SCREAM, QUEEN! MY NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET (NR, Virgil Films, 99 mins., DVD release date: March 3, 2020) SCREAM,
QUEEN! MY NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET only feels like it has taken five
years to complete to those who were in the know when it was
originally conceived as “There Is No Jesse” for its initial
crowd-funding campaign. For me, however, it feels like it double that
time, a complete beginning-to-end decade.
It
all began when I bought Never Sleep Again: The Elm Street Legacy on
DVD way back in 2010. I was in my mid-twenties and still posting
reviews on Epinions, so the review I did write and submit to the IMDb
is lost to time now. Daniel Farrands, Thommy Hutson and Andrew Kasch
did such a fantastic job in providing a thorough series rundown, yet
the big draw for me was hearing about the first official sequel to
Wes Craven's legendary slasher film. And the best surprise of all was
the participation of the lead actor of Freddy's Revenge himself:
Full
disclosure: I got to meet Mark Patton in 2014 at Texas Frightmare
Weekend as part of a micro-reunion including himself, Kim Myers,
Robert Rusler, Marshall Bell, and Jack Sholder. And then there was
Crypticon Minnesota 2016, which had just Patton & Myers, but also
some real bucket list personalities, among them Jill Schoelen,
Suzanne Snyder, Thom Mathews, and Chris Mulkey. That TFW shindig
inspired me to write about A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2: Freddy's Revenge on my blog in anticipation of the movie's 30th anniversary.
If only October 2016, which was when I went to Crypticon, was a time
when the pure elation I felt could overpower the madness that had
lasted the entire year. But it was mere weeks away from the seismic
cultural change that was going to end a merciless calendar year, in
which there were so many blows to the gut, with the knockout hook.
And
now it's 2020. The spring of the quarantine. Ever since I got to meet
Mark Patton, I imagined getting to see the documentary about his
quest for peace with the role that made him both a cult hero and an
undeserving pariah would coincide with my own picking up of the
pieces from what I pray is the end of a four-year shitshow. And I
fear the worst is not over. That for as excited as I am to watch
Patton relate his real life story, 2016 could last until 2024. I am
not ready for that. As much as I adore my signed copies of Jesse's
Lost Journal and the Scream, Queen! poster, as deep the well of
respect I have had for Patton as speaker and activist ever since
Never Sleep Again, for the inspiration I have received in 2014 that I
am paying back once again now...
I
might be running down the tunnel chasing that light for a just a bit
longer.
I
hope I don't have to keep writing these anxious preambles every go
'round. We now live in a world where Never Sleep Again co-director
Daniel Farrands decided films like The Haunting of Sharon Tate and
The Murder of Nicole Brown Simpson were what the world needs the
most. Point is, though things can get worse than they are, getting to
buy Scream, Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street on Vudu (alongside Fat
City and Moonstruck, no less) is one of the perks of social
distancing.
To
get across why I was jazzed about Scream, Queen! for so long, I have
to transcribe a couple of quotes from Mark Patton that were featured
on the second disc of outtakes from Never Sleep Again:
“Hollywood
is terribly homophobic, especially the homosexuals inside of
Hollywood. They're the first to make fun of, to denigrate, to try to
sabotage other gay people, especially gay actors...I think I would
have been decimated, and I think the things about my gayness would
have come out in the press in a really horrible way.”
The
first half of Scream, Queen! elaborates on these statements with
biographical detail. The Missouri-born Patton had a dream at age 4
that he was to be wed to a king, growing up comfortable with his
sexual orientation even as he knew the dangers of rural prejudice.
When he was 17, he left for New York City with little over $100 to
his name, boarding in a hotel/brothel and lucking into a couple of
national commercials (Big Red, Mountain Dew) before making it to
Broadway. In Robert Altman's stage and screen adaptation of Come Back
to the 5 & Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean, Mark Patton played Joe
Qualley, who experiences that all-too-real brand of
violent antipathy towards being seen as one of the girls. Swaying and
snapping along to the McGuire Sisters' chart-topping cover of the
doo-wop stalwart “Sincerely,” Joe is the male Disciple in a band
of women who worship James Dean. But he soon disappears from McCarthy
to escape from both bullying locals and his unrequited love, only to
resurface 20 years later as the transsexual Joanne, the very name his
tormentors bestowed upon him.
Emboldened
by the rapturous audience reaction and welcoming professional/social
environs of Manhattan, Mark Patton drove to Hollywood seeking equal
opportunities. But renewing his five-year plan for the West Coast,
what Patton goes through ends his acting career abruptly. In his
present-day testimonials, Patton adamantly reminds straight and
homosexual audiences that to be a gay performer in the mid-1980s was
far from nurturing. You had to consent to a blood test in order to
fully pass the audition once AIDS ballooned into a pandemic (Rock
Hudson himself died a month before Freddy's Revenge premiered).
Agents were telling you which clothes were acceptable with which to
pass as a red-blooded American hetero. Religious fanatics and bigots
spun an autoimmune virus into a stigma. Nobody was free to embrace
their gayness in the public eye and gossip rags like the National
Enquirer were invading many people's privacy looking to out them as
such. Friends you had could turn up six months later looking like
animate corpses, and if you heard nothing about them within a year,
you assumed they were dead.
These
were the horrors Mark Patton faced firsthand once he was cast as
Jesse Walsh in the rushed-into-competion sequel to A Nightmare on Elm
Street (trivia: Patton screen tested for the role of
Glen Lantz, Nancy Thompson's boyfriend, which went to a first-timer
named Johnny Depp). Screenwriter David Chaskin's possession-oriented
concept was approved by Bob Shaye when he and Wes Craven had their
falling out, but despite a two-month refinement period, Patton says
Chaskin's script was still being punched-up on the set. And what the
writer seized on was an allegory that was close to the bone for the
gay male community.
When
I reviewed A Nightmare on Elm Street Part 2 in 2014, I really wanted
to do it with fresher eyes. But the film's reputation is inescapable,
as comment threads and clickbait articles and that 2010 documentary
have branded it upon my psyche. Yes, A Nightmare on Elm Street Part
2: Freddy's Revenge appears to have been tricked out with
a LOT of gay themes and codifiers. And though Robert Englund reprised his
role (after some initial resistance), this sequel got swept under the
rug like it was Halloween III, the source of ironic ribbing ever
since it outperformed the original at the box office. We can laugh
about the absurdity of it all today, but when the film came out,
critics and patrons alike were noticing the exact same peculiarities.
And what damaged Mark Patton was the fact that nobody wanted to
accept responsibility for the gay subtext, thrusting (erm...) the
burden onto the actor at the worst sociopolitical time. His handlers
told him upfront that while he could carry a film, he couldn't act
“straight” (like the two male leads of The Last American
Virgin who basically played the same exact roles throughout the '80s
and have since come out of the closet?) Chaskin pussyfooted around
the intention of his gay subtext for years, and, inadvertently or
not, threw Patton under the bus, claiming his acting completely
heightened it. If that weren't enough, Patton's on-and-off partner,
Dallas heartthrob Timothy Patrick Murphy, was a casualty of AIDS and
passed away on December 6, 1988. All
I can say is that, well...”I Am Jesse.” I opened my article
expressing my deepest fears for the future, and though I am now 36, I
frequently feel like I am that sullen boy alone on the bus, trying to
crack a window as we are heading towards the desert inferno. Arlene
Marechal & Heather Langenkamp's I Am Nancy (2011) was a slick indie
documentary that documented a Final Girl as Woman, touring the
convention circuit and asking intriguing questions about how we
decided to make a creepy child molester in a dirty sweater and fedora
an icon. Surely, Langenkamp's Nancy Thompson was the relatable hero
who declared autonomy over her fate and vanquished Freddy at the end
of Craven's film. We saw something similar in Lisa Wilcox's portrayal
of Alice Johnson in the fourth and fifth entries. And say what you
will about Freddy's Dead, but Lisa Zane as Maggie Burroughs,
psychiatrist and Krueger brood herself, continued such an honorable
precedent. Freddy's Revenge had that, too, in Kim Myers as Lisa
Webber, but what made Lisa's survival so much more unique and urgent
was the plight of Jesse Walsh. Jesse ends up killing his best male
buddy, Ron Grady (Robert Rusler), before the cabana massacre and is
madly trying to convince Lisa that he is powerless to stop Freddy's
continued takeover of his body (“I got blood on my hands!”).
Scream,
Queen! My Nightmare on Elm Street threads together tales of Patton's
past life in Hollywood with the due resurgence of Freddy's Revenge
fandom among young LGBTQ darlings who got their first glimpse of a
gay bar the moment Jesse sleepwalked into the wrong place at the
wrong time, beginning Freddy's rampage with the outrageous
dispatching of Coach Schneider (Marshall Bell, whose bared buttocks
was also an anomaly in slasher films). San Francisco drag legend
Peaches Christ, fellow hostess Knate Higgins and University of
Colorado Denver film studies professor Andrew Scahill provide
articulated insight into the legacy of Freddy's Revenge, with Bill
Nugent and Jeffrey Marcus helping to flesh out Patton's mid-1980s
recollections. And the principal Freddy's Revenge cast/crew who I've
mostly met in my own convention adventures, from director Jack
Sholder to Robert Englund himself, are all refreshingly candid.
The beating heart of the story belongs to the
criminally unsung Mark Patton, and for as generous as he is behind
the booth, he is no less beautiful as he is pushing 60. Leaving the
industry to become an interior decorator and live “off the grid,”
Patton himself would be diagnosed as HIV-positive, and the stories of
his troubled treatment (from a tuberculosis-related interference to
the AZT regiment that was near fatal) keep the film further
harrowing. Having controlled the virus, Patton headed down south to
Puerto Vallarta to open up a Prada-esque business, met the Hispanic
love of his life in Hector Morales and never looked back, until the
makers of Never Sleep Again broke through to him.
The
documentary builds to the meeting Patton has been long anticipating as
a chance for closure, the one with David Chaskin himself, looking for
straight (come on, John!) answers as to why Chaskin denied owning the
gay elements he later claimed were intentional and a mea culpa for
the hurtful things that were said on record about Patton. Somehow,
the revival of Patton's purpose in life and desire to use his
platform for the protection and instruction of the newer generation
of gays feels resonant to all of us progressive genre nuts. And
Chaskin himself, whom Jack Sholder believes Mark may be putting too
much of an emotional premium on, does take into account Patton's perspective despite not living up to expectations. It's the ultimate feel-good ending, and it ends with a
cute little nod to the famed Bob Shaye coda.
Since
2014, Patton has tipped his toes back into acting sporadically in
genre fare, starting with Family Possessions (2016), where he
co-starred with Sleepaway Camp cult queen Felissa Rose. Scream,
Queen! does create a sense of empathy within the viewer which
requires you to understand why Patton's integrity and health were
once so painfully at risk. As I said before, the Mark Patton of the
2010s is a delightful, honest and sensitive soul. Credit Scream,
Queen! directors Roman Chimenti & Tyler Jensen for molding the
footage with emotional consistency, even if the sum of the quilt is
less than the feel of the fabric. This duo's doc hits harder than
both I Am Nancy and Electric Boogaloo: The Wild, Untold Story of Cannon Films combined, and if you think
that's me being tickled a little too pink, understand too that we who
have seen Freddy's Revenge know how Mark Patton screams. Now it's our
turn.
I
am writing a birthday present to myself today, as opposed my Amityville Murders article which I wrote out of deference for Diane Franklin. That's
not to say I didn't enjoy something special in her honor, what with
the recent vogue for social distancing having reactivated my feelings
about the bodacious brunette I've been championing as both an
influence and friend for six years. I subscribed to Amazon Prime so
that I could enjoy a rare 1990s appearance by Franklin, credited
under her married name, in an episode of USA's short-lived spin-off
of 1987's acclaimed The Big Easy.
"The
End of the World" (s02e011) starred Diane Franklin De Laurentis as
Zoey Simone, a psychic who can see not in the future but the present,
whom lead detective Remy (Tony Crane) brings in to locate his
kidnapped partner, played by Leslie Bibb. Turns out a young male
bomber has a grudge to settle against N'awlins on behalf of his
corrupted sister, and after Bibb's Janine corners the suspect in a
uniform company, the hunter becomes a hostage.
There
was a lot of silly dialogue involving pigs and ribs, and I can't help but
think "incel" about the main antagonist. Yet I smiled upon seeing
Diane Franklin in something that I missed back when I was a mere
preteen. This would've been first aired around the time I discovered
Monique Junet, and as someone who is deathlessly enamored with Diane
even in her late 50s, she makes me feel so happy.
Ditto
Kimberley Kates, for that matter, who I caught up with in a couple of
seductress roles after she made her splash opposite Diane in Bill &Ted's Excellent Adventure. I think of her just as fondly as one of
the most beautiful women I've ever had to great fortune to speak to.
There was one movie in which Kimberley plays a tart trophy wife who lusts
after Jared Leto's pool boy, Highway, and another in which she is a
bordello belle who sweetly relieves Stephen Dorff of his virginity as
he tracks down his main obsession, an abducted Ami Dolenz, the film
called Rescue Me. “Happy birthday, Fraser.”
Coincidentally,
Rescue Me was a Cannon Film, released a decade after Diane Franklin
made her debut in the company's Last American Virgin and after the
split between Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus. It starred none other
than Michael "American Ninja" Dudikoff in a central role opposite
Dorff, so it could've conceivably been a relic from the 1980s dusted
off for the early 1990s. Diane Franklin and Kimberley Kates both have
given me so much love that I will never see them as the ingenues of
their initial acting days, and I cannot give back enough gratitude to
either for the pleasure. I adore them as adults, and turning 36 only
replenishes the honey pot. I know they did something wonderful for me
recently, but in trying to rebuild the fractured confidence that's
been lying around, I need to rediscover some humility.
But
I also need to stay true to my own intelligence as I try to respect
those of these two women. So I have to tell myself again that when it
comes to the genre of movies Diane and Kimberely will be remembered
for, I have a kind of blind spot. You see, movies like Rescue Me or
The Last American Virgin exist in a sort of vacuum for someone born
in 1984. Before American Pie, I grew up thinking of teen
comedies as programming filler for the very same USA Networks which
aired that episode of The Big Easy with thirty-something wife/mother
Diane Franklin De Laurentis.
I
mentioned it in regards to Kimberley's Mosquito-Man, the fact that there was once an
after-hours cable block called USA Up All Night that was like Cinemax
with censors. And if you watched it religiously, it was like an
orphanage for all the mercenary youth-oriented films that were so
insanely prolific throughout the 1980s. There were Marilyn Chambers
and Linnea Quigley vehicles also in circulation, to be true, but I
will always associate USA with Rhonda Shear and Hardbodies and others
of that ilk, many of which were objectively even worse. It also
reminded me that though the teen comedy assembly line sped up in
1985 to an absurd degree, it was still functional up until the end of
the decade, with brand names like Crown International and Vestron
Pictures.
Which
brings me to HUNK (PG, Crown International Pictures, 102 mins., theatrical release: Mar. 6, 1987)and DANGEROUS CURVES (PG, Lightning Pictures/Vestron Video, 93 mins., video release: Feb. 1, 1989), two late 1980s flicks which
bore those very distributors on their wrappers. I had only the
vaguest possible memory of the latter thanks to my uncle's VHS
collection (it was on the same tape with John Hughes' The Breakfast Club, as aired on The Movie Channel, and I never did rewind that cassette to the beginning to watch Dangerous Curves), and the former was mentioned on a Patreon bonus episode
of the now-defunct "'80s All Over" podcast by Eric D. Snider, who had
written a piece on it prior. Dangerous Curves is one of those films I
struggled to remember just minutes after finishing it, and Hunk
already has Snide Remarks written all over it.
As
someone who harbors little to no nostalgia for the midnight snacks of
his childhood, and whom doesn't even love The Last American Virgin as
much as Diane Franklin herself let alone the modern online critic
circle, I am not the authoritative voice one wants for trashy ol'
teen movies. I mourned the passing of Louisa “Carmela” Moritz,
but I'll be damned if I say you should watch Hot Chili just so you
could remember her by that (the same applies for Joe Rubbo once he
passes). Walter Chaw admitted to wearing out a VHS copy of My
Chauffeur out of youthful infatuation, but Deborah Foreman couldn't save that
flick for me, at all. There are even people who found Diane Franklin
suitable masturbation material based off The Last American Virgin,
which only makes me question its fan base and even Diane herself (who
has repeatedly used the phrase “sex education” in her
remembrances) harsher.
Not
every teen movie needs to be Gregory's Girl, I understand, but I do
have some prevailing standards. And if I hadn't made it clear from
the start, I love the players even as I loathe the game. Hunk, for
instance, actually has a very good lead performance from John Allen
Nelson as the titular panty-melter, and unlike Eric D. Snider, I will
give Nelson credit also for helping to burn Killer Klowns from Outer
Space into my memory cells (he was Officer Dave, the third in the
triangle between Grant Cramer's Mike and Suzanne Snyder's Debbie).
Between both Hunk and Dangerous Curves, I also have to mention
several luminaries, be they Leslie Nielsen, Robert Stack, Avery
Schreiber, and James Coco.
But
I have to speak frankly about Dangerous Curves, which is as formulaic
a teen comedy as a committee has ever conceived. It's a vessel for
PG-rated cheesecake, undistinguished turns from overqualified actors
(even Martha Quinn is too good for this) and as many
then-contemporary teen film clichés one could cram into a 90-minute
run time. A mismatched pair of collegiates, one studious, the other
hedonistic, both bumbling clods? Check. Road trip to meet up with a
girl? Check. Cherry red Porsche and Ferrari automobiles begging to be
hijacked? The former car applies to the latter box, so this check was
already cashed. Parade of swimsuit-clad babes? The movie is called
Dangerous Curves, after all!
There
are other easy boxes to tick off, but you can connect the dots
already and deduce the film's plot all too easily. The studious boy,
Chuck (Tate Donovan), is entrusted with driving a Porsche down to
Lake Tahoe to ensure a prosperous career at Faciano Industries. CEO
Louis Faciano (Robert Stack), friend of Chuck's dad from their 'Nam
days, threatens Chuck with bodily harm if his daughter doesn't get
her birthday convertible on time. Chuck's horndog buddy Wally (Grant
Heslov), aka Mookie, aka Homey Boy, tags along as a necessary evil.
One parking ticket at a Circle K later, Chuck loses the Porsche only
to find it is the grand prize in a beauty pageant. Chuck and Wally
scheme to retrieve it while mingling with the sexy talent, the
awkward Chuck falling particularly for a supposed tomboy named
Michelle (Danielle von Zerneck). Allies include a beach bum named Bam
Bam (Robert Klein) and a depressive cabbie named Hector (Robert
Romanus); foes include the sailing extortionist who seized the
Porsche, Krevske (Leslie Nielsen) and the dotty pageant manager
herself, Miss Reed (Elizabeth Ashley).
With
a title like Dangerous Curves, I expected something sexier and
livelier than the non-entity I had to watch. I was hoping to come across a Dirty Mary, Crazy
Larry for the crowd who only want their License to Drive. No go.
Everything that happens here is slavishly beholden to the instruction
manual, yet the cake that has somehow baked itself deflates upon
contact with the fork.
This
is One Crazy Summer without Savage Steve Holland (or anybody who
could cut a single one of its cast), Spring Break without Sean S.
Cunningham (faint praise, indeed) and Risky Business after it has been dismantled beyond
recognition by auto pirates. It makes no demands of Tate Donovan,
fresh off SpaceCamp and rehearsing his later nerd role in Love Potion
#9, or Danielle von Zerneck, fresh off La Bamba and soon to end her
sadly nondescript acting career on a high note with 1995's Living in
Oblivion. It casts Grant Heslov, soon to be George Clooney's partner
in production, as the promising Curtis Armstrong/Fisher Stevens
sidekick and strands him on the surf without a board. And as for the
storied Mike Damone, the legendary host of Unsolved Mysteries, the
king of Second City cut-ups, and the once and future Lt. Frank
Drebin? Just keep adding up those checks, because the laughs are
strictly on the one hand.
The
only interesting thing I can say about Dangerous Curves, directed
with sunshiny vacuousness by full-time cinematographer David Lewis
and written by a trio of TV hacks, is that Valerie Breiman (She's
Having a Baby, Casual Sex?), who plays Michelle's best friend Blake,
got the inspiration to write and direct her own low-grade resort
comedy immediately after this. That film was Going Overboard, which
you may know marked the screen debut of some mensch by the name of
Adam Sandface. I forget his real last name, I'm sorry. Didn't he make
a movie recently about selling jewels? That was one of the best of
2019, I can attest to that. Shame that I can't place him beyond the
first syllable.
Thank
heavens for Hunk, a real American hero and not just in the Bud Light
sense. Dangerous Curves reinforced my prejudices against the teen sex
comedy as being as tasteful as used bubblegum and as beneficial as
shooting guns in the air to kill off the Coronavirus. I may not have
toilet paper at this time (those Charmin ads breaking up the viewing
process are taunting me), but Hunk was as much a relief. Here is a
bad movie with personality, as well as dialogue, satire,
sentimentality, and many other things Dangerous Curves didn't have.
Granted, the star power isn't as electric and the camera is shier in
approaching too many strategically-covered nubile bodies (both these
movies are tame as hell compared to the ones I've mentioned with
Princesses Diane and Kimberley). Hunk is in the gutter but laughing
at the weirdly-shaped clouds, which is a true sign of unforced
amiability.
Hidden
somewhere in the sculpted physique of John Allen Nelson is the mind
of that sexy body's previous owner, Bradley Brinkman (Steve Levitt).
The movie begins with Hunk (that's his actual name, Hunk Golden)
cruising to a short-notice psychiatrist appointment and confessing to
one Dr. Susan “Sunny” Graves (Rebeccah Bush) that he no longer
wants to be The Stud, and that “time is running out” for poor
Bradley and himself. The fantastical story of Bradley/Hunk is Faust
updated for the Big Eighties, as a wimpy computer programmer makes
the mistake of offering his soul for success and stature. First,
Bradley is a victim of that old Weird Science, as his PC prints out a
manifesto called "The Yuppie Program" that saves his job with Mr.
Constantopolis (Avery Schreiber). He then blows his bonus on a
rundown beach house in the resort community of Sea Spray, populated
by the Beautiful People he wishes to become one of, as he brainstorms
a follow-up to his supernatural runaway success.
Too
hopeless for Charles Atlas to reform, Bradley finally meets at his
dud of an open house party the literal dream woman who's been making
the scene, O'Brien (Deborah Shelton). She is the emissary of Dr. D
(James Coco), and has come to complete the transformation by offering
Bradley a trial period, up until midnight after Labor Day, of an
irresistible alter ego. The nebbish signs his contract via hypodermic
pen and wakes up the next morning as Hunk Golden, complete with new
accessories and a fortune to burn. After getting his own back against
the volleyball-playing snobs who humiliated him while he was Bradley,
Hunk is ready for the spoils of social victory, from a 24-hour
metabolism to trend-setting fashion choices and, of course, a sex
drive ample enough to plow through the entire female populace of Sea
Spray in a matter of weeks.
After
conquering a sexy woman in a mermaid costume (Andrea Patrick), Hunk
gets a rude awakening courtesy of Dr. D himself. If he doesn't want
to revert back to Bradley's body, Hunk will have to agree to be the
Devil's latest agent of chaos upon death and murder the entire
community of Sea Spray on the way to starting the third world war.
From this point on, the film plays out in linear time as Hunk and
Sunny become out-of-office romantic interests. Hunk also becomes a
media sensation after saving her life, although because he's still
Bradley, he starts to regret and rebel against the spotlight further.
It all culminates with a key to the city ceremony approaching
that dreaded deadline, although it is certain that Hunk is a decent
enough man to save his soul. But what will become of Sunny?
What
gives Lawrence Bassoff's movie an edge over Dangerous Curves is the
casting of both Bradley and Hunk. Steve Levitt has a junior Gene
Wilder's visage and plays the dorky role refreshingly straight
against the hyper-campy competition. The real surprise, however, is
John Allen Nelson, who suggests Bruce Davison as a tanned and toned
surfer dude. Here is a performer who has a little more to offer than
the arch pretty boys and hangdog wisenheimers of your average teen
flick, and Nelson projects a natural charisma and innate humor which
never lets you forget that Bradley still exists. A dream sequence in
which Bradley escapes from hell to reunite with his mortal body keeps
the fantasy credible. Bassoff (Weekend Pass) is also more ambitious
with his screenplay in terms of humor; references to Letterman,
Geraldo Rivera and Chuck Norris are tossed off with aplomb if not
consistent levels of laughter, and Nelson isn't too hunky that he
can't deliver a prize line of dialogue or three:
"Sea
Spray by night means the Sand Castle [bar]. The men are low on body
fat. The women are high on themselves...and whatever else is going
around."
"I
finally meet a beautiful woman and she wants me to bomb Pearl Harbor.
Talk about romantic."
"You
know you've made it when your garbage is front-page news."
Game
as he is, Nelson isn't allowed to upstage James Coco, who is clearly
having a ball with his various mephistophelian guises in a posthumous
performance (he died shortly before the film's release in March of
1987). Deborah Shelton is passable in her first role since Body Double,
mainly because of the comic opportunities afforded her. Supporting
performances by the actors playing the bullies and freaks of Sea
Spray (i.e. Cynthia Szigeti as local busybody Chachka) are
enthusiastic if not terribly memorable. The only role which I felt
didn't work completely is the broad portrayal by Robert Morse of a
Robin Leach caricature, a gratuitous flash of homophobia so brazen
that he's actually named Gaylord.
Much
like My Chauffeur, which was another Crown-brand exploitation comedy
with a lead performer who deserved better (Deborah "Valley Girl" Foreman, herself), Hunk is at once engagingly high-spirited and
regrettably lowbrow. Whereas David Beaird undercut the old-fashioned
screwball airs of My Chauffeur with pointlessly vulgar elements,
Lawrence Bassoff compromises the integrity of his own fairy tale with
misjudged broad strokes. When Hunk gets down with a former candy
stripe nurse named Laurel Springs (Melanie Vincz), the result isn't
as titillating or as funny as it could be, a common predicament of
vintage teen sex comedies. The PG rating is admirable at first
because it suggests tactfulness, but the movie's limp swipes at
yuppie idiosyncrasies are kid gloves poking your ribs. And your own
personal tolerance for corn will ultimately determine whether you
accept the time-honored morals this film reheats; unlike The Sure Thing, the journey isn't so unexpectedly charming to make up for the
destination.
But
there I go again, comparing wheat to chaff. Movies like Dangerous
Curves and Hunk are not built for fawning retrospectives by
discriminating film fans; they were meant for articles as small as
the screens they eventually got the most saturation from. Letterboxd
has proven that everyone's a critic nowadays, and again it reminds me
just how frustrating it can be to devote your attention, serious or
not, to what is essentially marshmallow spread. If I am lucky, a
movie like Hunk at least has an endearing performance from an
inexperienced actor and some genuine mirth; if not, I get movies like
Dangerous Curves, which aren't worth an iota of your nostalgia even
with so much proven talent. But just like in real life, you have to
count your blessings, and at least you didn't have to read about my
opinions of that truly horrible Adam Sandler movie from 1989.
Dear
God, if anyone were responsible for killing off '80s nostalgia for
me, it would be Shecky Moskowitz. At least Diane Franklin and
Kimberley Kates will outlast all my worst memories of life and
cinema.
This is John Bishop, and today I post something again that is straight from the heart at a time when we could all use a support system to help us through a global crisis. With the Coronavirus spreading and "social distancing" being an alarming norm. With many hygienic supplies dwindling and people struggling to make ends meet by going out into the world even with the risk of disease. With the virus being appropriated as a racist epithet by a known grifter with fascist tendencies and a country struggling to catch up with containing a disease that may have been properly foreseen in a better administration. With too much uncertainty and anxiety and hearsay, I make the choice to say "I stay home for..."
Well, the answer I would presume is that we stay home for society. Doctor ourselves so that we can go out into the world healthy if needed and keep extra safe whilst still having our heads screwed on. Soap up, sanitize up, sterilize, shower, and use our home-bound time wisely. Better ourselves in body and mind and immunity. But keep ourselves sensible and not lose touch with the people who give us inspiration in the physical world. Friends, family, role models, employees, choice strangers...there is no reason Coronavirus should be such a paranoid time to live through.
But I do understand that "I stay home for..." implies a level of love. And so I once again...and every time I mention this particular person, I have to strap myself in so that my trip to heaven doesn't become a disaster. I will be honoring two people this particular post whom have captured my heart to such a degree that I want to wish them all the safety and healthiness, but also as much devotion as I can give. For Diane Franklin AND Kimberley Kates, I salute both of you.
There was one thing I neglected to mention in the Amityville Murders review that could provide some psychological insight into the way 2016 brought my inner depression out to such a crippling, inescapable degree. I choose not to dwell too much on it because it was a nightmare I had that seemed to have become a horrific reality. But for the sake of honesty: after David Bowie died, a few days from then, I dreamed of Diane Franklin. Both she and I were teenagers living in a New York tenement, which is strange geographically considering Franklin herself was born in Plainview, NY. But this is no West Side Story or Endless Love, instead a purely innocent development of young friendship between a couple of latchkey kids who just so happened to be Diane and I. Sadly, the dream ends with dream teen Diane's family separating us by holing her up in the basement behind a brick wall. Setting her free and performing CPR doesn't stop Diane from asphyxiating to death in my arms.
I also remember coming out of the dream with my head buried in my pillow, struggling for breath in time with the suffocation of my dear friend. I nearly died in my sleep. I was so scared, I needed to tell someone the experience I had and pray for an avalanche of empathy. I don't even know if Diane Franklin in real life herself understands the impact that nightmare had on me going forward from there. I came to want to befriend Diane based on a happier dream I had in late 2012, but four years later, a blow was dealt that knocked me to my knees. And in 2020, I am still pretty much in a dark place looking for the miracle in which I regain a light that I need more than ever.
Of all the people I met from the bond formed with Diane, the best of them turned out to be her co-star from Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure: Kimberley Kates. She stood by me even after my heart was so beaten and the future seemed so in doubt as to what would become of marvelous relationships and positive steps from the time between 2013-2015. I looked back at my old review of the movie she produced and starred in called Mosquito-Man, which I discovered at the Monsterpalooza where she and Diane were dressed in full princess regalia. I feel my heart warmed when I gave it a second glance, although there is one name in the review which I have to admit...that very person turned out to embody the polar opposite of my first time meeting Diane Franklin in 2013. It was embarrassing and degrading, and it ties into the whole Stockton mind-rape I discussed in the Amityville Murders preface.
And yet...I somehow managed to have a beautiful chat recently with Kimberley Kates that helped soothe a lot of residual pain and doubt which has made me shrink from social media platforms after the deep emotional wreckage I experienced. I was apoplectic when it came to the thought that time wasn't healing any wounds, that I was getting more lip service than consolation. I got such a soulful uplift from what Kimberley said to me that it was like true sunshine bursting through dark clouds. Both Diane and Kimberley have suggested that I write something like a novel or a proper story, but I was starved for inspiration outside of my one passion for writing specifically about movies.
If I have any story to tell, it'd likely be wrapped around my collection of autographs from these two women. But the Coronavirus is another in a long list of very real impediments that is reminding me of all the divides personal and political since 2016. In these times, I want to have people stay in my heart even as I am asked to stay home. So I want to offer Kimberley Kates and Diane Franklin both my warmest well wishes and gushing gratitude for the good they have done in my honor. I will present to you a couple of surviving pictures from my Texas Frightmare 2013 experience (I need to hope I can extract from old computer's internal hard drive a lot of other photos) and a few beautiful pictures of Kimberley and Diane together, including from the Pasadena and Lafayette events where I got to meet them both...I have a video link I will share of the Louisiana Comic Con.
With loving memories of Diane Franklin and Kimberley Kates, I sign off for now but will return hopefully with a Babysitter Wanted review and/or a binge watch of Olivia DeLaurentis & Sydney Heller's Apocalypse Goals.
Diane Franklin and I at Texas Frightmare Weekend 2013
Diane Franklin and Kimberely Kates (first photo is Monstepalooza in Pasadena, second the Louisiana Comic Con in Lafayette with Ernie Hudson and Laura Cayouette, both 2016, third is Christmas 2019)
It's
getting tougher to write these days, if I can continue to use my
platform for honesty's sake. Something about that last review just
feels too candid for me to even think about, and I can't pretend that
what I said isn't still plaguing my psyche in the worst way. I didn't
feel compelled to go back to my Amityville Murders review. This was
the kind of piece so close to my heart, it came together more
effortlessly than I could have hoped. I wrote in one sitting, because
it was so direct to the core of what has become of me. And even
though Diane Franklin herself as well as English critic Kevin
Matthews have typed their support, I'm too confused to persevere. Did
I withdraw in disgust or am I merely surrendering to apathy? When
someone like Diane believes I have a novel in me, does that kind of
faith have a long term effect? What am I even trying to accomplish
now that I have let distance rule my heart? There
aren't that many celebratory options for me as I approach 36, so I
elected to make one that will take me out of my comfort zone and
maybe prove as rewarding as the piece I did onOlivia DeLaurentis' short films, which like that last article about her mother came out
of confronting death. In the case of Olivia's tribute, my father was
the departed as opposed to the more recent death of my grandmother.
But it's more than just the passing of family now that is fogging up my
creative inspiration. It's the losses of certainty, of connections
and of conviction. I'm flying blind as I try to do something I
haven't done since I published all my work on the former Epinions
site: I am going to write an album review.
I
am talking about the debut LP of Diane Franklin's youngest child,
Nick DeLaurentis, the young Jesse Holiday from Devon Bight & the
Sensitive Boys and composer of that film's mock teen pop. In fact, I
am going to repost the link to Olivia's short film on Vimeo and ask
that you watch that please before I make the transition.
My
knowledge of Devon Bright is the sole piece of context I have in
regards to Nick DeLaurentis, unless I must also credit him with the
orchestral cover songs sprinkled throughout Royal Effups. A
classically-trained teenage musician, Nick is currently pursuing his
passion in Chicago, based on the interview conducted by Christian
Thorsberg over at Navy Peer. His first two Spotify singles,
“Knowhere” and “Beauty Mark,” showed his skill at acoustic
guitar, and both songs carry over to Good Boy, his admittedly introspective solo debut.
Boundless if not restless, Nick is already contemplating his
follow-up as a truer extension of his taste, less informed by the
indie folk scene like Good Boy is. My biggest
takeaway listening to the album is that, as the title implies, Good Boy is a young man's fresh start, one which
asks encouragement as he accrues further experience and curiosity.
For
now, Nick is acting on the instincts of the moment, so I look to the
opening track “Bone Dance,” also the source of his inaugural
music video, for a proper introduction. Closer to Emma Bull than
Miley Cyrus, the lyrics remind me of Gotye's “Eyes Wide Open,”
which could be construed as a troubled relationship lament either
interpersonal or ecological in scope. For his song, Gotye fashioned a
bass part by sampling percussive rhythms off a musical fence in
Winton, Australia, whereas Nick DeLaurentis is on the beach,
specifically Montrose, the faint sound of bowed strings conjuring a colony of seagulls in the sky. Finger snaps provide a skeletal rhythm, with acoustic tolls and scrapes pulling the song further away from the DOR
urgency Gotye favored, yet still attaining an irresistible groove. The overtracked chorus, delivered Monk style,
comes across as jarring given the softness in Nick's verse vocals:
“Everyone I know plays god games, but they don't even pray.” As
rats threaten to breed in charm bags and the instruments drop out for
an Imogen Heap-esque coda (“30 years away/No prayers left to
pray/Singing Amen”), I hope I'm hearing this particular
observation correctly for the sake of levity: “The things you left
behind, you think I won't discover/I give you Olive Garden, but you
just want the butter.”
The
“Bone Dance” video shows Nick being tortured by mirrors, but on
his first single release, “Knowhere,” he seemed preternaturally
doubtful against a coffeehouse bossa nova backdrop. “I want you to
be happy/I want you to be kind,” he sings on “Bone Dance,” a
sliver of light through overcast clouds. But the tentative steps
towards the outside world on “Knowhere” offer no relief when “we
are still trapped in the fire,” with worldly knowledge proving
insubstantial in the end. A corny opening couplet which rhymes
“plane” with “train,” not to mention one of the clumsiest
chorus lead-ins I can recall (“And you could be the president of
Cuba/I'll bet you think you are important, too, yah”), prove more
twee than such an existential joke can bear. At least the version of
“Knowhere” on Good Boy ends less bleakly than
before, mitigating the insular anxiety and promising some joy in
life's journey. Amidst
the overtaxed empathy and sensory overload of “Chatter,” the
album's peppiest track (with vocodized “blah blah blahs” for good
measure), Nick gasps “I need peace!” but is generous enough to
wish the same for his town and the planet in general. The hearth of
family, luckily, helps Nick towards realizing it for a few lovely
songs. The fondness of “Sweatshirt” could be dedicated to Diane
DeLa...erm. Franklin, herself: “Some people play make believe/But I
know it's all real after you leave/Your ghost by my side/Kissing me
on the cheek.” On “Beauty Mark,” which opens once again with
imagery of flames a la “Knowhere,” Nick sings “You twist my
arm/I love you, anyways” in that rare “Just the Way You Are”
ballad that references both the Phoenix and chocolate-covered
marzipans in the same space. And Olivia DeLaurentis provides
background vocals on the least foreboding love song in show, “Storage
Space.” “The
Abstinence Dungeon” undercuts comically nervous portrayals of
platonic affection with a blunt if faintly-sung “I would like to
know how it feels to not be f***ing indecisive all the time,” and
is way less insufferable for a Nice Guy anthem than “Treat You
Better,” even without a lyric sheet (which I admittedly would
appreciate: Nick sings like a young Steve Miller and gets overpowered
easily in the mix). Nick's predilection for atmosphere resurfaces for
the remaining songs, the title cut (which comes with an instrumental
prelude and continues the beach ambiance from “Bone Dance” with
Maui-style buoyancy) and the closing “Prelude to Dreams.” That
last one seems sculpted from the indie folk cookie cutter, to be
true, yet if Nick DeLaurentis chooses to embrace a fuller sound next
time, this particular Good Boy will continue to listen patiently.
Enchantéd: A Retrospective Tribute to Diane Franklin
Part X: The Amityville Murders (2018)
(R, Skyline Entertainment)
Consider the following article my
present to Diane Franklin on her 58th birthday. I have to
admit that it took me longer than I hoped for to restart this tribute
to the woman, if only because I've spent six years in a kind of
existential limbo. Many unfortunate situations have befallen me ever
since the nightmare year of 2016, and when I turned 30 a couple years
prior, I had my first painful gut feeling about my future as a
writer. For someone who has been trying to mature and give life to
his dream craft, I observed too much regression and ignorance and
insularity, and from all sides. People who I respected for their
smarts or their hearts or even for just simple enthusiasm turned out
to be closet nasties, with social media exposing their very
hypocrisies and corruption.
Quality of life decreased sharply and
didn't seem to improve as time went on. I had gotten to the point
where the depression was too strong, and I left social media in 2016 for
the purpose of clearing my head and then regarded what should have
been a healthy return as a big mistake. I could not shake the
continued realization of just how disgusted, disillusioned and
discouraged I was in the company of two-faced acquaintances who were
deadly smug in their noxious attitudes and behavior. I took a lot of
abuse out on myself because I let myself take certain people
seriously. Even when I tried to make it out in public, using an event
in Stockton as an example, there was one certified cult icon who I
met for the first time, but who confused me with someone else,
someone he himself hated. I was in a bit of shell shock, and said
simply, "I'm not that person." But the world around me had
changed so much, that even if I was not that person, it was better to
perceive and assume.
The event ended awfully
for me, with one more supposed "friend" betraying me, although I
had thicker skin at the time because I could see that he was a troll
in male nurse's scrubs. He was a gay man living in Ceres, CA, with a
partner who was critically ill, but also someone with misdirected
emotions, and thus was susceptible to the worst kind of cult
misanthropy. He was the kind of person who struck me as, to quote
Maynard James Keenan, a "smiley glad hand with hidden agendas,"
and I desperately wanted to cut those people out of my life. I wonder
sometimes if he has wizened up, but I don't dwell on it too much. It
was just another disappointment in a long string of them, and I had
to take another powder.
I was inconsolable for the most part,
trying my damnedest to soldier on despite knowing full well that this
sense of alienation was growing stronger. The longer I tried to keep
a profile, the more I was seeing the very same smug piety in the
people I was trying to present myself to. I came into film criticism
and hoped it would resemble the "adulting" process: full of
drudgery, to be true, but also ripe with discovery and people who
would find similar joy in variety and expansion. It didn't happen
that way: the internet is but a series of security blanket niche
communities, unquestioning and repetitive and hardly as adventurous
as I expected. I was seeing mediocrity or worse placed on pedestals,
taken as ritual, damn near made the Golden Rule. And respectfully
disagreeing, in the most tactful of comments, wasn't endearing me. I
wanted to be as much a loudmouth as the next person, but I hated
myself more for it, and my confidence was already depleting to
near-nothing.
2016 set me on the path to a very clear epiphany, and it was this: I didn't want to be a part of any cults anymore. Even ones I was most active in, these
communities were basically what Jello Biafra described in The Dead Kennedys' "Chickenshit Conformist," as "closed-minded, self-centered
social clubs." Everything felt homogenized and trivialized and
masturbatory to a breaking point, and the eternal misfit within me
wanted to leave again. So I closed down my Twitter page, and further
pruned Facebook to what was to be only my ten best high school
friends. What happened to me is reminiscent of all that I found
disreputable in the online environment, but there was no peace I
could find. Everybody just wanted their egos stroked, and there was no such thing as genuine discourse.
There was one person who was caught in
the emotional crossfire, and unforgivably so, given just how
essential she meant to me for so long. Her name was Diane Franklin.
This photo was taken at the 2019 Los
Angeles Hollywood Show, an event which I couldn't attend without the
participation of my closest friend, John Grigg. Alas, he had moved to
the Philippines soon after, and we now compare hardships through
Messenger, although at least he had good reason to leave. In 2018, I
lost my uncle to a heart attack brought on by prescription medicine.
Almost a year later, I watched my grandmother succumb to dementia,
having a fatal stroke on the day she was supposed to see a doctor.
Even my pet chihuahua, a brown beauty named Rosie, couldn't survive
because of a bum ticker. Unable to leave Mesa myself, I rented out
the two empty rooms my departed family members occupied to a couple
of Millennial manchildren, which means I get to hear the n-word
frequently over nightly Xbox benders (to say nothing of the boring ass white boy cover of Sia's "Chandelier" played on a loop). And though I am out
of touch with the online world now, I can't avoid hearing more tragic
news about our best and brightest passing away. 2016 was a tough one
to handle, but I have to dole out R.I.P.s no less frequently, be it
for Scott Walker, Rutger Hauer, Roky Erickson, Daniel Johnston, Rip
Torn, Rip Taylor, Ric Ocasek, Danny Aiello, Marie Fredriksson (from
Roxette), and most recently, the titanic Neil Peart of Rush.
Even when I met Diane Franklin at that
L.A. show, it was unavoidable that we would mention the departures of
Louisa Moritz, who was the nympho Charo from The Last
American Virgin, and James Ingram, the voice behind the
Quincy Jones track “Just Once” which was used so much on that
movie's soundtrack. I managed to rediscover an old SCTV episode, largely a network-based parody of The
Godfather, where Ingram mimed that tune on Count Floyd's
“3-D House of Beef,” ending with the singer getting his own
in-your-face lampoon. The three members of Rush were no doubt fans of
that great sketch comedy troupe, and I remember Geddy Lee made a
reference to Mayor Tommy Shanks, played by the
gone-but-never-forgotten John Candy, in a comical “dinner” short
of their own. Canada, you're alright!
When Neil Peart wrote the lyrics to
“Limelight,” a song from the perspective of a renowned musician
“living in a fisheye lens,” he stressed the importance of
barriers as a means of sanity. I put them up, Diane Franklin has put
them up, it does work as long as you have a healthy perspective. Yet
something stirred within me that I wonder what Peart would make of:
this stranger suddenly made an honest-to-goodness, if not
long-awaited, friend. Diane Franklin and I became great supporters of
each other, and every piece I wrote about her movies are a testament
to the genuine feelings I have towards Diane as a human being. And
what I love about writing these is that I don't see Diane Franklin
solely as an icon of the 1980s, though she is certainly
packaged as that every time she makes a convention appearance or
signs on to “'80s in the Sand.” I see her as a very talented and
warm lady, compassionate and perky and droll and practical and
playful and someone who is always a treat to talk to and spend time
with. Given the parameters of our communication, I adore Diane
Franklin with every fiber of my human being.
But I am out of the loop now, and it is a very melancholy development. For someone who was so excited about Diane's future, as
well as that of her daughter Olivia DeLaurentis, cutting out social
media not only limits my ability to network as a writer, but also
leaves me cold to the endeavors of these two incredible women. Diane
has so many upcoming roles to watch out for, and Olivia is still
doing comedy with Sydney Heller and even getting her own feature film
shot with producer Kimberley Kates, Diane's fellow princess from Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure. It also
didn't help that switching computers last year resulted in a sudden
crash upon file transference, which means a lot of convention photos,
and ones of me and Olivia in the same room, now lie rotting on an
internal hard drive. Kimberley, too...and Kimmy Robertson, Adrienne
Barbeau, Marilyn Burns, Virginia Madsen, and so many others.
Sometimes I am accused of being too hard on myself, but FML just the
same.
All this needed to be said before I
summon up my courage and allow myself the chance to watch THE
AMITYVILLE MURDERS, which is Diane Franklin's
first widely-distributed film role since not only Bill &
Ted, but also How I Got Into College,
and her performance in Savage Steve Holland's third film seems to
have been her recurring character in the short films Diane produced
for Olivia. In a few weeks to day I am starting this review, Diane
Franklin will be turning 58. Soon, I will be 36. And yet I cannot
stop following my heart when the route leads to Diane, because I
cherish her beyond comprehension. This should create conflicts of
interest, but I hope that I was sufficiently clear-eyed in my past
pieces on her, and if you follow me on Letterboxd, you will know that
I have been open about my opinions about her filmography.
As it stands, I gave four stars to what
I consider my favorite Diane Franklin movie, and you will be
surprised to learn that it is the made-for-TV Summer Girl. This is the performance for me that exemplifies all
that is not only sexy but superb about Franklin's screen presence.
There is so much range that she demonstrates, and I always get a kick
out of seeing someone so gorgeous playing such a demented, diabolical
villain. I hope for a remastered DVD release, so it will do some
justice to cinematographer Fred Koenekamp, who in his prime did
Francis Coppola's Patton and Russ Meyer's Beyond the Valley of the Dolls in the same year.
Better Off Dead and TerrorVision, the latter of which has what I think
to be another great Diane Franklin performance, both were rated one
notch below, so they were graded 3.5/5. Maybe it's the fact that I
haven't watched Better Off Dead since the
inauguration of our real life Roy Stalin, but for as big a fan I am
of Holland's debut, and the film which made me fall in love with
Diane Franklin as a boy, I just want people to realize that Rob
Reiner's The Sure Thing, which launched John
Cusack as a leading man, might possess an edge in terms of the
onslaught of teen comedies from 1985. That phenomenally charming
romantic comedy may not have the catchphrases and stoopid gags that
are admittedly priceless in Better Off Dead, but
it too had a heart and even better chemistry among Cusack &
Zuniga.
Second Time Lucky (and Deadly Lessons, another two-star decision
despite the fine Ally Sheedy and the late Bill Paxton in supporting
roles) is where I start to feel less certain about Franklin's past
work. It's too cute and unambitious for its own good, and maybe it
does play like another transparent chance to admire Diane Franklin in
the buff, but her Jean Harlow impression is too irresistible for me
to write that one off completely. And I do cop some uncomplicated
arousal from Franklin in that film, whereas both The Last American Virgin and Amityville II: The Possession, the films that introduced her to the world, are repellent in
insidious ways. These are films that I find a lot of people
condescend to in their appreciation, and watching Electric Boogaloo: The Wild, Untold Story of Cannon Films only made
like Boaz Davidson's film less than I did when I was 19, initially
giving it a cold two stars.
It's that abortion sequence,
the camera ogling Diane Franklin as she removes her panties even as
it pans up to Karen's scared face. And the cutaway to the pizza being
sliced. That kind of tastelessness I don't find celebratory. If we
can knock Sixteen Candles and Revenge of
the Nerds for their dated and off-putting sexual politics,
then I don't see why something equally sickening should be ignored.
Furthermore, it's the films I watched later which confirmed my
initial turn-offs to The Last American Virgin, and
not just Davidson's first two homegrown sequels to Lemon Popsicle,
the foreign film that people don't know was remade to be Franklin's inaugural
cult classic. It was the coming-of-age cornerstone Summer
of '42, which laid bare just how derivative the
characterizations of the male leads and many of the sniggering sex
gags truly were, and also John Duigan's 1987 film The Year
My Voice Broke, which starred very young performers
(including Aussie character actors Noah Taylor and Ben Mendelsohn)
and was also a period piece like the original Lemon
Popsicle, dealing with mad teenage infatuation and
unrequited love. Yet it had all the graces (character development,
comfortable silence, adults who weren't all dunces) Davidson forever
lacked as a writer/director, and came across more honest than to be just
another mean-spirited quickie pandering to its adolescent audience
(“See it or be it,” indeed).
I can't say I anticipate a
remake of The Last American Virgin. I get the hunch
that the late James Ingram's soulful voice will be replaced by the overwrought
crowing of Lewis Capaldi at the end. Blame it on one of my roommates
playing “Someone You Loved” to
absolute death already, but I can't call that song nowhere
close as successful as “Just Once.” Quincy and Jimmy had Brill
Building team Mann/Weill as composers, and they also wrote "You've
Lost That Lovin' Feelin.'" Even if Capaldi's song is on the nose enough to fit, it is not a particularly dignified expression of the particular form of heartbreak which capped off The Last American Virgin, and it's going to make the remake actively worse.
Which
brings me to Amityville II: The Possession and, by
proxy, THE AMITYVILLE MURDERS.
You know, I am proud of the pieces that I wrote for Diane Franklin's
1982 flicks, because they weren't as overbearingly negative as they
could have been. But I cannot bring myself to give either more than a
1.5/5. Let Siskel & Ebert be remembered for their unfairly
scathing review of Better Off
Dead, but also know that Gene elected that sequel (“or
was it a prequel?”) as one of the Stinkers of 1982. And I get it
more than I do his opinion on Better Off Dead. Compared to the rest of the series, its repulsiveness
and opportunism and nihilism certainly makes it stand out compared to
its slew of DTV successors. But oh, Diane Franklin does have a bit of
a questionable legacy. I can still remember Rhett's observation from
HorrorDVDs.com:
“Sonny
first flirts with his sister Patricia, then gets her to undress, then
has sex with her, and then calls her a slut throughout the rest of
the picture. It is incredibly uncomfortable viewing, and as if the
clash between suspense-driven and effects-driven horror weren’t
enough, the incest flavoring makes the film even more of a
head-scratcher...As if it weren’t bad enough that Diane Franklin
gets raped by her brother, it is also discovered late in the film
that (surprise!) the priest was also leering for her virginal body.
Between being leered at by her brother and priest in Amityville II, and impregnated by her irresponsible
boyfriend in her other 1982 debut, The Last American
Virgin, actress Diane Franklin may just be the teen queen of
misogyny.”
Rhett's
frank commentary on Diane Franklin's exploitation beginnings sounds
like a Malcolm X speech compared to what a Bill Chambers or Jack
Sommersby or even a Kim Newman would write, and it does have more
truth. Besides, didn't Rick call Karen a whore in the library? The
old virgin-whore dichotomy served up for hipsters aiming to one-up
the old critics who once called a spade a spade. This ain't no party
at all. And Diane Franklin deserved better, as Newman pointed out in
his review of THE AMITYVILLE MURDERS.
(Save
your TL;DRs, I'm about to transition here.)
Daniel
Farrands is certainly an Amityville II fanboy,
else why would Diane Franklin be coaxed into making her comeback in
the very role Rutanya Alda played back when? There's even Burt Young,
although our Anthony Montelli
is now Paul Ben-Victor. It's on brand for Farrands, who along with
partner Thommy Hutson bankrolled several comprehensive horror
franchise retrospectives. In between their Friday the
13th and Nightmare on Elm Street exposés,
they also produced an independent film called The Trouble
With the Truth alongside its leading actress, Lea Thompson.
And I recommend that film even if you never once lusted after Zoey
Deutch's mom; it's a career-best performance, dialogue-driven but
full of honest emotion and nuance, to match Lorraine Baines or Miss
Amanda Jones.
I'm
learning that Thommy Hutson in particular really loves the scream
queens of his youth and has been doing them solids in the industry
over and over. I never saw Prank, which was
directed by Halloween 4 & 5 stars Danielle
Harris (who gets to share the opening scene of The Trouble
with the Truth with John Shea) & Ellie Cornell as well
as Heather Langenkamp (I can only dream of doing for Diane Franklin
what Hutson does for Langenkamp), but my positive response to Amanda
Wyss in Hutson's own The Id is on record. And now
Farrands in the position to make Diane Franklin come alive on the
screen in such a fresh, fascinating way like Lea Thompson or Heather
Langenkamp or Amanda Wyss. I am so pumped up that these women have
starring/directing/producing roles that are revelatory in a way that
proves you don't need only a Tarantino to reward their longevity and
professionalism.
If
you could imagine me shuffling my feet in the presence of Lea or
Diane or Amanda, think of how I'm finally getting to THE
AMITYVILLE MURDERS after Daniel Farrands unveiled
his followups, The Haunting of Sharon Tate and The Murder of Nicole Brown Simpson. Then watch me
turn and run. As Lionel Richie once sang: “Oh no.” I need to see The Final Interview or Waking Nightmare to reassure myself that there's such a thing as
an up to go to.
Farrands
takes off from the DeFeo family massacre just like Amityville
II: The Possession did, but there have been differences
made in the past 25 years besides Franklin aging enough to play the
materfamilias. Dino De Laurentiis has given way to Jason Blum. We are
no longer plagiarizing The Exorcist, but instead Paranormal Activity and its progeny. Computers do
all the dirty work as opposed to technicians. But there are
similarities to go with the changes. George Lutz remains a hoax
perpetrator, and it's equally tough these days to entertain demonic
possession as the catalyst for “Butch” DeFeo's homicidal mania.
The more pressing reasons, particularly that toxic household of
neurotic relatives, are reduced to caricature. And there's more
speculation than immersion to be taken in; though callous incest is
no longer a factor, there's a lot of shady mafia ties and dealings to
provide non-credence to a claim from the real life Butch.
Farrands
has, based on the uniform reception of his three directorial efforts,
tried for an unholy mixture of morbid elements, perhaps bucking for
that camp value dollar. There are authentic photos and phone calls
from the documented tragedies buffering nods to conspiracy theories
and conflicting 'n' shifting testimonies, an unappetizing Butterball
which is then stuffed with slasher/spookshow conventions, all at
store brand prices. Overheated acting cooks the bird, and
indiscriminate horror enthusiasts are tasked with the feast. With THE AMITYVILLE MURDERS, at least, the
pumpkin pie is served before dinner, as this marketing still will
prove:
Hard
as it is to believe, I don't have a pin-up of fifty-something Diane
Franklin hanging on my walls, but the temptation to bust
out the tacks is hard to fight. Diane is a naturally gorgeous guiding
light, and I always will acknowledge that in the interest of
friendship. But what about the performance behind the portrait?
She
plays Louise DeFeo with an accent I haven't heard from her before,
that of your atypical Italian-American from Long Island, a
description you can levy upon the DeFeo family here. The grandparents
are played by Burt Young and surprising fixture Lainie Kazan (My Favorite Year and Lust in the Dust), so she's in good company. The
opening credits present home movie footage, narrated by teen daughter
Dawn (Chelsea Ricketts) on her 18th birthday, and though
it's clear this is a cutthroat clan in which the father, Ronnie Sr.
(Paul Ben-Victor), aims to lord over everyone in orbit with brute
force (even trying to dominate Burt Young, who is having none of it),
these are comparatively peaceful times. The exposition even affords
Kazan a chance to insult repressed Louise's recipe for marinara sauce
("It tastes like your father's old socks").
Dawn
DeFeo is a far more normal girl than Patricia Montelli ever was, with
a circle of friends she takes to the red room that was the childhood
hiding place for she and her twin brother Ronnie Jr. (John Robinson),
aka "Butch." Butch himself doesn't come across half as unwieldy
as Sonny; he's relatably sullen and rich with shaggy facial hair that
is authentic enough to support comparisons to George Lutz. The teens
have their own séance in the red room with grandma Nona's book of
black magic, and one of the loutish boys breaks the ice with an
Exorcist reference. But Ronnie Sr. soon poops all over their party,
and goes one further in his physical abuse of his son compared to
Anthony Montelli, rolling his belt around his fist and socking Butch
in the nose.
Farrands
does these scenes far better than Damiani did, and the DeFeo dynamic
cuts deeper than the Montellis' cruel fate, especially since
Amityville II writer Tommy Lee Wallace can be too nihilistic in his
horror efforts (including Halloween III). The performances by
Ben-Victor, Robinson and Ricketts are also given more weight compared
to Young, Jack Magner and even the younger Diane Franklin. But then
Butch notices his father being paid off by some organized crime
types, the first in a bizarre motif, and combined with the
supernatural elements introduced earlier in the red room, the focus
begins to zig and zag unsatisfactorily.
Butch
begins hearing those familiar white noise whispers of evil, and while
he's out in the pouring rain having sex in his birthday-gifted car
with Donna (Rebekah Graf), he asks for a tab of acid and experiences
a violent hallucination which causes him to kick Donna out of the
car. It's like a twist on the way the demon from Amityville
II assumed Patricia's form to accuse Adamsky of lechery.
But then the camera pans up to that 112 Ocean Avenue architecture,
with those lit rooms as staring eyes. And I have to admit, though it
is an image to remember, I was getting a bit worried about the film's
catchall ambiguity.
The
next morning, Louise learns whilst collecting laundry that Butch has been kicked out of college. If that weren't enough,
she comes across heroin paraphernalia and a diary full of ominous ink
blots in Butch's nightstand. All the while, the house is creaking and
sputtering like it's announcing complicity in these antisocial
revelations; a pigeon even kamakazies itself against the door, and
Louise is ready to bash it with a rock until it dies on its own. Cut to Halloween 1974. We get a
fraction of time to know the youngest of the DeFeo children (one of
the more undernourished aspects of the story) before sickly Butch is
left alone with his demons and is presumed to have trashed the house,
with the familiar inscription of "PIG" on a mirror and dad's
dirty money missing from the safe.
THE
AMITYVILLE MURDERS pursues this alternating
structure I've attended to quite stoically, with scenes of domestic
quarrel giving way to worn-out tropes involving Ouija boards,
levitating bed sheets and creeping Steadicams. At some point, I
wanted more for these very good actors to do than to just go through
the same traveling roadshow haunted house. Even Diane Franklin
herself, who makes Louise incredibly gorgeous even at her most dowdy. Her face has unmistakably aged, and it will come as a shock to those who idealized Diane's
younger appearances, but it's a dignified and darling process in her case. The stage is set for the adult performance Diane Franklin never
gave after leaving fickle showbiz at the start of the 1990s. But Louise is another relatively thankless role, her interactions with
other characters mostly shows of fretful hysteria. Diane's innate
charisma and playfulness kind of gets the shaft (even in Amityville II, there were moments where she
grabbed your heart away from the sleaziness), and there is a
potential for depth that is compromised. That regal portrait of
Louise I showed earlier never rubs off on the script.
It
takes 48 minutes before Butch finally picks up that shotgun for the
first time, stirred by his dad's callous abuse of Dawn (she is bent
over the kitchen table to make a lewd point to her “hippie”
friends) and Louise (whose hands are scalded by boiling water and
whose stomach takes a sharp elbowing). Daniel Farrands' slow burn
approach is admittedly far superior to the Amityville II school of smash-and-grab plotting, and that outburst is followed by
Louise's portentous monologue of togetherness ("I see the end
coming. A terrible, beautiful end"). All of a sudden, Diane
Franklin kills it, especially in the way Louise, who is ready to
pack up and take the kids, calls out her pious husband for misplaced
religious beliefs ("Butch is not the devil, he's your son!").
Dawn
is also distressed enough to want to spirit her brother to safety,
given that dad would rather send him to Bellevue. The $500,000 of
lost mob money turns up as Butch slides further into dementia,
walking around empty rooms as shadowy figures stalk him. We all know
where this is going, and if the film wants to leave us with the
visceral gut punch of the mass killings, the story needs to
demonstrate economy. Instead, we get a loopy "last supper" from
which Dawn is absent and the grisly visions keep negging him, his
family coming across as refugees from Invasion of the Body Snatchers
and escape being magically impossible. The film can't stop
dawdling, producing a numbing effect that actively negates the real
tensions that have kept the thin plot afloat. There are moments of
psychological unease that needed to be drastically streamlined.
When
the inevitable finally occurs, and those poor souls sleeping with
their faces down get blown away, the result is sloppy. Louise dies
with rosary clutched in hand, but the symbolism is unearned, and the
pain I would've felt at the murder of Dawn DeFeo is equally undone.
If it hasn't already been inferred, Farrands winds up with too much
inconsistency that it undercuts his fascination with this true story,
trying to stay true to the Amityville brand while reminding us that
barbarism, indeed, begins at home. Thus, the true finale of the film is not the collage of vintage newsreels and photos of the DeFeos, but the
introduction of the house to the Lutz family, thus handing over the
mantle to a far more dubious reality.
It's
all so much and yet too half-baked to digest. I felt the same way
about The Last American Virgin, which couldn't square the
overbearingly smug juvenile humor with the soppy attempt to humanize
its teen cartoons. It just didn't really possess true integrity for
that tonal shift, and I am left similarly puzzled by THE AMITYVILLE
MURDERS. And I honestly believe Farrands to be the better filmmaker,
too. I'm not anticipating the Sharon Tate and Nicole Brown Simpson
movies by any measure, but I am thankful he didn't make such a
travesty to compare with Amityville II: The Possession. His touch, however,
is heavy-handed when compared to a movie like The Id, and more rigid
in structure. It's not the CG phenomena or the rampant tackiness of
its DTV-level period recreations that strains my critical eye. It's
the poor form.
And
thus I end up looking forward to Diane Franklin in the future once
again. Given all that has gone wrong, chances are it'll be I stumble
upon her next movie by serendipity, or at least I hope to given I
disconnected from so many circles, hers included. I keep yearning for
some kind of happy return, but the last time I tried, it was the bane
of my battered soul. And it still haunts me. But Diane Franklin was
never the problem, because her support has kept me going for the
longest time. If this is to be my birthday present to a woman who
values my friendship, I have to end it by wishing her a great 58 and
to make one more wish for myself on April 3.
Diane
Franklin, I hope to rediscover you through all this masquerade and
somehow stay in a state of grace with you. I believe there's a ghost
of a chance. R.I.P. Neil Peart, and Happy Birthday, Dear Diane.
(P.S.
I hope those who get those that particular Rush reference will make
the connection to Better Off Dead.)