THE KINGS OF CINEMATIC SCHLONG

WARNING! This post contains language and imagery centering on a functional part of the human body that much of the population sees every day which has, throughout the history of art, been the subject of much sculpted and painted representation as well as salacious speculation and curiosity. This curiosity seems due more to its implied status as a forbidden object unsuitable for display in such an artistic manner than its inherent status as the focus of licentious sexual evil. But if the subject offendeth thee, get over it or don't read the post. It won't hurt my feelings. But if you do sally forth, just keep it in your pants long enough to read the piece and then, God bless America, do whatever it is that you as a consenting adult, will do.

“I know the reason that it was cut out was that it just wasn’t right. If anything, it’s a beautiful, gentle moment and a f**king large c**k with huge balls, is just f**king jarring.” —Colin Farrell on why his nude scene was cut out of Alexander

“It looks like an egg in a nest. This girl once said to me, ‘Who are you going to satisfy with that little thing?’ I said, ‘Me!’” —Johnny Knoxville


Coming in at #5 on Salon's list of the "Top 10 Moments in Male Frontal Nudity," it's Ewan McGregor, perhaps more single-penis-per-exposed-foot-of-film than any other in cinema history, in Peter (I said Peter) Greenaway's The Pillow Book. This one's for my dear wife...

One finds inspiration where one finds it, by God, and in celebration/commemoration/anticipation of today’s release of Sasha Baron Cohen’s latest satirical sociopolitical firecracker, the thankfully two-syllable entitled Bruno, debate which has been stirring for a couple of months now, ever since the movie was screened at festivals and Cohen began in earnest his unique guerrilla marketing campaign, over whether the movie is a devastating dressing-down of American hypocrisy in which even those sympathetic to its point of view are indicted, or a wrongheaded and depressing reinforcement of the very fears and prejudices it seeks to debunk. Partisans on both sides of the fence seem to agree that the movie is undeniably hilarious—the difference seems to be whether those laughs stick in the throat or whether they can inspire honest introspection in even the choir to which Cohen’s message is being preached. (David Edelstein, in his rave, observed that “Underlying all these gags—the funny, the crude, the funny and crude—is a hard truth: Flagrant gay behavior drives a lot of heteros insane. To be honest, I’m uncomfortable watching two guys with tongues down each other’s throats, too, but at least I know the problem is mine, not theirs.”) It’ll be interesting to see how the movie goes down on those who weren’t bothered by The Hangover’s it-is-what-it-is fag fear.

And by way of celebration of the copious full-frontal male nudity on display in Bruno (unlike the rassling scene in Borat, we can apparently expect a closer-to-NC-17 unpixellated variety this time around), Salon yesterday published a provocative list entitled ”The Dong Show: Top 10 Moments in Male Frontal Nudity,” celebrating, as Salon would have it, Ewan MacGregor, Vincent Gallo and the rest of the upstanding (sorry) men who put the penis in pop culture. Writers Sarah Hepola and Thomas Rogers approach the list with good humor, of course, but their undertaking has a core of seriousness behind it and a question that is worth asking:

“(I)n popular culture, and movies in particular, there's been a rather conspicuous double standard. Sure, boobs and vaginas are great, but where, egalitarians might ask, are all the penises? Male nudity is so verboten in film that even one that centers on its exposure -- The Full Monty -- didn't have the (excuse us) balls to live up to its name. Mr. Skin, an online database of movie nude scenes, doesn't feature male nudity at all. We joke all the time about the mighty John Thomas, but rarely does it get any real screen time. As film scholar Laura Mulvey argued in her famous essay ‘Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema,’ it probably has something to do with men's discomfort seeing other men's bodies on a movie screen -- a discomfort that Brüno, Sacha Baron Cohen's follow-up to the penis-y Borat aims to exploit. Cohen's floppy member practically gets its own billing.”



Eric Idle asks another important question (okay, two): Isn’t it awfully nice to have a penis?/Isn’t it frightfully good to have a dong?

It’s hard to argue with any of the pole position rankings on Hepola and Rogers’ list, particularly #9, #7, #5, #2 and, of course, #1-- they’re all major signposts of the Phallus in Modern Cinema, all right. And it’s good to see they made room to mention Bart Simpson’s hilarious did-I-just-see-that full-frontal from The Simpsons Movie, a tiny little bit that changed the life of at least one person who saw it (Ralph Wiggum: “I like men now!”). I would nit-pick, and then only slightly, with not so much the inclusion but the significance of screenwriter-star Jason Segel’s self-humiliation in Forgetting Sarah Marshall (#4). Many a review and advance nugget of hype was built around the appearance of Segel’s schlong, and audiences were led to believe they’d be getting a Peter Greenaway-esque unflinching look at the actor’s shortcomings (Thank you, Mr. Niven!) as part of the agonizing break-up scene he does fully nude in that movie. Heaven knows, the unrated DVD may paint a different picture, but as seen in the theater, the glimpses we’re afforded of the Jason Junk are cut helter-skelter in between medium close-ups of Segel’s bare upper body, and consequently we’re given not much more than a second or two to register the shocking visage, as if the editor and director were too sheepish to let us gaze too long—it’s like having somebody’s hands come up over your face to protect you from the near-subliminal flashes of pee-pee they want full credit and notoriety for having given you in the first place. (Was the impish Tyler Durden the film editor on FSM?) Hey, I paid good money to see a Hollywood actor break that double standard at his own expense (knowing that he’d be credited as daring and brave for doing it, of course), and I must say, I felt a little gypped.

Even with Segal at #4, I think you’ll find Salon’s list a lot of fun, inspirational in the way these things usually are in that they get you to thinking about the penises—er, titles that were left off in the zeal to whittle it down to a mere 10 willies. It really is interesting to think that we are so insecure as a society (and as a society of filmmakers and filmgoers) that the only way we can be afforded a look at what makes Richard Gere so attractive to Lauren Hutton and Valerie Kaprisky, in American Gigolo and Jim McBride’s Breathless remake, respectively, is by shadow of Venetian blinds or long shot in a shower. And was it not just slightly disingenuous of Robert Altman to trumpet his balancing of the full-frontal nudity score in Short Cuts by comparing Julianne Moore’s luscious, unself-conscious pubic nudity with, um, Huey Lewis whipping it out and taking a piss off of a fishing boat… into water in which there floats, by the way, the body of a brutally murdered naked woman? (I continue to revere
Altman for every film of his but that one, and this reason is only one of many for my discontent.) It is these opportunities, to fill in the blanks with your own memories and observations, which make lists like this fun and worthwhile, even when their focus is on cinematically verboten body parts. Here’s to directors figuring out that there’s as much an audience for male nudity as for female, and that the double standard so prevalent now has a lot more to do with the hang-ups of the people who finance, make, distribute, and let’s not forget rate, the movies we see than with the supposed fears of an audience whose ranks might be driven to a violent frenzy if occasionally confronted by the image of a member on screen that they see down their shorts every day.

Here’s my alphabetical assignment of six scintillating sin-stances of the schlong in cinema that Salon overlooked:


ANGELS AND INSECTS (1994) Phillip Haas’ deliberate and creepy costume drama, an adaptation of A.S. Byatt’s novel described often as a cross between Merchant Ivory and Tennessee Williams, features one scene in which fair-haired (and one suspects possibly damaged by in-breeding) Edgar Alabaster (played by Douglas Henshall, seen above) is caught in flagrate dilicto with cousin Eugenia (played by Patsy Kensit). When I saw the movie years ago, I was caught up in the drama and tension of the scene, but also by something else—as Henshall flies out from under the covers to stand before the person who has walked in on him and his lover, it’s hard to miss the fact that the actor is sporting a very convincing hard-on. This is the kind of method acting the British are very rarely given credit for, and it makes me think that day’s shooting was not the usual grueling endurance test that actors so often portray when describing shooting scenes like this. “Gives the average flaccid penis scene the old what-for!” - The Sunday Times

EQUUS (1977) Speaking of flaccid penises, I always wondered, since Peter Firth (and Sidney Lumet) were so open in portraying protagonist Alan Strang's fierce and consuming equine sexual passion, what with Firth’s prodigious hose on display like in no other mainstream movie I’d ever seen before (or perhaps since), why they apparently avoided the whole boner issue. Was such possible tumescence the difference between an arty “R” rating and a more forbidding “X” in the eyes of Jack Valenti and the M.P.A.A.? Perhaps. And perhaps another explanation might be that Peter Firth, fine talent that he is, is just not the Method devotee that Douglas Henshall is. Given that Strang ultimately chooses a strapping stallion over Jenny Agutter’s Jill Mason (Agutter being incomparably lovely at this stage of her career), before gouging said stallion's eyes out, of course, I suppose flaccidity was all for the good. Firth also has the distinction of being, until the rise of Ewan MacGregor, the most well-hung mainstream actor to ever expose himself in a major motion picture. (For a better look, click here for Gay Skindex’s post entitled “PETER FIRTH FULL-FRONTAL NUDE IN EQUUS-- LARGE PENIS!”)


THE GROOVE TUBE (1975) Many movie-goers of my certain age got their very first glimpse of the male organ projected onto a 30-foot screen (or bigger, if you saw it, as I did, at a drive-in) during the opening sequence of Ken Shapiro’s intermittently gasp-inducing comedy sketch film, which is presented here uncut:



But the movie ends, as it began, with another groundbreaking presentation of testicular trafficking, one that sneaks up on you in a way much different than a hippie hanging all out in the woods and running into the nightstick-wielding Man. The setting is an ostensible public service announcement for avoiding the pitfalls and agonies of venereal disease, hosted by a strange looking puppet with a two-dimensional cartoon body and a head that looks like a giant peanut turned on its side with two pasted-on eyes added at the last minute. The puppet is seen in medium long shot at the beginning of the spot, which is for the most part earnest in its information. But that information becomes increasingly graphic as the camera pushes in to reveal that our harmless puppet host… is actually a pair of hairy balls stuck through a cardboard backdrop and decorated to distract. Until such distraction becomes impossible, of course, over the giggles induced from the absurdity of being lectured on the subjects of promiscuity and disease by two fuzzy, goose-pimply clackers with fake eyes attached to each nut.


IN THE REALM OF THE SENSES (1976) This one really belongs in the “detached penis” division of our little enterprise, but since this was the very first “pornographic” film I ever saw, it deserves mention. That I eventually emerged from seeing this movie when I was only 17, still having a several-years-long journey toward my own loss of virginity, with relatively little fear of the opposite sex is a fact that still boggles my mind. I was in no way ready (how could I be?) for the level of psychological acuity and despair to which director Nagisa Oshima submits his actors, and of course his audience, with this suffocating, compelling tale of sexual hunger and psychosis. Drew McWeeney’s specific take on the movie will resonate with any male who has undergone a certain medical procedure, but the movie goes far beyond empathy with pain into a kind of character study that might have been impossible to achieve without the director’s and actor’s commitment to the reality of what they were trying to grasp and throttle to some sort of truth. It’s a landmark movie in many ways, and not just for its power to make its climactic castration believable viscerally, but also as a condition of pacifying the extreme dementia of the female character’s sexual desire.


MONTY PYTHON’S LIFE OF BRIAN (1979) Graham Chapman, as the titular not-so-much-a-savior Brian, gets to air out all of his concerns as he confronts the DeMille-esque crowd gathered outside his door while he basks in the glow of making love to his terrorist girlfriend. Despite the artfully placed hand here, Chapman in the film was not so modest, though it was apparent he had a long way to go to match fellow thespian Firth’s contribution to the penile pantheon.


LISZTOMANIA (1976) My friend Paul Matwychuk has a terrific take on this lunatic Ken Russell offering, which I offer you in the sincere hope that you will see this certifiable movie one day and enjoy it as much as Paul and I do. The movie is shot through with phallic imagery—no ivory column in this picture is just an ivory column, and often the wall decorations fart a lovely, inebriating mist through lampshades that turn out to be cheeks. But that’s off the subject, innit? Even the one-sheet and subsequent advertising for newspapers featured Liszt redefining what it is to swash one’s buckle by putting front and center an arm holding a rapier what don’t exactly look like an arm holding a rapier. And toward this end, the scene that defined the movie for those of us who were obsessed by it years before actually having seen the film (I bought the record album of Rick Wakeman-ized Wagner and Liszt compositions and absorbed them thoroughly)— does not disappoint. It is the one featuring that gigantic, veiny, seven-foot-long pole which Roger Daltrey sports in the film’s central fantasy sequence—a satanically vaudevillian fantasia built around sexual excess and (here we go again) fear of castration. After being sucked past the XXXXXXL panties of a slightly reptilian courtesan and into her suddenly cavernous vagina, Daltrey sprouts the Big One, whereupon garter-clad dancers high-step on his enormous shaft and lead him toward a guillotine apparently made just for the slicing of a salami as spectacular as his. One imagines, while watching Lisztomania, that Ken Russell was born to make this film, and seeing it again now just makes me miss his indefatigably balls-out (sorry) spirit even more.

EXTRA CREDIT:


FLESH GORDON (1974) The advertising for this porno take-off on the Flash Gordon serials trafficked in some of the same salacious imagery as did Lisztomania, but none of it was particularly outrageous or memorable. The movie, cut down from a hard-core version and turned into a sizeable soft-core hit, doesn’t feature much male nudity, at least that I can recall. It’s phallic highlight instead comes in the special effects design of the spaceship that takes Flesh, Dale Ardor and Dr. Flexi Jerkoff to the planet Porno where they clash with the evil forces of Emperor Wang the Perverted. (Look, I never it was a good movie.) It does also feature slightly phallic Harryhausen-esque set design (again, no mushroom-shaped building is just a mushroom-shaped building) and a monster (“Well, I never! Up yours, Gordon!”) that is easily the highlight of this otherwise limp effort. (For the last time, I'm sorry.)



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All right, what have I forgotten?

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LABOR DAY DRIVE-IN SUPER MONSTERAMA!

Anyone who has read this blog for any length of time will be aware of the great pleasure I take in talking about some of the special programming available to we lucky cinephile citizens of Los Angeles. There’s always something great going on at one of our repertory houses, museum program or university screenings on any given day around the city. We also happen to be one of the areas in the country where the extinction of the drive-in has been avoided. Certainly, where there used to be 80 –some drive-ins in Los Angeles County, there is now only one, with surrounding ozoners in Riverside County, Barstow, 29 Palms, and the San Diego area, so it’s not like there’s a bounty in comparison to the thriving drive-in culture of the past. But we’ve got it pretty good compared to other parts of the country where drive-ins have continued to fall victim not only to the general trend toward the big fade-out, but also to the economic downturn enveloping the nation.

But that doesn’t mean there aren’t drive-ins still peppered throughout the country ready and waiting for those who live in the south, northwest, midwest and even the northeast. Some are more remote than others, and some have to be factored in to family vacations rather than just the casual let’s-go-out-to-a-drive-in vibe that we’re probably all familiar with to one degree or another from our childhoods. But they’re there waiting to be discovered. One good way to discover drive-ins in your part of the country is by referencing Drive-ins.com, the self-billed (and rightfully so) definitive resource for drive-in information. Here you can search state by state, to see if the drive-in you remember from years past is still around (odds are probably not too good) or to find one that is open and thriving. Other fun sites include the Drive-in Exchange and Drive-in Theater, as well as our own Southern California Drive-in Movie Society, which can connect you with lots of other great drive-in resources around Southern California and the rest of the nation. Finally, one of the best ways for drive-in enthusiasts from every corner of the globe to stay in touch is through the Drive-ins Discussion Group hosted on Yahoo! Drive-in fans and owners intermingle here and share their enthusiasm, their memories, their frustrations and their fears for the future of the all-American movie-going phenomenon, as well as the latest news on closings and even, occasionally, openings and re-openings of drive-ins long thought gone.


One of the names that frequently pops up in this group is George Reis of the Riverside Drive-in on Route 66 in Vandergrift, Pennsylvania. The Riverside is one of the beauties that does great seasonal business on the East Coast, largely because of the care the management puts into their establishment, but also because every once in a while they step away from the 21st century business model for success at the drive-in (first-run, family-friendly double features) to celebrate the history and atmosphere of movie-going drive-in style. Admittedly, to many drive-in operators and patrons, this usually translates into showing Grease or American Graffiti and inviting a bunch of classic car clubs. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. But the Riverside gets a little more creative and shows the true colors of its roots by staging an annual Drive-in Super Monsterama… and they don't wait till Halloween to do it. Probably because the weather is pretty dicey in Pennsylvania by the last day of October, the Riverside translates its Monsterama into fun for Labor Day weekend, as a way of bidding farewell to summer and giving loyal customers a memorable treat as a way of saying thank you for a summer’s worth of great drive-in fun. So when George contacted me recently to remind me that not all the drive-in action is happening in Southern California, and when I saw what he had planned for this year’s festival, I just couldn’t resist passing the word.


The festival runs two nights—- Friday, September 11 and Saturday, September 12. Friday night highlights three prime-cut late-‘60s specimens from the American International Pictures vault-- The Witchfinder General (a.k.a. The Conqueror Worm), Scream and Scream Again (both starring Vincent Price) and The Crimson Cult starring Boris Karloff, along with a mid-‘60s Italian gore-fest starring Barbara Steele entitled Terror-Creatures from the Grave. Horror fans of a certain age (mine) won’t have to be instructed to imagine how much fun it would be to see these super-atmospheric pics on the drive-in screen, surrounded as they will be by a slew of vintage trailers and other surprises George hints at having up his sleeve. The same seasoning is given to the Saturday night program, and this side might be even juicier—it’s an all-Hammer vampire bill, featuring The Vampire Lovers, The Satanic Rites of Dracula, The Seven Brothers Meet Dracula (a.k.a. The Legend of the Seven Golden Vampires, Hammer’s martial arts co-production with the Shaw Brothers) and the rarely-seen Vampire Circus. Talk about the drive-in weekend to build a holiday vacation around! If you are not from the immediate area, find yourself suddenly salivating over the idea of attending the Monsterama and would like to find out about hotel accommodations (you can, like the best vampire, always sleep during the day), the Riverside web site has links for local hotels and other establishments to fill all the requirements for your Monsterama-fueled Labor Day.


George, you and the Riverside have succeeded in making this smug Southern Californian, surrounded by more great movie-going than he can possibly process, appreciate or attend, so very jealous and so very disappointed that I cannot be there with you and your lucky customers. I would love it if you’d send along some pictures from the weekend that I could publish here. And even though I can't be there, it makes me happy to think that there's a drive-in operator who continues creative, loving efforts like these to keep the heart of the drive-in beating strongly. The Riverside Drive-in is doing it not just through big ticket Hollywood fare, but also by creating programs like the Drive-in Super Monsterama that bring the inimitable thrills of seeing horror films at a drive-in the ‘60s and ‘70s back with such a goose-bumpy vengeance. George and everyone at the Riverside, for those of us who have only our Vampire Lovers and Scream and Scream Again DVDs to turn to, I salute you.

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(Photos courtesy of George Reis and the Riverside Drive-in.)

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OKAY, NOW I'D SEE THIS...!

UPDATED 7/7/09 4:27 p.m.

From Drew McWeeney comes word (sound and picture too!) of The Greatest (Fake) Trailer Ever Made, for Roland Emmerich's upcoming destruct-a-thon orgasm 2012. (What would the movies do without the near future, guaranteeing us all smug peals of laughter when (if) we watch the movie in, say, the year 2013?)



Whew! Drew thinks the guy who made this trailer may have guaranteed the studio an even bigger opening weekend, and he might be right. One thing I know he's right about, though-- if I felt like this was the movie Emmerich made, without all the ponderous people stuff in between, why, even I'd go see that! The whole thing reminds me of a little Japanese film released here in 1975 and starring Lorne Greene... Yes, how far we've come.

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UPDATE! While we're on the subject of trailers, Salon's Andrew O'Hehir brought this one to our attention this afternoon. The name Diablo Cody is central, so of course the parody here is intentional, but just as long as nobody invokes the "J" word to describe this one (not in the ad copy, but in the reviews, as in "It's J--- meets Let the Right One In!") then I could be convinced to line up for Jennifer's Body... Anyone for the drive-in in early September?



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FAMILIAR FRONTIER: THE DELIGHTS OF AN L.A. SUMMER OF REPERTORY CINEMA

It wasn’t too long ago that I took a look at what was happening at just one theater here in Los Angeles, our beloved New Beverly Cinema, and realized that Hollywood didn’t have as many must-sees on their entire summer slate as the New Beverly did during the months of May and June alone. Of the movies I hoped to see on the big screen in those two months, I flat-out missed Big Man Japan, The Brothers Bloom and The Girlfriend Experience; I hope to still see The Hurt Locker, Public Enemies and Year One; I did see The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3 and would have been just as happy had I not, but then again I caught Land of the Lost, which provided the biggest return on the chasm between initial excitement and the stink of suspicions raised by bad reviews—I thought it was much more fun than even the kindest reviews seemed to let on. Only Up and Drag Me to Hell have turned out to be every bit as good as their advance notices and worth every ounce of hype, and still audiences roundly rejected Raimi’s marvelously effective fright show as somehow beneath their consideration. (Of the summer movies I have seen that didn’t make my initial list of anticipation, Tetro was a magnificently obsessed epic, Whatever Works was as mummified a movie as I’ve seen all year, and The Hangover was flat-out nasty without the compensation of actual laughs.)


Now, at the midpoint of the summer, with July and August still to go, there are only four movies left on my initial list that actually belong to the summer months (Black Dynamite and Extract will be Labor Day Weekend treats). Those movies are: Bruno, All the Boys Love Mandy Lane, Inglourious Basterds and The Final Destination, previously known as Final Destination: Death Trip and now distinguishing itself in title only by playing the opposite game of definite articles that made the chronology of Fast and Furious so confused. (Was that number four or the first one you’re talking about?)

Bruno looks like another successful provocation from Sasha Baron Cohen a full week before it’s even officially released; Mandy Lane, which has been finished and playing in festivals since September 2006, has just become the latest dance partner in the Weinstein shuffle, Dimension Pictures having pulled it off the release schedule with no replacement date announced-- Mandy Lane might be headed down the same rabbit hole as Rogue, another superior genre picture buried by the Weinsteins while they fiddle amidst the crackling flames surrounding the marble pylons of the Weinstein Company. At this point, Harvey and Bob might even be desperate enough to keelhaul Inglourious Basterds were it not for the distribution partnership with Universal that, along with its unassailably high profile among not just film geeks but the general public, virtually assures its late August premiere. (That and a tantalizing rave from Scott Foundas which can be read only by purchasing the print edition of Film Comment, a periodical that seems to understand the idea of on-line exclusives as well as the invalidity of giving away all your magazine content for free and then wringing your hands because no one buys the mag anymore.)

So subtract Mandy Lane, add a couple of low-profile nuggets to my big-screen wish list (like The Beaches of Agnes, Moon and Food, Inc.), and what do you know—even if the New Beverly Cinema were the only alternative to Hollywood’s high-tech mind games (and it’s not—more on that later), it would still outnumber the short list of Hollywood must-sees with its July-August schedule by at least double the titles. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, uh, or, uh…. to look away from a gift horse while it opens its mouth wide when I have my back turned, let’s take a look at the treats lined up for the discerning fan/geek/hipster/cinephile on the New Beverly’s screen over the next two months.



Coming up this Wednesday and Thursday (July 8 & 9) is a chance to see a brand-new print of Frank Zappa’s 200 Motels (1971) doubled with another underground(ish) provocation, Ralph Bakshi’s much-maligned (but actually pretty terrific) Fritz the Cat (1972). Zappa’s movie is considered a masterpiece of sorts by the converts and somewhat of a muddle by those not particularly attuned to his brand of cacophonous, stylistically promiscuous musical stew, just as Bakshi’s movie is considered by some (R. Crumb included) a bastardization of the free-floating, easy-goin’ nihilism which devotees of the comic feel the director completely missed. This one would be a hard one to program for home video—my 200 Motels laserdisc is in considerably better shape than my Betamax copy of Fritz the Cat-- and I’m not sure how easy it is to lay hands on these titles otherwise. Once again the New Beverly casually, and with very little fanfare, serves up a can’t-miss just to see how appreciative we are. Well, are we?




Friday and Saturday, July 10 & 11, makes for a rare weekend appearance of Grindhouse Night. Curators Brian Quinn and Eric Caidin had originally planned this great double feature-- Ilsa: She-Wolf of the S.S. (1975) and Ilsa: Harem Keeper of the Oil Sheiks (1976) as a tribute to festival friend and writer-director of the Ilsa movies, Don Edmonds. Unfortunately, Edmonds passed away earlier this summer, and what was intended as a celebration of the director and his creations, with Edmonds present to soak up the adulation, has turned into what Brian calls “an Irish wake of sorts,” that is, a sad, heartfelt tribute accompanied by a rowdy night of enjoying Edmonds’ penchant for mind-boggling tastelessness and the comedy of politically incorrect shocks. And just for good measure, Brian and Eric have a treat for the faithful—the double feature that magically, at Midnight, becomes a triple, with the addition to the bill of Edmonds’ knockabout 1977 thriller, Bare Knuckles, a hit at Quentin Tarantino’s 2007 New Beverly Grindhouse Festival.


If you’re like me and you’ve never seen Federico Fellini’s La Dolce Vita (1960)—It’s okay to admit it; you’re among friends here—then we really must avail ourselves of this opportunity to see an archival print of this influential landmark of Italian cinema the way it’s supposed to be seen. The sweet life lasts for three days only—July 12-14.


July 15 and 16, the New Beverly turns its attention to the film career of the late Michael Jackson, which, once Captain EO, the Thriller and Bad videos, and that stilted cameo in Men in Black II have been eliminated, basically boils down to his appearance as the Scarecrow in Sidney Lumet’s ill-fated adaptation of The Wiz (1978). Getting Lumet, king of the New York street movie (‘70s division) to direct Diana Ross as an apparently mentally challenged Dorothy, a 40-ish spinster pretending to be a teenager who’s never been off her city block, sounds like a good idea, right? Somebody thought so, but The Wiz has absolutely no wings beyond Jackson’s elasticity and Mabel King’s sinister comic turn as the zaftig Evillene, the Wicked Witch of the Whatever. For an adaptation of a zesty, if thematically questionable musical, it’s a long, leaden slog, almost worth the glimpse of Jackson’s potential as an actor in musical comedies had that path been one he could have ever chosen for himself.


The real draw on these New Beverly nights is the second feature, after The Wiz. It's a rare chance to see one of the most misunderstood, underappreciated, and yes, best movies of the ‘80s—a movie probably even more reviled by audiences and the film press than The Wiz-- the Disney sequel Return to Oz (1985). Directed by master sound and image editor Walter Murch, the movie was so roundly drubbed as a disaster that it sent Murch scurrying away from a directing career, which, even for all the wonderful work he’s done for others in the interim, particularly Francis Ford Coppola and the late Anthony Minghella, is a damn shame. For Murch captures brilliantly the helter-skelter fearsomeness of Oz with a kind of visual flexibility that more seasoned directors probably envied—the effects are rendered with a catch-all Rube Goldberg playfulness, and the dark undercurrent is far more in tune with L. Frank Baum’s original vision of the dangers within the Emerald City and beyond than the vaudeville-derived sensibility of the beloved 1939 MGM classic that, for generations after the books were published, defined The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Fairuza Balk is a spectacular Dorothy, and Jane March will haunt your nights in a dual role as Dorothy’s evil nurse and the even more frightening Mombi. Don’t let anyone talk you out of it-- Return to Oz is a brilliant piece of work, and it deserves a better reputation, not to mention a cult following all its own.



For those charmed by the wiles and clipped upper-class East Coast cadences of Katharine Hepburn, it’s hard to imagine a better double bill than The Philadelphia Story (1940) and Adam’s Rib (1949)—Okay, it might be possible; Kate starred in one or two good movies in her flash-in-the-pan career. Let’s just say this one is as guaranteed a good time as any, especially if they happen to be your introduction to the grand dame of American screwball comedy. See Kate (and Cary, and Jimmy, and Spencer) at the New Beverly July 17-18.



The next spot on the calendar is reserved for the first “pinch-me-I’m-dreaming, no-don’t-I-don’t-wanna-wake-up” engagement of the New Beverly’s July offerings. If you’re like me, you have extra-fond memories of seeing great early Walter Hill movies when they were in theatrical release. Now that Hill’s classics, as well as his fine modern work (Deadwood, Broken Trail), have been consigned to video, we can be even more thankful to Michael Torgan for bringing a double feature like this to town-- The Warriors (1979) and The Long Riders (1980), two of the most visually arresting action movies ever made. The Warriors looks a little quaint now, and will probably seem even more so in the shadow of Tony Scott’s upcoming remake—but that remake is reason number one to get reacquainted with Hill’s version right now. And no matter how you slice it, it has a freaky, organic vitality that is all its own, and remains undiluted. Since its release The Long Riders has existed, for many cinephiles, in the long shadow of Sam Peckinpah. Though it does seem apt on the surface, I’ve never quite bought that comparison because it usually comes as an attempt to demean Hill as a sycophantic homage artist. Hill, quite independently of Peckinpah's influence, brings strong ties to all his characters and the Missouri landscape, including the women, and renders poetic and lyrical some of the visual edges that Peckinpah preferred to leave rough and jagged. Yet the haunting refrain for an old west of myth, amorality and contained madness seems plainly written on the line that connects this movie with, say, Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid. Don’t miss the double feature for the movies, but stay and enjoy the conversation, because on Sunday night, July 19, members of the cast of The Warriors (guest list to be determined) will be along for the ride and your questions. If the movies are enough, the double bill plays Monday, July 20, as well.



The Long Riders has been well and widely praised for its casting, bringing together for sets of brothers-- Stacy and James Keach, Carradines David, Robert and Keith, Randy and Dennis Quaid, and Nicholas and Christopher Guest—as, respectfully, the James boys, the Youngers, the Millers and those bringers of destiny, Bob and Charlie Ford. And The Long Riders provides an excellent bridge into the next program, after the Grindhouse boys bring ‘80s Hong Kong thrillers Heartbeat 100 (1987) and Angel Enforcer (1989) our way on July 21. Look for the David Carradine tribute to continue in earnest with Martin Scorsese’s Boxcar Bertha (1972) and Hal Ashby’s Bound for Glory (1976) on July 22 and 23. Given the actor’s untimely death, as well as the release of the new book on Ashby by Nick Dawson and Carradine’s notorious scuffle with Haskel Wexler at a screening of Glory this past March, the time would certainly seem to be right for revisiting both of these movies, career highlights for the actor, if not for his directors. And once again, time for an admission—I have never taken advantage of the opportunity to see either one of these films, so what better time and place than this summer at the New Beverly?



July 24-28 are dates given over to international cinema at the New Beverly. The recent omnibus features Tokyo! (2009; segments directed by Bong Joon-Ho, Leos Carax and Michel Gondry) and Paris, Je T’aime (2006; Olivier Assayas, Joel and Ethan Coen, Tom Tykwer, Gus van Sant, et al) are a great way to prep for that vicarious vacation you probably can’t afford, and while they are almost by definition uneven, there’s enough inspiration and inquiry into the titular cities, into the surface charms as well as the hidden mysteries, to keep anyone fascinated. And then, on successive nights, July 26, 27 and 28, the New Beverly unravels brand-new 35mm prints of Masaki Koyabashi’s masterwork The Human Condition (Parts 1, 2 & 3) (1959; 1959; 1961). Though recently released on stunning DVD editions, if you can arrange your schedule to make a three-night commitment to this program, you will likely not regret it. I’ve gotten to the point where I cannot bear, if I can at all help it, to have my first exposure of a film classic happen on DVD, no matter how great the transfer, because I feel like I’m not able to give it my full attention at home. Here’s my chance, and yours, to experience the real deal, in a place meant to accentuate all of the movie’s subtlety, agony and scale.



The theme double bills continue as the month winds down. On July 29 and 30 it’s a virtual referendum on the state of Jim Jarmusch, a chance to look at his most recent two features, The Limits of Control (2009) and Broken Flowers (2005) and think about the career path of this most stubbornly independent American filmmaker.



And then, as if by way of antidote, old Hollywood comes roaring back with a jaunty and hilarious coupling of titles from the inimitable, somewhat brittle, undeniably charming Irene Dunne. Her pairing with Cary Grant (and Ralph Bellamy, and Asta) in Leo McCarey’s indefatigably witty The Awful Truth (1937) is one of screwball comedy’s untouchable highlights, and while it doesn’t quite soar as mightily, Richard Boleslawski’s Theodora Goes Wild (1936), in which a small town matron masks her identity as the scribe of a saucy best-seller, is plenty delightful enough. It co-stars Melvyn Douglas and the unbeatable Thomas Mitchell. Sounds like my daughter and I have a date, either July 31 or August 1.



Finally, to wrap up August we must skip ahead two weeks to August 19 & 20, when the New Beverly presents two hard-boiled noirs that are rarely seen on repertory screens. Vince Edwards is a killer whose M.O. is Murder by Contract (1958; Irving Lerner) and who begins to question his trade when his next victim turns out to be a woman. Philip Pine, Herschel Bernardi and Caprice Toriel co-star. Second on the bill is The Sniper (1952; Edward Dymytryk) in which Adolphe Menjou and Gerald Mohr hit the streets in search of a serial killer with a high-powered rifle. Neither of these movies are first on the tongues on noir enthusiasts, but they do have their backers (Martin Scorsese, for one), and it’s fun to get the opportunity to see some films of this period whose reputations do not precede them as strongly as others. However you slice it, a dirty, tough-minded double bill.



The spirit, as well as the words, of Noel Coward take over the New Beverly on August 21 and 22, when the spanking-new version of Easy Virtue (2009; Stephan Elliot) takes the stage, starring Jessica Biel, Kristin Scott Thomas and Colin Firth, alongside David Lean’s 1945 film of Blithe Spirit starring Rex Harrison, Constance Cummings and Margaret Rutherford.



And finally, time for a new generation, and a bunch of the old generation too, to get their Indiana Jones on, on the big screen. Steven Spielberg’s original Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981; and no, kids, it’s not called Indiana Jones and the Raiders of the Lost Ark, no matter what it says on your DVD box) gets to duke it out in our hearts as number-one chronologically (inarguable) and in quality of the series (way arguable), with the movie I think wins hands-down, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom, which I cannot wait to be overwhelmed by again in full-stretch Panavision and Dolby stereo. I used to think that the “Anything Goes” opening was worth the price of admission but that the rest of the movie fell badly short. Well, I’ve undergone a sort of religious conversion vis-à-vis this movie in the last few years, and now it seems obvious to me that it towers over not only the rest of the movies in the series, but also takes a spot perched high above much of the rest of the director’s filmography, alongside Jaws, Duel, Empire of the Sun, E.T. and, yes, 1941. See these first two chapters on August 23, 24 and 25.


That’s not all, folks. Just look at what Phil Blankenship has in store for the midnight maniacs in July and August:


Perhaps one of the best bad movies of all time, John Frankheimer’s inimitable and, believe it or not, influential eco-horror hokum, Prophecy (1979). Beware the freakisms! (And that shock ending!) (July 18)


The next night, another shocker, and this one is legitimately good-- William Friedkin’s To Live and Die in L.A. (1985) has a couple of moments where, however much you may have resisted the notion, you become convinced you're in the hands of master filmmaker. (We can debate all night as to whether this is actually true, but it feels like it, dammit, at the time!) (July 19)


Then Phil and the New Bev plumb the slimy depths of the unknown (at least by me) quantity that is Dangerous Men (2005; not on DVD!) We’re gonna have to trust Phil on this one. (July 25)


The following weekend brings a rarity that, if the utterly bizarre trailer is any indication, must be seen at all costs. It’s Stunt Rock (1985), also unknown to me before this year (when Matthew Kiernan sent the trailer to me attached to a VHS copy of Freebie and the Bean), and this one looks unmissable. I refer you to the visual evidence: (July 31)




Then, on Saturday, August 1, those of you with a Charles Band obsession can work out your issues at midnight with The Dungeonmaster (1985).


Finally, at midnight, on August 15, just in time for Rob Zombie’s sequel, Phil invites you to cleanse your palate with the Carpenter-derived mise-en-scene of Rick Rosenthal and the variations on a theme he works with Jamie Lee Curtis as that fateful night continues, in Halloween II (1981). All new!

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One final New Beverly note: You may have noticed a glaring gap in August’s schedule, from August 3 to August 15. Well, it is my pleasure to announce that the slot will be filled by none other than a return appearance by Joe Dante and nearly two weeks more of great programming put together by the maestro himself. Those of you who were able to attend any and/or all of Joe’s New Beverly festival of last year, culminating with the Movie Orgy, don’t have to be reminded just how mind-blowing that festival really was. So far no word on just what the director of Matinee, The ‘burbs, Small Soldiers and Gremlins 2: The New Batch has in store for those lucky/smart enough to attend, but if last year’s program is any indication, there are some minds and eyes that are due to be opened. Joe has promised me some time in between now and then to sit down and talk about what he has planned this year (including, perhaps, another screening of the Movie Orgy?? Please???!!), and I will pass that along as soon as I can. But whatever may be on the schedule, do yourself a favor-- block out August 3-15 right now on your calendar and just be prepared for whatever happens. With Dante at the controls, anything will.

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Time is tight as well as late, but I do want to clue you in, if you are not already sufficiently clued, to the joys of the aptly-named Cinefamily, a repertory collective that has effectively taken over the Silent Movie theater on Fairfax and turned it into, against all odds, yet another film repertory happening during the age of home theater and on-demand delivery that one might have reasonably guessed would have killed such programming once and for all. But not when it’s done with flair, originality and intelligence, as at the New Beverly and here. You are best directed to the Cinefamily’s extensive calendar for a list of every fascinating nook and cranny with which these folks have filled the July and August days. But as confident as I am that you’ll find something to suit you on your own investigation, I just have to highlight a couple of things.

First off, the Cinefamily is highlighting a July-August series of “Silent Sirens” every Wednesday night. On the way is Greta Garbo (Love; July 8), Pola Negri (Sappho; July 15), Marion Davies (Show People; July 22), Colleen Moore (Ella Cinders, Orchids and Ermine; July 29), Mabel Normand (The Extra Girl; August 5), Joan Crawford (Our Dancing Daughters; August 12), Anna May Wong (The Toll of the Sea; August 19) and Gloria Swanson (Male and Female; August 26). Most of these pre-code melodramas are pretty juicy, and the rare opportunity to see this kind of programming ought to be draw enough. But each of these female stars fascinates in her own way, and the Cinefamily’s two-month long essay on their enduring magnetism and allure is just about irresistible.

As is the chance to see, ragin’ full on big-screen-wise, Brother Theodore in the well-regarded documentary of his strange life entitled To My Great Chagrin: The Unbelievable Story of Brother Theodore. It screens August 11 at 8:00 p.m. For those of us who first saw Brother Theodore on David Letterman’s old NBC show, I think it’s safe to say we’ve never known quite what to make of him (and neither did Dave).



Here’s what the liner notes from the Cinefamily calendar has to say:

“He was considered to be one of the most significant links in the history of comedy, admired by such people as Woody Allen, Dick Cavett, and Eric Bogosian. His television appearances have spanned from Steve Allen to Merv Griffin to David Letterman. His long-running Off-Broadway show was hailed as ‘diabolical genius.’ He was Brother Theodore. Formerly a millionaire playboy living in pre-war Germany, Theodore endured the sobering destruction of his entire family, his fortune, and his own identity, as a survivor of Dachau. Later shipped to America and continually haunted by his loss, Theodore re-invented himself by capitalizing on his dark, existential humor, to become one of America’s most respected humorists and monologists. Combining ultra-rare footage of performances and TV appearances along with puppetry and innovative use of voiceover, To My Great Chagrin reconciles the cryptic, oddly comic fury of Brother Theodore’s performing persona with the stranger-than-fiction chronology of his life.”

Finally, your tolerance for ‘80s cheese may be slaked or tested by the Cinefamily’s "Holy Fucking Shit!" series of midnight programs appropriately themed “Summer Camp.” On the schedule is a Pia Zadora tribute-- the Golden Globe Award-winning Butterfly (1981) and the utterly stupefying The Lonely Lady (1984), every bit the equal of the Stephen Boyd-Tony Bennett stunner The Oscar, will be shown, with Zadora in attendance, on July 11; Lambada and The Forbidden Dance (July 26); Magic BMX and Rad (Aug. 1); The Blue Lagoon (August 8); Troll 2 wioth Monster Dog (August 15); Caveman! and Grunt (August 22); and the Summer Camp Grand Finale on August 29. There is no way I could ever do justice to the level of commitment the Cinefamily has to this relentless parade of processed trash—their liner notes for the Holy Fucking Shit series are little gems, each and every one, and far more enjoyable than actually sitting through Rad or Troll 2.


But even those notes won’t replace making it out to the inarguable gem in the Cinefamily HFS “Summer Camp” series—they’re staging a New Year’s Eve party in the middle of July—streamers, noisemakers, giant midnight dropping ball, and a very special movie guest: Allan Arkush’s Get Crazy! (1983), oft cited as one of the best rock movies ever made, as well as one of the most genuinely anarchic and downright goofy, will screen at midnight on July 18. It’s a ton of fun. But don’t take my word for it. Here’s the Cinefamily again on their showcase feature:

“(It’s) the absolute ultimate party movie, Get Crazy, the most wild, untamed, unleashed, unbelievable sex-drugs-and-rock-'n-roll movie ever made. Move over, Animal House, there's a new sheriff in Partytown! This devastatingly addictive comedy orgy, set on New Year's Eve, is Rock 'N' Roll High School director Allan Arkush's loving tribute to his bacchanalian days working at NYC's legendary concert venue Fillmore East, and features a nonstop parade of slick rock parody (including Lou Reed as a Dylan-esque mumbling stumbler and Malcolm McDowell as a Jagger clone who ends up having a conversation with his penis), a surprising amount of edgy, dangerous-looking stuntwork, cameo porn galore (Lee Ving! Fabian! Clint Howard!), enough rapid-fire schtick for a dozen Zucker-Abrahams-Zucker flicks, a buffet of salacious souped-up T&A--and a stratospheric level of insane drug use. Every substance in the rainbow is partaken in, joyously and without consequence, almost all provided by the film's mythical El Topo-esque space cowboy, Electric Larry, one of the coolest motherfuckers you've ever set eyes on. Get Crazy is rabid, manic and totally raging, so strap yourself in, tip back that drink--and say goodbye to your brain!”

Can you say, can’t miss? Won’t miss?! July 18. Silent Movie Theater. See you there.

All right, now, is that enough to convince you, dear L.A. filmgoer, that your entertainment dollar (x14) is better spent at one of these creative venues, establishments dedicated to breathing life into the local repertory film scene, than on Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen (for the third time) or G.I. Joe: The Rise of Cobra (even once)? I hope so. Even if you can’t make it to all of these great screenings (And how could you, you maniac?), you can come out for at least one or two, right? If you’re not in L.A., well, maybe they’ll give you some ideas for home theater double and triple features you can book yourself, transporting you to some of these screenings in spirit if not always in body. Because if going to the New Beverly or the Cinefamily with regularity will convince you of anything, it’s that the spirit of cinema is alive and well in a city where, of all places, it has oft been thought of as moribund, if not flat-out dead. The movies live! And here’s to keeping them alive at the New Beverly and the Cinefamily Silent Movie Theater.

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UPDATE 7/7/09 3:33 p.m. Word is out this afternoon that the Cinefamily and Silent Movie Theater longtime organist Bob Mitchell has passed away at the age of 96. Mitchell, a fixture with the Cinefamily, had a rich history with providing musical accompaniment to silent films, and Mr. Mitchell was also the original organist when Dodger Stadium opened in 1962. A tribute is planned preceding tomorrow night's screening of Love starring Greta Garbo.

Thanks to Jon Weisman and to Art and Culture for passing along the Cinefamily's heartfelt words about Mr. Mitchell and his legacy. A real connection to the history of cinema, he will be sorely missed.

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WHAT DID YOU DO ON THE FOURTH, DADDY?

Well, kids, really, ever since I was introduced to the album way back in 1975, no Fourth of July celebration in my home (or at least in my head) would be complete without Stan Freberg Presents: The United States of America Volume 1: The Early Years, the absurdist ad man/comic genius's ne plus ultra masterpiece. Combine this with the audio recording of Sarah Vowell's uneven but compelling new book The Wordy Shipmates (with great voice work by everyone from Jill Clayburgh to Bill Hader, and a haunting theme written by maestro du jour film composer Michael Giacchino), and you've got an Independence Day celebration worthy of a hot-dog-eating egghead hermit like me. Just make sure to leave me time for the Fox baseball game of the weekend-- Dodgers vs. Padres, 1:00 p.m. PST-- and that's a recipe for a classic day.


To top things off, we'll be heading out to the Mission Tiki Drive-in for some family fun outdoor movie style. I just wish the feature was a little more immediately exciting than Ice Age: Dawn of the Dinosaurs, but at least we won't have to wear the 3D glasses for this one!

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WARNING! DO NOT HOLD FIRECRACKERS IN HAND OR PUT IN MOUTH!
(Taken from an actual label I once read when I was a kid.)


Just a reminder from Your Friendly Neighborhood Explosives Moralist that in California fireworks are not only illegal but also ridiculously dangerous. I can't imagine having to weigh the thrill of a couple of loud pops in the backyard against burning down 30,000 acres and a few dozen homes as a result, but despite all the pleading and warnings, several thousand jackasses will light 'em off anyway. Let's just pray that their luck (and ours) holds out.



Finally, a treat from the archives: The introductory segment from an all-day ABC broadcast commemorating the American Bicentennial, original air date, July 4, 1976, hosted by Harry Reasoner.

Fallen Arches, Oregon, Harry? I’ve been to Boring, Oregon, but never Fallen Arches. Damned East Coast media bias.

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(Photo courtesy of dinerdog.)

Happy Independence Day, everyone! Who’s barbecuing?

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FOURTH OF JULY B-WESTERN CATTLE DRIVE

Something about the Fourth of July just screams B-movie western to me, and this year I’ve really been in the mood. Here are one-sheets from some that I’ve been lucky enough to ride the trail with recently. Sometimes the posters are better than the movies, sure, but these oaters, each and every one the definition of a programmer, have really filled the bill in satisfying my yearning for hitting the westward trail mid-50s Hollywood style. Check ‘em out some lazy Sunday afternoon and see if I ain’t truthful, pilgrim.






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JON SOOHOO AND THE GAME BASEBALL MOVIES (EVEN THE GOOD ONES) NEVER SEE

(Russell Martin hit by a pitch. Photo by Jon SooHoo by way of Sons of Steve Garvey.)

The best baseball movies-- The Bad News Bears, Bull Durham, Cobb, Eight Men Out-- are the ones that capture as much about the atmosphere surrounding the game, the eccentricities and/or obsessive nature of those who play it, and the importance of the game’s history toward forming the skeleton of what we might term heroism in this country, as least as far as the term applies toward athletes and athleticism, as they do about the game itself. But even these exceptional (and in a couple of cases I would argue, great) movies, and some lesser, but still entertaining ones, like Major League or For Love of the Game, have a hard time capturing what you might naturally think would be an easy call for the movies— the essential physics of a bat on a ball, a figure in motion at the plate on in the field, or a strong sense of what happens on the mound, and in the air, between the time the ball leaves the pitcher’s hand and when it pops in the catcher’s glove. One of the most glaring deficiencies in Ron Shelton’s Bull Durham, a movie often cited for its accuracy in terms of the entirety of the minor league baseball environment, is the performance of Tim Robbins on the mound as the exceptionally wild but occasionally devastating Ebby Calvin “Nuke” LaLoosh, whose pitching eventually lands him in the Show. Robbins’ acting as LaLoosh in general is spot-on and very funny, a naturally gifted athlete who hasn’t the discipline-- until he is adopted as a cause by baseball siren Annie Savoy, played by Susan Sarandon-- to sculpt those natural abilities into athletic, artistic consistency. But one look at him on the mound for the Durham Bulls, whether hurling a wild pitch at his catcher Crash Davis (Kevin Costner) or delivering a laser-sharp fastball down the pipe, betrays an actor who isn’t the slightest bit believable from the perspective of pitching form and mechanics. It is surprising to me every time I see this movie that Shelton, himself an ex-minor league player who fashioned the script from his experiences playing the game, wouldn’t have found a pitching coach who could have better schooled the actor rather than let this glaring visual tell stay in the finished film.

Even a movie like Sam Raimi’s For Love of the Game, which lavishes a lot of cinematic attention on the minute processes of pitching (Costner is far more believable as a Detroit Tigers pitcher here than was his Bull Durham cast mate, but then so was Tatum O'Neal), distracts from a certain verisimilitude by suggesting, through its central dramatic conceit, that a washed-up pitcher who finds himself hurling a perfect game would be able to shift his focus enough to reflect on major moments and failures in his life over the course of nine innings. To the extent that such an idea works at all, credit must be given to Costner and Raimi, but I can’t imagine even the most mediocre pitcher in an actual game being able to face a major league line-up without the most thorough concentration he could muster. The minute he starts musing about his love life, the pitches start missing their mark and he gets pulled by an irate manager before the story even has a chance to peak and tug at our heartstrings.

And a movie like The Natural, mystifyingly beloved by many a baseball purist, tries to get at the physical glory of the baseball player by means of every cinematic trick in the book—primarily artfully-applied slo-mo, slick editing, golden-hued cinematography and Randy Newman’s syrupy score, which in modern baseball coverage on TV has become synonymous with the triumphant majesty of the long ball. But all Barry Levinson’s movie does in the end is showcase, apart from the crusty quality of lived-in history brought to the dugout by Wilford Brimley and Richard Farnsworth, a special kind of fabrication, the movie myth brought to bear on the myth of god-like feats of athletic prowess (which was, unless I misunderstand it, the opposite intention of Bernard Malamud’s book, from which the movie was ripped and restitched), all rendered in a showboating key of bombast and glowing nostalgia that exposes everything seen through its lens as phony.


Jon SooHoo

The ascendance of CGI and the Bay-Bruckheimer aesthetic to dominance in commercial American cinema doesn’t exactly raise my hopes that this deceptively simple goal of presenting the particular physics of the game, coupled with the sights, sounds and smells of what it is to really be down on the field, will ever fully be achieved. It is good that Shelton is still in there taking his hacks (his film of the nonfiction book on the BALCO steroids scandal, Game of Shadows is due soon, as well as the intriguingly titled Our Lady of the Ballpark which is currently in preproduction), but I can’t think of another filmmaker I’m already aware of who could or would be interested in taking a stab at really capturing the game from the inside out. To this end, I would submit that the best place to look for this kind of eye toward detail and showcasing fleeting moments in time that seem cinematic in every way except their ability to only suggest movement, is through the lens of great baseball photographers. And one of the best is right here in Los Angeles, shooting incredible images of things that everyone thinks they see every night, but in ways that no one can quite see on their own. Jon SooHoo is the official team photographer for the Dodgers, and his work can frequently be seen on the Dodgers official site. But more recently he has been the subject of much celebration by the sharp-eyed observers who man the keen Dodger blog Sons of Steve Garvey, where some of his most spectacular photography has been highlighted. The Sons posted an examination of this photo yesterday as evidence of the value of SooHoo’s everyday presence with the team—when everyone else is snapping away at all the moments surrounding the aftermath of Andre Ethier’s game-winning walk-off home run in the 13th inning of Monday’s series opener against the Colorado Rockies, it was SooHoo who knew of Ethier’s tendency toward game-ending dramatics (he leads the team in walk-off hits this season) and was there with digital precision, brilliant timing and a perfect angle to highlight, in a way no other photograph did, the dramatic momentum of that moment of impact between bat and ball which capped nearly four and a half hours of intense baseball.

Other links from the piece on SOSG highlight the explosive spectacle of a breaking bat in mid-shatter (the man at the plate again, Andre Ethier) and the various shades and gradations of emotion available to the naked eye, amplified by SooHoo’s naturally artistic documentation, on Opening Day 2009. But my absolute favorite of SooHoo’s recent work is an image that perfectly encapsulates his ability to capture the paradoxically cinematic drama of the game in a single brilliant still—his shot (seen above) of Russell Martin attempting to jump away from an inside fastball, only to have the ball caught as it passes Martin’s chest, making tactile, undulating waves out of the fabric of his jersey as well as contact with the batter, speaks a language of motion and emotion that a hokey carnival like The Natural doesn’t even seem to know exists, let alone can’t come close to getting on film. SooHoo’s exemplary work is a gift we Dodger fans get whether we fork over the price of a ticket or not. It brings the magic, the majesty and the mystery of the game a step closer, and augments our memories with images that make us feel like we’ve seen things we couldn’t possibly have seen otherwise. One day maybe a movie will get at baseball the way great photographers like Jon SooHoo seem to be able to conjure with ridiculous ease. Like baseball itself, that image-conjuring magic eludes the majority of those who try to work it to their advantage. But as most Dodger fans already know, an image directed by Jon SooHoo, like a Sandy Koufax start or a Jonathan Broxton fastball, is almost always a masterpiece.

(Thanks to the Sons of Steve Garvey and Jon Weisman for sparking this post, and of course, to Jon SooHoo for the photographs.)

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I'd love to see your favorite baseball photographs too. Please feel free to leave links to the photos, as well as the usual commentary, in the bull pen below!

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