For some people, music is just another thing. A distraction. But, for others (like myself), music means a hell of a lot more. At some point, there was that one song, that one band that transformed everything. The one that made them want to be part of it in some way. Music for them is like what sports or politics or any other obsession is to other people. It informs everything about them. Conversations, friends, fashion, values. Whatever.

When I was a lowly teenager in Orlando in the mid-90s, my friends and I were heavily into punk and its offshoots. There were still a handful of independent music stores around at the time that catered to our tastes and one that we spent a lot of time at was called D.I.Y. Records. The store clerks there were basically like us, except older. They dyed their hair and knew the music and joked around with the people that wandered into the small space they rented in a strip mall down the highway from the state university. I used to go out there to put out copies of my zine and pick up copies of others’. On weekends, they opened up the backroom for local bands to play all-ages shows. We’d go and watch our friends perform and see kids around that we’d see at every show in town we could get into. We were young and music was a big deal to us and so, D.I.Y. Records became a kind of second home.

Brendan Toller’s 2008 documentary, I Need That Record: The Death (Or Possible Survival of) the Independent Record Store, would say that D.I.Y. Records helped forge a community. Music may have brought people there, but it was more than just a music store. Its local roots and that scene that we identified with gave us kids a sense of place, one that we never would have found (or will find again) had we done our shopping in giant, homogeneous chains. Not that we would have found what we were looking for on the shelves of a major retailer, anyways. Most of the stuff we loved listening to wasn’t played on commercial radio. And it sure as shit didn’t rate on any charts.

D.I.Y. Records closed not longer after that, and they say it was because of the rampant shoplifting. But, rather than go out of business entirely, they switched to an online and mail-order operation. And, rather ironically, the store became a Spanish church. And the community that the little record store (that could) fostered had been displaced, if it wasn’t killed off altogether since a lot of other shops closed probably within one or two years after that.

The story of D.I.Y. Records is a lot like the independent music stores spotlighted in I Need That Record are shown to be undergoing the same fate, closing their doors after some twenty or thirty years in the business. These were neighborhood staples that served as small sanctuaries for oddballs, weirdos, and fanatics that make up the universe of music junkies. With collections that spanned in the thousands, they were a place to make those beloved rare discoveries.

But sympathize as I might, it’s a little uncomfortable watching the owners as they’re at a loss for words, and some on the verge of tears, reminiscing and wondering what the hell they’re going to do next. Of those screwed by lease agreements, it’s not clear why the owners didn’t attempt to relocate. The customers, too, kind of ham it up, shaking a fist at big chains (more so than any other culprit in this changing business), and likewise, wonder where they’ll turn to for their music now, especially the ones who dig vinyl. Sure, you could say the Internet, but ex-Minuteman Mike Watt (who looked high during the interview) and ex-Patti Smith collaborator, Lenny Kaye, would say it just doesn’t hold the same sense of community. Although, the kids born and bred on the Internet might disagree.

So basically the question comes down to, what’s killing off the indies? These places that made it easy for kids to wander into and find this whole other world of music (it still is a little harder to do on the Internet, because you already have to know where to look), and three thousand of them shut down in the last decade. But, it soon becomes apparent that sales of hard media (not just CDs, but things like books and movies, too) have been on the decline for quite a while, forcing even major retailers like Tower, Borders, and Blockbusters out of business. What we were witnessing was basically a dramatic change in business models because of changing technology. I Need That Record attributes a lot of the answer to music’s digital conversion, providing a little history of the inventions along the way that really revolutionized the game like the creation of mp3 file format and the release of the first iPod. And, while the litigation battles over piracy and peer-to-peer networks are discussed, they thankfully don’t overshadow the entire history as is usually the tendency. But, it’s also important not to overlook the fact that, digital conversion wasn’t everything. The Internet gave people a way to find even hard copy media at a much cheaper price.

Here is part 1 of 5. Links to the other parts of the interview are listed below.

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

After seeing Tommy Wiseau’s The Room in Cleveland a few months ago, I was sure it reached a new benchmark in bad film-making. Not only is it steeped in horrendous acting, baffling dialogue, fleeting plot points and characters, awkward sex scenes, a grossly unappealing leading man, and suspiciously plentiful assertions of heterosexuality, but, adding to the humor, Wiseau tried to save face by selling it as a black comedy.

Then, I saw Birdemic: Shock and Terror.

Completed in 2008, but not released until this year,  Birdemic is the latest “Best Worst” movie gaining a cult following on the indie theater midnight movie circuit. Generously described (with intentional humor) in the Moviehead press release as a “Romantic Thriller,” the first 40 minutes painstakingly detail the reunion of high school classmates who start dating. It almost like watching one of those movies from high school language lab that teach conversational French. And it’s followed by another 40 minutes painstakingly detailing the new young couple’s mostly pointless attempts to escape a sudden attack by a mob of crazy ass birds. And there’s still the 10 minute finale where the heroes collect to watch the birds, which seem stuck in mid-air.

And all while pushing a serious political agenda!

Brazenly submitted for the Sundance Film Festival in 2009 (although let’s face it, they do show a fair amount pretentious shit there), it was not surprisingly rejected. Aside from trying to make a movie out of two halves of a half-developed whole, coupled with the usual flaws that make these movies so comical (bad acting, loose logic, and bizarre dialogue, etc.), Birdemic demonstrates a new level of technical ignorance. Reaction and establishing shots are done to death. Scenes filmed in noisy locations muffle conversations several times. Shots that look like the mistaken start of a dream sequence. My particular favorite was the stock photo in the news report about melting glaciers in the Arctic that was obscured by the Ghetty Images watermark. But above all else, Birdemic takes the cake for worst special effects which are truly so awful, they’ll leave you speechless. And how do you create an atmosphere of destruction and avionic terror on a mere budget of $10 grand? Why, animated GIFs! Except, most of the time, it seems as though the flying terrors are both harmless and impervious to threat, as though all people needed to do was settle for the fact that birds will now occasionally hover above them because they’re angry about pollution.

Hey, it’s a small price to pay for messing up the environment!

The trailer alone seems like something shot by a bunch of college kids to post to YouTube for a laugh. And then there’s the shitty promotional website.

Um… This is all a joke, right?

I’m still not entirely convinced that it wasn’t a ploy to cash in on the latest urban-indie trend where all those silly kids (myself included) flock (take notice of my pun!) to independent theaters on a weekend, forking over just as much money as you’d pay for a megaplex feature to watch some really god awful, low budget movie. Serve a few beers and it’s the new nightlife niche. For the crafty impostor, the formula is pretty simple: scrap budgets, lowered standards, and a public conviction (sincere or not) that the final product is indeed a legitimate masterpiece. Generate a little buzz among the hipsters and look at all the press you can get just for that! That kind of thing could net a couple bucks and, in some cases, establish your place among cult legends.

But, assuming Birdemic really is unintentionally awful, then it gives the impression that it’s the work of a very young, naive filmmaker who, lacking any skill, created this horrible no-budget ($10 grand) horror film as a platform for passionate fist-shaking at Man’s self-destructive ways. Mainly, environmental abuse. As pollution continues to exacerbate global warming, Mother Nature — and more specifically, a bunch of pissed off eagles and sea gulls — decide to speed up evolution and retaliate against the careless humans. Aside from scratching their eyes out, burning them with toxic poop, and periodically blowing shit up, they also extend their negative reinforcement to the audience, deafening them with repeated, high pitched squawking.

Naturally, all of this is supposed to drive home a very important message…

Global Warming totally sucks, y’all!

The girl at the counter who sold me my beer before the movie mentioned that she had seen Birdemic before, and guessed that it was made by someone who’s first language was not English. Those kind of linguistic and cultural barriers have yielded a few of the more well-known Best Worst movies. In fact, in Best Worst Movie, Michael Stephenson’s documentary on the cult popularity of Troll 2, the American cast frequently remark about the frustration and confusion in working with an Italian film crew that didn’t speak much English, and an Italian director who demanded that they stick to the script as written, despite plenty of awkward translation and amusing assumptions about Middle America’s lifestyle. Although, it’s true… teenage girls really were into sideways ponytails and weightlifting in the 80s.

Just taking into account the Birdemic tagline, “Why Did the Eagles Attacked?” the lost-in-translation theory seems entirely plausible.

Then I watched interviews with the man behind the movie: writer/director James Nguyen. He is neither young nor appears to struggle with the English language. While it’s frequently noted that he  and his family fled their war-ravaged hometown of Da Nang (Vietnam) in the mid-70s, he made a career as a software salesman in Silicon Valley.

So, what’s the deal?

Actually, Nguyen, who not surprisingly has no formal training in film-making, is an ardent admirer of Alfred Hitchcock, and it shows. A lot. His movies (yes, he’s made others and yes, the hero is always a software geek) don’t just pay homage to the Master of Suspense, they’re basically collages of scenes and narratives pulled from Hitchcock’s movies. Obviously, Birdemic is a knock-off of The Birds. The opening credits were ripped from Psycho. The casting of Alan Bagh as Our Hero: Rod, a burly brunette, and his bubbly blond Nathalie (Whitney Moore) follows Hitchcock’s M.O. Even actress Tippi Hedren, who played the lead in The Birds (she’s also Melanie Griffith’s mom), is given co-star credits here, even though she only appears in archive footage from Nguyen’s first film, Julie and Jack (which in turn knocked off Vertigo).

So Nguyen’s movie are the dirt poor man’s Hitchcock? That’s perfect in this economy!

But Hitchcock isn’t the only source of inspiration. If the chunks of textbook explanations of Global Warming and bleeding-heart-liberal styled moments in Birdemic seem vaguely familiar, that’s because they’re Nguyen’s synthesis of Al Gore’s activist documentary, An Inconvenient Truth (which the young couples in the Birdemic even choose to see on a double date, and not because they’d already seen everything else playing at that theater). Somehow, Nguyen seems to cite Apocalypse Now as a third source of inspiration, but the parallels he describes may be filed under WTF and have nothing to do with those overt Give Peace a Chance slogans Whitney’s friend surrounds herself with.

Dude, you’re ruining it for the people who are serious about these things!

So he’s just a regular guy who made a bad movie? Well, hmpf! Actually, an IMDB commentator may have a better theory. While Nguyen may have set out to make serious film, at some point he may have realized how terrible it really was, but could still find success among young cult fans. Although it was rejected at Sundance, it was subsequently “discovered” by Troma Films associate Evan Husney who took Birdemic to distributor Severin Films.

The rest is craptastic cinema history!

As the movie — in painfully slow speed — ended, and the heroes stood on the beach looking out at two groups of birds that appeared stuck on the screen for at least five minutes, Dan joked that it must mean that they’re leaving it open for a sequel. To our surprise, there really is a sequel! Birdemic: The Resurrection is due for release in 2011. I’ve read that it will supposedly have a budget of $20 million and be shot for 3-D screenings. How much of that is just lofty ambition, I don’t know. Maybe they’ll tackle the BP Oil Spill!!

I’m not sure Birdemic takes the cake as the Best of the Worst, intentional or not. The Room at least still holds as one of the most uncomfortable.

Our first BBQ of the summer this year ended with something different this time: a screening of the spectacularly bad fantasy film, Troll 2. The recent release of the making-of documentary, Best Worst Movie, has sparked renewed interest among cult fans. That it has generated headlines in major media goes to show you that the history of an utterly shitty movie can turn out to be even more entertaining than the movie itself. And this particular making-of documentary was directed by none other than Michael Paul Stephenson, the toothy, freckle-faced young star of Troll 2.

There’s something really intriguing about bad movies. Like that way that you pass a really bad car wreck and just can’t look away. Badly written, poorly acted, and shoddily designed, these movies are some kind of confounding testament to serious malfunctions in filmmaking, if not the human psyche altogether.

And yet, even the worst can, paradoxically, be the best…around. Their sole redeeming value is basically social cohesion. That they’re laughably horrible makes them ripee for riffing with a roomful of friends. And there’s certainly been far more cinematic stinkers than any “Worst Of” list can reasonably fit without being overwhelming. There’s plenty of obvious choices. Most any movie Ed Wood ever made. A slew of Japanese creature features from the 1950s. (The Japanese have come a long way, even inspiring American filmmakers who hunger for source material for sub-par remakes). There’s the over-hyped flops like The English Patient (elaborated on in a Seinfeld episode) and Battlefield Earth (which was labeled “Travolting”).The commercially-driven star vehicle like Cool as Ice.

With the Drive-In and late night movie marathons on cable television now being all but a thing of the past, obscure selections like Space Mutiny, Mitchell, Santa Clause Conquers the Martians, Monster A Go-Go, and a curious abundance of 1950s teenage rebel movies that overdid it on the slang were resurrected for Mystery Science Theater 3000. (Mike Nelson and the gang continued the tradition with the mp3-based Riff Trax). In addition to regular screenings of Rocky Horror Picture Show, the midnight movie circuit in various cities now run a small monopoly of so-bad-it’s-good fare. DC residents at least are also privy to the goodwill of the Washington Psychotronic Film Society, now with 20 years of real turkeys under their belt. Carl, the host, usually enlightens attendees of the free, weekly screenings with hilarious backstory. And I wonder,  if in time, Stephen Baldwin’s hammy Target, will join the list.

Some friends suggested adding Return of the Killer Tomatoes and Killer Clowns From Outer Space to the list of all-time terrible movies. But those movies are really comedies to begin with, considering one is about carnivorous vegetables and the other about scary clowns. Production studios like Troma made an entire catalog of uber-crude, low-budget fare such as Surf Nazis Must Die, I Was a Teenage Zombie, and the more popular The Toxic Avenger and Class of Nuke ‘Em High. Intentionally bad from the start, they’re allowed a looser interpretation of what is god awful. The jury is still out on whether the elusive Birdemic really is unintentionally awful.

The Asylum, another production studio, was interviewed earlier this year in Wired Magazine after the trailer for their underwater epic, Mega Shark Versus Giant Octopus, became one of the most widely circulated on the Internet. I’m sure that interest was sparked at the mere mention of it’s co-star, Debbie Gibson, but it probably had viewers scratching their head to figure out whether this was a real movie, which is how I felt upon watching the trailer for Repo Chick. (Debbie Gibson returns to face her former pop charts foe, Tiffany, in Mega Shark Versus Gigantosaurus). But, while you might expect The Aslyum’s catalog of studio commissioned low-budget knock-offs of big budget action flicks to be funny, they aren’t spoofs, which probably only makes those who mistakenly rented Transmorphers thinking it was Transformers much more  sorely disappointed that they didn’t even get to laugh. Well, much, because that particular one was pretty lame…

… although not horribly awful. And, that’s really the distinction. Because there are movies that are so ridiculous that you never want to see them (i.e. most any of the Howling sequels). And then there are those that are so comically bad, they become a new cult favorite.

And one of the things that can movie really god awful is when there is a serious lack of reasonable logic in a story otherwise trying to be sold as passable reality. Take Troll 2. It centers around an oblivious suburban family who decide that Nilbog (get it?), an unfriendly podunk town well stocked on expired dairy and harboring a very obvious “Goblin problem” would make the perfect family vacation destination. Amazingly, their youngest — who’s clearly too intelligent to be biologically related to the rest of the clan — and the ghost of his batty dead grandfather are their only hope for survival.

There ain’t no party like a Troll 2 party ‘cuz a Troll 2 party don’t got Trolls!

And as a nominal sequel, Troll 2 didn’t actually have anything to do with the 1986 Troll film, although they two are packaged together as a DVD Double Feature. The Italian filmmakers sought to ride the coattails of a less atrocious movie and so the title of the movie was changed accordingly. That this so-called sequel was originally called Goblin makes even more sense why there’s not a single utterance of the word Troll in the entire movie.

But Troll 2 only dates back to 1991 and before its resurrection (much of it very recent), another movie previously held — and arguably still does — the honor of being the Worst Movie of All Time. Back in the mid-60s, an insurance and fertilizer salesman in El Paso famously boasted to a location scout that making movies was easy. When Hal Warren bet the future screenwriter ofHeat of the Night, Stirling Silliphant, that he could make a successful horror film on a small budget,  more ironic words couldn’t have been spoken. For a long time, Warren’s Manos: Hands of Fate, which tells the story of a family that accidentally stumble upon a weird cult, claimed the number 1 spot of the Internet Movie Database’s user-ranked Bottom 100 list. (The never-mentioned 1966 movie, Night Train to Mundo Fine now sits at #1 on that list).

Manos! The Freshmaker!

It’s not surprising that Manos turned out as bad as it did. The making-of reads a lot like Ed Wood’s movies: it was carelessly created. With only a budget of $19 grand, the production was rushed with the expectation that a lot of mistakes would simply be fixed in post-production. They weren’t. And it was so bad that Warren and the cast were laughed out of the premiere.

On a side note: Ed Wood’s preachy and comically sexist grave robbing sci-fi travesty that was (unsuspectingly) financed by a Baptist church, Plan 9 From Outer Space and his semi-autobiographic transvestite tale, Glen or Glenda?, in which Wood starred, are both ranked in the Bottom 100, too. The making of both are well documented in Burton’s celebratory biopic which hailed Wood’s persistence despite never quite having the budget to match his imagination.

But let’s face it, a lot of crap falls into two particular categories; the horror and science fiction genres are chock full of hideous duds. But Tommy Wiseau, who really deserves the honor of King of  the Worst Movie of All Time, managed to muck up another genre entirely. And to such an embarrassing degree that the trailers were redone to sell the movie as a black comedy, and specifically in the vein of playwright Tennessee Williams. Not surprisingly, it made Wiseau look even more ridiculous, like discovering that someone claims they got a love letter, only to find out they wrote it to themselves. Oh, but that’s the least of the confusion when it comes The Room.

As bad as Troll 2, Manos, Plan 9 From Outer Space, and many of the rest are, they at least follow the traditional 3-Act narrative. You know, where the action is set up, played out, and then cleaned up. Basically, The Room is about a dissatisfied Future Wife (I don’t think Wiseau can pronounce fiancee, which may explain why he keeps using this phrase “future wife”) who wants to separate from her dull, unsuccessful, vaguely Eurofag husband (played by Wiseau). But, since she never leaves the house, nevermind her Future Husband, she settles instead for sleeping around with his best friend. In addition to that, the movie is loaded with subplots and supporting characters that creep up and disappear without warning. So much so, that I wonder when they finally decided to stop making the movie.

Oh, hai over-ahcting!

Wiseau improvised from the start, even simultaneously filming in 35mm film and digital video because he was uncertain of the distinctions. Even though there’s plenty of exterior footage of San Francisco locations, a green screen is used during scenes that take place on the roof top of an apartment building. And there’s lot of moments where Wiseau seems to feel compelled to assert his heterosexuality like the awkward sex scenes and many, many moments where he and his guy friends toss around a football. The acting is bad. The dialogue is baffling. There are pictures of spoons scattered around. The promotional poster looks like a mug shot of a man who was kicked in the face by a mule.

I could go on, but you get the point. And considering all of this, it’s not all that far fetched, as Patton Oswalt joked, that the movie was just a way of laundering the $7 million that Wiseau raised when the studios wouldn’t back the project. Even if he didn’t, he should still save face by sucking it up and admitting that he made a shitty product, and at least bask in the licensing fees he’s getting now that it has become the newest audience participation movie (which includes hurling plastic spoons at the screen).

And I could go on about movies, but outside of the ones most people recognize, even if just by name like Troll, Manos, Plan 9 From Outer Space, The Room, and Birdemic, there’s too many to name. Obscured by their poor quality, they, too, may one day find a sudden revival. Especially on the Internets!

Exit Through the Gift Shop is a mix of documentary and possible sham, one engineered by the immensely popular, but cleverly elusive  master of public mockery: stencil graffiti artist, Banksy.  The film was supposedly borne out of French shop owner, Thierry Guetta’s obsessive compulsiveness and attraction to the grandiose. Getting his hands on a video camera, he began to record everything, no matter how mundane the event. Orphaned at a young age when his mother died, he claimed the new found hobby satisfied his compulsion to hold on to the life around him. Soon, all this filming leads him to a new objective: a documentary about street artists.

Guetta began by accompanying his cousin Invader — famed in the underground world for his tiled mosaic replicas of characters from 8 bit video games — recording his (somewhat) covert assault on the city. While the camera would no doubt make most graffiti artists skittish, Guetta shared in their risks; traveling, scaling walls, and posting lookouts with guys like attention-friendly Shepard Fairey (the mastermind behind the Obey slogan and iconic Obama portrait), and DC’s own exiled tagger, Borf, earning Guetta credibility and access to their underground network by those who applaud his documentarian question. While Exit the Gift Shop is no doubt entertaining, This occupies much of the first half of Exit Through the Gift Shop, which is quite distinct from what will follow as a documentary of street artists at work eventually gives way to focusing on one in particular: Guetta himself.

Enter Banksy, the stencil graffiti artist who may well be considered one of the kingpins of the contemporary underground because, even after crossing into the mainstream, so little is known about him. Even as one of the central personalities of the film, he disguises his voice and hides his face while providing substantial (deflective) commentary and offers viewers a glimpse inside his workshop. You could probably accurately log into Interpol that he’s a white guy. Well-read. And maybe married (he wears a ring). Or, he could be this guy.

Yet, despite his power to generate massive crowds of hungry spectators — a new piece lures pedestrians on a sidewalk to snap a picture with their cellphones; an art opening in LA brings out high profile celebrities; and, an art collector places a value on Banksy’s work as equal to that of Picasso and Warhol — he claims that he’s made this film about Guetta because he himself is not all that interesting. Eventually the two are introduced, and between Banksy’s deadpan wit and Guetta’s disjointed elaboration, the movie takes on a hilarious, Vaudevillian quality.

While he may claim himself not to be all that interesting a person, Banksy tends to stand apart from other street artists shown in the film. That may be because more is revealed about the others’ application of their craft rather than their motivation, but Banksy’s purpose is most overt: his products and the very process by which he creates them mock the space in which sits. From the stencil graffiti of the little girl frisking the soldier, to the modified painting he quietly hangs in a popular museum, to the ballsy infiltration of the Happiest Place on Earth where he constructs a Guantanamo Bay-inspired setting, it’s all amusing juxtaposition. (Borf was notable for aesthetic mockery too, but on a more personal level: when the city of DC suddenly took notice of what they deemed a rampant threat, Borf wages a campaign of dares and his trademark images plastered across interstate street signs made it hard to ignore his presence).

By the second half of the movie, when Banksy and Guetta begin collaborating, the joke on the audience suddenly begins to seem plausible; everything too outrageous to be true, especially when Guetta, by Banksy’s urging, starts producing his own graffiti, branding himself Mr. Brainwash, a pseudonym that is simultaneously appropriate and antithetical in the street art world.

Ever the loyalist to the grandiose, Guetta eventually moves beyond putting paint to the wall and opens a graphic arts studio in L.A. By now, stencil graffiti has taken on a standardization with that ironic mix of pop culture and politics, and Guetta follows the formula, producing so much work that he eventually decides to rent an abandoned television studio and open a show that will cater to thousands of spectators. He’s got visions of plum fairies dancing in his head — it can’t just be a show. It has to be big!

Basically, a monster is created. And, it seems to happen rather quickly. The other artists featured in this film are both baffled and resentful by this recent nobody’s sudden rise to fame. Especially when, like the puppet boy band hand-picked to perform other people’s music on a major label — his fame is driven by disingenuous art. Banksy reflects: “I used to encourage everyone I knew to make art… I don’t do that anymore.”

This is a documentary marketed as the “World’s First Street Art Disaster Movie,” and things haven’t gotten quite outrageous enough. Even though he’s never put together an event of this scale before, Guetta’s audacious quest becomes a Reality-TV styled drama as he, along with a massive overworked and underpaid crew race to fill the huge studio, publicize the show, and garner a crowd on little time and money. Of course, this being LA, and Mr. Brainwash’s work being basically pop art, it isn’t surprising when the headline-conscious patrons start hungrily forming lines at the studio’s gates. And the show is so popular that Guetta even extends the duration of the show. (He even recently brought the show to NYC).

He is kind of like the Malcom McLaren of the street art world, although he doesn’t seem to approach as, “how can I make a lot of money on this?” But, with little effort, he was able to capitalize on pop culture’s drive for superficial consumption (which Banksy has always emphasized in his work). Needless to say, by the end of the film, Guetta’s alienated himself from the street artists he previously worked with. I wouldn’t call them former friends, since they always seems to be sort of hands-off with him, like the way you decide a person is too crazy to deal with, but crazy enough not to want to make it too obvious that you’re suspicious.

Banksy, at the end, says he’s not sure who the joke is on. I’m leaning on the joke being on the audience. Banksy is the king of cultural mockery. And this is a story just too outrageous to be true.

Human Centipede was the latest star of E Street Cinema’s “Midnight Madness.” Something that was advertised as an adults-only affair. This weekend only. And supposedly, it has become the new Internet meme, too!

I first heard about it from The Other AC who posted a trailer to his Facebook page a few weeks ago for an unusually high-quality production about a German surgeon who kidnaps unfortunate strangers to use in his experiment: the Human Centipede.

Oh… so it’s like Rocky Horror but not funny?! (Hint, hint, you movie parodying specialists!).

Technically, the title is a misnomer. This Centipede has nowhere near a hundred legs. Though, who knows… it might by the end of the trilogy.

Oh yes, there’s more!

A few days later, I saw the film poster at E Street during the opening night of The Runaways. It was playing in two weeks. The E Street Cinema’s MC barely plugged it. “Well, I won’t tell you what it’s about. You saw the poster.” We knew what we were in store for. I immediately sent a text to The Other AC. Calendars were engraved in stone.

It was far too weird a movie to even suggest to most of my relatively normal friends to come see it with us. That, and asking them to put up with the additional nuisances of driving  downtown, finding a parking spot, and staying out till what we people nearing 30 call… “the wee hours of the morning.”

The film poster gave away more information than the studio had when Dutch writer/director/AK-47 enthusiast Tom Six made his pitch about a surgeon who sewed people together, not letting on precisely how this fusion takes place. As we waited in the growing line of white, black-clad hipsters for the first of two nights for the midnight screening, I noticed Carl, the host of the Washington Psychotronic Film Society here in DC, and went over to strike up conversation.

Marvel at my casual, but cool introduction…

“You’re the dude from the Psychotronic Film Society!” (I said while pointing at him).

Don’t judge. Carl didn’t.

When you spend 20 years hosting the trashy, gory, bizarre, and just plain bad movies that have made up Psychotronic screening history to DC audiences in bar basements as Carl has, there probably isn’t much that can shock you anymore. Which is why it surprised me when he said he might be watching most of this film with his eyes closed. (See my clever oxymoron? Watching with his eyes closed. Let’s virtually high five!).

Compton bowed out early on after reading about the movie on Wiki and feared that she wouldn’t be able to keep down the dinner we’d have before the show. Even CNN had declared Human Centipede the “Most Disturbing Film Ever Made!” (I presume they’ve overlooked the suffocation-by-boner scene in Body Melt?). Could this movie really be so extreme that audiences would be vomiting in the aisles (or worse, on each other!), or fleeing the theater in horror and disgust like they did when The Exorcist debuted? I had been under the impression that this was just a well-shot schlock, but nothing really all that repulsive. (There was some funny commentary from the row behind us). Plus, I couldn’t imagine this kind of audience being quite that sensitive.

But there was only way to find out! And so, we piled into a row of theater seats with Lyz and the Other AC’s depraved friends and the lights went down…

Well, actually what followed was a sort of disgusting, but mostly disappointing movie.

The Six and Six team (I can’t figure out what relation one of the co-producers, a lady Six, shares with director/writer Tom Six… could you imagine if she is his wife?!) daringly draw a line in the sand and happily step over it. But, really, it’s a small line. And the leap over it is a really tiny one. Years and years of outrageous horror cinema did not suddenly get “outdid” by Human Centipede. I mean, my dear CNN columnist (and similar admonishers!): have you seen some of the crazy shit the Japanese and Koreans made lately?

Let’s take a look, shall we?

BE VEWY QUIET. THAR BE SPOILERS HERE!

As the good doctor explains to his victims with his handy overhead projector, the Human Centipede experiment requires breaking some knee caps and surgically attaching the specimens… ass to mouth. In the end, like a real centipede, they’ll be sharing a single digestive track. Oh, to be the lucky person at front of this train lucky enough to get their nutrients from actual food and not someone else’s doodie!

Shocking… isn’t it?!

But, as the DCist already pointed out, the 90 minute movie is consumed by it’s simple concept (although, maybe the unexplained difference between the First Sequence (part 1) and the upcoming Full Sequence (part 2) is the difference between seeing a buffet and digging in). The doctor finds his victims fairly quickly, since he only needs 3 unfortunate souls for his Centipede rather than, you  know, 50. He didn’t even have to go out and find them all, some came to him.  The expected escape attempt is quashed just as quickly. And, even though the demented doctor is a Hater (bluntly telling his victims, “I don’t like human beings”), he attempts to train the Centipede to be an obedient pet, only to get discouraged and go for a swim. Which is even more frustrating when two detectives with amazing hair show up around this time to investigate suspicious reports from the neighbors in what seems like almost an afterthought of how to end this thing. It’s basically all process.

Actually, a majority of this is as unsettling as it is to sit through because it’s star, Dieter Laser, is a creepy MF! And not in that Norman Bates kind of sociopath bathed in baby-face innocence. Laser is thin and veiny, has remarkably sunken cheeks, a hard square jaw with a permanent frown, and giant black eyes that harkens back to way Donald Pleasance described young Mike Meyers in the first Halloween: “He had the blackest eyes… the Devil’s eyes.”

I wonder though, if there was satire at play in Human Centipede. A German psycho-surgeon. A young, ineffectively defiant Japanese man who occupies the front of the Centipede. And, as punishment for not learning the basics of auto mechanics (changing a tire) — two American girls are placed at the end of this chain, simultaneously taking shit and kissing ass. Frustrating as it may be as an actress, walking around a film set with your face literally buried in someone else’s ass, it’s frustrating that they are permanent mutes. But, if it’s not satirical, then some of the imagery looks as though it was designed to fullfill some sort of kinky fantasy. In the scenes where the conjoined trio are asleep, it looks like an orgy that ran late past everyone’s bedtime. And I don’t think I’ll elaborate that last point any further.

All in all, the first installment survives on a reputation of hype. So what comes next?

For those of you too young to remember (or never heard about at all), The Runaways were an all-girl teenage rock band that formed in California in 1975. At a time when rock n’ roll was shifting towards faster tempos and amateurish ease, boys in leather jackets and dirty jeans were learning how easy it was to form a band. Meanwhile, their eager counterparts were encouraged to stay put in a hypocritical paradigm. Like Joan Jett’s guitar teacher (Damone!) explained so bluntly in the movie:  “Girls don’t play electric guitar.”

The hell they don’t. Gender bending was already a staple of rock n’ roll. But if guys like David Bowie and the New York Dolls could prance around onstage in women’s clothes, why couldn’t a bunch of sweaty, angry, bad ass girls plug in and go crazy in front of a stack of amps?

And so the defiant Runaways formed in Hollywood when drummer Sandy West (Stella Maeve’s part in the movie) and Joan Jett (Kristen Stewart), having each toyed with the idea of starting an all-girl band, were introduced by Kim Fowley (Michael Shannon), the sleazy record producer who eventually became the band’s sleazy manager. Fowley was a lot like Sex Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren (who died of cancer last week) in that The Runaways was a concept band, and the other members — lead guitarist Lita Ford, lead singer Cheri Currie, and a rotating lineup of bassists (due to legal issues, the fictional Robin Robinson represented Jamie Fox) — were recruited more for attitude than ability to play instruments or sing. Although historically labeled “teenage jailbait,” Kim Fowley clarified in the documentary Edgeplay that The Runaways weren’t T & A. These were girls who  just didn’t give a shit (and had no reason to), and they modeled themselves on their rock idols which, aside from Suzie Quatro, were guys.  Bowie, Keith Richards, Gene Simmons, Jeff Beck, and others. And even when Cheri Currie strutted on stage in Japan in a Betty Page corset, she looked ready to dominate, not be dominated.  (Baby-faced Dakota Fanning made it seem more innocent when reenacting this in the film).

And so The Runaways were born. The movie is obviously a limited biopic, which is a shame considering the renewed interest in the band that its likely to generate, especially among young audiences since it’s basically been marketed as That Kristen Stewart and Dakota Fanning Movie. Because it’s based on Cheri Currie’s memoir, Neon Angel, the focus is primarily on the relationship between she, Joan Jett, and Kim Fowley. But Currie’s career really fizzled out after she left the band, and aside from Joan Jett, guitarist Lita Ford, who teamed up with Sharon and Ozzie Osbourne, achieved some access as a solo artist after The Runaways disbanded.

The Runaways ran the risk of limited release teeny bopper mediocrity, although it surprisingly proved otherwise (and a lot of credit is owed to its leading actors). It’s tricky pulling off a story about a handful of angst-ridden teenage girls in way that doesn’t come off as utterly trite (see Catherine Hardwick’s Thirteen), or drowned in gender politics as it did in say, Lou Adler’s Ladies and Gentlemen, The Fabulous Stains (which is probably the closest cinematic kin to The Runaways). While in reality, rock n’ roll was still very much a man’s world in the 70s, The Runaways is just the opposite. Most of the men in the film are either ineffectual (like Steve, the road manager), or utterly vile, like the Currie sisters’ alcoholic father and the band’s manager, Kim Fowley. (Though that’s not to say that even the women in the film can’t disappoint – Currie’s mother was a real flake).

Because it’s a movie based on an American band that formed before the benign (and incredibly boring) Age of Extreme Political Correctness, the movie revisits the grime that’s been lost to recent cultural gentrification. Albeit, it’s a grime of West Coast flavor (rather than say, abysmal New York City in the mid 70s). The Runaways is chock full of dirty clubs, dismal prospects, ambitious sleazebags, absentee parents, booze, drugs, leather, cigarettes, and sex. And to have a handful of angsty teenage girls at the center of this chaotic playground makes it all the more naughty.

The Runaways oozes in ferocious rebellion and blissful sexuality, the very essence of rock n’ roll. Canadian artist/director Floria Sigismondi had the right sensibilities for this kind of material, having come from a background in fashion photography and later, directing music videos for bands like The White Stripes, Interpol, and David Bowie. More than just a band’s tale unfolding in a pristine reconstruction of the 1970s, Sigismondi injects periodic “artsy” display like the ebb and flow of an orchestra – the rich reds and blacks at the height of their decadent fame, stop-and-go action during the big performance scene, the dreamy sequences of excess, and the bleached aftermath. Suddenly the abstract of music has texture, and what better way to reveal rock n’ roll than through a band like The Runaways?

There’s a rumor that, like damn near everything coming out of Hollywood these days, the 1979 comedy, Rock n’ Roll High School, is unfortunately slated for a remake. So far, the details are scant. IMDB has sealed the information to public — at least those that don’t have Pro subscriptions — but, Wiki contributors reported that Alex Winter (of Bill & Ted fame) was tapped to write the screenplay for Howard Stern’s production company. The original film was initially conceptualized as a vehicle for Todd Rundgren, and later Cheap Trick, but ultimately came to hail the halcyonic ethos of slovenly, leather-clad rockers, The Ramones. You know, that teachers and principals suck, that classes are a waste of time, and they’d rather be cruising for chicks in muscles cars, as the lyrics to their title song go.  (Dee Dee Ramone once remarked how he hated the film because The Ramones looked like simpletons).  It’s like a demented Fast Times at Ridgemont High in that it’s silly and trashy and made on producer Roger Corman’s notoriously stingy budget. In other words, it’s pure fun.

The movie takes place at Vince Lombardi High, where the horrible, uber-strict new principal, Evelyn Togar, has declared war on rock n’ roll, which she blames for her students’ utter disregard for education and discipline, driving previous principals to nervous breakdowns. Cult movie queen, Mary Woronov (Eating Raoul, Motorama) was rather ironically cast in the role. She kicked around with Warhol’s Factory when they used to perform nonsense theater onstage with the Velvet Underground in New York City a few years before The Ramones broke out there (read Leggs McNeil and Gillian McCain’s excellent book, Please Kill Me: An Uncensored Oral History of Punk).

Nonetheless, the Principal’s reign of terror can only last for so long, and when Principal Togar interferes with Riff Randal’s (P.J. Soles of Halloween and Carrie) chances to see the Ramones in concert and consequently, her opportunity to give them her song “Rock n’ Roll High School,” she enters a contest to get them to come to her school instead. Eventually, the Ramones invade and rile the students’ to a successful, if somewhat oblivious coup. (Ironic still, is Woronov’s part, in that despite the overthrow by teenage rock fanatics, she returns in the forgettable sequel, Rock n’ Roll High School Forever, as the principal).

The high school rock n’ roll rebellion film is dated, which makes it hard to believe there could be a suitable remake. At least if it’s something set on the modern day campus. Characters in today’s films, and especially teenage films, are fairly innocuous, and the “school sucks” credo of those films would undoubtedly be dismissed as being far too politically incorrect, especially given the massive criticisms of the American public education system. Plus, with the disappearance of the original carnations of punk (and that kind of garage rock, which is what the Ramones really were), with overt, simplistic politics, there doesn’t seem to be a comparable band fitting for the part. In other words, who are the Ramones of today? That kind of comical dissatisfaction with school is even absent from rap. It went out when duos like DJ Jazzy Jeff and Fresh Prince, and Kidd n’ Play, stopped making songs about ditching class and getting in trouble with their parents. Rock n’ roll got deep and emotional. Rap got hostile and sexual. It’d be difficult to remake Rock n’ Roll High School for the same reason that you couldn’t make movies like Smithereens, Ladies and Gentlemen: The Fabulous Stains, Repo Man, and similar early punk-themed movies  anymore… grime and trashiness, even when it’s characters are funny (as the Ramones and the students of Vince Lombardi High School were in 1979), isn’t appealing anymore. Just as our geography has become so massively gentrified and homogenized, so too has our culture.

After seeing what Alex Winter did as co-director and co-writer of the science fiction comedy, Freaked, maybe there shouldn’t be any groaning yet. Winter, borne out of that wariness with mainstream cinema, could do something very interesting with the screenplay, and perhaps it’s even more appropriate that he should be working with Stern, who of course, built his career on being intentionally crude and shocking. Crude, at least, is what Roger Corman’s films embodied.  Though, who knows what stage it’s at, or whether it’s ever really going to lead to the rumored remake. Nonetheless, what is scheduled for a definite 2010 release is Shout Factory’s collection of Roger Corman classics, which will include the original Rock n’ Roll High School.

You can also watch the full movie on YouTube (until, of course, it gets flagged). Click here for part 1.

But Alice Sebold’s 2002 bildungsroman novel actually turned out to be an adaptation fit for a knight (see? because Jackson is knighted), because this isn’t your typical tale of murder. This is a story told from the point of view of it’s victim, 14-year old Susie Salmon (Saoirse Ronan). Providing the story’s narration, she tells your right away that she’ll be murdered. Will even tell you who her killer is. The name of the game is for the characters onscreen to figure out what the audience already knows. To some extent, her family will get help from Susie herself, who observes life on Earth, witnessing the devastation the brutal murder caused her family, from some fantastic world that exists somewhere between the world of the living, and a sort of heaven (Sebold, in response to religious critics about the secular treatment of the afterlife, said that she didn’t write the book with the traditional sense of heaven in mind). “The in-between” her younger brother calls it. New and unexplored, it’s both driven by the imagination of an innocent pre-teen girl, and also shaped by her reactions to the living world. Vast and visually-reliant, it’s a creation satisfying to the CGI fetishist (which Jackson essentially is), but it’s not a redemptive limbo. Rather, this is the place where Susie must find resolve. She is the story’s hero.

Of course, film critics have lambasted Jackson for nurturing the visuals (or, basically, any part of the film featuring Susie’s after-life world) to the point of creating unnecessary distraction. This world is bubble-gummy –contrary to Jackson’s intentions to avoid being hokey– since it is the fantasy world shaped by a 14-year old girl, the death and its impact on her family not having immediately made her bitter, only unclear as to her purpose. And it seems to go on forever. There are two especially aggravating scenes by the film’s end, where suddenly gripping intensity is abruptly held for dreamy drama, something that tested the patience of audience members who began growling in disgust, realizing how fruitless it was to yell at the characters in the film to JUST GET ON WITH IT! It’s like you’ve discovered a trail of gasoline and then suddenly spotted a man nearby about to light up a cigarette (the old Hitchcock philosophy of showing the viewers certain tidbits of information to rile them up) and before he is about to throw down his match, you’re suddenly thrust into a glassy scene of fuzzy gray kittens.

The material itself was really a challenge for any director as it requires to blend conflicting genres into a consistent film. On the one hand is that extreme discomfort of knowing when Susie is about to be killed, the nail-biting suspense of frequent moments when it looks like the other characters will find realize that Susie’s killer is right under their noses, something that of course, always leads to one of them going into the killer’s house to snoop around, but linger longer than they should. Jackson keeps tight reigns on these, and Stanley Tucci plays the villain well — you know, calm, cool, and mostly collected. On the other hand, there is the dreamy fantasy world that Susie Salmon wanders, almost aimlessly, as she watches over her family on Earth, and at the same time, tries to understand her purpose. As already said, that alternative foreground tends to spill over into the thriller in the Earth-world, destroying that well crafted suspense. Add to that, is also a little bit of comic relief where Susan Sarandon appears as the alcoholic, irresponsible grandmother. But, The Lovely Bones is not pure gut-wrenching tragedy, and if it was, there’d be no need for Susie Salmon, except to question why its taking so long to realize that she died at the hands of her neighbors. Instead, her death simply marks the impetus of an epic coming-of-age tale, strange as that can be where it occurs in the after-life.

Can they do it? You’ll just have to wait till the movie comes out… or until someone spoils it for you.

This film is an odd product for its day, given the kind of movies that once typified the teen genre. Amidst numerous, cheaply produced T & A comedies (Private School, Spring Break, Porky’s, etc.), which indulged the exploits of mindlessly horny adolescents, John Hughes would soon become an 80s icon with sincere portrayals of American youth, both in drama and comedy. Elsewhere, a sub-genre of C-grade films that, seemingly inspired by 1950s pulp fiction, raised paranoia about the urban teenage timebomb (i.e. Class of 1984, Savage Streets, 3:15). Well, somewhere in the middle of all this is The Legend of Billie Jean. The B-grade action-drama (which includes a tasty foot chase!) isn’t set in the halls of the All-American high school, the comfort of Middle-class America, or even the grimy streets of the inner city, but more unusually, was filmed in and around the coastal Texas city of Corpus Christi.

At the forefront of The Legend of Billie Jean is the vigilante teen hero — or in this case, a heroine. This much had been done before, most notably, in Jonathan Kaplan’s 1979 film, Over the Edge. Based on true events, it tells the story of a burgeoning, fictional Colorado suburb brought to its knees in a violent revolt by its  bored and restless young residents who were ignored in its development. The decade’s punk cinema, too, steeped in a naive devotion to anarchy, was rife with temporary youth revolt (changing the status quo is hard work). Smithereens and Times Square, for example, featured angsty heroines who energized young, alienated audiences with their songs about mass delusion. Pump Up the Volume, which shares its star Christian Slater with The Legend of Billie Jean, was released in 1990. A sort of precursor to the free culture principals, it centered on an introverted teenager who, by  night, becomes a popular pirate radio DJ that urges the town’s disaffected teenagers to challenge arbitrary authority.

But, unlike these films, and contrary to the kind of war cry lyrics in Pat Benatar’s theme song, Invincible (“We can’t afford to be innocent/stand up and face the enemy…”), Billie Jean doesn’t exactly scream hardened leader. Helen Slater’s asthmatic 17 year-old centerfold-esque Billie Jean is confident, selfless, and innocent.

…In other words, she’s unrealistically wholesome.

Even her eventual MTV-styled makeover into a sexy feminist-guerrilla hybrid (add revealing wetsuit, buzz cut, carefully applied makeup and combat boots), it is an uncomfortable, shallow (“Billie Jean, you look… famous”), and temporary metamorphosis. Confident and selfless as she may be, her background — living with her brother and widowed mother in a sleepy trailer park — seem to only offer minimal impetus for her ethics, and no fodder at all for the crisis that erupts, setting the scene, of course, for that that beloved logic-suspending 80′s movie cheesiness.

The film begins, quite simply, with Billie Jean’s brother, Binx (Christian Slater in his film debut; no relation to co-star Helen Slater) humiliating a couple of assholes that won’t leave he and his sister alone. In retaliation, they steal Binx’s prized motor scooter while he and his sister are out on the lake. (Yes, the premise already sounds corny, but it is an update of The Legend of Michael Kohlhaas and horses just don’t mean the same to the average American teenager). Billie Jean assures her brother that they’ll  return the bike, and when they don’t, Binx decides to get it back himself. Hoping to avoid making matters worse, Billie Jean grabs her friends and heads to the police station, but the cop she speaks to (Peter Coyote) is, somewhat understandably, no help in the matter.

Binx eventually comes home a bloody mess; the bike is destroyed. Fruitlessly trying to be diplomatic Billie Jean presents  Hubie Pyatt (Barry Tubb), one of the conspirators, with an estimate from the body shop at his father’s beachfront souvenir store, asking him to compensate them for the damages. When he refuses, she takes up the issue with his father, who turns out to be an even bigger sleazebag, attempting to bargain for sexual favors.  Wondering what is taking so long, her brother and friends wander into the now-empty store (Pyatt makes his grotesque advances upstairs). Binx opens the cash drawer and finds a gun and, when Billie Jean frantically climbs down the stairs urging that they all leave, Binx threatens Pyatt with the gun, sheepishly telling him to leave his sister alone and give them the money. That simple. But, when Hubie walks in on the middle of this, his father quickly concocts a plausible explanation: the kids came to rob him. When Hubie doesn’t want to leave them to get the police because Binx is pointing a gun at his dad, Mr. Pyatt scoffs that he wouldn’t actually keep a loaded gun in the drawer. Binx, distraught, confusedly examines the gun when he accidentally shoots Mr. Pyatt. When Hubie runs for help, Billie Jean, Binx, and their friends get the hell out of their, now a couple of teenage fugitives.

Ridiculous soon gets quite ridiculous — in one scene, Billie Jean and the gang intervene in the abuse of an anonymous kid, and later, they devise a fake kidnapping of the Mayor’s nerdy son (actor-turned-director Kieth Gordon) to gain some leverage, though it’s a convoluted commentary on the public’s almost rabid thirst for celebrity and sensationalism. Immediately, Billie Jean attempts to make amends by contacting the police officer she previously spoke with (he is the only evidence that what transpired may have been an accident) to arrange their surrender, with the added caveat that Pyatt pay what is owed. It seems like a modest, if not unrealistic, thing to ask for. When, the story is picked up in the local media, they become painted as the new local antiheroes, celebrated by the young and criticized by the old. “Fair is fair” becomes their moniker and Billie Jean, the most morally-conscious and level-headed of the bunch, becomes the inadvertent spokeswoman of the fugitive teenage gang. On the one hand,she’s viewed by her peers as a (misunderstood) symbol of victorious teenage rebellion, one she had no intention of being, nevermind seems to have much of an idea how to handle. Young girls in particular begin to emulate her clothes and hairstyle, and more importantly, form underground support networks that Billie Jean accidentally stumbles upon. These kids were looking for a savior, it seemed.

Elsewhere, local news reporters, radio DJs, and merchandisers eat up the story. Even the Pyatts profit, selling posters of in their shop. So intensely sensationalized, trivialized, and exploited, it’s hard for Billie Jean, her brother, and their friends not to get swept up in the inevitably disillusioning frenzy. The moment where Billie Jean, distraught, pulls down a poster and looks at the illustration of herself in front of a target perfectly captures that idea. The original motives for their refusing to give in are lost, as if they mattered at all anymore. The reality had been destroyed and replaced by myth, but Billie Jean wants nothing more than to return to the humble life she once knew.

Pat Benatar is said to really berate this movie before performing “Invincible” at concerts, though this might indicate an underlying, unwanted contractual obligation to work on the film (or some other manner of being professionally wrong with regards to this movie). It can hardly be called the worst movie of its kind ever made (Fatal Rescue instead deserves that title). It’s heavy-handed, exaggerated adventure, and entertaining enough all the same.