And I Would Run 26 Miles: Run Fatboy Run

David Schwimmer and Simon Pegg had previously worked together in the bank caper black comedy, Big Nothing in 2006. Now Pegg takes the starring role as moppish Dennish Doyle in the romantic comedy, Run Fatboy Run (2007), which marks Schwimmer’s feature directorial debut. The screenplay, co-written by Pegg and actor Michael Ian Black, feels much more tame and by film’s end, nauseatingly standard, than familiar viewers might associate either of those penning the script.

The approach to the whole film is very simple since it revolves around contrasting characters. When not plugging for Nike, the script, too, is structured on metaphors for running. Hapless Dennis Doyle, for example, doesn’t appear bothered by his habit of dodging overwhelming conflict. The film opens to show a painfully nervous looking groom sitting by himself in a bedroom moments before his wedding. Cold feet would be an inadequate description; for some reason (not really developed), tying the knot with Libby (Thandie Newton), his lovely but annoyingly unimposing pregnant wife symbolizes an intense feat he can’t commit to… ever. Now, years later, he lives in a basement flat working as an out-of-shape security guard for a woman’s lingerie boutique and the stagnation doesn’t really appear to bother him since things seem to be at a comfortable distance.

Enter the wife’s new style American boyfriend, Whit, played by Hank Azaria. He is basically everything that Dennis is not - the slick corporate preppy who epitomizes both ambition and success. Naturally, he becomes competition for Dennis who later confesses his eternal regret for having left Libby at the altar. Fast-forward to several occasions of Whit showing up Dennis and Libby telling her ex-husband that she doubt he follow through on anything important, a challenge is proposed: Dennis will run in (and finish) the Nike River Run marathon that Whit is training for.

Naturally, too, his supporters seem just as unprepared as he does. Black Books genius Dylan Moran applies his scene-stealing cynicism here as Libby’s shabby, cigarette-and-alcohol-laced gambler cousin, Gordon who wagers a hefty sum that Dennis will indeed finish the marathon. American audiences, however, may instantly recognize him as arrogant and nerdy friend, David, Moran played alongside Pegg in the zombie spoof, Shaun of the Dead (2004). His other boost of support is Dennis Doyle’s portly Indian landlord, Mr. Ghoshdashtidar (Harish Patel) who at first seems like a cranky old jerk but in the end turns out to be the jolly fat man typical to romantic comedies like these. But the question remains - can Dennis put aside his breakfasts with a side of breakfast, shake off his fears and really finish what he sets out to accomplish?

Ready? Cue the music…

Although possibly the safest approach to romantic comedy (even the more supposedly vulgar moments), Pegg and Moran provide the bulk of chuckle-worthy hilarity, but not quite enough to likely keep it in the box office runnings as long as one might’ve anticipated when they heard about “the new Simon Pegg movie.” By the end of the movie, when the protagonist weighs the moment that will either make or break his desires (in this case not really getting rid of Whit, but proving himself to Libby), the writers went overboard with dramatic resolutions to the point that the last twenty minutes painfully drag on. Viewers are probably pretty certain, despite predictable, but minor red herrings that Dennis might not actually achieve his goals, that all will end well (and even Whit’s faults are finally exposed). But maybe not quite to the extent of it being so damned Capra-esque… sort of like taking the saccharine words of a greeting card poem and turning them into a climactic visual, only the results aren’t all that distractingly charming.

If ever there was need to demonstrate the most basic construction of romantic comedy formula, this would make a fine little helper.

Ho Chi Minh Doesn’t Skateboard: Gleaming the Cube

The 1980s were riddled with an abundance of ridiculously cheesy teen-targeted sport themed movies. Movies like Thrashin’ (1986), Under the Boardwalk (1989) and Rad (1986) used textbook slang, template storytelling, and stereotypical characters that made obvious commercial filmmaker and producer’s attempts to effortlessly cash in on the industries that, by the middle part of the decade, lived long enough to prosper. It would also influence the future of voice-overs in Asian film (see BioZombie).

Gleaming the Cube (1989) is one of the better skateboarding adventures, abandoning the single-minded tale of the dubious underdog who must prove his worth in some ridiculous, climactic contest. As a Cold War-themed skateboard movie, it fuses the cheesy teen sports movie with another staple of 80s movies: over-the-top action films who’s templates of oily, muscular good guys single-handedly avenging foreign-born warlords seethed in compensatory patriotism and political propaganda. By doing so, skateboarding, which in the 1980s would reach such pivotal commercial heights, would become the tool of irreverent youth turned defenders of American colonialism pride.

Like a Goofus & Gallant comic, bleach blond skate-punk Brian Kelly (Christian Slater) is the exact opposite of his straight-laced adopted brother, Vinh (Art Chudabala). Brian and his friends are bribing jet pilots and getting arrested for trespassing in a rich, loud homeowner’s swimming pool while Vinh is helping with his girlfriend’s father’s post-Vietnam War relief program. After Vinh brings to the boss’s attention possible errors in inventory shipping, he is curiously fired and is later found hanged to death in a hotel room. When there doesn’t appear to be conclusive evidence of foul play according to the young, hard-edged detective (Steve Bauer), his death is officially written off as a suicide. But Brian is certain that his brother wasn’t the type to check into a hotel and kill himself, and so he embarks on his own investigation which leads him on the trail of weapons smugglers and their ninja-like henchmen (except the one who liked Vietnamese versions of Motown songs… he just didn’t work well under pressure). Analogous to Louden Swain in Vision Quest (1985), Brian is “gleaming the cube” in the aftermath of Vinh’s death. As his faithful friend Yabbo (Max Perlich in his characteristic red buzzcut and white t-shirt) explains, “he’s trying to find his place in the circle.” This means easily, but temporarily trading the slacker skateboarding image for the Vinh II style of collared shirts and attention to homework. Sure it helps with trying to maintain a friendship with Vinh’s girlfriend, but once the kid soon gets back to his senses does he realize the potential crime-fighting advantages of skateboarding.

Director Graeme Clifford and writer Michael Tonkin’s Gleaming the Cube (or, A Brother’s Justice as it was called in its TV release) does undoubtedly have the trappings of typical 80s teen movie corniness. Brian brazenly suggests to the hard-edged detective that if he had a dog who resembled said detective that he would shave it’s ass and tech it to walk backwards (gasp!). There’s the panicked goon who drives around in his cool black vintage convertible listening to Vietnamese covers of Motown. And who can forget the theme song, Gleaming the Cube, by Michael James Jackson? It was just as inspirational as Joe Esposito’s “You’re the Best” from the Karate Kid (1984). Although most of the cheesiness can be chalked up to Christian Slater’s hammy acting technique (especially the part when he’s informed of Vinh’s death). And, even though there are plenty of genre clichés to pack into the 100 minutes running time which means a big chase finale, it’s all on a tolerable level and keeps it from crossing that line into it’s so bad it’s bad, though it might rightly be considered so bad it’s good.

The film’s unique quality is the not-so subtle political text for which a movie about skaters seem like an odd forum. Sure, it is not a novelty to inject it into a teen movie, and especially an action movie which undoubtedly helps to quickly create a villain as it were in Red Dawn (1984) and Toy Soldiers (1990). Yet, the intermittent cursing of the Vietcong at least doesn’t consume the entire movie. Oddly, Vinh’s boss–father of his girlfriend, opponent of Communism, and partner to an American weapons smuggler–curiously won’t let his daughter associate with white boys. In fact, the he Communist weary characters are actually exceedingly paranoid, and our hero Brian Kelly, skeptical of consumer culture, isn’t really being “un-American” when he says that maybe the worst possible fate of humanity is “having a 7-11 on every corner.”

More unusually and the thing probably keeping this movie at the forefront of pop culture memories of young 80s nostalgics (when not listing the obvious in favorites from the decade) is behind-the-scenes trivia. Documentary filmmaker Stacy Peralta, a former pro-skater for the legendary Dogtown team and Powell-Peralta skateboard company co-founder worked on this movie as second unit director, shooting the skate sequences, while another legendary team of skateboarders, The Bones Brigade, were brought on to perform stunts and training. As Christian Slater’s stunt double, Rodney Mullen, the Freestyle King, can be seen in the warehouse montage and Mike McGill performed ramp and pool tricks (although he was replaced by Jozsef Attila towards the end of filming when he got food poisoning).

Meanwhile, Tony Hawk and Tommy Guerro (who also taught Slater how to skateboard noting that he didn’t seem too enthused to learn much beyond the basics) have minor roles as members of Brian Kelly’s skateboard posse. Probably the most endearing moment was young Tony Hawk in his Pizza Hut delivery truck barreling down a highway with a satisfying grin on his face as the sure victor in a game of chicken against some of the goons. Co-star Max Perlich was a veteran skater too, which means that Slater was probably cast primarily because he was the burgeoning teen celebrity (although he was 20 at the time of the film’s release) the same way that Leif Garrett was cast in Skateboard: The Movie (1978). Tony Hawk, in his autobiography Occupation: Skateboarder wrote about some of the movies that he worked on as a stunt consultant, including Thrashin’ (1986) and the timeless classic, (yes that’s sarcasm!) Police Academy 4: Citizens on Patrol (1987). The funnier insider information there, however, being that Perlich nearly got his ass kicked by an irate guy who showed up to the set. He owned the car that Perlich did an acid drop off of one night while skating with the Bones Brigade.

A review of Gleaming the Cube on The Chucks Connection (because some of the actors wear Chuck Taylors in the movie) probably says it best: there’s plenty of cornball elements in this movie (bad acting by Slater, convoluted plot), but there’s enough to keep the not-too-serious view entertained.

 

White Line Fever: Motorama

Fans of the quirky road-trip and post-apocalyptic films like Repo Man (1984), Bagdad Cafe (1987) and Six String Samurai (1998)– something which often finds a niche in limited surrealism with its quirky and sometimes, indiscernible storytelling and kitsch settings– will likely enjoy the cult black comedy, Motorama (1991), although reaching more than the loyal fans who remember seeing it long ago would require rethinking the idiotic marketing campaign that seemed to dent its transition to DVD. The promotional materials years ago simply featured its cynical star, Gus (played by Jordan Christopher Michael) brazenly posing atop the stole red vintage convertible dressed in his red jacket and curious eye patch. The title of the film above him spell out like the game cards he collects in the film… M-O-T-O-R-A-M-A. But, writers beguiled prospective audiences, repackaging the film as a young love story, one in which Drew Barrymore, now featured on the DVD promos as a large, floating face in the background behind Gus, looking childishly seductive; her platinum blond hair decorated with a flower. The tagline now deceptively implies romance: “There’s only one way to win the girl of your dreams: floor it!” Obviously, the goal is to move units by promoting the most well-known star in a cast otherwise filled with b-movie cult regulars like Dick Miller and Mary Woronov. But trying to pitch a new narrative will only disappoint the audiences expending a love story involving the questionable (if not, improbable) chemistry of rugged Gus and the presumably dazzling dreamgirl. And others, who might be attracted to oddball niche comedies such as these (except where they are likewise 80s loyalists), might ignore it entirely.

Motorama is directed by Barry Shils (who usually produces rather than directs) and written by Joseph Minion, who also wrote the 1985 Scorcese comedy (yes, Martin Scorcese directed comedy) After Hours and later, the creepy 1989 black comedy, Vampires Kiss. Jordan Christopher Michael plays ten-year old Gus, who, long before the days of Josh and S.A.M. (1993) casually takes to the long winding highways of fictional states in a stolen red Mustang, leaving behind his abusive, neglecting parents (despite a great performance, it would be one of the few roles of Michael’s short film and television career, though unverified rumors claim he’s become a producer and director) and his path, in road-trip and semi-surreal comedy form is paved with unusual characters. This so far might hint a movie about a carefree kid getting mixed up in the inevitable hijinks.

Um… The Wizard (1989) it is not. In an interesting tale of temptation and redemption, Gus begins picking up game cards at gas stations. Find the letters that spell Motorama and win $500 million dollars from the Chimera Gas Company! But, once Gus has a few successes with the game cards he receives from gas stations along his impromptu route, he becomes obsessed with finding the rest that will earn him the prize and his encounters along the way reflect the transition from understandably cynical 10-year old runaway explaining the relative innocence of his actions to the “enlightened” gas station attendant named Phil, to a deceptive gambler who happily hustles an overconfident father. Somehow a brief adolescent daydream fills Gus’s head; the dream girl of course, played by young Barrymore. But by the end of the film, the 10-year appears noticeably aged and run down–after dodging an explosion his hair appears to have grayed. He wears an eye patch to conceal injuries received when getting caught trying to siphon gas from a seedy couple (which includes Mary Woronov). And strangely, he is eventually trying to rescue an older version of himself before future tense Gus drives off the road while, in a panic, trying to find that one last letter to claim his award money, loses control of his car.

Although this kind of tale might be off-putting or just simply confusing to the viewer not typically accustomed to movies like these, the narrative construction is the interesting element — the circular storytelling of character reflection. That is uses a 10-year old as its central character is perhaps its most distinctive draw. Unfortunately, while making the transition to DVD faster than probably more well-known cult films (The Monster Squad and Night of the Creeps come to mind), it is a film that remains woefully absent in background information of any kind (considered bonus materials for the DVD, all that is included is a trailer of Motorama and a mismatched companion trailer for the idiotic David Spade comedy, Joe Dirt).

Desperately Seeking Bibliophiles: 84 Charing Cross Road

Businessman on plane: Your first trip to London?
Helene Hanff: Yes.
Businessman on plane: You want a word of advice? Don’t trust the cab drivers; they’ll take you five miles to go three blocks… and, uh, don’t waste your time looking at a street map. Nobody can find their way around London - not even Londoners.
Helene Hanff: Maybe I should go to Baltimore instead.
Businessman on plane: No; you’ll enjoy it. London’s a great place. What kind of trip is it - business or pleasure?
Helene Hanff: Unfinished business.

- opening lines to 84 Charing Cross Road (1987)

The 1970s memoirs of New York writer Helen Hanff — 84 Charing Cross Road (and partly, The Douchess of Bloomsbury Street in 1973) — became the basis for the 1987 film directed by David Hugh Jones.

Anne Bancroft takes the starring role as Hanff (Mel Brooks, the late actress’s husband, purchased the rights to the book as a birthday gift one year). Hanff is at heart, a bibliophile, and it is literary voraciousness that serves as the impetus of the story. Unable to find obscure classics and forgotten British literature in New York City (”Doesn’t anyone read in New York anymore?” she rhetorically asks surprised customers of a bookstore upon leaving), she sees an advertisement for Marks & Co., a bookstore in England that specializes in used, rare titles. And what begins in the 1940s as an overseas customer desperately searching for out-of-print books evolves into more than a thirty-year friendship between Hanff and the staff of the bookstore (especially Chief Buyer, Frank Doel who is played by the (later) uncharacteristically charismatic Anthony Hopkins).

Hanff’s short memoirs are a collection of the letters primarily exchanged between she and Doel, all used verbatim in the film. And on the one hand, the film reveals distinctions between pre- and post-war United States and Great Britain, though its focus is more of the cultural rather than political affairs of each, differences which are particularly learned through correspondence in the days long before instant access to seemingly trivial information. Hanff orders a gift basket of food for the bookstore employees at Christmas–relatively simple things like canned ham and fruit preserves. One of the gracious employees writes to thank Hanff, explaining that most of the items received were either things that could only be located on the black market, or, like meats, limited by ration stamps.

The interaction between the characters in the two countries is almost entirely through correspondence, which, if remade today, would probably lose that novelty. But, because most of the interaction is through characters, the filmmakers in time abandon the cumbersome display of one character writing or reading the letters while its author or recipient reads what is written. This is a film, after all, that is translated from a series of letters and demands creativity as such. Once the relationship of Hanff and the employees of the Marks & Co. bookstore becomes more than mere transactions between a store and its customer, the characters–especially Hanff and Doel–began to speak the words of their letters directly to the camera, cutting back and forth with each other’s responses. But there is certain discomfort in a friendship existing entirely through letters, and thus, the major question becomes–will Hanff ever meet her British friends and especially the cordial Frank Doel?

It is a very simple, pleasant film and one who’s cinematography suggests a British public television quality to it, which may not be of any surprise, considering prior adaptations as BBC teleplays and radio plays, in addition to stage performances. Screenwriter Hugh Whitemore, who adapted the BBC teleplay in 1975 as part of the Play for Today series, holds the screenwriter credits for this 1987 film adaptation of Hanff’s memoirs, expanding the characters to “include Hanff’s Manhattan friends [which includes actress Mercedes Rhuel], the bookshop staff, and Doel’s wife Nora, played by Judi Dench. Bancroft won a BAFTA Award as Best Actress; Whitemore and Dench were [respectively] nominated for direction and supporting performance.” 1

It has been suggested that Hanff’s memoirs are not entirely based on actual events. “Although claimed to be a true story, at least one source implies that there was a bit of artistic license. Leo Marks, later a screenwriter, was the son of the bookstore’s owner, and the head of codes and communication for Britain’s special operatives and the underground during WWII, despite being barely old enough for college. In his book “Between Silk and Cyanide” he says of his father: ‘He never read the gentle little myth by Helene Hanff; Long before it was published he’d become one himself.’” But others still seem content to maintain a sense of that history–especially of the Marks & Co. bookstore while the film at least maintains that wonderful romanticism.

Balkin’ Bout My Generation: Juno

Juno (2007) may be this year’s Little Miss Sunshine (2006) in that it was a limited release independent film turned strong contender for this year’s Academy Awards. (Perhaps there is one every year, with Garden State (2004) preceding both). With just a $7.5 million filming budget, it has grossed over $110 million since.1 Neither director Jason Reitman, nor writer Diablo Cody, both of whom earned individual Oscar nominations, have many film or television credits prior to this. Reitman previously directed the highly lauded comedy, Thank You For Smoking, whereas Juno marks Cody’s first screenplay, prior to which she had made her entry into the spotlight writing about her previous career as a stripper in Minneapolis.

Ellen Page, who garners a Best Actress nomination, plays the spunky title character, Juno in this mix of witty comedy and somewhat tragic drama. “It all started with a chair,” begins Juno’s seemingly reluctant explanation. Confirmed by four pregnancy tests, Juno was impregnated by her timid friend, Paulie Bleeker (Michael Cera), in the most indifferent manner of fooling around, and now she has to decide what to do about that. Abortion seems like an easy option until a trip to a clinic triggers the gross realization of a cycle of similar indifference on the one hand, and sudden connection with the impending baby on the other, after which Juno decides to go through with the birth, something her parents seem unusually understanding about. Investigating the perfect couple to adopt the baby when it’s born, Juno finds the Loring couple (Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner) in the Pennysaver and is sure that they possess all those highly desirable qualities of perfection necessary for life’s newcomer. Well, before long she gets to know the couple and realize that behind the vanilla scented candles and khaki color schemes, they’re just as susceptible to problems. As time goes on, the end that Juno eventually aspires for is constantly questioned.

Juno has likely (and mistakenly) given a first impression of being an extension of the nonsense nostalgia and amusing absurdity of films like Napoleon Dynamite (2004) and Eagle v. Shark (2007), which is understandable just considering the advertising paraphernalia alone. The childish mint green lettering atop the tacky orange and white striped background. A puzzled Cera, his pale shapeless legs emphasized by short yellow running shorts, standing next to the more certain looking, pregnant teenager played well by Page.

Though the taboo story of the teenager girl who, so nonchalantly endures pregnancy just as she seemed to so nonchalantly endure the act of conception, there is a certain innocence inherent in the film, and especially in the music. Largely comprised of tracks from solo folk singer and former Moldy Peaches bandmate, Kimya Dawson, her music emphasizing a kind of sweet innocence. Yet, sometimes, it lingers to the point of delaying the severity of the conflict and it’s potentially lasting negative consequences for the on-screen characters. But there is a limit to it’s variety of innocence, and Juno lacks the incessant playful dorkiness and lack of centralization that made Napoleon Dynamite a cult favorite. But more importantly, Juno is probably the most poignant as a generational representation and more specifically, the “indie” kids, and it’s evident in everything from dialog (Juno’s signal to her father that she is going into labor is “Thundercats are go!”) to recognition of class opposites such as the bland and supressive IKEA-decorated Loring house.

But more importantly, and despite the primary characters being teenagers, Juno is probably most poignant in capturing the childishness of older generations of twenty- and thirty-somethings. Those who continue to cling to nostalgic pop culture and approach more personal subjects like marriage, families, sex, relationships, and child-rearing with just as much cynicism, disdain, or simply indifference, if not more so. There is little here that uses the characters and their situations for podium-thumping controversies, although undoubtedly, there may have been some outcry by moralist high brows somewhere as usually seems to be the case. There is even room for neat, smile-raising resolutions by the film’s end, and by the final changing of the seasons which mark the new chapters of Juno’s life, Kimya Dawson’s melodic Tire Swing is sung by Cera and Page. A momentary, lesson-learning interruption of otherwise routine life, passes. And yet, seemed strangely comfortable almost entirely throughout, something more commonly seen in Wes Anderson’s recent comedies.

We Felt the Earth Move Under Their Feet: Cloverfield

Cloverfield (200 follows the 2007 releases of I Am Legend (also set in New York City) and The Mist (which uses similar , if not suspiciously identical creatures), and despite the use of obvious and detracting CGI, it is perhaps the most effective.

The story is simple: several friends gathering one evening at a farewell party for their friend are thrust into chaos that suddenly befalls the city (not to give too much away). But, the distinctive crux of director Matt Reeves and writer Drew Goddard’s Cloverfield is authenticity of experience. And, at least in the earlier ad campaigns, an accompanying strategy of limited information. Months before the films opening, the trailers quickly introduced basic characters and abruptly shifted to suggestions of disaster, details of which remained scant. The flying, decapitated head of the Statue of Liberty could, given setting and recent memory, leave audiences with the impression that Cloverfield is a film about a terrorist invasion of New York City. The earliest previews didn’t reveal the films title, and some only hinted devastating action through on-screen and off-screen character reaction.

The film itself is presented as a first-hand documentation of events and everything is shot in the style of amateur recording with a digital video camera, triggering warnings to theater patrons that they made experience side-effects from the abundance of shaky footage. And to further develop the “authentic experience,” there is no soundtrack manipulating mood (except several minutes after rolling the final credits) and there are no opening credits. The footage instead is intended as found documentation of disaster that is now evidence of history held by the Department of Defense, as indicated by the time code and confidentiality disclaimer as the film begins. But, perhaps the most effective, realistic narrative elements are the absence of neat resolutions and happy endings as well as the limited explanation of the origins of the invading creatures. If the techniques and technicians were still available, this movie might have done better to abandoned the phony CGI in favor of the sadly obsolete miniatures, prosthetics and stop-motion models

The cast, composed of standard WB-esque images of young perfection, were once fairly unknown faces, which at least prevent distraction from that “authentic experience” in ways that the Blair Witch Project (1999) could, although the filmmakers of Cloverfield had to rely on several other devices, since there would be no question about whether the film presents evidence of true events the way debate first surrounded the late 90s horror film. The cast were also forbidden from seeing the script until signed onto the project, with screening tests being based on readings of other scripts.

Cloverfield is, most simply, intense and potent and despite the aforementioned trend of recent films of invading creatures and scientific anomolies, it grossed over $16 million on opening day, setting a record for blockbuster earnings in January and receiving critics’ applause. With the limited marketing strategies and secretive production strategy already exhausted in for the first film, it could be suggested that a sequel will be anything less than the ignored subordinate to a much better first film, though lessons may be drawn from the analogous Blair With Project 2:Book of Shadows (2000). But, director Reeves, who spoke on the issue, suggested at least two ideas he envisioned, both dealing with intersections of characters and events and, more importantly, maintaining a sense of “authentic experience” through consistent devices like first-hand footage.

Drowning in the Grime: Smithereens

“You can’t make a movie like this anymore. New York is too clean.” - R.P.

Outside of science fiction, portrayal of modern dystopia is often critical of suburban living, something usually addressed in stories of severely disillusioned and apathetic youth like Over the Edge (1979), Suburbia (1984), The Breakfast Club (1985) and Ghost World (2001) and recent annihilations of “normal” nuclear families (many of which were set in the 1970s) like Welcome to the Dollhouse (1996), The Ice Storm (1997), American Beauty (2001) and Imaginary Heroes (2005). But for earlier representations of potentially inescapable hells, the dismal, industrial urban underworld seemed an accommodating setting, something that might have been borne out of the pulp fiction of classic film noir, though introduced as settings for characters entangled in moral corruption prior to becoming an arena of pure seediness.

Punk Magazine co-founder, Leggs McNeil, in his book, Please Kill Me! (co-written with Gillian McCain) an oral history of the New York punk and new wave scene in the late 1970s and early 1980s noted that New York City was a setting of utter decay. A city on the verge of declaring bankruptcy was not just the impetus for young Bohemia, but a Bohemia driven by the disturbing realization that the “American Dream” was dead. That, as in the science fiction genre, this was life after an Apocalypse. And this sense of a frustratingly inescapable wasteland is acutely emphasized in director Susan Seidelman’s low-budget 1982 debut, Smithereens.

Here, Susan Berman plays 19-year old Wren, a cocky young thing from the East Village inspired by the main character of Frederico Fellini’s 1957 film, Nights of Cabiria. Always trying to project a false sense of cool to deflect what seems to be endless amounts of bad luck, she hypocritically mocks those around her who are just too hung up on images, criticisms usually found in movies in reference to people in Los Angeles. But Wren is not like quite the “she’s so tough, com’mon and rip her to shreds!” type, but rather, just an idealistic, star-struck kid desperate for something good to finally come along, though her manner tends to make her unsympathetic at times.

Wren’s potential savior comes in the form of Paul (Brad Rijn), a young Montana native who sort of stumbled into New York City in a van while on a kind of aimless wandering about and, short on cash and friends, temporarily lives out of his van, parked in a lot surrounded by semi-demolished buildings. Paul is immediately taken with Wren, who he first sees making Smithereens flyers at the copy shop, yet for a good part of the movie, he impatiently struggles with trying to get her attention, seeking much more than the disingenuous pretention that Wren inevitably seems to flock too. But her inability to connect with someone so willing to reach out seems understandable as friends and family fail to provide much support (material or otherwise) or guidance. And Paul has few prospects of his own, but with a girl like Wren who has little more than a broken television and some clothes to her name, it goes unnoticed. (Most of the characters have little responsibility to anyone or anything).

At the other end of this tug-of-war is Eric (ex-Television frontman, Richard Hell), a primarily egotistical musician with at least the impression of a more promising future than the Northwestern portrait artist living out of his van. He’s at least got the stomach for the cut-throat life. Eventually both of these guys are expecting to leave the trashy trenches of the East Village–Paul with intentions of heading further Northeast and Eric with intentions of going to L.A. and both offer Wren the opportunity for escape, an invitation to their version of a desirable idyllic. Her only other option is to reluctantly return to her parent’s place in Jersey (something which serves as a frequent joke in Seidelman’s movies).

It is–as seems to be the general description–unromantic and thus, incredibly effective; a style that writer/director Penelope Spheeris also tried with her 1984 tribute to disillusioned youth, Suburbia.

This was director Seidelman’s feature film debut, and was originally conceived in 1979 when she asked for assistance from Columbia University’s screenwriting program to further develop her notes for a script. So, Ron Nyswaner and Peter Askin joined the project. Smithereens is a truly low budget film, primarily using non-professional actors for its leading roles (in fact, nearly everyone attached to the project would claim this as debut credits) and financed by a mere $20,000. It became one of the first American independent films selected to compete at Cannes, which would gain some visibility for Seidelman, although her commercial success would arrive in 1985 when Desperately Seeking Susan was released (see the previous post, Femme de Flair: Desperately Seeking Susan).

Bring on the Singing Weirdos: Freaked

“A thinking man’s stupid comedy.” - Freaked tagline

Freaked is a case study of studio executives interfering with a decent idea.

Once an unknown VHS sitting on a video shelf in a small Central Florida store next to Tank Girl (1995) in a section of “Oddball Gen-X Comedies,” the 1993 comedy Freaked (which underwent several name changes because of several trademarks held by the rights holders of Freaks) finally made the transition to DVD in 2005 thanks to adamant cult fans and on-line petitions, the same which encouraged the eventual release of Monster Squad (1987) and the entirety of the short-lived series, Freaks and Geeks (1999). Directors Alex Winter (better known as Bill S. Preston, Esq. of Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure) and Tom Sterns who share the writing credits with Tim Burns, were classmates at NYU film school. Judging by the stop-motion animation shorts included on the stacked DVD package (which also features the entire screen test), the duo found a niche in strange comedies like these. Prior to Freaked, which was originally intended as a low-budget horror vehicle for the Butthole Surfers called Hideous Mutant Freakz before being optioned (and re-written) by 20th Century Fox, Winter and Stearns directed a short-lived variety show for Mtv in the early 90s called Idiot Box, which was based on similar absurdist humor and slapstick.

Alex Winter takes the leading role as arrogant pretty boy actor Ricky Coogan, who’s been chosen (or rather, bribed) to be the celebrity spokesman for the Everything Except Shoes (EES) Company’s toxic fertilizer, Zygrot-27. William Stadtler, who brilliantly played the Grim Reaper alongside Winter and Keanu Reeves in Bill & Ted’s Bogus Journey, is perfect as the sleazy head of EES (and stockholder puppeteer), Dick Brain. While Ricky is in Santa Flan–”named for the patron saint of creamy desserts”–with his chauvinist friend Ernie (Michael Stayanov who audiences might better recognize as Tony from the NBC sitcom Blossom) to promote the product, they ironically befriend Julie (Megan Ward), an idealistic but temperamental environmentalist protester while trying to subvert the rallying crowd’s attention. Joining in their escape, she convinces them to stop at Freekland, which is much more than the roadside freakshow attraction. Owner Elijah C. Skuggs, played by a well-tanned Randy Quaid, is a parody of Dr. Moreau, except that he’s not fusing mismatched species with a needle and thread. His distortion magic is Zygrot-27. But, while his freakish creations are something of a hobby to his point, Skuggs has a dastardly plan to use the fertilizer to make the ultimate freak!

The story is told in flashback. Coogan narrates to talk show host Skye Daley (Brooke Shields) his “awful ordeal” of how Skuggs turned he and his friends into hideous mutant freaks! Cast into the shadows the Freekland underworld, the newly distorted newcomers are introduced to Skuggs’ other creations, including Ortiz the Dogboy (Reeves in an uncredited role for which he was paid $1 million), The Eternal Flame (Lee Arenberg), Sockhead (Bobcat Goldwaith), The Bearded Lady (Mr. T), the Worm, Zippy the Pinhead, Nosey, Cowboy and Frogman. Shallow Coogan, unwilling to accept life as a freak despite the others’ suggestion that it’s not so bad once you get used to it, he encourages mutiny against Skuggs and search for an antidote. Except, with Skuggs’ goons, Toad and the automatic-weapons carrying Rastafarian eyeballs Eye and N. Eye on the prowl, Coogan must reluctantly accept the help of his extremely whiny #1 Fan, young Stuey Gluck (Alex Zuckerman).

Freaked marks the directing duo’s first major film production, but in the end, it wasn’t well-received by test audiences and Winter, Stearns and Burns, as humorously recounted in the DVD commentary, had to bend to a lot of the Studio’s demands in order to even get the movie made. Joe Roth, who was the original producer at Fox, was fired afterwards (for “making too many weird movies” according to Winter) and was subsequently replaced with Peter Chernin who didn’t like the idea of basically two inexperienced directors being given $12 million to make a movie, which meant that not only was the special effects budget significantly cut (and a demo recorded by Iggy Pop for the closing credits eliminated altogether), but the advertising budget was almost non-existent. Opening on only two screens in the United States, it only grossed around $6,000 dollars and less than $30,000 when released to video.

But in retrospect, the movie really isn’t that weird, or at least not in the bizarre surrealistic sense. Of course, audiences might want to skip the seizure-inducing opening credits. Special effects artist Screaming Mad George’s strobe light and melted claymation morphing cacophony–something that looks to channel the old commercials of Twizzler, Caramello and Bubbletape as well as Peter Gabriel music videos on mescaline–are accompanied by Henry Rollins and Blind Idiot God’s raging “Freaked.” (Most of the budget was spent on special effects). Nor is the movie any kind of extreme in its crudeness, although the script was toned down to satisfy the censors of the MPAA.

Thus, what was hindered by the studio and rejected by test audiences naturally found a strong cult following.

Femme de Flair: Desperately Seeking Susan

Although already having achieved critical recognition when her debut feature film, Smithereens (1982) was selected to compete at Cannes Film Festival, the cult comedy Desperately Seeking Susan (1985) may be director Susan Seidelman’s best known film despite she and Leora Barish having to pitch and rewrite the script several times before it was finally optioned by Orion Pictures. But, rushed for released in early 1985, the movie grossed $16 million, presumably owing much to the popularity and personality of Madonna. In what might be considered her heyday, this marked her acting debut in addition to performing the soundtrack single, Get into the Groove, and in doing so, transcended the limits of just being a co-star, much to the chagrin of Rosanna Arquette.

Inspired by the 1974 French film, Celine and Julie Go Boating, Desperately Seeking of Susan is a romantic comedy caper built on mistaken identity. Madonna is the spunky, unfettered Susan, something that’s inevitably earned her a reputation for trouble. Her complete opposite is Roberta (Rosanna Arquette), the timid New Jersey housewife who’s desperation for thrills are only vicariously satisfied in the romance and adventures in the ads through the newspaper personals that Susan and her friend, Jim (Robert Joy) occasionally write for each other. When a new ad appears from Jim asking Susan to meet him in Battery Park, voyeuristic Roberta uses the opportunity to follow Susan around the city, living in her shoes even if only from a distance.

But Roberta isn’t the only one following Susan. Always lingering in the background is a jewel thief (Will Patton) who killed his partner for an earring that Susan has, unaware of its origins. When he confronts Roberta, thinking she’s Susan, she tries to escape and is knocked unconscious, suffering temporary memory loss. But, the only clues to her identity mostly belong to Susan and, even convinced that she is Susan, Roberta is going to get to share in the carefree and sometimes dangerous adventures to which Susan is so reputably accustomed. But, the confusion doesn’t end there. Dez (Adian Quinn), the charming love interest and friend of Jim, is asked to look out for Susan while Jim’s upstate performing with his band. But unaware of the prowling jewel thief, Dez assumes that troubles that follow are just typical to trouble-making Susan. And, Roberta’s yuppie husband, Gary (Mark Blum) and his high strung sister (Laurie Metcalf), who search for the missing suburban housewife, assume Roberta’s gotten mixed up in prostitution.

As Roberta’s life changes, the housewife becoming ever more immersed in the caper, the mundane pastels of yuppie interiors and fashion are cast aside for early 80s East Village Bohemia that is typified by its dive bars, night clubs, chain smokers, and precariousness, something that the makers of 200 Cigarettes (1999) attempted to recreate. Seidelman’s keen sense of New York cool may stem from immersion in circles of musician friends who came out of that late 1970s and early 1980s punk and new wave scene. Several were cast in bit parts, including former Sonic Youth drummer Richard Edson and Arto Lindsay of the punk band, DNA. Former Television front-man Richard Hell is perhaps the best known. Already having appeared Seidelman’s Smithereens, he has a brief role as Meeker, the jewel thief’s partner. Ann Manguson, former singer of Bongwater, has a brief role as a cigarette vendor at the Magic Club, but she would go on to be cast in the leading role of Seidelman’s sci-fi romantic comedy, Making Mr. Right (1987).

According to Wikipedia, director Susan Seidelman is the first wave of American female directors of the 1980s. Seidelman, in a 1987 interview, appropriately criticized the distinction of “woman director” as something meaningless; that being not just a female director, but labeled more specifically a “woman director,” required subjects and artistic treatment to fit within a particular, definable frame. “Women’s pictures’ are supposed to be something like a sensitive portrayal of relationships between … women, I guess.” Conversely, the assumptions about women directors mean that male directors , unless considered a level of acceptable femininity, would be incapable of handling similar subjects and treatment.

While “woman director” might be a meaningless distinction in Seidelman’s view, her films might nonetheless be labeled as female pop-chic. Seidelman’s films generally tend to be romantic comedies, but ones that replace the typical mold of boring lovestruck women with witty, spunky and erotic female characters like Madonna as Susan and Rosanna Arquette as Roberta in Desperately Seeking Susan, Ann Manguson’s Frankie Stone in Making Mr. Right and Emily Lloyd’s Cookie Volteki in Cookie (1989); these being considerably hip characters who’s traits were usually complimented by Seidelman’s characteristic fusion of 1980s new wave and 1960s bubble gum settings.

On the other hand, many of the male characters in her films tend to vary in their importance. Jim, Dez and Gary in Desperately Seeking Susan were not entirely crucial to Roberta and Susan’s survival nor their success. Regardless, it is almost always the female characters who are responsible for the resolutions to the conflict unfolding on-screen. And these female characters maintained these traits even when the age range shifted from twenty- and thirty somethings to women in their fifties and sixties like Dyan Cannon and Sally Kellerman’s characters in the 2005 comedy, The Boyton Beach Bereavement Club where, too, her characters fail to typify the romantic comedy traditions of age and gender.

Gangster Goes Arthouse: Revolver

Writer and director Guy Ritchie has gained considerable notoriety for his British cult films of ganster follies Lock Stock & Two Smoking Barrels and its sequel, Snatch. Like American films and television shows centering on New York mafia, Ritchie’s films, too, spawned numerous British gangster cast regulars. His films also offer a refreshing humor that is rarely, if ever, present in the American gangster genre. But most importantly, the gem of these movies is the writing, and some would follow this model of both humorous and tragic ironies, such as the slick drama, Layer Cake (2004). But writer/director Ritchie, teaming up with French director Luc Besson (he holds writing credits here), might surprise audiences expecting their latest work, Revolver, to be something similar to either Ritchie or Besson’s previous films. Instead, much of this film appears to be an experimental effort that might aptly be labeled Gangster Arthouse.

Granted, the movie begins as one loyal to the British gangster genre might already expect. Jason Statham, a leading regular in Ritchie’s movies, is Jake Green. Now with a full beard and head of scraggly long hair, Statham looks rugged, though dressed in crisply tailored suits, his appearance might be considered somewhat biblical at times. As is typical of Stratham’s leading character, or what might be better compared to Daniel Craig’s unnamed character in Layer Cake considering the similarly serious tone, he is reluctantly forced into a situation that is likely to end badly, narrating to audiences all expectations and consequences, whether direct or analogous, as someone well versed in the criminal activities with which he is involved. It is always a game of strategy.

Green is an impeccable card player and for him, gambling is really a hustle and one that’s made him quite wealthy over the years. When challenged to play Dorothy Macha (a well-tanned and droopy-faced Ray Liotta who walks through most of the movie in spandex briefs) who is a horrible poker player that people forfeit their games to out of fear of retaliation, cocky Jake Green not only beats Macha, but insults him relentlessly. As expected, Macha orders a hit on Green and while Green allies himself with two unlikely brothers–Avi (Andre Benjamin of Outkast) and Zach (Vinnie Pastore who is probably most recognizable known for his role in The Sopranos), they are not offering protection out of sheer generosity. Rather, Green is forced to turn over to them all of his money so the trio can become loansharks and most importantly, bring down Macha. And though Macha’s power is contingent on sustaining a feared presence, he has one of his own to worry about: the elusive Mr. Gold, rumors of whom make him sound as relentlessly vicious as Anton Chigur, the villain of No Country for Old Men (2007). “Mr. Gold doesn’t accept excuses and he doesn’t give second chances.”

The leading characters of modern British gangster films have always been dependent on strategy and considering all possible outcomes, whether of their allies or enemies. But, In order to become the strategic mastermind of all the interconnected foes in this film, it will require more than the usual criminal expertise that guided the troubled “good guys” of Lock Stock and Snatch, for example. Now the rules critical to Green’s survival, which means learning an entirely new arena and successfully conning his opponent, derives from one of the oldest games of strategy: chess. He proves to be an expert in the game, but the applying in the real world the rules he frequently uses to defeat even the most masterful opponents will require abandoning a rather large ego, the thing that got him in trouble in the first place. But soon, the game becomes perplexing for Green and things begin to turn into a personal nightmare. Unfortunately, his explanations of the expert deconstruction he taught himself while serving a lengthy sentence of solitary confinement, tend to become lengthy and meld into exhaustive and confusing jargon when presented as fleeting words rather than hard text. A word to the wise: this is not a movie to start from anywhere but the beginning.

While the story follows some of the usual plot arrangements including plenty of slick, mob-styled revenge, both visuals and the narrative encompass avant garde (or, characteristically arthouse) elements. The transition of subtitles present in some of the film might not be considered much of a novelty after what had been done in the remake of Man on Fire. During major action sequences in the middle of the film, live action mixes with a sudden transition to comic book styled animation similar to the Aeon Flux cartoons. When Stratham’s character undergoes self-actualization, the intensity is interrupted with one sentence quotes from the pages of “The Road to Suicide,” something which might fool audiences to expect the credits to roll and accept a frustratingly uncertain conclusion. Much of the cinematography, too, appears rather uncharacteristic for this context. Several scenes are drenched in solid colors of red or blue. And dialog between characters in a car or talking over a game of chess are shot from very low angles. Moreover, as the credits roll (unusually including credit for prop apprentices and metal workers, among others), one might expect that Ritchie or Besson intended the film as an educational effort; an insight into paranoia and schizophrenia as various academics discuss the function of the ego.

But despite some of the experimentation, this, combined with other elements, seems to have angered critics searching for some value in what looks to really be a convoluted and obvious attempt at a psychological thriller, something film critic Roger Ebert might have expressed best in the introduction to his Chicago-Sun Times review:

Guy Ritchie’s “Revolver” is a frothing mad film that thrashes against its very sprocket holes in an attempt to bash its brains out against the projector. It seems designed to punish the audience for buying tickets. It is a “thriller” without thrills, constructed in a meaningless jumble of flashbacks and flash-forwards and subtitles and mottos and messages and scenes that are deconstructed, reconstructed and self-destructed. I wanted to signal the projectionist to put a gun to it.”

Another review defended the movie (sorry, lost the link… but will post if found) comparing the genius of the film to having read a book for the first time that would be considered brilliant, but who’s understanding is lost on the first read. Which, in turns sounds like the statement that if you make a movie people don’t understand, they are willing to accept that lack of understanding as a mark of genius. If what is being said can truly be considered something intelligent, if not remarkable, then why must it be done to the point of being exceedingly perplexing where the meaning is lost even on second and third reflection?

Bang, bang.

Johnny, Get Yer Gun: No Country For Old Men

Twenty-three years after their collaborative film debut, Blood Simple, and seven years from the last break of comedy productions with The Man Who Wasn’t There, writers/directors Joel and Ethan Coen return to their second comfortable genre–noir–with the unflinching No Country for Old Men. Taken verbatim from Cormac McCarthy’s 2005 novel, the story unfolds on the parched terrain of isolated, southwestern towns so typical to these stories of greed and consequence; these settings outline the borders of hell where righteous humanity is scarce.

“The Old-Timers never even used to carry guns…” begins the nostalgic narration of Sheriff Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) as he tells about the way town sheriffs once conducted business. Bell seems to be a helpless character in the wake of what he considers an uncontrollable taint of Man that has ruled obsolete the methodologies of the Old Timers and ruined moral certainties. Though, as even Bell is reminded in this story, that taint is no novelty.

Lewewlyn Moss (Josh Brolin) is not the typical noir protagonist. Nothing in his character suggests much previous innocence, nor even moral judiciousness towards the choices that set events in motion. While hunting antelopes in the mountains, he stumbles across a failed Mexican heroine deal and explores the dismal remains of something like a circled wagon train. The ground is covered with bullet casings and shotgun shells. Bodies lay in pools of blood drawing flies. And dusty trucks are covered in bullet holes and shattered glass, some of the drivers laying slumped over the wheel. And amidst the carnage, remains an unclaimed satchel full of money that Moss quietly collects.

Moss has such a matter-of-fact approach to his gamble. In modern noir, redemption is not always a guarantee and viewers are constantly reminded of the lack of certainties of any kind in this story. Redemption is not even an effective option. Viewers are likely to reason that stealing from a drug dealer, and especially a villain who lays everything to waste without question, is not really a damning fault. Though, it can be a very stupid thing to do. And, in classic noir form, where greed and conscience are often odds, Moss’s momentary inclination towards the latter poses the challenge for his own survival.

Moss’s crucial worry is not the aging Sheriff Bell (Jones) nor the understanding federal drug agent Carson Wells (Woody Harrelson), as most all representations of law enforcement seem to be two steps behind the action. Rather, his critical concern is his black-hearted personal reaper, Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem, closely resembling a young Raul Julia) who would fit the line Donald Pleasance once used to refer to young Michael Meyers in the 1979 movie, Halloween: “He had the blackest eyes; the Devil’s eyes.” Carson Wells explains to Moss when he is recovering in the hospital from he and Chigurh’s first face-to-face confrontation, that this is not a man that can be reasoned with. “He won’t care if you return the money… he’ll kill you just for inconveniencing him.”

The story of the greedy man turned drug dealer’s prey has been told countless times before and yet, Joel and Ethan Coen have produced a film of such immediate applause (already achieving a top 40 spot in the IMDb top 250 movies list as of this writing). The initial draw is like from Coen Brother loyalists and those lured by the solid starring and supporting cast. The film itself draws on the love affair for retro atmospheres that directors like Quentin Tarrantino have made a trademark, and the only real reference calling audiences back to this century is the comical mention of an ATM. But this nostalgia appears to offer a more primitive playing field for the characters. The fancy digital packages that worked for the young characters in chase during Disturbia, for example, are of no use in this dusty arena. Hell, they’re not even an option.

But perhaps the most effective device in this film are characters cut from a more convincing reality. Lewewlyn Moss is an intelligent man who suspects early on that someone, whether dealer or the law, will come for his claim and he is quite adept in protecting himself. Perhaps his only idealism is that he is convinced he can killed Chigurh. Chigurh, on the other hand, is the unfathomable mold; the man without conscience. And worse, he seems indestructible in ways that suggest nothing will end as we expect, much to the chagrin of audiences expecting easily manageable explanations and showdowns as the final marker in this narrative spectrum. Some have called it anticlimactic. But that is not to say that we are really left with any overwhelming complexities and uncertainties, save interpreting Bell’s final monologue. But, the audience will have to do some of their own work to understand how this tale ends and it almost requires abandonment of typical frames of moral logic.

the zephyr chronicles: revolutionaries on the blacktop

although skateboarding had been around since the 1960s, it has flucuated in both popularity and marketability (well… it is an industry!) up until the mid 1990s when even former bones brigade rider turned one-man commercial empire, tony hawk, relays in his autobiography the fear of being unable to survive on his meager royalty earnings in the early 90s and taking sidejobs in video editing. but what began in the 1960s as a mini-surfboard style deck on wheels initially intended to serve as the alternative afternoon activity for young, adept surfers, quickly faded from view as a fleeting kiddie pasttime, and in the disapppearance of commercial manufactured boards, the primitive planks plywood and the clay wheel attacments from disassembled skates, became its substitute. like anything that had started as a primitive youth exploit and evolved into an explosive industry (punk music being analogous here), the model flows from nature (surfing technique and the draught that made pool surfing popular) and responsive architecture (the embankments of california schoolyard playgrounds), to the engineering (development of urethene wheels and kick tails), to the publicity (the dogtown articles) and marketing.

with the poularity of former pro-skater and skateboard company co-founder (among other things) stacey peralta’s fine documentary, dogtown and z-boys, followed by the narrow-minded hollywood production, lords of dogtown, the story of the z-boys–the highly publicized teenage tyrants of 1970s venice beach whose low-to-the-ground style of skating inspired by pro surfer larry birdlman forced the sport from its 1960s paradigm of nosewheelies and headstands–is no longer legend reserved to the underground.

however, it seemed curious why recent skateboard restrospectives, particularly those that came after the zephyr team, had never bothered to offer much history beyond brief commentary from those outside of the team who were affected by the infectiousness of the zephyr riders. though, arguably, recent documentaries on both the born-again former glory boys (female riders other than ellisa streamer have really yet to make any sort of breakthrough in professional skateboarding) christian hosoi (served time on drug charges) and vision skateboard’s mark “gator” ragowski (currently serving a life sentence for murder) have offered some background on skateboarding evolution in the 1980s from verticle to street-based dominance, the only really in-depth (barely) synopsis of third and fourth wave skating can be found in michael brooke’s the concrete wave.

understandably, the focus outside of prominent players like rodney mullen’s fancy freestyle or danny way’s daring monster ramps or the development of the double kicktail, might be limited intentionally where the changing histories can no longer be said to be influenced by one small group who might later impact the rest of the skateboarding world. and mass commercialism might not be the sole culprit to rob anyone of unique opportunity, but mass media as well, where unique presence is something that is not typically not nurtured, even where it might possibly exist. in the dogtown and z-boys documentary, style is frequently suggested to be the most important factor among the zephyr team. but this heralded “devotion to style” was left as a little-described abstract. and with footage of similar manuevers shown in succession, the viewers, watching these long-haired teenagers trying to fit both feet on their skinny, mobile planks and thrust the seemingly impossible little boards about, might presume that this was what style was all about - whatever motions you needed to keep your balance. the flowery documentary freewheelin‘ made in the late 1970s follows stacey peralta and his friends (one of whom was tom logan, founder of the logan earth and ski company) as they travel to locations for afternoon skate sessions. where peralta’s accompanying friends had different athletic backgrounds–one a professional skier, the other a longboard surfer–this had impacted the way they manuevered their boards. even peralta, a surfer in addition to skateboarding, had a self-tailored technique, which became most evident in his slalom. and as such, what is meant by this loose abstract, “style,” now becomes more evident. but unfortunately, it is a uniqueness that likewise appears lost in the age of mass-everything and generic representation.

where there lacks more extensive histories of a sport that began four decades back, a review of the dogtown and z-boys documentary, which provides some balance to both the pre-commercial and post-commerical developments (whereas lords of dogtown is saturated with focus on the latter) reveals that the core of the legend is that major shifts in the sport can synthesized to just neighborhood surfing kids emulating their favorite pro surfers on a pavement playground - the concrete wave. the beginning of the dogtown story, in other words, is perhaps the most purest and primitive before all the external forces dictated what might follow. and unfortunately, the spoken and written histories of skateboarding tend to overlook the fact that the unadulterated spirit of the people who were engaging the sport for fun, have existed all along. dana brown, the son of endless summer director bruce brown, may have been one of the few to really capture that perpetual essence, but in the surfing world instead of skateboarding with his documentary, step into liquid, which reveals the advocates of strange locals and their own definitions of the perfect wave. they may buy factory-produced surfboards and wetsuits, and it’s true that these are real considerations because obviously, these things have becomes million dollar industries. but when it comes to running out in the cold ripples of wisconsin waters (yes, wisconsin), none of it matters because the participants concern has been the more emotional, mental, physical and spiritual connection to what they’re doing. and suddenly the fact that surfer kelly slater won a world championship title or that skateboarder geoff rowley has a signature shoe doesn’t mean jack shit.