Thursday, February 15, 2018

Ride the Snake: Boris Karloff's HEART OF DARKNESS (1958)

Recently discovered hiding deep in the Amazon Prime--an interior so vast and tangled one never knows what serpent jewel is coiled below the most innocent flower thumbnail cover: a 1958 TV adaptation of Joseph Conrad's HEART OF DARKNESS starring Boris Karloff as Kurtz. For a fan of both the actor and the tale, it's quite a find: Archetypal, potent, pungent, primitive in every definition of the word (picture quality as savage as the setting), acted in a kind of beatnik cafe dream poetry shorthand, following streams far indeed from Conrad's estuary, it nonetheless sings the masculine psyche electric, turning the journey of Marlow upriver to Kurtz into a kind gone-rogue Boy's Life anti-colonialist/pro-incest version of Alice in Wonderland as performed by the residents of some remote mental institution. Some might consider it unwatchable due to terrible image quality and stagy overacting, but for those of us "in the know," one look into Boris Karloff's wild eyes as he dances  shirtless in a jungle leaf crown while a circle of cannibals thump on drums, shake skull rattles, stab goats, and wiggle long feather or vine skirts that look up close in the unshaded video quality like fire (or radar-jamming window), and we know we're home. Add a shirtless wild-eyed Roddy McDowell as Marlow, demanding the whip and being branded with a hot "K", feeding off Karloff's crazy energy, matching his performance art hysteria beat-for-beat, like if Page and Plant dueling high notes in "Dazed and Confused" was mixed with a family trying to be heard on the tarmac of a busy airport. "I celebrate my cruelty!," they shout. "I celebrate my hatred!"

Been there, bro. I hereby claim this HEART as wild and true. "I celebrate my lust!"

I celebrate the generosity of Amazon Prime and this great deal they seem to have made with 'Sprockets,' a vast library of long-neglected (unrestored) exploitation movies from the 50s-70s, many of them too damaged to even be on a Something Weird compilation. I celebrate the genius of mixing the potted plant jungle lurid sadism and miscegenation fantasy of Kongo, and White Woman with O'Neill's folk play existentialism (Emperor Jones), undergraduate avant garde theatricality (ala the old Pratt Institutionalized Theater, here) and Greek-myth analyst-couch bird-swarm beach-boy maenad rending ala Tennessee Williams / Hitchcock. I celebrate this Heart's mix of Shavian satire, Kafka-esque double talk, Maugham 'Victorian morality dissolving in the jungle heat'-ism, and expressionist dream poem segues. This isn't the Congo of Conrad, with its firsthand observed landscape and anthropological detail, but an inner Oz/Wonderland for sexually repressed British sailors desperately praying away their incestuous desires. And no matter how intense things get, the magic coins in Marlow's pocket can whisk him home as fast as ruby slipper Thorazine.

I'll confess, growing up watching Shelly Duvall's Fairy Tale Theater with my parents, then studying Jung in college, (and finding my own magic doorways to weird worlds, if you know what I mean), have perhaps left me predisposed to love something as woebegone as this old Heart. It's similar to the way I love The Love Witch or Valerie and her Week of Wonders, or Lemorra: A child's Tale of the Supernatural. as much for the flaws and seams as their sense of wonder and mythic resonance. I love the Disney fairy tales too, but they're so well done we don't get the ceremonial magick element, the Brechtian disconnect that lets you think, hmm next solstice maybe I'll get asked to play the Wicked Son, or white witch, or the God of spring harvest. In these films' crude staginess comes the surreal element of dreams, which often appear slightly 'off' as if your unconscious couldn't afford a real art director.

Unlike those feminine-based myths, reflecting anxiety about marriage and sex, this is the repressed hammy male version, reflecting going off to college and having your first acid trip and orgiastic sex experience in the same night and feeling like you just opened up from a black and white cocoon to a prismatic Technicolor butterfly. That said, this stays black and white, down in the basement mythic landscape of the 1933 Paramount live action Alice (see: Reeling and Writhing) rather than Disney. It's about going off on safari and expecting to find the good father (maybe even dead), and finding instead the primal father, the jungle devolving him along a mythic reverse axis, from Zeus back to Cronus, from color back to black, from HD to fuzzy primordial analog fuzziness, bounced across the arial dupes of time like a leaden skipping stone.

Subtle, pretty color shit wouldn't work in this jungle --dreams are often in black and white anyway, and of poor quality image-wise, as your third eye antenna can't always get a good picture. I can handle poor quality black and white much better than poor quality color, which tends to be washed out and depressing. In this case the rough signal works: there's an Everclear-smudge stained charcoal sketch madness at play, brought out by the ancient tape artifacts (the grayscale has become... unsound). The weird distortions and deep black outlining give it all a ghostly inked-in appearance as if from some spy camera left in a cavern on the moon crossed with a smudgy courtroom sketch witnessed by a drunk in the throes of DTs. The result: neither 50s TV playhouse drama nor beatnik theater improv, but a mix of both, as if witnessed by another planet who don't quite get that we're only 'pretending' and really aren't this savage. Maybe far-away aliens are viewing this from sixty odd light years away (it was broadcast in 1958 as part of Playhouse 90). Their enthralled anthropologists will wonder whether this is some ritualistic indigenous ceremony, a filmed inauguration, live, like an Olympics ceremony re-enacting of ancient rites, on ancient video equipment, as valuable a relic as a cave drawing or Sumerian tablet. 

The late-80s men's movement, ala Iron John, pointed out that initiation rites, from boy to man, such a key part of all indigenous tribe mythologies, being so absent from our own (outside of the military and frat hazing) has contributed greatly to our national crisis of arrested male development. We don't televise wild initiations into the terrors of the unconscious self, but Heart of Darkness suggests maybe we should. After all, like any other televised event, the trials of the masculine initiation rite are mostly all show. We only get to find that out, if we put on the masks and do the dance, and face the idea that immanent torture via antler piercing, beer chugging, paddling, or soap-pillow case midnight beating, might soon be upon us.

As in the Off-Off Broadway dream poetry tradition, scenes in this Heart of Darkness are connected by childhood nursery rhymes ("Bobby Shafto's / gone to sea"), further making this all seem like a long LSD trip back in the day when it was legal and done on a psychiatrist's couch surrounded by giant potted African fronds. Maybe the sound of children playing outside the shrink's window became like tribal chanting reflecting the ebb and flow of inner psychosis, the old neuroses dissolving off the patient's soul like a serpent's old skin. It that skin isn't shed, a very bad trip can result, as it does for Marlow, for quite a spell. McDowell's repressed and unhinged character, in refusing to open himself to his (adopted!) sister's carnal desire, becomes a hurricane eye around which scenes revolve in ever tighter loops of madness. Each new encounter is with a stranger than the last, until Marlow slowly peels his 'false Buddhist' monk robe skin off until all that's left is a wild overacting, shirtless, bug-eyed loon, cracking a whip to keep time.

Starting with a ship's hold wherein he's forced to crush a rat in his bare hands (like salty shipmates always be making faux-Buddhists do), through to his returning home alive and reborn to his lady love/sister Maria (Inga Swenson), McDowell's acting is either terrible or brilliant or both, holding the whole thing together with a kind of magical foot-to-the-gas madness, reminding me how deft, charismatic and hilarious he was as Tuesday Weld's manager in Lord Love a Duck (there, as here, never stealing a scene but rather using and reflecting the energy of the actors around him, then mirroring it back and raising it again, forming a slow burn duel of ham mania).

Inga Swenson's Nordic alien DNA captured via early TV signal
being non-receptive to the alien cover signal (as seen in THEY LIVE)

Indeed in addition to the Conrad text (we do get some of the original dialogue, including "the horror, the horror") there's almost a greatest hits of dissolving theatrical sanity going on. For example, when we first meet Maria, she's running drunk and barefoot through the snow trying to join a throng of passing holiday carolers, conjuring an array of booze and/or loneliness-wracked Tennessee Williams heroines ranging from those of the Glass Menagerie all the way up to The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone ("I have to keep reminding myself you're my brother," she purrs after a long welcome home kiss on Marlow's neck). Though he's clearly into it, Marlow feels compelled to run off and find Kurtz (her dad / his guardian) before he winds up in bed with his own adopted sister. She gives him some coins for the bus home, and they become his magical talisman, the breadcrumb trail ruby slipper. It seems rather forced but it does reflect the realization pulsing through the production that this is mythic freestyle, not a faithful adaptation of the text. There's a parallel in the coins too with the 'parachute' of the psychedelic trip, i.e. a handy Thorazine or--failing that--a Xanax, or--failing that--lots of alcohol or Nyquil. "Pull the string!" The rip cord, the umbilical deep sea diver oxygen line.

The rest of the film is a progression of weird archetypal energies: a 'Before the Law'-esque wife of a disappeared trading company envoy; a blind 'crone' (Cathleen Nesbitt - left) in Queen Victoria /Virgin Mary headdress, signs Marlow up while loudly encouraging him to also join "The Society for the Repression of Savage Custom"; the company doctor (Oscar Homolka - below) measures Marlow's skull against those of previous trading company representatives for comparison (he thinks head size changes after "you go out there to that frenzy, that solitude, that swamp of obscene temptation where there's no policeman, where no voice of a kind neighbor can whisper a public opinion, (ala "don't touch the B in room 237").

The transitions are telling in capturing the beatnik theatricality at the heart of darkness and psychedelic transfiguration: the doctor pushes Marlow through a door into what seems like a storage closet but is actually the jungle, so that he and the old woman seem to be looking down at Marlow from the safety of a small window in a tree, like parents dumping their freshman son out of a passing car onto the campus lawn at the start of fall semester, then speeding off.

Now, in the jungle, things devolve quick: cannibals almost eat him alive before he's saved by the estimable Mr. Robertson (Richard Haydn), the Trading Company 'accountant.' The complete opposite of repressed Marlow, and without a shred of the humanity left, Robertson has embraced the moral twilight and encourages Marlow to do the same: "I don't judge anything, so I don't suffer." He offers Marlow a chance to get out his aggression with a proffered whip, and notes that he'll have to whip the native slaves all the way back inland to Kurtz's compound anyway, that he should give into the madness of the place, but Marlow--his resolve ever weakening--cannot, refusing even a Pim's cup with homegrown cucumber. We can feel the ghost of W.S. Burroughs stir sluggishly like an opium ghost in our bloodstream with the appearance of this Benway-esque character: "No drinking, no violence - you're really quite an example of something or other aren't you?" Robertson says. Assuring Marlow he has nothing but admiration for Kurtz's methods in dealing with his cannibal slaves ("he sends them off all fat and saucy with a meal of two-legged pig, which I think is a charming way of describing what they eat. [1]"), Robertson is our first example of a man who's kept his British detachment by surrendering fully to madness. Marlow cannot, he'd rather hang the chain on himself and beg to be whipped like an anguished penitent.  He's combusting from the inside out, being devoured by the Congo, while Robertson isn't even bothered by flies. 

Eartha Kitt (left) shows up as Kurtz's silken feline queen, Maria, as (we learn) all Kurtz's women are named, reflecting his own incestuous obsession, she's ordered to get the coins from him, as if a holy grail relic that might free him from his own trap. Give me those slippers!

Of course in this surrealism-on-the sleeve riffing, it's not necessary to glean whether or not there's actual incest or desire between Kurtz and his daughter --this is pure psychosexual dream theater, laying its surrealistic tells far more bluntly than Conrad (in the jungle there's no time for subtlety). Writer Stewart Stern clearly uses the source text as diving board rather than a podium, he's interested in accessing certain deep Medea / devouring mothers, diving for coins tossed in by long ago Phoenician sailors, swallowed by the depths of the Kali-tentacled maternal behemoth. It's Conrad the way Coltrane's "Favorite Things" is Rogers and Hammerstein.

As we get closer and closer upriver to Kurtz the mythic resonance gets more and more abstract, the acting hammier, the jungle blurred, static-outlined by the primitive video which makes people's eyes and teeth seemed outlined in thick magic marker. When we finally do get to Karloff's Kurtz, his eyes are wild - sticking through the sludge of the image, fitting perfectly the madness of his character, hideously distorted and blurred, like the final freeze frame of James Caan victorious and subhuman in Rollerball, or a Francis Bacon portrait that's been left out in the rain. He looks like he's been brushing with charcoal, eyes bugging on acid, flesh dissolving into the skin-shedding aura only the very high can see. Flanked by leopard skins doubling as shotgun holes through copper plates, he's a scarier children's book monster than Maurice Sendak could e'er imagine. Following him to the sacred circle for a wild man dance seems akin to jumping through a giant thresher machine. 

Putting other Kurtz's to shame (Welles' radio show version included, Brando of course being the worst), Karloff seizes the chance to really ham it to the rafters and thank god he did, for anything less would have been lost in the splotchy Bacon/rain smudginess of the distorted video image. As it is, both his and Roddy's eyes--seemingly outlined in black magic marker--really pop out, like mad scientists in the peak of a DOM trip, that bold 13-hour mouth at the froth from which no traveler returns sanely without a jingling secret pocket coin, Xanax, or a ("welcome to Annexia") silver bullet for the Emperor Jones' William Tell routine.

It's worth comparing this unique Heart alongside two other mythopoetically dense Stern screenplays: Rebel without a Cause (for Nicholas Ray) and The Last Movie (for Ray's friend Dennis Hopper). Each has a special fascination with ancient tribal initiation rites finding root in the modern era. There's the Rebel 'chickee run', or the way the Bolivian natives in Movie actually hurt each other and jump off roofs in literalized imitation of movie stuntmen; and the terror conjured by a sexually voracious female on the male psyche (Natalie Wood's daddy issues; Julia Adams' cougar in Last Movie). 

That last theme is turned into a fairy tale magic talisman for both Kurtz in Marlow, both the impetus for their escape to the Congo and the magic key for their return. The yearning of voracious, unbalanced Maria reaches out to both men at all times, holding them in a loose orbit around her via symbolic totems: her coins for Marlow, her portrait medallion for Kurtz (like a pagan charm -her image becomes the yin in the center of all this frantic performance art yang). Both men are driven to flee home to escape her, only to find representatives with her same name (the queen). Their pronouncement "I celebrate my lust!"-- in conjunction with the talk of 'cutting loose' in a land far from the prying eyes of puritanical neighbors--serves as a reminder that the 'repression of savage instincts abroad' (as in the Puritans, Rev. Davison in Rain) always fail, the heat and lack of options devolve the men into sex tourists: "Behold my surrender! Behold my marriage with abomination!" Marlow snaps the whip;  Kurtz leads the chant; the drums pound; the flames heating the "K" brand and the wiggling feather/taffeta skirts and headdresses all overlap and become one blurry rain of braided energy. The way the natives clatter their homemade percussion instruments and wave their crude knives evokes Suddenly Last Summer (released the same year) and anticipates The Birds,  which attack as per Mrs. Brenner's unconscious bidding, just as Suddenly's beach boys as per Violet Venable's (rather than their sons slip out from under their wings). Kurtz represents the male equivalent of this Madea/ devouring mother, he's the primal father writ large- mirroring our modern cult leaders like David Koresh or Jim Jones, preferring to wipe out his flock rather than be taken back to civilization, ruling with violence and keeping all the women to himself, like a lion.

I should note that, as with the source text, there's a rampant racism at work here: all the African natives--except the queen--are depicted as savage childlike cannibals who respect only brute force (the whip). At the same time, we should always remember that this jungle is in the mind of a repressed virgin white man who's never been, and so projected his id onto its exotic natives. Well, isn't that what racism is, you say? True, I retort, but it's even a theme of this weird adaptation that only by expressing it can we exorcise it. Openly celebrating his racist evil and insane lust frees Marlow from its toxic grip. Once made conscious and expressed--as in art therapy--the repressed desire evaporates, the way lust evaporates in the minutes after orgasm. Finally, he can give himself a hug (above) and look, through his dilated pupils, towards the finally-revealed heaven. The repressive force within him is spent, the vile racist worldview can dissolve with a ruby slipper heel-tap.

At the same time, it wouldn't suit Marlow's character is to get all preachy and self-righteously racial activist now that he's seen some sort of light. What can even the most liberal of white authors know of blackness? To try and Stanley Kramer it up would kill the larger-than-life messiness of myth. Myth needs to be neither believable nor logical, true or safe, (nor -as here - even in focus or frame), PC or un-PC, what it needs to do is resonate below the line of consciousness, go deeper than mere truth can reach, provide a kind of trapdoor access to the basement of the mind, to open up the vents and allow for temperature equilibrium. Just as the African tribesmen surrounding Kurtz use ceremonial masks to express their demons rather than bury them, this primitive TV broadcast of Heart of Darkness spews forth an admission of racist evil and in the process exorcises it, temporarily at least, even though it can't really do anything with its liberated outlook.

That's why it helps in a way too that this production is so poor and overwrought --the totemic demon mask need not seem real, but almost something to laugh at, a cathartic confession rather than denial, the head of Medusa reflected in the Perseus shield of satire. So let us celebrate our evil and above all celebrate the ability to revisit weird-ass shit like Playhouse 60's Heart of Darkness, celebrate a humanity that would allow this dark plumbing of its darkest depths. It exhibits bravery in going--as my friends and I used to say--"for distance" rather than polish, decorum or clarity, for "riding the snake" rather than scorching it in terror, or containing it a terrarium. By contrast to its messy brilliance, our live TV events today are tepid musicals, toothless as a long-caged rheumy lion. We won't see the like of rough unhinged dream theater 'interpretations' like this Heart again, outside perhaps of "Le Bad Theater" on SNL reruns (2) and we will continue to suffer for its absence, just as the lack of male initiation trauma (3) it so resonantly depicts inevitably outs in everything from school shootings to alt-right trolling, and all the other sad last ditch gasps of boys who never found their hideous dark father's compound, and so never saw the sad end game of their own dark hypocrisy, or tasted the ecstasy of feeling their anxious flesh rendered by a thousand little beaks, until all that's left is skybound.

"even the jungle wanted him dead"
It's also on youtube!

1. "two-legged pig" also known as "long pig" =  human flesh. 
2.  though there was a TV movie version in 1993 with John Malkovich and Tim Roth,  it was faithful to the text to the point of sterility.
3. Initiation rites do exist in some modern organizations (frats, etc.) but outside of, say, the Navy Seals, they lack sufficient prolonged traumatic endurance for the facilitation of a true psychic change. The agony of child birth makes a mother of a woman, the agony of the initiation rite 'second' birth makes a boy a man. "No pain, no gain" is no mere gym mantra but a sad underwriter of all human maturity. Would it were otherwise!!

Thursday, February 08, 2018

Square in the Maenads: 68 KILL

Trent Haaga's darker-than-black noir comedy posits, early on, that even within the cartoonish, exaggerated post-grindhouse-fueled Alamo Drafthouse-bound renegade spirit popularized in the mid-90s by Tarantino--there are rules of engagement yet to be broken. Even for characters who--like the assassins of Banquo---are so incensed by the vile blows and buffets of the world they are reckless what they do, there are hot babe messes more reckless still. For hard-working squaresville lovestruck septic man Chip (Matthew Gray Gubler), roped by crazy hottie stripper girlfriend Liza (AnnaLynne McCord) into robbing one of her johns (of $68,000 - hence the title), that line of relative decorum is obliterated fairly early on, but... 

I can't say more, for to spoil even one twist or turn on this wild ride is to lessen its blunt force impact. Suffice it to say, for we fans of strong assertive women (those who score along the Hawks-Meyer GF spectrum rather than the 'strong-willed mother-type' Ford-Spielberg curve), this bonanza of badassery is--especially in the time of plunging markets and collapsing governments--something we desperately need. Why wait for a normal woman to be brutalized before turning savage? That, to me, is sexist, inferring a woman needs a man's cruelty to light her inner bomb's fuse. 

From hence forth let mentally remembering the numerical combination of your client's safe suffice as a sufficient excuse for unleashing your inner shredding and devouring maenad upon him. McCord is so turned on by his death throes it looks almost like she's inhaling his departing soul like a hit off the crack pipe.

Liza with her weird brother Dwayne (Sam Eidson)


When I was around five years-old, I was--for a brief and intense few weeks--obsessed with the dubbed Japanese anime cartoon SPEED RACER. It wasn't because I loved it but because it was the only thing on, every day after school like clockwork. I watched it, but I hated the good guy, 'Speed', and hated his stupid monkey and mustachioed sidekick and their ridiculous Pizza guy striped caps. I found it unfair that the way-cooler bad guys (always in  black shades) never won a single goddamned race. I was too young to know the game was fixed. I kept sticking around because I figured just once the cool guys in black just had to get lucky.

Every day I'd await it on afternoon TV, sure that this one time the guys in black would win. My fury mounted as the weeks passed. 

Finally my mom, sensing my mounting frustration, explained the terrible truth - the good guy always won. The game was rigged. I felt sick to my stomach and never watched SPEED RACER again. 

I mention that memory to explain the euphoria that overtook me--and audiences around the world--25 or so years later, when the murderous outlaws of True Romance, Bound, The Last Seduction, Natural Born Killers, and Pulp Fiction started winning. Surviving past the credits used to be all but impossible for gangsters and murderers --it was a given they'd be shot to pieces or hauled off in chains. Beloved 80s-early 90s crime characters like Scarface, Baldwin in Miami Blues, Thelma and Louise, and Walken's King of New York had all had to die at the end - even though it was clear the cool directors hated this pre-ordained (by ancient censorial codes) necessity. In the early 90s, old ideas of moral code collapsed at the feet of Tarantino, Rodriguez, Stone, Dahl, Armitage, and Tony Scott. It was a victory not only for crime but for the haters of cliche. That killers always pay for their crimes was a rule made by preachy moralists who think audiences are too stupid to get that this is all just a movie, that 'rooting' for bad guys will make us go out and commit crimes - monkey see, monkey do. Showing cool gangsters living past the credits, reaping the rewards of their crimes, implied good faith in audience reactions. It's that same faith hat's paradoxically inherent in the low bar sense of morality we find in 68 Kill.

We don't get that vibe so much anymore, the feeling of cinematic killing as a kind of liberation from moral conscription --we're too crushed up in PC remorse. All our big screen killers tend to be pedophile shadow people now. Cinematic criminal sexuality is no longer 'fun' --it's a two-way prison, where a victim of childhood abuse grows up to abuse children. Crime has lost its sexy bubble gun snap. Sinematic violence is now 'felt' with a sickening bone-break chill rather than as a pop culture splash page. We had Spring Breakers a few years back, and occasionally a Tarantino film, but where can badass alpha bitch psycho monster hotties go to unfurl their random violent urge flags these days, I mean really unfurl them, not in some half-assed tough day at the office meltdown but genuine homicidal merriment? 

There was a villainess in Wonder Woman --all scarred up and ready to go--but then comes the cop-out: she turns out to be just a love-starved, disfigured chemist gone awry. Where are the Kali archetypes? Where is the Red Queen? Where is the Catwoman who revels in her diabolism the way Julie Newmar used to, rather than Anne Hathaway versions. the types that set about morosely stealing just to help her sister, or exonerate her record, or help some blind nephew go to Juilliard? Where are the Bridget Gregorys, the Tura Satanas? The Angels of Death?

Don't sweat it, man -- they're here.

Played by AnnaLynne McCord, main psycho stripper/killer Liza is a super confident, cash-hungry predator with a wild lion's mane of hair and a live-for-today attitude that's all the better for being underplayed rather than hammed up. She savors the death rattles of her victims rather innocently but seems to actually care about Chip, to forgive him his trespasses, to look forward to taking him out for a wild flight from Dodge with a stolen bankroll and maybe finally use the "L" word back at him. In her uninhibitedly sexual and violent way she could be who either Vanessa Hudgens or Ashley Benson from Spring Breakers grow into if they drop out of college and move inland to continue their life of sex and violent crime, becoming more and more nympho-homicidal, each taking in a cute lost puppy boyfriends who idealize them as perfect angels. Evoking the composed beauty of the femme fatales in The Last Seduction, GirlyGun Crazy (or more recently, Amber Heard in All the Boys Love Mandy Lane and Machete Kills), with the stripper-gone-legitimately-wild carnality of one of the go-go dancing drag stripper threesome in Faster Pussycat, Kill! Kill!, Liza is a keeper you'll want to bring home to terrorize mom with, or at least savor her every line of dialogue over multiple viewings.

And she's only one of a whole parade of amok, strong female alpha bitches to come: freed hostage Violet (Alisha Boe) lures Chip into a playful team sing-a-long to "Pop Pop / Pop Music", and later Sheila Vand (the lead in A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night) takes over as the psychotic emo chick Monica, the cooler-than-thou deadpan gravel-voiced punk alpha bitch ringleader of a small meth and prostitution and whatever else pays the dealer and landlord gang of trailer-dwelling nutcases, including great turns by Hallie Grace Bradley, who dryly impels Chip to go down on her in back of the convenience store in exchange for information on his missing car, and Lucy Faust as an expertly cackling young tweaker called Skinny. 

Vand's Monica is so good with that low register druggy southern drawl it's like she talks and moves via an inner green slime-soaked slinky tied to a high voltage electric hum. She alone would make the film a must. And like every other girl in the film, she can't resist messing with Chip's squaresville puppydog mind. 

We may roll our eyes at Chip's idealizing cluelessness, may wonder how he can take so many golf club swings to the head but still keep most of his teeth and all his eye socket structural integrity, but--and this is a hard thing to pull off--we still like old Chip because we see through his beaming eyes how golden and irresistible Liza's skin glows in in the morning light as she sleeps; how the sun filters through the colors of their head shop tapestry curtain blanket and brightens every hidden purple in her hair and kimono; how even her teeth and gleaming are her teeth (1). We feel his rage and confusion, too, because we know what it's like to be so suggestible (or I do, at any rate), but--unlike other fall guys Chip's been compared to, like whiny Jeff Daniels in Jonathan Demme's Something Wild or smarmy Griffin Dunne in Scorseses's After Hours or Peter Berg's hick with a too-good-for-this-town pretensions in Last Seduction--we don't consider his squeamishness to be cowardice or a lack of adventuresome spirit but the work of a crisis within his sweet nature--conscience grinding gears with his smitten rapture. He means well, but every new tattooed girl casting him a come-hither look is just another ounce of sweet kryptonite. Lovestruck by nearly every set of female eyes he sees, the only thing saving him from the latest femme fatale is the next, even deadlier one, waiting around the next bend.

That's why it's so important that 68 Kill (terrible name, great movie) came out the same year as Wonder Woman, The Beguiled, Lady Bird, and The Love Witch. It's like 1994 all over again but with the focus square on the women. Now the women don't have to even be sociopaths to conquer the terrain. Now they do it so surefootedly it's like all of feminism up to now have been as little effeminate 'eh-heh' cough.

Those films are all made by women though, whereas --like Rob Zombie before him--Kill's writer-director Haaga grew up in a trashy trailer park, and it shows, not in a bad way, but in a way that captures the scuzzy low-fi vividness of the scene, only unlike Zombie, he does it without our eyes ever feeling soiled by grim misogyny and torture porn. Haaga got his start writing stuff (and I use the word loosely) like Citizen Toxie, so you know he knows how to deliver thrills far outside the morality-taste spectrum that so blandifies his fellows (Zombie included - where the murdering white trash have thin little nonsmoker suburban voices and perfect dental work and the violence scans as mean-spirited misanthropy rather than breezy black comic fun).  68 Kill might be violent and trashy but it has a summery feel that says 'oh, lighten up Scott Tobias! (2) 

We're not in "reality' while watching movies. We're through the grindhouse mirror spectrum, where the colors are a little more vibrant (it looks like it was shot on actual 35mm film with popping colors and super rich flesh tones).  The score, by Frank Ilfman and James Griffiths, uses all sorts of twangy guitars and rumbling synths it evokes all the right past motifs: some dashes of guitar echo swamp haze, and a sense of love and joyful innocence continually revived and re-drowned in the saw mill molasses sea.

Either way,  if a trailer park in every neighborhood in the coming disaster-stricken country of ours means more crime movies like 68 Kill. I can only trust the fourth wave will recognize the strength behind its crudity rather than get so pious it drowns the neighborhood with the bathwater. To paraphrase Nigel Tuffnel, when a man sexually abuses a woman, that's sexist, when a woman does it to a man - that's social justice. Maybe that's not being honest about real female personae, but this is the movies, man. It's just drag. If we can't let our hair down here, we're going to go bald from stress. We used to be adults...we can be both NPR listeners and as aggressive and combative as the red state chimera. Sometimes, well, sometimes, if you're a real American, and maybe a liberal but not a total beta cuck, you got to look at your right wing Arizona-dwelling kid brother's gun collection over Xmas and, instead of rolling your eyes and waving pictures of dead schoolchildren, feel the heat of the cool, the thrill of the target range recoil. You gotta look at your bro and say, damn right, brother, damn right. After all, a lot of shit's gone down but we're still here. If America's gonna get it together we gotta learn how to enjoy each others' outlets. A little PCP-laced oregano, an AR-14, and thou. 

Whatever testy little snipes you may have about the right wing lunatic fringe, at least they know who they really are --they're killers. We in the blue states close our eyes to the abbattoir even as we grab the grass-fed fillet mignon. To quote German freelance terrorist Wulfgar Reinhardt (Rutger Hauer - 1981's Nighthawks), "we're not heroes, we're victims! " The white heterosexual man will not share his toys, he'd rather break 'em. So let's break him first, for he is the hypnotized toy of any Fox wily enough to shake a tail feather-covered snake rattle.

Further Reading:
Catty-Cool Susan Cabot

NOTES: with Rob Zombie's similarly comic-grotesque Devil's Rejects, the big give-away that these are actors, not real trailer trash, is their perfect teeth; but I think I speak for everyone when I say, thank heaven Rob let that detail go unfixed
2. If you check out RT or wheveer, a blurb from him pops up calling it nearly a de facto remake of After Hours [that] keeps the hostility and loses the self-deprecation, which turns it into an example of misogyny rather than an examination of it.  But Scott, your implying Scorsese's film isn't misogynist, which is absurd. Go look amongst thy Scorsese discs for a real live alpha bitch and see how far ya get. PS- Sharon Stone in Casino don't count (loud does not equal strong). But the ladies of Hagga-ville? I'm more worried about the fate of their drugs. Those poor suckers never had a chance.

Thursday, February 01, 2018

Ballin' the Jacks: TRUCK STOP WOMEN (1974)

Fans of high-energy strong female-filled crime films from the 60s and 70s by guys like John Flynn and Arthur Marks will rejoice to note that--slipping unobtrusively onto Amazon Prime after being unavailable on DVD for.... ever... rolls-- Truck-Stop Women (1974). One of the better films from long-working Mark L. Lester (Class of 1984), it features the always alluring, ferocious Claudia Jennings, in one of her best roles. It's an air horn hoot, good buddy, with everyone doing their best to deliver more than a mere exploitation truck stop movie, but not too much more. It has no interest in pulling off the highway of cheap goofy asphalt thrills and down into any tar-roof shack cul-de-sacs of working class realism or veiled commie sermonizing. All this Godfather-meets-Mildred Pierce tale of a matriarchal crime dynasty is lookin' to deliver is 90 minutes of speed, bullets, Jacobean betrayals, and bouncing motel beds.

The Mildred is Anna (Lieux Dressler), the owner/manager/big boss madame of a remote New Mexico truck stop / diner / motel / brothel / hijacking ring, and she makes Joan Crawford seem coy. Presiding over a loyal assortment of button men, mechanics, and good ole gal waitress/load hijackin' prostitutes, Anna's operation roars along so smoothly there wouldn't be even a story except her no-good triple-timin' daughter Rose (Jennings) is mighty tired of life as momma's main hooker/hijacker. Oh, and Anna's long-stable mob connection out in Vegas has been shot, and her territory is now up for grabs, meaning goombas galore are sniffing around for a piece. Anna can handle whatever sore thumb wop might muscle her way, but Rose is one piece who wants to git.... anywhere with bright lights. To her the idea of Las Vegas alone is enough to make her betray her own kin.  As Rose is her one weak spot, Anna's whole criminal empire might just topple off its axis.

When word leaks out about a hijackable load of mob-stolen securities stashed in the back of a cattle truck roaring past in a few days, both sides realize it's gonna be the deciding factor in who keeps the territory as whoever gets it can buy enough muscle to rub the other out of business. Anna would rather not rob from the mob, but what else can she do? Thus begins a whole web of betrayal and counter betrayal, as we never quite know which of the two women is on top, if they're secretly working together, or just how it's all going to shake out.

It all hinges on who knows what and whether anyone in Anna's outfit is dumb (or weakened enough by seductive strategies) enough to spill Anna's plan to Rose. Does Rose even know who in Anna's group knows the actual truth and who's been fed bullshit to spill? Consider Curly (Dennis Filmple above), a lower level Anna employee, trying to hold back information from Rose while ostensibly keeping her under wraps in a motel room. He's going to tell her everything, sure, but did Annie presume that would happen? How many layers deep does this go?

We're dealing with levels of intelligence and subtlety far higher than we're used to in shitkicking trucker romps. As with the two Godfather films it may take even a few viewings to piece out these advanced-level connivances, but in the meantime we can just enjoy the action.

But what makes Truck Stop work so well isn't just the impressively high-stakes in-a-low-way plot but the ingeniously-staged, earthy crowded diner scenes at Annie's truck stop. The joint is humming with interlocking life and there's a great, vivid sense of people coming and going, eating, propositioning, overhearing, coffee-refilling, sleeping and scheming, at all hours of the night and early dawn. We feel like we really get a full lay of the land there, it's a kind of paradise of vice, where the motel rooms all have secret cameras so Annie can watch her ladies (including Russ Meyer regular Uschi Dugart) and listen in while they pump the drivers for information on their trailer manifest (i.e. what to hijack later). 

What really sells it all though is the aliveness of Jennings, so good as the restless morally bankrupt Rose it makes it all the sadder to realize she'd be dead in just five years --victim in an accident off the Pacific Coast Highway (at age 30). Here she finds a good match in John Martino as the mafia-dispatched goodfella "Smith" for whom she serves as combination hostage, conspirator, and lover. He should be recognizable as one of Clemenza's button men in the first Godfather. Here he brings far more wit and character than you'd expect, even earning our sympathy on occasion, and has some great chemistry with Jennings. The pair know just how to play a scene, making it always just a little ambiguous whether they're really falling in love or just playing each other. There's a magical scene in their motel room together in the morning after some indefinite period of late night boozy bliss where they're getting dressed and drinking tumblers of morning whiskey, and we realize maybe there is no difference between acting smitten for a (criminal) purpose and being smitten for real with a criminal.

The actors both convey this complexly cross-hatched devious/ developing love/respect without ever tipping their hands to us or each other. Love and trust and sex in films like this often are just asides, Mulveyan narrative dead-ends. But really great hook-ups like this come built-in with a certain element of performance and possible betrayal. Alas, aside from the thing between Connery's Bond and Luciana Paluzzi's Fiona Volpe in Thunderball--it's hard to remember a post-coitus dressing/drinking/nuzzilng scene so full of commingled warmth and danger as we have here between Martino and Jennings. When you belive either side could plunge a knife into the other at any second, even though they just hooked up and are acting lovey dovey then you know it's a true meeting of equals.

And you believe he really does dig Rose. Who wouldn't? Jennings, sublime in all these scenes, really lets loose with all teeth and both hands in these scees, freely heaping abuse on his gross candy bar-eating trigger man as much as she kittens it up with Smith.

The third great element is the roster of great supporting cast of tough-as-nails women, longtime Anna employees, and their grizzled trucker friends, co-workers and off-on-the-road-again boyfriends, all of whom add a layer of real rootsy Americana sadness, the sort that hangs in the wee-wee hours of dawn (reminding me of the opening scenes of Some Came Running.)

That's not to say it's not Tarantino-by-Russ Meyer-esque grindhouse to its core, especially the scene where Anna pulls Rose out of Smith's pool room, kicking and screaming, throwing Rose over her shoulder like a bag of laundry. From there, an elaborate series of double cross counter-moves goes on, and if you're as left in the dark as I was as to who's got what plan underneath the other plan or why they're all meeting at a ghost town to split up the loot, well, sometimes it's nice to not be six steps ahead of the characters. Sure it ends tragically. You forgot it's a matriarchal truck stop hijacking/prostitution ring version of Shakespeare / Mildred Pierce? Crime doesn't pay - but it sure pays well until then.

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