plenty of reasons why Warner Bros. might have gotten cold feet. With the dust of the Gulf War still fresh on American soldiers’ boots, maybe WB was fearful of casting U.S. troops (or even their clones) as bad guys. Or maybe studio execs just couldn’t recognize a newly minted classic when they saw it.

Fall in love all over again with more Movies We Love

Imagine for a second that Disney grew weary of raking in piles of cash from the Jonas Brothers. Imagine that, instead of merely cutting them loose (and leaving them to their own disastrous devices, ala Ms. Lohan), Disney went a more subversive route. Imagine Disney casting them in a surrealistic, experimental patchwork of a film that lampooned the vapidity of pop culture and consumerism – and left both the Jonases and their fans feeling totally mindfucked. That’s essentially what happened when Bob Rafelson, Bert Schneider and Steve Blauner – creators of The Monkees – released a film called Head…

America Lost and Found: The BBS Story

America Lost and Found: The BBS Story, is a kickass box set from The Criterion Collection (is there any other kind?) that groups Head with some other films Rafelson, Schneider and Blauner had a hand in. Some of them you might have heard of – Easy Rider, Five Easy Pieces (mmm … chicken salad sandwich) and Bogdanovich’s The Last Picture Show.

Others you might not have heard of, but are cult classics worthy of your attention. Good luck finding a more drool-worthy box set for that special movie geek in your life this Holiday season.

Check it out here on Amazon. Image courtesy of The Criterion Cast.

How the Price Index Works:

For our ‘Price Index,’ we’ve devised a four-level scale based on the expense of the items we’re recommending. This is based on our research (mainly on Amazon and other fine retailers). It breaks down like so:

Dirt Cheap: Cost of $25 or less.

Affordable: Cost of no greater than $50.

A Worthy Stretch: Slightly more expensive, but no more expensive than $150.

For the Rich: Gifts for those you really, really love. $150 and greater items only need apply here.

Bookmark This Link to Follow Along with the 2010 Geek Gift Countdown

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Synopsis: Damien Thorn’s dad is the ultimate helicopter parent. An influential guy, his dad’s always been there, pulling strings to get him into the best schools and keep him on the path to success. Trouble is, Damien’s dad happens to be Satan. This explains why people who threaten or just annoy Damien have a tendency to die excruciating and mysterious deaths. In the second installment of the Omen series, 12-year-old Damien has been adopted by his wealthy (human) aunt and uncle. He enrolls in a military academy with his best friend and cousin, Mark. It’s here where Damien discovers his true bloodline, and must accept his diabolical fate.

Killer Scene: The kills in Omen II are numerous and varied, ranging from a simple heart attack to my absolute favorite – death by elevator. A doctor who’s run some revealing tests on Damien gets into an elevator, only to have it fall 23 stories, stunning and paralyzing him. Seconds later, he’s sliced in half by a wild elevator cable. Somebody better call OSHA.

KillSheet

Violence: Compared to say, a Fulci movie, the level of gore here is fairly light. But there’s enough to satisfy a casual gorehound. Some of the deaths could’ve been more graphic. When a guy gets squashed between two boxcars, you’d expect a much bigger mess. Perhaps because the previous film starred the uber classy Gregory Peck, the filmmakers felt the need to maintain a degree of restraint and decorum.

Sex: Pretty slim pickings on this front. There’s a parallel drawn between Damien’s aunt and the biblical Whore of Babylon. But she doesn’t engage in any whoredom onscreen. Damien is seen chatting it up with a trio of teenage girls, but he gets called away on other business before he can get busy. And there’s the perhaps unintended pun where Sgt. Neff, a drill instructor at the military academy, tells his cadets that they’re the “little unit” that he’s going polish to a shine.

Scares: There aren’t many jump-scares in this movie, by virtue of the fact that most of the deaths are telegraphed way in advance. The victim crosses Damien, Jerry Goldsmith’s spooky score kicks in and you watch the invisible hand of Beezlebub work its magic.

Final Thoughts: Damien: Omen II is a criminally overlooked classic. The first Omen is beloved by many, but I find the second movie’s plot more engaging. The worldwide conspiracy of Satanists helping Damien along is further revealed, there’s some corporate intrigue and Damien himself is a more fully realized character. Instead of just being a creepy, silent kid, he’s a witty and precocious adolescent tormented by a moral dilemma. Will he choose to live virtuously or will he give himself wholeheartedly to the forces of evil? I bet you can guess his answer.

I’m robbing a bank because they got money here. That’s why I’m robbing it.

On Aug. 22, 1972, would-be criminal mastermind Sonny (Al Pacino) walks into a Brooklyn bank with his two inept accomplices. The instant the robbery is under way, one of the accomplices gets cold feet and bails. Then, Sonny discovers most of money has already left the bank. Plus, the security guard is having an asthma attack and the tellers want to go potty. It’s going to be a long night.

Why We Love It

Remember Pontius Pilate? He famously asked Jesus, “What is truth?” Jesus didn’t answer, so Pontius was like, “OK, wiseguy. It’s the cross for you!” (At least, that’s how I remember the story. It’s been a while since I read it.)

Jesus could’ve spared himself a lot of perforation if he’d told Pontius to wait a couple thousand years to see Sidney Lumet’s Dog Day Afternoon. The movie embodies Godard’s statement that cinema is truth at 24 frames per second.

It all starts with the opening montage of documentary-style footage, shot with a hidden camera to capture sweaty New Yorkers on a sweltering August afternoon, just being their sweaty selves. You can practically feel the heat rising from the pavement and your shirt sticking to your back. We see Sonny, Sal (John Cazale) and Stevie (Gary Springer) sitting in a car outside the bank, waiting to make their move. The opening title song – Elton John’s “Amoreena” – fades in volume and grows tinny until Sonny snaps the car radio off. And that’s the closest thing to non-diegetic music you’re gonna get for the rest of the movie.

Every stylistic choice in the movie is driven by Lumet’s desire to tell the story as truthfully as possible. Why? For starters, Dog Day Afternoon was based on an actual bizarre incident that had happened only three years before. As Lumet wrote in his fantastic 1995 memoir, Making Movies, he went for naturalism because the story itself was shocking for its time. (In case you don’t know why it was so shocking, I won’t dare spoil the surprise that Sonny is actually robbing the bank to pay for his second wife, Leon, to have a sex change. Er … d’oh!)

I also won’t thrill you with my attempt at a comprehensive catalogue of the lengths Lumet and his collaborators went to for realism’s sake. I’ll just thrill you with a few of my favorites:

• Most Pacino vehicles attempt to downplay his less-than-imposing stature. Dog Day Afternoon plays it up for comedic effect as he bounces up and down trying to spray paint over the bank’s security cameras. Pacino’s roles have rarely called on him to be this self-effacing, and the fact he was willing poke fun at his then-recently acquired stardom speaks to the feeling of trust and security Lumet is renowned for creating on his projects.

• Lumet insisted that his cast dispense with artifice and play their characters as closely as possible to themselves. He even asked them to wear their own clothes instead of costumes. Again, according to his indispensable memoir, Lumet told the actors: “You’re just temporarily borrowing the names of the people in the script. No characterizations. Only you.”

• By Lumet’s estimate, 60 percent of the dialog, while based on Frank Pierson’s script, was improvised in rehearsal. That includes the back-to-back lengthy phone conversations between Sonny and both of his wives. Which brings us to the…

Moment We Fell In Love

Dog Day Afternoon relies on more than just the big plot twist (Sonny’s motivation for robbing the bank) to defy the audience’s expectations. It shifts dramatically in tone and pace about a 80 minutes into its 124-minute running time.

Sonny has two crucial phone conversations with a) his emotionally frail and gender-identity-confused wife Leon and b) his whimpering and panicky female wife, Angie. They come at a moment when Sonny realizes he’s painted himself into one hell of a corner and he might not emerge from his ill-conceived heist alive. He makes one last attempt at reconciliation with the two people he’s loved the most. The effort leaves him exhausted, frayed and completely at his wits end. Lumet lets the two conversations play out in a 14-minute marathon of naturalistic dialog.

For Lumet, a guy who is often referred to as more of an actor’s director and less of a visual fetishist, this is the dramatic equivalent of a monster tracking shot. It’s Lumet showing off the results of an intensely personal and collaborative three-weeks worth of rehearsing, reworking and experimenting with his cast. It’s a watershed moment in Pacino’s career. And it’s truth, at 24 frames per second.

Final Thoughts

I’ve only begun to scratch the surface of why I adore Dog Day Afternoon. I haven’t even mentioned John Cazale’s tragic portrayal of the Sonny’s sad sidekick, Sal. Or the contributions by the rest of the ensemble. Or the film’s smart commentary on crime and punishment, race relations, religion and ethics, marriage, war, and working-class frustration.

I’m not gonna there for now, ‘cause this ain’t a master’s thesis. This is just my quick-and-dirty stab at explaining why Dog Day Afternoon is one of the (yeah, you guessed it) Movies We Love.

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And because Film School Rejects is dedicated to providing “news you can use” – and encouraging its readers to engage in all kinds of dangerous and illegal behavior – what follows is a handy guide to executing the perfect heist as dictated by some of the movies we love.

 Or, in deference to the new John Luessenhop flick opening this weekend, you can think of the following as The Seven Habits of Highly Effective Takers.

7. Never perform “one last job”
Whatever you do, never refer to your next heist as the “one last job” that’s going to let you settle your gambling debts and retire in comfort, go home to your kids, buy your boyfriend that sex change, or whatever it is you plan to do. If there’s one thing we’ve learned from watching countless heist flicks, it’s that merely uttering the phrase “one last job” is enough to paint a huge target on your ass. And fate is guaranteed to kick it.

6. Know who you’re stealing from
Never steal from someone without a sense of humor. Some rich folks are just so damned stingy that the sight of red ink on their ledgers makes them … well … see red. And if they’re well-connected enough, they will make you wish you’d never stolen from them.

Consider the character of Van Sant in Heat. He’s a high-rolling money launderer who doesn’t appreciate having his $1.6 million in bearer bonds yoinked by Robert De Niro. De Niro is actually stupid enough to think he can sell the bonds back to Van Sant. He should’ve known that approaching Van Sant would only piss him off, bringing the full weight of an angry Henry Rollins down on his head.

5. Vet your teammates
Do you have balls big enough to walk into a bank, a jewelry store or a gold-bullion laden airliner without thorough confidence that each and every member of your crew is dependable? If you do, you’re an idiot.

You’ve got to know – beyond any doubt – that none of your teammates is a psycho loose cannon (see Heat, Dog Day Afternoon, Reservoir Dogs), an undercover cop (again, Reservoir Dogs), or a double-crosser. If you want a consummate example of what comes of not vetting your crew, pay close attention to Gene Hackman’s sad clusterfuck in Heist. The guy gets fucked over by his investor, his investor’s porn-stache wearing bastard nephew, and his own wife. In fact, he seems to spend more effort getting himself unfucked than he does on the heist itself.

4. Know the escape route
Once you’ve gotten the goods, you’ve gotta get away. And that means you need to know every last inch of the terrain on your getaway route. There’s no room for slackin’ here. Consider The Italian Job. No, not the 2003 remake. I mean the real Italian Job starring Michael Caine. Those guys had a real slick escape planned, including a cleverly engineered traffic jam in downtown Turin, a race across rooftops and through sewers in a pack of Minis, and their own damned theme song fer chrissake.

All this planning was for naught, because they neglected to account for the last leg of their escape route, which involved hauling ass in a bus on a winding Alpine road. It’s not good enough to have an escape plan that 9/10ths pure genius, 1/10th stupid.

3. Don’t be afraid to spill a little blood
Do you know why Al Pacino totally screws up his big score in Dog Day Afternoon? Aside from a general lack of experience and competence, he’s too much of a nice guy. His hostages don’t snap to it and give him what he wants because he’s all mamby-pamby, allowing them potty breaks in mid-robbery and shit. What the hell? Harvey Keitel’s advice in Reservoir Dogs bears repeating here: “If you get a customer, or an employee, who thinks he’s Charles Bronson, take the butt of your gun and smash their nose in.”

2. Kill your teammates
This is possibly the toughest piece of advice to swallow. After a successful heist, you’ll be feeling the euphoria that comes from a job well done, and probably some affection for the teammates who made it all possible. Set those warm and fuzzy feelings and immediately cap every last one of ‘em. De Niro had the right idea in Goodfellas. After the Lufthansa job, he got nervous and started whacking his partners-in-crime one after the other.

The only problem was he took his sweet time about it and gave Ray Liotta the opportunity to reconsider his loyalties. The best method is the just-in-time approach employed by The Joker in The Dark Knight. The instant one of his bank-robbing crew has fulfilled his function, he gets a slug in the brain. Brilliant.

1. Spend your loot wisely
Now that you’ve got the goods and have eliminated all threats, you can relax, right? Wrong. Countless movie heists have unraveled because the thieves got cocky. Here are some helpful hints for avoiding a similar fate: If you’ve stolen rare jewels, don’t pull a Rififi and give ‘em to your significant other to wear in public. Don’t pull a Dead Presidents and start buying Cadillacs and Christmas gifts for every one you know. And whatever you do, don’t pull a Gun Crazy and fritter away your nice, traceable bills.

That’s all we’ve got. Good luck, good hunting, and if you make it out alive and wealthy, don’t forget to slip us a few fazools.

How would you execute your heist?

Pee-wee’s Big Adventure (1985)

You don’t wanna get mixed up with a guy like me. I’m a loner, Dottie. A rebel.

Synopsis

Pee-wee Herman (Paul Reubens) is a happy-go-lucky (and slightly effete) man-child who’s got the world on a string. He lives contentedly with his dog, Speck, and his cherished custom Schwinn bicycle. When his bike is stolen, Pee-wee must take to the road on a heroic journey across America to get it back.

Why We Love It

Honestly, Pee Wee’s Big Adventure isn’t an ideal fit for Movies We Love. But until they add a feature called Movies We Obssess Over To The Point Where Our Friends And Family Start To Worry For Our Sanity, this’ll suit me.

After 25 years, it remains — in my humble opinion — the finest comedy feature Hollywood has ever committed to celluloid. Is that an extreme statement? Maybe, but I’m not backing down from it.

Granted, I am biased. By a conservative estimate, I probably watched this movie 100 times by the time I was 18 — at which point, I stopped counting. You can’t subject yourself to that kind of exposure without serious after effects, and I suspect that PWBA actually rewired the neural pathways that trigger my laugh reflex. To this day, ordinary comedies don’t do much for me. Most of the time, they’re not weird enough.

Consider The Hangover. It made roughly $280 million in domestic box office, so it must be pretty funny, right? No. Did any of the lead characters ever impulsively stop to wrap his face in Scotch tape, before violently ripping the tape away with masochistic zeal? No. Ergo, it’s really not that funny.

But Pee-wee’s Big Adventure is more than just a collage of non sequiturs. Its heart and soul lies with the iconic performance of its star, Paul Reubens. Reubens sinks into his caricaturish Pee-wee persona so completely, the real man becomes invisible. That’s the difference between a chameleon, like Reubens, and lesser actors, who seem to strain when they’re not playing close variations of themselves.

Ruebens is a frenetic whirlwind of hyper-amplified, unguarded, child-like emotion. Reubens loudly telegraphs Pee-wee’s state of mind in nearly every scene, in a spectacle of physical comedy that rivals Buster Keaton.

Of course, Pee-wee’s more than just a one-LOUD-note character. There’s just a trace of guile about him, which he strategically employs when he’s trying to con his way out of a jam. But, the mask of deceit never stays on long before its starts to slip. Consider the scene from which the epigram at the beginning of this column is taken. Pee-wee is rejecting the advances of Dotty (Elizabeth Daily), the bike shop girl. Pee-wee acts all distant and cool — like a lone rider who just can’t afford to let anyone near the electrified fence encircling his heart. However, Pee-wee can hardly make it out the door before his look of grim determination gives way to a goofy grin and a trademark chuckle.

Moment We Fell In Love

As with most road movies, PWBA has an episodic plot that pits our hero against a disparate array of challengers, and introduces him to an eclectic bunch of allies. With so many classic scenes, it’s hard to pick a favorite. But, I can tell you which scene hooked me first.

Pee-wee walks into a desert roadhouse to use a pay phone. Little does he know he’s walked into the headquarters of the rowdy Satan’s Helpers Motorcycle Club. He arouses their anger by loudly shushing them and barking “I’m trying to use the phone!” Then, he signs his own motherfucking death warrant by knocking all of their bikes over.

The Satan’s Helpers are on the verge of lynching him when he makes “a last request.” He borrows the bartender’s pair of white platform shoes, queues up The Champs’ “Tequila” on the jukebox and hops onto the bar to perform the weirdest … dance … ever.

We’re not talking a Napoleon Dynamite-style funky white-boy workout, here. We’re talking the sort of freaky Reagan-era homoerotic spectacle the National Endowment for the Arts used to sponsor.

Flying in the face of all logic, the Tequila dance wins the gang over. They give Pee-wee his own black leather vest and chopper, and a triumphant send-off. Pee-wee, naturally, rides the chopper maybe 100 feet before crashing straight into a billboard. Classic.

Final Thoughts

Pee-wee’s Big Adventure clocks in at a breezy 90 minutes, but is densely packed with comedic gems. I’ve barely delved into the film’s treasures here. If you haven’t seen it, or just haven’t seen it in a while, check it out. Like right now. Go.

Still here? OK, fine. Consider this. As Tim Burton’s first feature, Pee-wee’s Big Adventure uncannily predicts many of his future thematic and stylistic obsessions. If you want to get all scholarly about it, you can approach the film as a sort of Rosetta Stone for unlocking the rest of Burton’s oeuvre. The seeds for everything from “Batman” and “Ed Wood” to “Sleepy Hollow” and … yes … “Sweeney Todd” are all right there.

Trust me, they are. If you don’t catch them all the first go-round, don’t worry. You will by the 100th viewing.

Click here for more Movies We Love

When I first heard that George Romero was going to remake Dario Argento’s Deep Red in 3-D, I was pissed.

My initial reaction was a typical knee-jerk lament: “Hollywood has run out of ideas.” That’s my usual statement whenever I hear that yet another classic horror film is slated for a remake.

My next reaction was a profound sadness for Romero. He’s the kind of pioneer whose films get remade — not the kind of guy who goes around recycling others’ ideas. Sure, the God of the Living Dead could use a box-office hit, but simultaneously jumping on two bandwagons (3-D and rehashed horror) seemed like a desperate act.

Under a cloud of dismay, I decided to take a shambling stroll outside to clear my head. I came across my neighbor from down the street, gnawed open his larynx, feasted on his entrails, and immediately felt better.

My mood was further brightened when I remembered that the Romero and Argento dynasties have actually had a pretty fruitful past, and this Deep Red might just be the next chapter.

After all, Argento helped produce and score Romero’s Dawn of the Dead and re-cut it for the Italian market as Zombi. And, Romero cast Argento’s daughter Asia as a sexy zombie slayer in Land of the Dead. Although Argento doesn’t seem to be involved in the new Deep Red project, I imagine he would trust his baby in Romero’s capable hands.

Besides, a late-career gig directing a remake isn’t a sign that you’re a lame duck. If you pull it off, it can even land you an Oscar. Just ask Martin Scorsese.

Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry (1974)

You know what it means when a somebody like me gets off to a bad start? *dramatically chews gum* Not a goddamn thing.

Synopsis

Washed-up stock car driver Larry (Peter Fonda) and his equally washed-up mechanic Deke (Adam Roarke) slickly execute a grocery store heist, nabbing $150,000 cash in a paper sack. Their efforts to make a clean getaway are complicated when Mary (Susan George), Larry’s one-night-stand from the night before, decides to tag along. Much hilarity, peeling of tires and crunching of metal ensues.

Why We Love It

Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry is one of those rare ’70s drive-in B-movies that stands the test of time. Although the ’70s are fondly remembered as a golden age for American filmmaking, the decade probably saw the release of about 1,000 crappy exploitation films for every Easy Rider and Raging Bull.

Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry could’ve have belonged to the former camp, but landed in the latter thanks to the passion, skill and talent of the freaks who crafted it.

F’rinstance One: Freak-in-chief Peter Fonda pours himself into the role of white-trash renegade Larry, inhabiting the part so comfortably that it seems like he’s just being himself. His performance is so effortless and un-self-concious, he makes it seem as if he’s not acting.

Obviously, that’s not the case. Compare Fonda’s Larry to his Wyatt in the aforementioned Easy Rider. They’re almost diametric opposites. Wyatt is a blissed-out noble savage. Larry is cocky, full of swagger and, maybe, a little malt liquor. He’s a sarcastic, be-mulleted nihilist with a penchant for hurling inventive and decidely ungentlemanly-like threats (Examples? How about “I’m gonna braid your tits!” or my personal favorite, “Every bone in her crotch. That’s what I’m gonna break.”).

F’rinstance Two: The aforementioned jugs and crotch belong to the titular character Mary, expertly played by British actor Susan George. You might recall George as the unfortunate wife of Dustin Hoffman — Amy — in Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs.

George’s Mary seems at first blush like a variation of her Amy: Both characters are obnoxious, strong-willed and immature. Somehow George manages to give these two similar roles a different spin. George’s Mary feels more greasy and unwholesome than her Amy. Like Larry, Mary’s a cocky and conniving opportunist. As much as Larry and Mary hate to admit it, they’re a perfect match.

F’rinstance Three: British director John Hough might not be your typical first choice to helm a deep-fried, All-American guilty pleasure like DMCL. But somehow, he was the perfect choice.

Hough is a journeyman of many genres, ranging from horror (The Legend of Hell House and American Gothic) to kids fare (Escape to and Return from Witch Mountain.) Hough’s versatility is well-suited to DMCL, which is something of a multi-genre hybrid. The first act plays like a heist film, the second act like a buddy comedy/road movie, and the third act like a balls-to-the-wall chase thriller. Amazingly, Hough manages to shepherd these disparate elements into an organic whole.

In fact, if you’re like me, you might not appreciate how expertly Hough ties the film’s recurring themes together the first time you see it. Unlike many of its B-movie contemporaries, DMCL is woven through with enough subtleties to reward repeat viewing.

Moment We Fell In Love

Why do I love to watch DMCL over and over? While most of the film is above-average popcorn-munching fare, the movie seriously ups the ante when it shifts into the endgame.

The last 25 minutes or so take place in the Sierra Walnut Patch, a fabled 50-square-mile grove cris-crossed with narrow two-lane roads. It’s full of blind intersections (at least, they’re blind if you’re blasting through them at 100-plus mph), plenty of places to hide and multitudes of cracks to slip through.

It’s the setting where Larry, Mary and Deke play a bracing game of cat-and-mouse with the increasingly frustrated local redneck authorities. It’s a cargasm of destruction, with plenty of on- and off-road action, vehicles flipping, cars jumping backwards, and even a helicopter-versus-muscle car joust. Fuckin’ badass shit, y’all.

Final Thoughts

DMCL is the kind of film today’s Hollywood can’t produce. When a big-name star signs onto a populist action flick, it’s typically a glossy, big-budget affair. Here’s a movie starring Peter Fonda just about at the height of his fame, with a budget of $2 million. Even for its time, that wasn’t big money. Jaws, which would establish the mold for future Hollywood summer action flicks, was released the year before and cost $7 million to make. The freewheeling spirit of DMCL is being carried by indie filmmakers now.

Another reason DMCL fucking kicks ass (you’re gonna have to take my keyboard away if you want me to stop raving about this film) is its courageous ending. Without revealing the twist, let me assure you it’s the sort of jagged edge that would get polished to blandness in today’s risk-averse, test-screening-happy, studio culture.

Because Dirty Mary, Crazy Larry is such a defiant middle-finger in the face of conformity, it’s gotta be one of those Movies We Love.

Heavy Metal (1981)

Oh, wow … good Nyborg!

Synopsis
This animated anthology film, which pays tribute to Heavy Metal magazine, consists of nine risque comedy, sci-fi, action, fantasy and horror stories. Each story is loosely connected to the others by a single ubervillain — a talking green orb called the Loc-Nar.

Why We Love It
Unlike many movies lauded by aging stoners, Heavy Metal actually makes for pleasant viewing while dead sober.

All right, it’s primarily pleasant for viewers of the male persuasion. It appeals to base manly urges, showcasing guys with big guns and gals with bigger knockers, fighting and fucking to a cheesy classic rock soundtrack. Heavy Metal didn’t even try to throw feminists a bone. Unless you count the tale of Taarna, who’s literally a *cough* well-developed female protagonist … who transforms the act of girding herself for battle into a complete unmotivated strip-tease.

That, of course, is the point. Heavy Metal is an unapologetic, politically incorrect ode to just about every imaginable guilty pleasure that makes hetero male life worth living. Vintage Corvettes? Check. Voluptuous babes? Check. Mindless aggression? You got it. Recreational chemical abuse? Yup. Would you like a side of airborne zombies with that?

Capping the experience off is the fact it’s entirely animated. In a post-Family Guy, post-Adult Swim, universe, this doesn’t seem like a big deal. But at the time of its release, the prevailing wisdom in America was that cartoons were strictly for kids. Sure, you had anomalies like Ralph Bakshi’s pot-smoking horndog, Fritz the Cat. But even Fritz and friends were beholden to their cuddly cartoon predecessors. They were essentially Disney’s id.

Heavy Metal owes very little to Disney in both style and substance, instead bringing to life illustrations and stories by horror and sci-fi visionaries such as frequent Stephen King-collaborator Bernie Wrightson, Alien creator Dan O’Bannon, and French cyberpunk pioneer Moebius.

Each segment in the anthology is presented with a different aesthetic, from the surrealism of the opening title sequence, to the superhero caricature of Captain Sternn.

Heavy Metal also showcases stunning examples of rotoscoping, an old-school technique that’s something of a spiritual predecessor to today’s motion-capture animation. Models (of both the badass vehicle and curvaceous Amazon variety) were filmed on a set, then traced frame-by-frame onto film. The result is at once otherworldy and lifelike.

Moment We Fell In Love
Heavy Metal is, of course, more than the name of a nerdy fetish magazine and film. It’s also a genre of music that, oddly enough, is somewhat under represented on this movie’s soundtrack.

Ah … the soundtrack. In some ways, this is the true connective tissue that binds this film’s disparate parts. More than the admittedly thin framing device of the Loc-Nar, the common thread between each of the segments is a balls-out, greasy-mullet-flappin’-in-the-wind musical accompaniment. To call Donald Fagen, Stevie Nicks, Devo and Journey “heavy metal” is beyond stretching the term. In fact, to call most of the music here good is really stretching it. But, it just fits the retro-macho aesthetic of this film perfectly, as a set of mag wheels and whitewalls just fit an egg-yolk yellow ’78 Camaro.

Time for an aside for all of you who are trying to bring Journey back. I don’t care if “Don’t Stop Believin’” was used to great ironic effect in The Sopranos. Journey still sucks and nothing you do or say will ever change that fact.

And yet, as a testament to the power of Heavy Metal to perfectly marry sight and sound, I must now sheepishly admit the moment I fell in love with this film.

The moment actually came some time after I first saw the movie. I heard “Open Arms” on the radio and it brought to mind an animated love scene starring a blue-eyed, red-haired knockout who boasted a stunning rack. Thanks to Heavy Metal, whenever I hear that godawful Journey ballad, I can mentally retreat to a special happy place.

Final Thoughts
I know I’m not alone in loving Heavy Metal. In fact, I’m in pretty good company. A conspicuously all-male pack of celebrated filmmakers love it, too. Luc Besson’s The Fifth Element borrows heavily from Heavy Metal for its characters, themes, set, costume and prop design. David Fincher, James Cameron, Guillermo del Toro, Zack Snyder and Gore Verbinski are all itching to bring Heavy Metal glory to the silver screen one more time.

And I’ve been craving some more of that unapologetic badassedness like a purple-skinned fiend jonesing for his Plutonian Nyborg.

Check out more Movies We Love.

During a Q&A session at Minneapolis’ Crypticon horror convention this weekend, guest Margot Kidder revealed she’s writing a script for what could be a badass chick flick.

The revelation was quite a treat for this Kidder fan. I’ve enjoyed her work since I was in Superman Underoos and loved the shit out of her performances in a trio of ’70s horror classics: Sisters, Black Christmas and The Amityville Horror.

Kidder said her script-in-progress is “about a group of women helping an elderly woman get out of the hospital to die somewhere nice and peaceful, without doctors around her.”

The women conspire to smuggle their friend out of the hospital and spirit her away to a remote cabin, where she can die amidst nature. Sounds like it could be a depressing-ass flick, but Kidder described it thusly: “It’s sort of a romp and a middle-aged babe sisterhood kind of thing.”

“It’s about aging and fears we all have about aging,” she added.

Now 61, Kidder said she’s loved getting older. “It’s not terrible getting old. It’s kind of fun. And you can say anything whatever you want because — hey — you’ve been there.”

I’ll admit, Kidder’s script (which she said she’s working on with a number of partners) doesn’t sound like the kind of movie I would ordinarily see.

I mean, hell, I was at the horror convention for a reason. To paraphrase Chuck D, I just can’t go for that Steel Magnolias shit. But I would love to see Kidder’s film for two reasons:

A) I’m a hopeless fanboy,

and

B) Kidder, in every on-screen interview I’ve seen and in the Crypticon Q&A, has demonstrated such a sassy, spitfire sense of humor that I can’t imagine this movie turning out as some pansy-ass sentimental cheesefest.

So there you have it. For the first time ever, this manliest-of-manly-men is actually eagerly awaiting a chick-flick-in-development.

Before you know it, I’ll be growing bitch tits. Damn.

Xanadu (1980)

A million lights are dancing and there you are: A shooting star!

Synopsis

Frustrated artist Sonny Malone (Michael Beck) is stuck in a soul-sucking corporate job. He meets Kira (Olivia Newton-John), a Greek muse sent to Earth to encourage him to chase his dream to build a really awesome roller disco. She introduces him to retired big-band leader Danny Macguire (Gene Kelly), who’s got the moves and the money to make it all happen. But the plan goes awry when mortal Sonny and divine Kira fall in love.

Why We Love It

For the better part of two decades, admitting you loved Xanadu was a sure-fire way to get a surprise kick-in-the-nuts from the nearest film snob. At least, that was true for guys. If you were a girl, said film snobs settled for a stiff right jab to your ovaries.

Why the hostility? Well, pretty much since its release, Xanadu has been maligned as one the worst films ever. It helped inspire the creation of the infamous Razzie Awards (nominated for seven Golden Raspberries, Robert Greenwald took home the Razzie for Worst Director). Arriving just two years after the phenomenally profitable Grease, its catastrophic commercial and critical failure sounded the death knell for the Hollywood musical.

But the fuel Xanadu gives its detractors is the very reason its fans love it so. The plot is absurd. Who cares? It’s really not much sillier than some of Hollywood’s most cherished musicals. And the pacing is far snappier than that of such highly revered gems as Meet Me in St. Louis or Les Girls.

Xanadu marks legendary entertainer Gene Kelly’s final onscreen song-and-dance performance. Some lament that his last hurrah found him strutting around in a loud zoot suit and romping around inside a giant pinball machine. But, let’s face it. Xanadu was not Kelly’s goofiest hour. We’re talking about a guy who wasn’t above a good custard pie fight (The Pirate) or tap-dancing around with trash can lids on his feet (It’s Always Fair Weather). Xanadu finds the then-67-year-old hoofer in fine form. He’s laid-back, charming and clearly having a good time with his young co-stars.

The music of Xanadu, like much late ’70s and early ’80s mainstream pop, is a matter of taste. I can tolerate New Wave trash and pre-MTV Olivia Newton-John in limited doses, and this film showcases some of the more instantly hummable examples of the breed. I love the bubblegum bombast of ELO, which this film delivers in spades. Also, Xanadu pioneered the more recent trend toward pop-song oriented musicals. Before Xanadu, most musical soundtracks were firmly rooted in the old-school Vaudeville/Broadway stage tradition. Xanadu was ahead of its time, predating other pop-based musicals such as Mamma Mia! and Jersey Boys by more than 20 years.

One element of Xanadu that hasn’t aged so well are the ’80s fashions. There are too many examples to cite here, but the most iconic are the ridiculous leg warmers Kira sports in almost every scene. They would be lame if she only wore them once, but they’re omnipresent to the point where one wonders if director Greenwald didn’t have some weird fetish for cotton-clad calves. Kira even wears them after being transformed into an animated bird. Come on! Can her legs really be that cold (just from the knees down, of course) all the time?

If it sounds like I’m ripping on the Movie I Love, well, I am. Part of the joy of Xanadu is it’s such a pure, shameless and earnest expression of cheese that you can simultaneously laugh with it and at it. You can MST3K your way through the whole thing while secretly (or not-so-secretly) enjoying it on a fundamental level.

Moment We Fell in Love

It’s hard to separate a single element of Xanadu that made me fall so hard for it. As a child, just watching the baffling but awesome pre-credit sequence — with its flying saucer bleeping and blooping its way around the Universal Studios globe — was enough to give me a chill.

As I’ve gotten older, I can now appreciate the not-so-subtle homoerotic subtext. It doesn’t take much imagination to see Danny Macguire as Sonny Malone’s would-be gay sugar daddy. After all, why would Danny inexplicably front all the money and do all the hard work in bringing the titular roller disco to fruition, and then offer to split the profit with Sonny 50-50? Sonny barely lifts a finger and he’s got an elderly bachelor eagerly throwing tons of money at him. Hmm.

I guess the one thing about Xanadu that’s always kept me coming back is its spectacular finale. ON-J is alternately resplendently tacky as she morphs through a medley of costume changes (u¨berfringed cowgirl, tiger-striped-and-mini-skirted vixen, glittering tinsel goddess), but she’s always irresistibly cute.

There. I said it. The root of my love for Xanadu starts with my lifelong crush on its safe-as-milk but totally hot star.

Final Thoughts

I’d be remiss if I didn’t give props to the people who’ve helped keep the memory of Xanadu alive and kickin’ in the 21st century.

First, a word about my sexuality. I’m a straight, married guy who has never tasted dick — and never wants to. Yeah, I enjoy a good Chicago-style hot dog with all the fixins — onions, peppers, pickle spear and relish — but that’s not even in the same ballpark. Not even the same fuckin’ sport, pal.

So, I’ll admit I was little put off when I first discovered my cherished childhood keepsake had been co-opted as a gay cult classic. I didn’t feel gay watching Xanadu as kid. I just thought it kicked ass.

But, if someone hadn’t carried a flaming torch for Xanadu all these years, it very well could’ve been lost to obscurity. If not for its strong camp following, we wouldn’t have seen a deluxe DVD reissue of the film, and we certainly wouldn’t have seen a critically acclaimed Broadway musical adaptation.

Thanks to them, the place where nobody dared to go is now “the love that we came to know.” We call it Xanadu.

Pierre Morel (best known to those who still insist on calling them “freedom fries” as the director of Taken) is slated to helm an action/espionage thriller set in Tokyo.

Variety sums up the plot of said unnamed flick thusly: “Story follows a CIA operative, stationed in Japan but on the verge of retirement, who is ordered to carry out a final mission. He finds himself caught in the middle of an international conspiracy.”

The takeaway message here — and in Taken — is that CIA agents never really retire. They’re just put on ice for awhile until it’s time to crack some muthafuckin’ heads.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t see how this can be anything but good news. For starters, anything associated with Japan is instantly awesome (see: Hello Kitty, Audition and the Datsun B210 (yes, the B stands for Badass).

Second, the fight scenes and overall pace of Taken were pants-shittingly great. Morel pushed the violence into hard PG-13 territory with aplomb, always suggesting more gore than we actually saw. That’s the mark of a great visual storyteller. He knows how to milk what’s not shown to thrill the audience.

If there’s any quibble for me about Morel’s style, it’s this: The brother needs to figure out how to present car chases. A good car chase (and this goes for you too, Marc Fucking Forster) does not consist of a spastic assemblage of shaky close-ups. When there’s a car chase on, I like to actually see who’s driving what and what the fuck’s going on.

I think both Morel and Forster could stand a good talking-to from the likes of Michael Bay, Justin Lin and Zombie John Frankenheimer.

But like I said, that’s just a quibble. Don’t mind me when I start a-quibblin’. Quibble. Quibble. Quibble. *BELCH* Quibble.

Hey. Don’t laugh. Kidder is awesome and adds instant horror cred to this sequel-to-a-not-too-shabby-remake. Kidder had a life before her goofy drug-fueled antics earned her an unauthorized cameo on The Family Guy, you know.

She was best known for starring opposite Christopher Reeve in the classic Superman flicks of yore, but Kidder also starred in three of the finest horror movies from the ‘70s: Sisters, Black Christmas and The Amityville Horror.

Considering what a debt the whole slasher film genre owes to Black Christmas, it’s nice touch on Zombie’s part to cast Kidder his latest gorefest. And, in what could be construed as twisted irony, ShockTillYouDrop reports she’ll play Laurie Strode’s therapist.

Go, Margot, go.