Momentous Monday: May the fourth be with you

Okay, this isn’t actually the anniversary of the premiere of a certain film — it was May 25, 1977 when a film called just Star Wars opened. But in the 43 years since then, the entire franchise has become a cultural phenomenon. It’s literally been around long enough that some teenage fans of the first film more likely than not may now have grandchildren who are into the current films and shows.

“May the fourth be with you” is a perfect example of that. Somewhere along the way, Star Wars

Day was created and while it’s not an official Lucasfilm/Disney event, they still use it to pay tribute to the franchise. Oh — and sell stuff, of course.

Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, Star Wars Day is May 25, since the premiere was here on that date.

There’s not a lot of agreement of how the holiday came about, or where the phrase referring to the date originated, although it’s been attested to as early as 1979, although the first publication was in 1999 in the book The Science of Star Wars by the astrophysicist Jeanne Cavelos.

Incidentally, she was born on May 26th. Missed it by that much.

Now, if you were raised with any touch of Catholicism prior to a certain time, whenever you hear “May the force be with you” (or this alternate), you will almost automatically reply, “And also with you.” That’s just a thing. It’s unavoidable. Embrace it.

If you’re more of a Dark Side person, don’t worry. Two days from now, it’s Revenge of the Sixth.

I’ll keep this short, but I will point out one thing: I saw the original trilogy before 1997, which means that I saw… the original trilogy. But Lucas was never one to leave things alone, so as my Star Wars day gift to you, here is just a hint of what he changed when he re-released Episode IV in the late 90s and early 10s.

Well, except for changing the title to Episode IV: A New Hope once Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back came out.

I can’t say that I totally disagree with some of these changes, and the color timing, especially in the 2011 version, is much, much better. However, say it with me…

HAN SHOT FIRST!

Thank you, and May the Fourth Be with You.

Theatre Thursday: Theatre is the original VR

Something I’ve said for a long time is that live theatre is the original virtual reality, and the only shows you can see in 3D without special glasses.

Also, unlike their recorded and edited cousins — audio, film, video, and streaming — each live theatrical performance is a unique moment in time that will only be experienced by one audience ever, and will be experienced by each audience member (and each performer) in a completely different way.

In a way, I feel sorry for actors who do recorded and edited media, because they really don’t know which performance it’s ultimately going to be. They might do 23 takes of a scene in front of a green screen, have no idea that the director will ultimately settle on number 17, although maybe with a little tweak and morph so that the last beat or two of take 13 actually takes over.

And if it’s a two shot with another actor, the final shot you see on screen may actually use performances from two different takes, seamlessly woven together. It’s the film version of Photoshopping a group picture from multiple shots to make sure everyone’s eyes are open.

And that’s before all of the effects and whatnot are added, and maybe the actor was in a mocap suit anyway, because they’re really only providing the physical movement and overall kinesthetic emotion and facial movement to a performance that will turn into a twelve foot tall purple alien with big yellow eyes.

Meanwhile, a stage actor could play that same character with clever costuming, props and choreography — a couple of cast members lift them for height, a little light change and lots of fabric create the big purple body, and a pair of grapefruit with big black circles on them held Pale Man style become the eyes.

Not to say that one is better than the other. They’re just different. But the game kind of changes when all of the venues are shuttered because of a plague. No more movie theatres at the moment. No more live shows.

All we’re left with is streaming, and the question: Is this the end of both the cinema and live theatre?

Well, don’t bet on it. In 1606, theaters in London were shut down because of the plague, and this was in the middle of runs of three big hits that are still famous now: King Lear, Macbeth and Volpone.

This year, Broadway lost shows like Moulin Rouge: The Musical, Six, Company, Mrs. Doubtfire, Caroline, or Change and Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf, among many others. Some may be rescheduled. Others may never happen. And it’s the same in London, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Seattle… everywhere.

In L.A., Center Theatre Group had to close The Book of Mormon revival tour early, for example.

This hasn’t stopped many of those performers from performing, and a number of Broadway stars have taken to singing to their fans from home via social media. In a way, this actually makes live theater even more intimate, because every single viewer has their own personal front row center seat — and they get to see the same show that everyone else does.

Can you imagine? Going to see the original staging of Evita on Broadway, and Patti Lupone sings every number right to you? Okay, except without all of that stagecraft, because she’s singing it to you solo and a capella from her living room. Still… rather intimate and impressive either way.

London certainly has a number of previously saved streaming performances to watch. And while it’s anecdotal because I can’t share the link here, two friends of mine managed to do live streaming improv, cell phone to cell phone, with the performance between the two phones put up via another friend’s third phone.

It was a very impressive and clever use of technology. And Zoom isn’t just for meetings. I’ve seen colleagues in theatre now use it for company meetings, as well as group practices.

Is it still theatre in this form, though? Yes. I happen to think that all performing arts are ultimately theatre, whether they happen on a stage or a screen. In 2012, I performed in a number of pieces around the city that took place in public spaces as part of Playwrights Arena’s Flash Theatre L.A.

We performed everywhere from a pet store parking lot to a cemetery in South Los Angeles; in a nearly dark public courtyard with only the uplights illuminating the walls to shine on us when we needed them, in Union Station downtown, and so on.

The cemetery performance and Union Station were two of my favorites — the first because we created a long and elaborate, intricately choreographer Danse Macabre in which I started out as a disgruntled grave digger, then snuck behind a tombstone to change into the guise of a skull-faced pope.

We also had La Llorna and a lot of Día de los Muertos style face-painting in a collision of Medieval Europe and modern Latin America, taking place in a cemetery with a large proportion of black residents, since for a long time in the city’s history it was one of the few places open to them.

What I loved about Union Station was how the show started and ended. We quietly came in and took our places as if we were people waiting for a train, but then slowly stepped out and joined the performance, which involved a twelve-foot tall puppet.

When it was over, after we read out a bunch of real-time tweets we had solicited beforehand, each of us then strode off into the crowd to make our exit by becoming “normal” people again.

We were never on an actual stage for those shows, but it was still theatre. It’s still theatre no matter how big the CGI effects are.

But it’s not only the film and TV people who can forget this. The theatre people can too, in the opposite direction, and sometimes ignore the concept that media and tech can work onstage — or that theatre can happen onscreen in real time — as well.

Back in about 2012, I saw a wonderful production of Arthur Miller’s After the Fall, which is basically his fictional biopic and guilty confessional about the death of Marilyn Monroe. Oh… he’s not confessing to killing her directly. He’s feeling guilty over not doing enough to save her life, seeing as how he was married to her at the time.

That’s right — the blonde bombshell dumped the jock (Joe DiMaggio) and married the smart nebbish. Nerds of the world, take heart! That would be like Scarlett Johansson dumping Ryan Reynolds for John Green.

Oh, wait. She did dump Ryan. Just not for John.

Anyway, as originally staged, when characters aren’t onstage, they sit in high backed chairs upstage. Occasionally, one of them will have a flashback monologue, which they deliver by standing in place.

The twist on this the director pulled was having everyone backstage, but when their monologues came, live ghostly video of the actor backstage would be projected on the two side walls of the actual stage. (It was performed on a partial thrust stage.)

Miller was probably borrowing from Thornton Wilder’s Our Town, which was the first major play to be performed without an actual set — in the days when Broadway was all about realism — and with the entire cast seated onstage when not performing.

This production of After the Fall just took the original concept and modernized it.

But long before video and high tech, tech has always been a part of theatre, from Grand Guignol’s elaborate illusions used to create shock and horror, to the elaborate stage machinery of 18th century opera and earlier.

The opening of the film The Devils by Ken Russell does a pretty good recreation of 17th century French theatrical staging and mechanics:

The interesting question, really, is which media are going to survive this modern plague? If our entertainment venues are limited for long enough — at least, as long as they really need to be to help us survive this — then this just may be the end of the cinema as we know it.

Sorry, Marty, and David. To paraphrase Norma Desmond: “Films are big! It’s the screens that got small.”

People may become too accustomed to just watching at home, and thanks to all of their online hanging out with friends, they may finally remember what the important part is. So expect streaming parties, either as virtual hangouts or IRL, to become the new norm.

Also expect an end to the blockbuster spectacle once people have been reminded through all of the scaled-down-to-mobile shows and performances what theatre is really about: the interactions between characters that happen because of an inciting event.

Notice, by the way, that in any online discussion of the latest hit streaming show, people aren’t talking about the effects or the spectacle or any of that. They are talking about the characters, what they do, and why people like it or don’t like it.

As for theatre, it will survive because, after all, it has for thousands of years and through many difficulties. Plus, when it’s not some overblown Broadway show with a ridiculous budget and inflated ticket prices, it can be cheap to do, easy to stage, and affordable for everyone.

It just may be that “too big to fail” turns into “too big to stay.” Movies and TV turn into intimate events at home or maybe in small clubs. Meanwhile, all of that small theatre that’s always been there goes on. Only, this time, people will have a renewed appreciation of it.

Think about this for a moment. What genre do escape rooms fall into? Not film, and not TV. Nope. They are a type of immersive theatre in which the audience is also part of the cast.

Image (CC0 1.0)

The horror, the horror…

I am not a fan of horror movies, at least not in their modern incarnations. Of course, a lot of classic horror — like every version of Dracula, Frankenstein, the Mummy, etc., actually isn’t modern horror. Neither are more recent examples, like Psycho, Rosemary’s Baby, The Exorcist, The Omen, Alien, The Shining, John Carpenter’s The Thing, or Prince of Darkness.

It’s suspense. Those films were about the lurking potential danger of the monster. And even if in some cases the beast would lash out and kill, it was more about the group dealing with it in an intelligent way, and reacting emotionally to what was going on.

Once the genre started up in slasher mode, with each film trying to out-gore itself while including all of the tropes, I noped out. When we finally hit full-on torture porn in the naughts, I refused to watch any of them anymore. [Warning on that link: While the content is good, the author does terrible violence to proper use of the apostrophe. The horror!]

Still, there are two films that could be counted as somewhere in the zone between slasher and torture that I still consider favorites because there’s just something different about them. One of them you’ve probably heard of: David Fincher’s Se7en, and the fact that a particular uncredited actor in the film turned out to be a predatory monster in real life just adds to it. But again, this film isn’t about the murders. It’s about the journey the two detectives take in trying to catch the killer.

It’s the psychological manipulation that John Doe uses to drive David Mills to do exactly what he’s supposed to do that gives the film its zing. That, and theming the murders on a very well-known trope, the seven deadly sins. It’s intelligent horror not done as a mindless slasher film or an over-the-top splatter-fest. So, again, more suspense.

You’ve probably never heard of the other film, which is a Vincent Price vehicle called Theatre of Blood, but it is a classic, and it shares a lot with the much later Se7en. (Theatre came out in 1973.) In it, Price plays the serial killer with an agenda.

He’s a Shakespearean actor whose style is probably too classically old-school for the era. A quick search showed that the productions of the time at the Royal Shakespeare company favored modern dress and abstract sets. Their 1970s production of Two Gentlemen of Verona, looks like a swinger’s pool party, and other productions of the time were equally anachronistic.

Of course, one could argue that Shakespeare should only ever be done in modern dress because that’s what the Bard did in his own time, but, frankly, it’s a lot of fun to have the period costumes with the language.

But I do digress.

In Theatre of Blood, Price’s character, Richard Lionheart, is bitter because a London critic’s society did not give him their best actor of the year award. He comes to their after-party to confront them and claim what he thinks should be his, but they mock him mercilessly. It’s his humiliation that drives his desire for revenge, and the method he uses is… priceless, pardon the pun.

He knocks off the critics one by one following the murders and deaths in the previous season of Shakespeare plays he starred in, and he exploits his knowledge of the critics’ quirks and weaknesses to do it. Being the consummate actor, Lionheart dresses for the roles, sometimes going full-on traditional, as when re-creating moments from Troilus and Cressida, Richard III, or The Merchant of Venice, or going modern dress for Julius Caesar, Cymbeline, Othello, Henry VI, Titus Andronicus, and a failed attempt at Romeo & Juliet. He goes full-on Richard Lionheart for the King Lear inspired finale, though.

Basically, it’s horror done with class and elan and, while there are some gory moments, the film doesn’t dwell on them or make them overly graphic. It’s more about a very clever killer we root for and yet, ultimately, a slightly more clever hero. That, and the fact that Lionheart’s victims tend to be major assholes in their own right.

Price is a standout, ably abetted by (pre-Dame) Diana Rigg as his dutiful daughter, and backed up by an amazing cast of British actors of the era. The film is a comedic gem, and if you’re a horror fan, theatre nerd of any stripe, but particularly if you’re a huge Shakespeare nut, this one is worth finding and then inviting a bunch of like-minded folk over for a viewing.

Five easy pieces

Welcome to a little music history and education. I don’t think I’ve mentioned before on the blog, but I am a trained musician who plays anything with a keyboard (including piano accordion, thank you), and was lucky enough to be well-grounded in both the theory and history of music. It’s a fascinating subject.

Here, I’ll be dealing with some tunes that probably everybody would recognize after the first few notes, but very few people could actually name. For the most part, they were created for very different purposes, and a number of them are only known as small pieces of larger works. For all but two, they became iconic once they wound up in film or television — although it could be argued that the pop culture of the pre-mass media world did the same for the other two.

I encourage you to at least sample the linked videos so you can hear what I’m talking about, although most of the “Why you know it” sections will probably make the tunes play in your head automatically.

And-a 1, and-a 2, and-a 1, 2, 3, 4…

1.   Marche funèbre d’une marionnette

Funeral March of a Marionette, 1872, by Charles Guonod

Why you know it: Alfred Hitchcock. He mentioned loving the piece on a BBC Radio show called Desert Island Discs, in 1959. The show was basically one of those “If you could only take X things with you” question formats with celebrities, with the subject being eight pieces of music, a book, and a luxury item. This was one of Hitch’s eight pieces — probably not a surprise at the time, since he had already chosen it as the theme song for his TV series, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, which debuted in 1955.

How he stumbled across it is anyone’s guess, but it had already been used in a few films very early on, including Sunrise, Laurel and Hardy’s Habeas Corpus, and Buster Keaton’s Welcome Danger, all before 1929. Here’s the section from the opening of Hitchcock’s show.

Its original intent: Most likely, Guonod was aiming for a cross between macabre and whimsical. After all, this is a funeral cortege for a “dead” inanimate object, and the score itself plus a change to a D Major near the middle tells us that the “mourners” do stop for what is basically a buffet along the way. In other words, serious, not serious.

How it’s used: To create a general atmosphere of the macabre or sinister, leaving out any bit of whimsy or joy from the original.

Why you don’t know all of it: Hitchcock uses a tiny snippet. The whole piece is about four minutes — way too long for TV credits.

2. Vjezd gladiátorů

Entry of the Gladiators, 1897, by Julius Fučík

Why you know it: Ever been to the circus? You can’t hear this tune without seeing that parade of elephants and lions and clowns, all led by the ringmaster down the street and to the big top.

Its original intent: Pretty much the same as now. It’s from a genre of music called “screamer.” These were marches used in order to pump up a crowd, quite often at events like circuses or state fairs, and frequently right before the entrance of the main act or the famous clowns. What makes them notable is that they focus on the heavy brass in the band instead of the lighter woodwinds, and they are at a tempo that is actually too fast to march at comfortably. If you’ve ever been at any kind of performance that’s used pre-show music, then you’ve experienced this concept, although probably with a much different genre of music. Comedy clubs and live TV “tapings” (they really still use that word) use the same trick — fast-paced, upbeat music right before things start in order to get the audience in the mood.

How it’s used: As originally intended. It’s just that this particular piece happened to win out over all of the other screamers from the era. Oh — and don’t let the title fool you. Fučík never intended it to have anything to do with gladiators, either. He just had a jones for the glory that was Rome.

Why you don’t know all of it: Again, it’s short, and you may have heard the whole thing, but you only remember the hook. Bonus points — it was lifted by Three Dog Night. (God, the 70s didn’t age well.)

3.   O Fortuna!

AKA Oh Fortune, Empress of the World, from Carmina Burana, 1936, by Carl Orff

Why you know it: It’s been used as the soundtrack for countless films and movie trailers since forever. Here it is in Excalibur.

Its original intent: Somebody found a bunch of poetry written by 13th century monks, originally assumed to be from Beuren, but later determined to have actually been created in Austria. Oops! The title stuck, though. Carmina Burana means “songs of Beuren.” Written in a mix of Latin, German, and French of the era, they were not religious songs at all, but, in fact, were rather secular and earthy. Probably not surprising, though, considering that the authors were probably young men only just realizing what they had given up when they chose the monastic life. So, yeah… Orff didn’t start out with high art at all. The raunch is just hidden in the age of the language. Kind of like Shakespeare.

A great and probably honest description of the source comes from an NPR story on its history: “Carmina Burana,” Music of Monks and Drunks. Yeah, like I said, college kids. By the time it got around to Orff, though, he intended it as a pretty serious cantata, to be presented with dance and masks and all kinds of stage craft. After all, he titled it a “scenic cantata,” meaning that it would have scenes and scenery and stuff.

How it’s used: This is the “Shit’s about to get real” theme. Or, when used as satire, it means “Much ado about nothing.”

What you don’t know: It’s the opening and closing of the aforementioned song cycle, but none of the rest of it ever reaches this level of brilliant. I mean, the first four bars of O Fortuna are in a 3/1 time signature. Musicians will instantly get how balls to the wall that choice was. And while all that stuff between the beginning and ending isn’t well known, at least it’s good — unlike our next piece.

4.   Also sprach Zarathustra

Thus Spake Zarathustra, 1896, by Richard Strauss.

Why you know it: Stanley Kubrick.

Come on, really. If this isn’t the first movie you think of when you hear this song, you need to get out more. But even if you haven’t seen it, you do know the tune. Kubrick used it three times in the movie — under the opening credits, right before the most epic time span in a jump-cut in movies ever (hundreds of thousands of years, if not a million or two), and at the end as Bowman is… let’s just say, given a jumpstart in evolution.

Its original intent: Strauss was writing a tone poem based on a treatise by Friedrich Nietzsche of the same title, and probably most well-known for the statement “God is dead,” which appears as a question in the prologue and a statement in part two. It was this work that Strauss was trying to capture musically, although he proved that philosophical works probably don’t make the best source for emotionally moving art.

How it’s used: Whenever someone wants to parody or reference 2001: A Space Odyssey or indicate something profoundly epic is happening.

What you don’t know: Similar to Orff, this piece is the beginning and ending of a long song cycle. The difference is that while O Fortuna serves as the cookies outside of an Oreo, Also is just the bread on a shit sandwich. I’ve listened to the whole thing and, trust me, it’s less exciting than watching paint dry. There’s a reason that Johann “The Waltz King” is the better known Strauss, although he and Richard were not related. But Johann did get a piece in 2001 as well.

5.   Treulich gefürht

The Bridal Chorus, from Lohengrin, 1850, Richard Wagner

Why you know it: Come on. You’ve been to some weddings in your life, whether as guest, part of the wedding party, part of the family, or one of the two co-stars. This tune is now known as Here Comes the Bride, and it’s inspired more happy tears than have ever been cried by all of the fans of all the winning teams of every big sports ball championship final match ever.

Its original intent: Again, pretty much as we know it, except for the sole purpose of providing a dramatic, suspenseful, and emotional entrance for a wedding scene in an opera. It wasn’t written to be used in weddings at all. But you know how people are. It only took one socialite at the opera to announce, “Mother, we are using this song when I get married, and that’s it.” Boom. The rest is history.

How it’s used: Whether literally or ironically, it says “someone is about to get married.” It is most always played as the bride enters the wedding venue.

What you don’t know: Probably most of the rest of that opera, Lohengrin. And you probably don’t also realize the irony of weddings often using this song as an entrance and Felix Mendelssohn’s Wedding March as an exit — which is, sadly, not called There Goes the Bride. Why? Well, Richard had no love for Felix because Mendelssohn was Jewish and Wagner was a notorious anti-Semite. In fact, whenever the latter had to conduct the music of the former, he would wear gloves so that he didn’t have to come into contact with the score, and then throw the gloves away when he was done. Yes — Wagner was talented, but he was a jerk-ass.

What are your favorite “Songs everyone knows without knowing the source?” Tell us in the comments!

Image by Grzegorz Dymon, used unchanged under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.

The art of war

Ending just over a century ago, World War I, originally known as The Great War or the War to End All Wars, turned out to be none of the above, since it was eclipsed by its sequel, World War II — to date, the planet’s only nuclear war — which also outdid the first World War in terms of “greatness” if you take “great” to mean number of deaths. Also, obviously, the fact that there was a II to follow the I — and many other wars thereafter to the present day — means that World War I didn’t end any wars at all.

What’s often forgotten about the aftermath of that wr was the effect it had on the people who lived through it — sometimes barely — and especially the effect it had on the arts and culture, as well as the politics of the rest of the first half of the 20th century. It left a generation that was as stunned as the post-Vietnam generation. In fact, it gave us the original term for what we now call PTSD: shell-shock.

In the arts, it gave us things like Dada, which led to Surrealism, which were both efforts to deal with the absolute horror of what really was the first modern war. After all, WWI gave us the first aerial warfare with planes (after a brief prelude in Mexico), the first trench warfare and the first large-scale chemical warfare. It also led to the development of new techniques in plastic surgery. Hey, gotta figure out how to rebuild all those faces that got blown off, right?

But it was the art connection that really hit home, because I can think of three films that dealt with World War I that have really stuck with me — the first because of the way it manages to demonstrate the pure horror of that war and all wars, and the other two because they show, brilliantly, how that war went on to influence the arts and artists of that generation as they grew up after it.

The oldest film and oldest source is Johnny Got His Gun, based on a book written Dalton Trumbo in 1938 — or, in other words, right before the sequel to the Great War was released. Ironically, he was later blacklisted as a communist in the 1950s. The movie came out in 1971, at the height of the anti-Vietnam War protest movement. Both it and the book tell a first-person story about a young veteran of World War I who comes home with all of his limbs and his face blown off. He basically has no way to communicate with the world, and keeps reliving the war while telling us what he can sense — which is mostly the sounds and touches from the nurses around him.

It’s a very dark and hopeless story. This man has basically been condemned to be trapped in his own practically useless body which is just being kept alive because, well, it’s what you do for the wounded, right? He is denied euthanasia and can’t even commit suicide. Even though he finally manages to try to communicate in Morse code by banging his head on his pillow, he’s ignored — just like so many veterans of that (and other) wars have been.

The second film, Savage Messiah, is one of Ken Russell’s earlier biopics. Released in 1972, it tells the story of artist Henri Gaudier-Brzeska. Gaudier was his birth name, but he had a rather unconventional relationship with a much older woman and took her name as a hyphenate way before it was even a thing, even though they never married.

Eventually, he marches off voluntarily to fight in World War I, and one of the scenes near the end of the film is one that has stuck with me since I first saw it in an art-house revival years ago. One character is reading a letter from Henri on the front that is glorifying the war, talking about killing the enemy. Another character, pitched as somewhat of an antagonist, says, “Whoever wrote that should be shot,” and the man reading the letter replies, “He was. This morning.”

And that is how we find out that this artist and sculptor is dead. It’s one of those rug-yank moments that works so well.

The final film, Max, came out thirty years after Savage Messiah, but is perhaps the strongest synthesis of the “how this war affected the arts” with “how this war got a sequel.” In it, John Cusack plays the titular character, a would-be artist who lost his painting arm in the trenches and so who is now just an art dealer and agent. He meets a young Hitler, portrayed by the brilliant Noah Taylor, and tries to mentor him, but it does not go well because Hitler cannot understand the human side of art while Max cannot see Hitler’s nascent fascism in his works.

One of the highlights is a Dadaist performance piece by Max in which he is lowered, apparently nude and with lost arm in full view sans prosthetic, into a giant meat-grinder while he talks about the war, tons of ground beef pouring out the business end. While the character of Max Rothman in 1918 may have been fictional, the film is still a very effective take on the emotional scars that this war left on everyone who had to live through the battlefield. Only the dead were left with just physical scars, and not emotional ones, although that’s probably not better.

Of course, there are a bunch of top-rated World War I movies, some made before, a lot made after; some of which I’ve seen, a lot of which I’ve haven’t, along with the long list of all World War I movies. Also, I can’t forget Black Adder Goes Forth, which basically ended a beloved series with (SPOILER ALERT) all of the characters rushing out of the trench to their certain deaths. But, c’mon. It’s a Black Adder series. That shouldn’t be a surprise at all, considering how the first one ended.

Finally, to really bring it full circle, Rajiv Joseph wrote a play about the start of World War I called Archduke which was pretty amazing and that played in Los Angeles at the Mark Taper Forum in 2017, exactly a century after the U.S. finally entered WWI.

Oh yeah. The other big effect of that war? It’s the one that solidified the U.S. as a world super-power after we fired the first shot in the Spanish-American War but before we stole the thunder from Britain and France by finally jumping in to end the First World War. That part is not necessarily good, though, either.

What films about war particularly move you? Tell us in the comments!

Fangry

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you’ve probably heard about the petition started by fans demanding a re-do of Season 8 of Game of Thrones, and this may have given you a flashback to last year, when fans of Star Wars demanded the same thing in the same way for The Last Jedi. Hm. Oddly enough, that was Episode VIII, but I’m sure that’s just a coincidence.

Of course, there’s no chance in hell that any of this is going to happen. Personally, if I were one of the producers on the receiving end of that petition, my response would be, “Okay, sure. Season 8 cost $90 million. When I checked, 218,141 of you signed the petition. So if each of you sends us $412.56, we’ll do it.” (Note: I am not going to link to the petition at all, and the reasons why not should become obvious shortly.)

This is called “putting your money where your mouth is,” although I’m sure that many of these fans who are complaining are either torrenting the series illegally or sharing HBO to Go passwords with each other, which just makes it more infuriating.

As an artist, nothing galls me more than armchair quarterbacking from the fans. Note that this is different than critiquing. If a fan sees one of my plays or reads one of my books and says, “I really didn’t like how the story played out,” or “I couldn’t relate to the lead character,” or similar, than that is totally valid. But as soon as a fan (or a critic) gets into, “It should have ended like this,” or “I would have written it like that,” or “this character should have done this instead,” then you’ve gone over the line.

Note, though: Professional critics do not do this. That’s what sets them apart from angry fanboys.

Thanks to the internet, we’ve moved into this weird area where what used to be a consumer culture has morphed into a participatory culture. Sorry to go Wiki there, but those are probably the most accessible ways in to what are very abstract concepts involving economics, marketing, and politics.

There are good and bad sides to both, which I’ll get to in a moment, and while the latter has always been lurking in the background, it hasn’t become as prevalent until very recently. Again, not necessarily a bad thing, but it needs understanding and context to work.

So what do we mean by consumer and participatory? The short version is “buy stuff” vs. “give stuff.” A consumer culture focuses on getting people to spend money in the pursuit of having a better life in a capitalist economy. Its marketing mantra is, “Hey… you have problem A? Product X will solve it!” It is also aimed at large groups based on demographics in order to bring in the herd mentality. Keeping up with the Joneses writ large. “Everybody is doing it/has one!”

Ever wonder why people line up down the block at midnight in order to get the latest iPhone or gaming console on the day it comes out? It’s because they have been lured, hook, line, and sinker into consumer culture. But here’s the thing people miss, or used to miss because I think we’re becoming a bit more aware. Because demographics are very important to consumer culture, you are also a product. And if some corporation is giving you something for free — like Google, Facebook, Instagram, etc. — then you are the only product.

Participatory culture is one in which people do not just buy, watch, or read the products, but in which they give input and feedback, and the rise of the internet and social media has pushed this to the forefront. Ever commented on a post by one of your favorite brands on how they could make it better? Ever snarked an elected official for whom you’re a constituent? Ever blasted a movie, show, or sketch in a mass media corporation’s website? Congratulations! That’s participatory culture.

As I mentioned above, it’s not new. In the days before the internet, people could always write letters to newspapers, legislators, corporations, and studios. The only difference then was that it was a bit harder — physically creating the message, whether with pen and paper or typewriter, then putting it in an envelope, looking up the address via dead tree media, taking the thing to a post office, putting a stamp on it, and dropping it off.

Phew. That’s some hard work. Now? Fire up Twitter, drop an @ and some text, click send, done.

And, again, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I’ve had more direct responses from my own elected officials to my social media comments than I ever did back in the days of mail of the E or snail variety only. The mail responses were always form letters with the subtext of, “Yeah, we get this a lot, we don’t care, here’s some boilerplate.” Social media doesn’t allow for that because it becomes too obvious.

But where participatory culture goes too far is when the fans turn it into possessory culture. Again, this isn’t a new phenomenon. It’s only become more common because being a participant and not just a consumer has become so much easier.

Here’s the anecdotal part. I’ve spent a lot of my working career in the entertainment industry, particularly film and television, and a lot of that dealing directly or indirectly with fans. And one thing that I can say for certain is that people who aren’t in the industry — termed “non-pro” by the trades and often called “muggles” by us — don’t have a clue about how it all works.

If you don’t know what “the trades” are, then you probably fall into the muggle category. Although it’s really a dying term, it refers to the magazines that covered the industry (“the trade”) from the inside, and which were read voraciously every day — principally Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, and Billboard.

But I do digress.

In college, I interned for a game show production company, and one of my jobs was reading and properly directing fan mail, or replying to it with one of a dozen form letters they had printed out en masse, because yes, the questions or complaints were so predictable. One of the big recurring themes was the mistaken belief that the host of the game show personally wrote, directed, edited, and selected contestants for the entire thing. Yeah, no. Unless the host was an executive producer (and the only example that comes to mind is Alex Trebek, for whom I almost worked), then the only thing the host did was show up for the taping day, when they would do five half-hour shows back to back.

And so… I would read endless letters with sob stories begging the host to cast them, or complaints about wanting them to fire one or another guest celebrities, or, ridiculously often, outright requests for money because reasons (always from red states, too), prefiguring GoFundMe by a decade or two.

A lot of these letters also revealed how racist a lot of Americans were then (and still are) and yes, the response to that crap was one of our most sent-out form letters.

This pattern continued though, on into the days of the internet and email. When I worked on Melrose Place, we would constantly get emails telling the stars of the show things like, “I hated what you did to (character) in that episode. Why are you such a bitch?” or “Why don’t you change this story line? I hate it.”

Really? Really.

Gosh. I guess I never realized that scripted TV had so damn much improv going on. Yes, that was irony. And here’s a fun fact: While a lot of it may seem like it’s improv, SNL is actually not, and doing improv there is the quickest way to never get invited back.

At least those comments were much easier to respond to. “Thank you, but Heather Locklear does not actually write her parts, she only performs them. We will pass your concerns on to the producers.” (Which we never did, because, why?)

Still… misguided but fine. And even things like fan fiction are okay, because they aren’t trying to change canon so much as honor it — although it can sometimes spin off the rails, with Fifty Shades of Gray being the ur-example of a fangirl turning a Twilight fanfic into a super dumpster fire of bad writing and terrible movies and still somehow making a fortune off of it — the perfect storm of participatory culture turning around to bite the ass of consumer culture. I’m not sure whether that’s good or bad, but if anybody did this to my work, I’d probably want to punch them in the throat.

Of course, there are always textual poachers, who approach fanfic from a slightly different angle. Their aim isn’t to make their own fortune off of rewriting stuff. Rather, it’s to, well, as a quote from the book Textual Poachers says, “Fan fiction is a way of the culture repairing the damage done in a system where contemporary myths are owned by corporations instead of owned by the folk.”

So that’s perfectly fine. If you’re not happy with how Star Wars or Game of Thrones turned out, then write your own damn version yourself. Do it on your own time and at your own expense, and enjoy. But the second you’d deign to try to demand that any other artist should change their work to make you happy, then you have lost any right whatsoever to complain about it.

castle-rock-misery-stephen-king

Don’t be Annie Wilkes. Stephen King knew that.

See how that works? Or should I start a petition demanding that the other petition be worded differently? Yeah. I don’t think that would go over so well with the whiny fanboys either.

The perception of art is completely subjective while the creation thereof is completely under the artist’s control. If you don’t like it, don’t look at it, don’t watch it, don’t buy it. But, most of all, don’t tell the artist how they should have done it. Period. Full stop.

Bad movies that really aren’t

Judging any art form is really subjective. After all, one man’s masterpiece is another man’s mishegoss. And you can’t really measure the entire world of creativity based on just your standards. Sure, it’d be nice if everything conformed to your taste, but why does it have to? You don’t have to watch it if you don’t like it.

I mean, if I ruled the world of entertainment, then most reality shows would not exist, no one would have ever heard of the Kardashians or the residents of the Jersey Shore, and professional wrestling would have died in the 1950s, along with a lot of other things. And sorry, but there would also be no MCU or DC movies.

If all of that pisses you off, good. It should. Because, like I said, if there’s room for my fanboy stuff, there’s room for yours. If I don’t like your stuff, I don’t have to watch it, and vice versa.

This isn’t to say that everything ever produced is perfect, or that all critics are wrong. Sometimes, a hot mess can be damn entertaining despite, or even because of, its flaws, and here are my ten examples of movies that, IMHO, are much better than they have any business being.

  1. Myra Breckinridge (1970)

Adapted from Gore Vidal’s “book that couldn’t be written,” this “motion picture that couldn’t be made” is actually much better and far more subversive than it was given credit for at the time. Then again, maybe it was too far ahead of its time, since it dealt with issues of gender identity, sexual orientation, feminism, and the capitalistic rape of the arts at a time when American society wasn’t ready for that discussion. As if we really are now.

Vidal disowned the film, and a lot of the cast involved, especially Raquel Welch in the titular (ahemn) role bad-mouthed it before it came out. Some critics think it’s the one thing that prevented her meteoric rise to stardom from continuing, which is a shame. Rex Reed also isn’t half bad in his debut, but the rest of his onscreen acting career amounted to small parts, cameos, or appearing on game shows, although he did frequently appear as himself in documentaries about other performers.

Still… viewed through the lens of the world almost fifty years later, the film comes across as a wry and knowing satire that somehow managed to understand the marginalized, even if the director was a straight and probably homophobic moron.

  1. Caligula (1979)

This one is an interesting milestone mainly because it’s the only example I can think of that had a big name, famous cast combined with hardcore porn. Oh, sure. None of the stars were involved in the actual boinking, but nonetheless there was plenty of real sex happening onscreen in this film, money shots and all — and some of the big names did do a lot of faking it.

But here’s the thing. I’ve been a fan of Roman history for a long time, and had read Suetonius long before I saw this film in an art house revival, and if anything, it actually holds back a little bit from the reality, despite all  that jizz and gore on screen.

If you can handle all the ick, though, what’s not to like? We have Malcolm McDowell, Helen Mirren, Peter O’Toole, and John Gielgud, leading up a cast of mostly Italian actors who were probably doing the old “it’s getting dubbed later” trick with their dialogue. But, anyway… for the most part, Caligula follows Suetonius pretty accurately, paints a really nice portrait of Rome circa 40 C.E., has a little bit of something for everyone, and has some really nice dark humor.

Bonus points and a connection to the first entry: the screenplay was written by… Gore Vidal, who also disowned it and insisted that his name be taken off. Somewhere in my collection, I think I still have a rare paperback edition of the novelization of the film that credits him as the author. He would have hated that.

  1. The Apple (1980)

Kudos for this one, because it happened right at a point when Hollywood musicals seemed dead — although it didn’t manage to get the same attention as the next entry on the list. This is definitely a B Movie and set in the then far-off world of 1994, where “life is nothing but show business.” The only thing they got wrong was in jumping the gun a little bit, but not by much.

I’d classify this one as pretentious silliness, but the musical numbers are enjoyable enough and well-choreographed, and the issues of reality shows with audience manipulation to tinker with the results still ring true today. Bonus points for the Big Bad being played by famous Polish character actor Vladek Sheybal in what is, as far as I know, his only musical role. He made a career out of playing dubious Soviets during the Cold War, but is probably best known to mainstream audiences for his role in the James Bond flick From Russia with Love. Here, it’s a hoot seeing him play a saucy singing and dancing stand-in for Satan.

Oh, yeah. In case the symbolism in the title was too subtle for you, yes, it’s that apple ultimately, with Mr. Boogalow and Mr. Topps competing for the souls of innocents Pandi and Dandi. I’m sure the symbolism of the protagonist’s and antagonist’s names will probably jump right out at you, too.

  1. Xanadu (1980)

Another musical dealing with religious mythology, although this time around it’s Greek, and involves a muse (Olivia Newton-John) who came down to Earth. (She’s Terpsichore, the muse of dance, in case you’re keeping track.) The plot involves some silliness about re-opening a long closed roller rink as a failed mural artist (Michael Beck) teams up with an old time band leader (Gene Kelly), and they all sing, dance, and skate around combined with some really cheesy 1980 visual effects that were in that awkward slot between purely optical and purely CGI.

Still… it’s an entertaining romp if you just let your brain go and marvel at this attempt to combine the au courant (Olivia) with the past (Kelly), and an even further past (the Pan Pacific Theater, which was another character, really),  and set it all to cheesy as hell pop songs. Hey, it was good enough to be unironically turned into a Broadway musical.

  1. Meet Joe Black (1998)

The main critique I hear of this film is that it’s just too damn long, but come on. It happens to be exactly the same length as Avengers: End Game to the minute. What I enjoy about this film, though, besides the amazing pairing of Brad Pitt and Anthony Hopkins in the leads, is how much of a throw-back to 1930s and 40s Hollywood films it is, particularly Heaven Can Wait (1943) and Death Takes a Holiday (1934) — which was the direct inspiration for this film.

After Joe Black takes over the body of a young man who struck the interest of Hopkins’ character’s daughter before he was struck by multiple cars and apparently killed, it becomes a meditation on the need for love and the inevitability of death and, indeed, how the former can conquer the latter. This is a film about big ideas, and it takes its time with it, which is probably why it put a lot of people off.

  1. Battlefield Earth (2000)

This one is on the top of my “So goddamn bad it’s gold” list. Cheesy as hell? Oh yeah. Cosmic shit show? In spades. Worth watching? Definitely. Here’s the review I wrote when it came out. What wasn’t to hate about it? Crazed cult member spends millions on vanity project with no apparent oversight, chews up and spits out the scenery, and everything in it seems derivative.

On that last point, here’s where I have to give props to L. Ron, though. Sure, there are bits that seem to have been ripped from Logan’s Run and Blade Runner and other stuff. However, he did write his pulp epic before those books and movies ever came out. So this is chicken and egg stuff. Still…

The best part of Battlefield Earth is that if you know it’s a thinly veiled explanation of Scientology, then everything in it makes that pseudo religion look so goddamn ridiculous that this movie is practically an anti-recruiting tool — and Travolta couldn’t even see that. And that was L. Ron Hubbard’s joke, really, I think, because he parodied hard the religion he created and its structure. Who are the villains in this story? The Psychlos. And even though he gave them a name reminiscent of the people Scientologists consider the villains — psychiatrists and psychologists — that was just a dodge,  because everything thing the Psychlos do and say, especially to each other, is right out of the Scientology  rule book.

So, yeah. This movie more than anything reminds me of what an evil genius L. Ron was. He managed to create a cult and then mock them quite openly in his fiction, knowing that they’d never get it because he’d blinded them to it. Brilliant!

  1. National Treasure (2004)

History: 0. Fun: 10. That’s all I really have to say about this one and its sequels. It’s a romp that may teach some people some stuff, and it’s sort of an Americanized Dan Brown, except without quite so much made up bullshit. Okay, a modicum of made up bullshit, but at least it’s not stolen from other writers who made it up first.

  1. John Carter (2012)

The only reason that John Carter tanked is this: Disney bought Lucasfilm. Period. Why did that have an effect? Simple. They didn’t want to start supporting another science fiction franchise in the wake of the behemoth they’d just reined in. So all PR and marketing for this film stopped abruptly before it opened, and more’s the shame, because it’s a pretty accurate take on what is arguably one of the earliest American science fiction franchises, and Mr. Carter deserved a hell of a lot more.

I mean, come on. Is Disney really that blind that they don’t realize how damn many fourteen-year-old boys (and girls) they could have gotten to come see A Princess of Mars? Otherwise, John Carter is a well-done ripping adventure that combines every desert planet from Star Wars with all of that MCU jumping about.

  1. Jupiter Ascending (2015)

This one was misunderstood by people who don’t like comedy or satire in their science fiction. (“You got chocolate in my peanut butter!”) But, come on. It’s funny and off-kilter, and it’s meant to be. The other thing to keep in mind: during the time this film was in production, the Wachowskis were going through some difficult personal times, just after Lana’s public transition and just before Lily’s — and one of them was outed as transgender against her will. So take that title, as well as the plot, as symbolic.

Is the whole thing meant to be camp and with a double meaning? Oh, hell yes.

  1. Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets (2017)

I consider this film to be the unofficial sequel to Luc Besson’s amazing The Fifth Element, because it really feels like it’s set in the same universe, and it starts off with an absolutely amazing opening sequence (with Rutger Hauer and Bowie bonus points) and then includes this amazing bit of stuff from Rihanna that made me question my sexuality. What’s not to like?

Which movies that are generally considered “bad” do you really love and why? Tell us in the comments.