Yeah, I'm talking about GLEE - what's it to ya?

Because I’m married to a heterosexual woman, I am, on a weekly basis, subjected to Glee. This would happen were I married, legally or no, to a homosexual man, so really there’s no escaping it short of a divorce or a sex change.

As far as television goes, it’s no more or less ridiculous than most shows on the air. It has an atmosphere that feels fresh and while I don’t have a favorite character, I don’t have a least-favorite either. I’m not as enamored of Jane Lynch’s psychotic “Sue Sylvester” character as most of the world seems to be, but then again the show in general will throw any character under the bus in order to propel their plots, so if she’s inconsistent from one episode to the next (in which I mean more over-the-top one week and almost-rational the next), it can be overlooked if not forgiven. Even Buffy and Angel were guilty of out-of-place characteristics once in a while to keep the story going, even if those were so few and far between and largely David Fury’s fault that they’re hardly worth mentioning.

Since I possess well-rounded and complete DNA, I actually enjoy musicals. Not all of them; I’m not a fanatic. I cannot turn off Singin’ in the Rain if pops up on TCM, but I’ll gnaw through my own leg to escape The Sound of Music. So the frequent nondiegetic intervals of Glee bother me not in the slightest and I enjoy them more often than not. As the songs are always covers, the familiarity is comforting (unless they’re singing something that came out in the past five years—or, in some cases, minutes—then I’m completely at-sea as to what that song might be) and on average I end up liking the Glee version better than the original because the actors on the show are real singers and dancers, hired away from Broadway or elsewhere due to their musical ability. True, some of them are “auto-tuned” well-beyond droid-speak, and there is the occasional electronic distortion employed that would irritate Peter Frampton. Lea Michelle is clearly the standout on the show and they make not only good use of her voice but her endearingly-insufferable character as well. On the flip side of that, Cory Monteith, who appears to be older than most of the teachers and may well have an AARP card in his wallet, is electronically enhanced for every song to the point where he might as well be singing into a fan.

While I successfully managed to avoid their tribute to Madonna and only watched the illogical Britney Spears love-in with half an eye, I was actually looking forward to their Rocky Horror episode in a perverse way. I discovered RHPS in the very early ‘90s when I was in high school myself, back when I was the age of the characters (rather than now, when I’m the age of the actors). As the ostensible head of our Drama Club, I actually pushed to perform Rocky as our Spring production, partly because I loved the music and the phenomenon, but because I knew it would upset parents and teachers and anyone god-fearing who happened along.

 

Photo Copyright 20th Century Fox Television

When you’re 17-18 years old, Rocky Horror is subversive and taboo. You feel like you’re part of a secret club, venturing out every Saturday midnight to swear and dance and yell your head off. If you were straight, you felt like a crusader for equal rights because you knew gay friends. If you were an outcast or a misfit, as you invariably were if you were drawn to the movie, RHPS was the place you fit in. A room full of freaks who accepted you as a new member of the family. At its best, RHPS is a large group of square pegs.

Granted, somewhere along the line, everything that was cool and obscure and underground has been moved into the light, placed on a display at Hot Topic next to the Twilight merchandise and had all the awesome drained from it by corporate mosquitoes. And RHPS is no exception. The minute I walked into a Spencer’s Gifts and saw a Rocky Horror lunchbox sitting right next to a Bettie Page clutch purse, each sporting $20 price tags, I knew my young adulthood was over. To purchase my first Rocky Horror t-shirt, I had to take a bus into downtown Pittsburgh, walk several blocks to the incredible and incredibly seedy Eide’s Comics and Records, run the gauntlet of the homeless outside and the seemingly-homeless inside, and scour the racks of uniformly-black T-shirts sporting band names I hadn’t yet heard of to find the one I was looking for—one lonely shirt with its silk-screened pair of lips, most likely a bootleg courtesy of one of the employees.

If I want an official RHPS t-shirt now, I go to Amazon. Two clicks and it’s at my door in 3-5 days, depending on how much postage-rape I submit to.

The same goes for any of the myriad of different soundtracks—the coveted foreign-cast albums of the stage play that we’d bootleg for and from each other, or the extremely expensive 4-disc CD set released for its 15^th anniversary. And then there were the nth-generation dubs of the movie taken either from Japanese Laserdisk or the grossly-expensive “official” VHS, from which we practiced our slavishly-replicated moves for our various shadowcast performances. We were devotees of Rocky Horror, both the movie and the play, and loved all of the incarnations, debating if the “Roxy Cast” L.A. recording was superior to the original London cast album or if the original mono soundrack of the movie was better than the stereo track that arrived on VHS and the almost-brand-new film print at the theater. This is what “cult” meant. Those who weren’t in the cult—parents, friends, relatives, clergy—didn’t get it, wouldn’t get it and refused to get it. And that made the cult that much better.

So I couldn’t help but be disappointed in the Glee take, but not for the reasons many Rocky and Glee purists seem to be. I didn’t care about the changes they made to the “suggestive lyrics” (although, for a show that depicts two cheerleaders in an ongoing casual bisexual relationship, replacing the phrases “heavy petting” and “seat-wetting” from “Toucha-Touch Me” just seemed silly). I was even able to get past the obvious lunacy of a) a Middle America high school attempting a performance in the first place (which the show addressed) and b) the manufactured hysteria of (a) about the play’s raunchy nature. Although that the ultra-conservatives who arrived to stir up the controversy were played by RHPS’s Barry Bostwick and Meat Loaf was inspired casting.

(As a digression, I am not one of the legions of folks who found the Glee GQ photo spread offensive or, as the Parents Television Council put it, “borders on pedophilia”. “Tacky” is not the same as “offensive”. Neither are likely to bring about the end of civilization, either, so dial down the hysteria, Mrs. Lovejoy.)

What disappointed me the most was that, with the sole innovation of casting African American diva “Mercedes” (Amber Riley) as Frank N. Further, giving the character a Tina Turner spin that was just fantastic, the arrangement and the choreography was all directly-inspired by the movie. As versatile as the endless stage performances have proven this show to be, and for a show that more often than not thinks outside of the box when it comes to its covers, to simply imitate the movie, down to costumes and sets (with some bizarre—*cough*Columbia*cough*--exceptions), struck me not only as lazy but pandering.

If it was done simply to satisfy the die-hard Rocky purists, surely the producers would know that’s impossible. Unless the Tim Curry from 1975 was cast as a guest star, there would be no satisfying the hard core. For many of us who’d “come of age” with the movie, who found our identities—or, at least, the path to our identities—through the cult of depravity and subversive wish-fulfillment, it’s the reinvention of the show we’ve come to look forward to. If we wanted perfect mimicry of the movie, we could just leave the house on Saturday night and go to any number of theaters across the country.

For those of us already in irreparable culture shock from seeing the film broadcast uncut on VH-1 in 2005, having a mainstream television show devote an hour to the silliness of Rocky’s drag and sexual misidentity was already tragic enough to comprehend.

Yes, the argument has and will be made that the trial-by-fire of RHPS is the dead-on replication of the movie by the shadowcasts. Only after that perfection are the performers permitted to make the characters and the film their own. Non-conformity through odd conformity.

But the cast of Glee aren’t outcasts, they merely play ones on TV. So I expected a bit more innovation from this revolution. If you’re going to thrust my underground cult into the mainstream, at the very least give it a jolt that I haven’t seen hundreds of times before. 

 

Photo courtesy Molly Alvord's Facebook Gallery

Arm-waving, teeth-gnashing, chest-beating and undirected hatred

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about humanity.

Because I want to be a well-rounded person, I like to know both sides of an argument and make my mind up only after I have all the facts. Like most people, though, I suffer from the occasional knee-jerk, emotional gut reactions that shut down intellectual reasoning. I found myself taking up arms against the insensitive notion of a “Mosque built near Ground Zero” before I learned that 1) it wasn’t a Mosque; 2) it wasn’t going to be built but placed in an already-standing structure; 3) it wasn’t at Ground Zero but a couple of blocks away; and 4) there were already genuine Mosques open for worship in that area. Still, my inner Helen Lovejoy beat my inner Sherlock Holmes to the door, shrieking “Won’t somebody think of the children?!” before I knew all the facts.

But once I received more facts, I adjusted my hysteria accordingly. To some people, this is known as “waffling”; others see it as “being rational”. Some people will argue both sides depending on how it suits their needs at the moment.

Which is called “being human”.

I understand that. On an intellectual level. We, as a society, as a species, are a nervous, hysterical wreck right now. Frustrated and impotent with outrage. The global economy is a mess. Global—with a “G”. It ain’t just this group of people or that, it’s everybody. And everybody is reacting accordingly: looking for someone to blame because there isn’t anything any of us, singularly, can do about it.

We can’t just go “get a job, hippie!”—there are fewer jobs to be had than even during the Great Depression. Naturally, part of this is because that there are exponentially more of us on the planet than there were eighty years ago. The rest of it can be explained by the international market collapses, businesses playing things close to the vest to see if the economy will recover, or any number of rational reasons. On the irrational side, we have everything from the blanket “It’s Obama’s/Bush’s/Limbaugh’s/Lady Gaga’s Fault” to “the Flying Spaghetti Monster has grown angry with us.”

None of it is helpful.

Knowing intellectually the cause/effect doesn’t change the situation. Pointing fingers and screaming won’t either.

But, of course, I understand the screaming, too. At this point, what’s left for any of us to do?

The most counter-productive thing I’ve noticed—that impossible to not notice—is the bile-spewing hatred coming from both sides. Beyond name-calling and gallows humor the abject, black-hearted misanthropy is purely disturbing.

For the past few months, those that post on Yahoo news stories seem to be the angriest (not taking into account the pure right or left-leaning folks who exclusively read Glenn Beck’s site or The Huffington Post).

This in response to a story about the potential hazards of iPhones:

“Health risk?.......what about current National policies?.....that's a health risk-period!” - GNowak

This in response to a report of a Tsunami in Indonesia:

“OH NO, not again.

Now obama will come out and open his mouth about this, and we all know what it means when obama opens his mouth....there goes another 100 billion dollars or so of our tax money!” – Bob

This from a story regarding a national poll questioning whether the “system” is at fault or our elected officials:

“Like so many of Obama actions I do not understand. As reported in various press articles only 2% of the popular vote is Gay with up to 10% closet gays if you add them all together how is this going to help him be reelected. He is tearing down our government little by little makes me wonder if how much Muslims are paying him to serve. Then it make me wonder where all his money came from to run for office too.

I never understood how a man who refuses to salute the Flag so many of our brave Veterans have died to protect could be elected to office anyway. Every fundamental policy of our government has been brought down by this administration, Judges who are overturning laws that were passed by popular vote in a democracy as if this is a dictatorship. Obama support for EVERYTHING MUSLIM, Support for gay marriages after it was banned in California by popular Vote and allowing a reportedly Gay Judge to overrule the Law. This just does not make sense.

It really brings to Question his motives for it can not be to serve the American Public. Has he been paid off or sponsored by Muslims to do everything in his power to see that America Falls. It is all too much and to overwhelming to be a normal actions of a sane man who is in Political office unless there is an hidden agenda somewhere.

I advise any Democrats to distance themselves from this man or suffer for his foolishness. I mean heck there are more unemployed Americans than there are gays, he should be trying his best to assist them than supporting this unpopular policy on GAY RIGHTS. Where does it end I don't support GAY RIGHTS for sure, but I don't really care if they gay, I just don't want my children exposed to it and required by law to see it as NORMAL and I think I have more right to this than most after serving in Vietnam. I have earned the right to have my own opinion and it sure does not come close to this PRESIDENT's Policies.” - Eamo K

Posts regarding Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell:

“this is a BAD thing!!!! this will destroy alot of the unity and trust in units! yes servicemen/women knew they served along side gays/lesbians, but it wasnt known or spoken. this will weaken our armed services not strenghten them and cause problems just watch. and yes i served in war and am a disabled vet so i have been there!” - Dennis C Tue Oct 12, 2010 02:21 pm PDT

“This lawsuit might mean something if the bill to repeal the law weren't already halfway through Congress. It has passed the House and is now waiting for Senate to vote. Instead, the lawsuit is simply a dog and pony show by the GOP to show the world how active they are in promoting gay rights. Excuse me? It was Vice President Cheney, the person the GOP put in the office of Vice President, who lambasted gays in the military and was accutely embarrassed when his daughter came out of the closet. Where was the GOP when it was time to revamp healthcare, where was the GOP when millions of unemployed (formerly hard-working folks) needed their benefits extended, where was the GOP when Warren Buffet himself said Bush's tax cuts for the rich would do nothing to stimulate the economy or create more jobs? They were busy being the PARTY OF NO. Now that the backward Republican Party has finally realized it can not be too anti-gay or its only supporters will be fundamentalist Christians and right-wing extremists, some of its members have filed a lawsuit. Rather than hurting President Obama and the Democratic Congress, I think this lawsuit helps them. It is a clear waste of taxpayer dollars and another example of where the GOP is so out of touch, they actually file a lawsuit when the legislation has already passed the House and is currently before the Senate. People will see the lawsuit as frivilous and another GOP dog and pony show. Anybody want some popcorn???” - Victoria Tue Jul 13, 2010 01:25 am PDT

“Solution: put them on the front line” - FollowMe Tue Oct 12, 2010 02:20 pm PDT

“Another step backwards for mankind,and our country. How about asking the TROOPS, they are the ones that have to deal with this insanity, i've been there i know their vote, to us don't ask don't tell was ridiculous, they shouldn't be there period. You can thumbs down call me racist i care LESS, i'll continue to speak up for what i think is right.I care less what you fairies do, if you want to be an abomination fine, but you don't belong in our military.Liberals are leading to the downfall of one of the greatest nations ever. How tolerant do we have to be? Better learn that answer in Chinese you liberal traitors to this country.” - S

This from The Washington Times online:
g9w6 says: “another plan that will cause American deaths in the name of political correctness! why is it that everything the socialists do ends with our people being killed? i was in the military and i can promise you that the straight rank and file soldiers will never be "convinced" that the gay lifestyle is either normal or acceptable! no soldier is going to want to be associated with two guys strolling down the boulevard hand in hand! and in uniform to boot! how humiliating for our troops and our flag! thank God i'm to old to have to deal with this insult in person!”

[Grammar and spelling, incidentally, untouched.]

The invective hurled from both sides is often frightening. I posted some of the tamer ones I ran across in the hundreds, if not thousands, of spoutings. Everywhere you go on the web, inevitably you’ll run across someone invoking Howard Beale from Network: “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it any more!”

But the only solutions seem to be “Vote ‘em out!”(referring to any incumbent regardless of party), “Send ‘em back!” (referring to anyone who isn’t, in general, white and Christian), or, not to split hairs, “Kill them!”—either by our or “God’s” hand.

Maybe the bigger question is, have humans always been this hateful and the lovely anonymity provided by the internet finally gives them endless forums to express it? The cynic will doubtlessly say yes and the cynic will probably be right. “Polite society” is nothing but a mask, apparently. If you can’t be held accountable for your words, you can say whatever you want, no matter how horrific the sentiment. Bile-spewing keyboard jockeys make members of the Westboro Baptist Church look courageous in comparison. At least those bigots have the balls to vent their spleens out in the open.

I want to by sympathetic to the frustrated. I’m frustrated too. But as has been pointed out here and everywhere else, it’s not just the country in trouble, it’s the world. We’re all sharing the same sinking boat and, as usual, those in steerage will drown long before those in First Class, but we’re still going to drown unless something is done. “Every generation needs a new revolution.”—Thomas Jefferson. By my count, and obviously by the count of many others, we’re several dozen revolutions behind. But the trouble is we have too many enemies and too many things to change.

Which brings to mind two other quotes:

“Things are more like they are today than they have ever been before.”—Dwight D. Eisenhower.

“We have met the enemy and he is us.”—Pogo.

Which is to say, I don’t know what the solution is either. But the hate-fueled calls-to-arms definitely isn’t it.

“It Ain’t Over ‘Til The Fat Zombie Sings: Evenings in Quarantine: The Zombie Opera”

Just when you think that the zombie subgenre has nothing left to offer, someone comes along and proves you dead wrong. October 15, 2010 will see the premiere of Evenings in Quarantine: The Zombie Opera at the Grey Box Theater in Lawrenceville, just outside of Pittsburgh.

The creation of artistic directors, Pittsburgh natives and alumni of Duquesne University, Bonnie Bogovich and Elizabeth Rishel, Evenings in Quarantine: The Zombie Opera promises to be an exciting blend of live stage, neoclassical opera and multimedia. The Pittsburgh association is almost a given, seeing as how the former Steel City is the unofficial Zombie Capital of the World, thanks to George A. Romero and John Russo giving birth to the whole undead flesh-eating trope in the 1968 classic Night of the Living Dead. We’re talking about a city that hosts a fan-run “Zombie Museum”, housed within the landmark Monroeville Mall—a structure by itself that attracts devoted pilgrims from across the world due to its starring role in Romero’s Dawn of the Dead. Zombies are part of Pittsburgh’s DNA, something that Bogovich and Rishel recognized when brainstorming for a Halloween-themed show. “’Zombies’ [were] the obvious subject to tackle,” as Rishel told BoringPittsburgh.com. 

Joining forces with screenwriter and editor Barry Bogovich, special effecs makeup designer Arvin Clay,  Director of Photography Edwin Huang, the group put together a show to tell a classic story of a zombie apocalypse in song. “The story of Evenings in Quarantine: The Zombie Opera follows the plights of Ronnie, Izzie, and Charles, three college friends, as they navigate their way through the infected streets of Pittsburgh, PA,” reads their official press kit. “Each character must take stock of their priorities as they grapple with the living dead and each other, on their way to a military-controlled safe zone.” In the meantime, continual news footage playing on a video screen provides the Greek Chorus to the action, drama and horror.

Bogovich and Rishel proved just how versatile the zombie mythos could be even within their own structure when they gave convention attendees a sneak preview of the show at the October Horror Realm con. Dubbed “A Zombie Cabaret”, the cast performed a stripped-down highlights version of Evenings in Quarantine in a small but nearly-packed conference room. Keeping the gore to an impressionist minimum—utilizing crimson scarves for spraying blood in a way that would make Puccini proud—and switching up the costuming to that of ‘20s and ‘30s garb, the company’s presentation was inventive and, dare we say it, even cultural. They turned the hordes of walking dead (represented by a trio of extras in removable masks) into a black-tie affair.
But make no mistake: the full production is bloody, gory and everything you’ve come to expect from a full-fledged zombie outbreak. “Liz came up with this break-away corset,” Bogovich gleefully told me at Horror Realm, “so when it comes apart, innards and intestines can spill out on stage.” Combined with the professional props created for the show by the Pittsburgh-based costuming house, Specter Studios, this ingeniousness should make for a grotesquely high-brow evening.

For ticketing information and more about Evenings in Quarantine: The Zombie Opera please visit http://www.thezombieopera.com/

Tomorrow: Think, Don't React.

Hi, I’d like to take a moment to talk to everyone, if you don’t mind.

We all know what tomorrow is. It’s a day of mourning for some. Others will use it as an opportunity to espouse whatever point of view they have. Others will treat it like any other day. I hope that everyone takes even just a moment to reflect about 9/11/2001.

9/11 is not about politics, ideology, religion, left, right, wrong, or whose god can beat up someone else’s. If we strip it to its essence 9/11, as an anniversary, should be about remembering that nine years ago, 2,000 people woke up, got dressed and went to work. And then a handful of evil creeps killed them.

I don’t care what flag you wave. I don’t care what religion you follow or what your politics are. Taken to its essence, more than two thousand people were murdered on what was shaping up to be a beautiful day.

And we’re all complicit. We are all accessories.

Not “Americans”. Not “Muslims”. All of us.

The human race committed this crime against itself and we, as members of the human race, allowed it to happen.

Not politically because of who we did or did not vote for. Not geographically. Not ideologically. We humans, we hateful, jealous, petty creatures, have been unable to treat each other with basic decency and respect for hundreds of thousands of years.

Going further, for the past nine years, have used this horrible tragedy as an excuse to enact more hatred, fear-mongering, jealousy and pettiness against everyone else. We’ve gone out of our way to demonize each other for the most minor of reasons. Skin color, who we love, what we worship—it all boils down to “I am better than you. And if you dare to think you’re better than me, I hope you die.”

“Can’t we all just get along?” has been a punch line for decades. But if we’re all complicit in the tragedy, we are all, equally to a person, responsible for putting things right. All we have to do is put the idiocy aside. All of these ideologies are ultimately pointless, meaningless to anyone but ourselves. So all we have to do is stop occasionally and ask ourselves, “How does what that person is doing hurt me? How does it affect me in any way?” Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the answer will be: it doesn’t.

I have to believe that we’re all, at base, decent, loving people. And just as in high school, what clique you’re part of does – not – matter. Put it aside.

Let’s all try to start fresh tomorrow. Leave the garbage at home. All your identifiers: Democrat, Republican, Christian, white, black, brown, gay, straight, short, tall, Aquarius, pianist—set that stuff aside.

Tomorrow, think about those people who looked up from their desks and saw the planes coming right at them. Think about the people who leapt from the windows rather than die burning. The legions of people who trudged through the dust, the debris, shell shocked and devastated. Let’s give ourselves a moment to remember how we all felt. How all of us knew that the world had changed. Forget the politics and the arguments. Think about the people.

And then, if you’re out, hold the door for someone. Let someone merge in front of you on the road. Smile at your cashier. Say “please” and “thank you” and try to remember all those manners that you learned as a toddler.

It’s so simplistic it’s almost insulting. If someone offends you in any way tomorrow, let it go. Don’t get angry; just stop and think, “This person is another human being.” Let’s honor the memories of the people who died by being worthy of life.

Or else, we’ve learned nothing in the last nine years. And Ground Zero is simply a giant hole in the ground.

The ALL ABOUT EVIL Precision Screenings - Part 1

Originally, this was meant to be the second part of the “I Love New York in June (July and August) – How ‘bout you?” article, but this past weekend changed my mindset. Last Friday, Amy and I both left work early to get on the road to Maryland in order to catch our second showing of Joshua Grannell’s All About Evil! The Peaches Christ Experience in 4-D. Having caught the premiere in NY at the beginning of the month, we were excited to catch it again with a new variety of friends and venues. The movie is that good and, plus, it has come to symbolize what we’ve started to think of as our summer of “Hell no! We’re not old!”

For those out of the know, Joshua Grannell is better known as the supremely fabulous Peaches Christ, host of the San Francisco horror show, Midnight Mass. Peaches isn’t another Elvira horror host follow-up, though, don’t make that mistake. Peaches Christ is part showgirl, part lounge singer, and all spectacular. Think a glamorous Dame Edna taking over Bette Midler’s Vegas show to show B-movies. A rabid horror fanatic, particularly of the H.G. Lewis and Ted V. Mikels oeuvre, Grannell wrote and directed All About Evil as an homage not only to those gleefully gory movies, but to the phenomenon of cult filmmaking itself. (You can read my review of All About Evil HERE for a plot synopsis.) And the “4-D Experience” is not only an offshoot of Midnight Mass, but a tribute to the lost art of showmanship, ala William Castle or the Ray Dennis Steckler spook shows. All of this is coated with ample coats of glittery fabulousity.

I had first heard of the film around the time of its completion, via an anecdote by Alan Rowe Kelly. Alan’s film, The Blood Shed, was in post-production and while we were discussing its virtues, he mentioned casually that he’d recently spoken to an LA filmmaker who had completed a completely different project under the same title. Alan had dropped Mr. Grannell a line and the two discussed whose film should undergo title surgery for the sake of audience, distributors and over-all artistic piece-of-mind. Ultimately, Josh stepped back and found the much more appropriate Betty Davis-esque play on words and the two artists remained friends to this very writing.

All About Evil proved to be a far more fitting title as the movies created by its main character, Deborah Tennis (Deb-or-ah Te-nees) have fantastic punned titles as well—The Diary of Anne Frankenstein, Gore and Peace, The Maiming of the Shrew, The Slasher in the Rye—serving the camp of the entire film. (Alan’s The Blood Shed isn’t campy so much as it is deliriously deranged and if you haven’t seen that one yet either, your priorities are obviously in need of reordering.) As Josh’s movie began to gain steam, I remained peripherally aware of it until it was thrust right beneath my nose when one of our best friends, Ultra-Violent Magazine journalist Michael Varrati, signed on as All About Evil’s “Tour de Fierce” co-ordinator (or similar such title; as in all things indie, it’s hard to tell from the multiplying hats who is doing what job). All About Evil was set to have a year-long nationwide tour followed by a similar jaunt to the U.K. Through sheer chutzpah and the contributions from a few very loyal followers, this little independent slasher comedy riding the modest recognition wave of its creator’s drag diva alter-ego was going global.

When a low-budget movie gets a legitimate DVD release, that alone is cause for confetti and parades. Something like this was just one small step down from a full-on geekgasm. I don’t want to give the impression that something like this is unprecedented, but the likes sure as hell haven’t been witnessed in my neck of the woods in recent memory!

Following very successful screenings in Los Angeles, Seattle and Austin, Texas, the first sorta-close premiere came our way via the Landmark’s Sunshine Theater in Tribeca, NY, at the end of July.

Now, long trips are not on our list of phobias, but having already driven from Waynesburg to NY twice this summer, we sought alternative modes of transportation. Flying was out for obvious reasons. Amtrak wasn’t particularly attractive since the trip would take five or so hour longer than driving. Finally, we came upon the Megabus—round trip tickets from Pittsburgh to NY for less than we would spend in gas and hotel. Deal! And to make things more challenging on ourselves, we would make the trip there and back in just 24 hours. Okay, that part wasn’t as well thought-out, but we just didn’t care to spend extra on a hotel and we weren’t about to infringe again on the couches or floors of our many hospitable friends. We could sleep on the bus, read, work (Megabus offers Wi-Fi!), whatever, and not have to worry about crazed morning drivers trying to kill us across three states.

Oddly enough, the plan worked just as well in practice as it did in theory. For a big fat change. The only drawbacks were the other people. Amy couldn’t get comfortable in the narrow seats to sleep for any great length and add to that the aforementioned hell of the human race, the trip was a bit more trying than we’d anticipated. The first group of hellions were comprised of a small number of giggly high-schoolers on their way to Penn State for a campus visit and/or orientation. Very loud they were at six in the morning. They were replaced by a pair of what can only be described as “Mexican Yentas”. Two tias who spoke Spanish in an unmistakable Jewish whine—I swear it was like listening to a Telamundo coffee klatch.

The second thing we hadn’t anticipated—or, rather, under-anticipated—was the length of time we’d have to kill once we arrived. All About Evil was a midnight premiere. The Megabus dropped us off at Penn Station a little after 2:30 in the afternoon. Most of go-to New York friends were otherwise occupied so we had a good eight hours or so to travel approximately ten blocks. Even at the peak of rush hour, it doesn’t take eight hours to travel ten city blocks on foot.

After meeting Mr. Varrati and Ryan Neill for lunch in Brooklyn (in the much nicer coffee-house-and-deli section than our previous trip to the auto-parts district), we still faced a good stint of time before us. Oh, if only there was something to do in New York City! (Lament! Woe!)

No matter what part of that magnificent city of millions we happen to find ourselves in, invariably, miracles occur. Call it synchronicity, call it luck, call it fate, lucky shit happens to us in New York. After a lengthy side-trip to Kim’s Video—our first, despite many years of NY visits!—to giggle like nerds at the sight of A Feast of Flesh in the “Sexploitation” section (and to buy a used copy of Samurai Zombie), Amy and I made our way back towards Tribecca for the screening. Lugging around an overnight bag packed with Amy’s own stash of fab, we sought a place to chill and for her to change.

So, of course, we settled on a midtown McDonalds. Not wanting to Morgan Spurlock so late in the evening, we split a single Coke like the big spenders we are, and I chilled and watched Amy transform herself into a goth diva. Not ten minutes into our repose, we were startled by a loud knock on the “restaurant’s” window. There before us were two muscular, shaved-headed gentlemen gesturing at us in excitement. Seeing this, I steeled myself for a righteous mugging by a pair of goth-phobic skinheads right there beneath the Golden Arches.

But the forthcoming ass-kicking never arrived. Instead of vicious nogoodniks, we realized our non-hirsute suitors were none other but Bart Mastronardi and David Marancik (both of the exceptional Vindication—another title to add to your list). We had been set to meet the pair with Alan Rowe Kelly at the theater, but the gods were gracious that evening. Bart and David generously allowed us to invite ourselves to dinner with them. Dinner was held at the extremely posh and lovely Three of Cups, where the owner Santo Fazio, a friend to Bart and David and a co-star of The Sadist (aka Jeremiah Kipp’s Swine) (as well as Abel Ferrara’s The Funeral), treated us like stars. Once Alan arrived, I was briefly overwhelmed by a sense of… what’s the word? Opposite of depression and rage? Happiness! That’s it. And not chemically-induced for a change. Sitting at the table with people I consider not only friends but artists that I respect and admire and, at times, am in complete awe of, I felt like I was part of the independent film community for the first time in years. 

Over the years, the “indie film” world has changed drastically. Some of the filmmakers we started with are no longer working in film, for a variety of reasons. Others are no longer friends. Still others are out-and-out enemies of (who we consider) our people. The disease of ego infected a great deal of us in the mid-2000s. For the better part of five years, many of us teetered on the delusion that we were all on the cusp of breaking through, of leaving “indie” behind to be embraced by the mainstream for our magnificent and unique visions. Little did we know that we weren’t on Hollywood’s radar at all. And lacking this knowledge, we allowed the beast to devour us from inside out. For many, many of us, it wasn’t enough for one to win—the rest had to lose. And the “community” crumbled upon itself. That reality haunted me during my tenure at Sirens of Cinema, particularly during the final issues where fewer of the “staples” of indie cinema appeared. Moving on is fine; forced death march away from the core is devastating.

So toasting to All About Evil with some of the most talented men and women I’ve had the fortune to meet, in a city home to some extraordinary talents (Scooter McCrae, Jim Mickle, Justin Wingenfeld, Lloyd Kaufman), that unfamiliar happiness was nearly impossible to process.

Then came the show. “The Peaches Christ 4-D Experience” starts the minute you receive your tickets. A quartet of velvet-uniformed ushers (including a pair of androgynous twins) hand you Dixie cups emblazoned with the Peaches Christ logo and tell you to hold on to it for a “special toast” later. Mr. Varrati, also encased in the red crushed-velvet suit, manned the merchandise table. Peaches was near the back of the lobby, surrounded by real paparazzi, the camera flashes almost strobing. 

The excited and generously-numbered crowd filled the auditorium and electricity filled the air. Before long, out came Alan in his resplendence to introduce Peaches, referring to her as “The Queen of the Barbary Coast” and “The Most Important Person in the World”. If you think those are large shoes to fill, you should see Peaches’ actual shoes! Suddenly, the lights dimmed, music poured from the speakers and there was Peaches in all her glory. Accompanied by the usherette twins, an alien girl with a green Mohawk, a Yeti-esque werewolf and a bizarre little woman in a Troll mask, Peaches sang “I’m a Gore-Gore Girl” with her monsters mashing beside her in choreographed madness.

After introducing her back-up slashers, Peaches then intro’d the one and only Deborah Tennis (played in the film by Natasha Lyonne, but on stage before us by Trixxie Carr), who performed the film’s closing song, “Star Quality”, and invited us to join her in the toast. The usherette twins hauled out a Gatorade cooler, only to be interrupted by Peaches who felt the toast would be in “bad taste”. Deborah rushed behind stage as Peaches introduced Martiny, her Midnight Mass co-host, but Miss Teeny did not emerge. Suddenly the screen lit up with security footage: there was Miss Teeny, tied to a chair, about to be slaughtered by Deborah! Deb raised a butcher knife, Peaches screamed, the lights went out!

And that served as the transition into the third part of the show, wherein Peaches “brought things down” and did a Dick Cavettesque intro with special guest Natasha Lyonne (an interview complete with an edited highlight reel of the actress’ career). It’s as if each section of the show was merely a warm-up for what was to come and it built beautifully. Extravagant dance number leading to outrageous meta-fiction followed by a brief Q&A with a cult star familiar to even the most “out of it” attendee. The audience was so hyped that each and every title card (each a tribute to an infamous B (or Z) movie of the past) of All About Evil received applause.

The simplistically-brilliant structure of the “4-D” event struck me as the movie unfolded. All movies, of any budget, are hit or miss according to taste. You can’t say that an independent movie is more of a gamble than a blockbuster any more because crap is crap and gold is gold. You can’t cover one with the other and make it less than what it is. Transformers will always be empty spectacle. Night of the Living Dead will always be effective, low-key chiller. All you can do prior to any screening is hope and pray that the movie will be enjoyable.

What the “4-D Experience” does is amp up the audience. Like any warm-up gig, the songs and dances and clever video all worked to get the audience excited. And an excited audience is always more receptive to the main event. Even if the movie fails to live up to the amping, the amping itself staves off disappointment for that much longer. But Joshua Grannell loves the movies he’s celebrating in All About Evil and loves the spectacle that Peaches Christ brings to screenings of these movies. None of this showmanship is phony. There’s none of that disinterested attitude you receive at radio station press screenings. Peaches Christ opened with a pow and gave you zazz. All those nonsensical vaudeville words took on meaning again. There’s nothing insincere or misdirected about the 4-D experience or All About Evil itself. Josh and the theater already had our money. They could have simply shut off the lights, abused us with ads for Coca-Cola and previews for forthcoming dumb and then big farewell to us with a swift kick in the ass following the end credits. But that’s not what we got. We got a movie and we got a show.

We hung out for a bit afterwards, mercilessly annoying the theater employees who just wanted to go home. Both Peaches and Mike were gracious enough to introduce us to Lyonne, who was as gracious as possible while being extremely exhausted. Finally, it was time for everyone to go their separate ways. Alan intro’d us to a pair of documentarians—Paul and Julie Hunt—who allowed us to join them at a Greek Diner for… what’s the meal between “Midnight Snack” and “Breakfast”? “Mid-Snackfast”? Whatever. I got a milkshake, Amy got something entirely too healthy made predominantly of fruit. Anyway…

Eventually, we made our way back to Penn Station as the sun rose. I do not, under any circumstances, recommend this experience for anyone over the age of “going out into the world, searching for adventure”. Penn Station is a bit of a cesspool at the best of times, but at 4:30 in the morning, it’s a stew of bacteria and human refuse swarming over, around and from displaced travelers and those descended from The Crazies in Escape from New York (no, the appropriatety is not lost on me). Desperate for a slash, as they once said in New Zealand (according to old movies I’ve seen), I used my elbows to nudge open the inexplicably sticky men’s room door. Immediately inside, I was greeted with a sight I’ll never forget. Ever. It trumped even the sparkliest of drag showgirl showmanship.

In the stall immediately facing the door, with the stall door wide open, a man sat on the commode, pants around his ankles and belt around his bicep, shooting the contents of a milky syringe into his black-marked brown arm. In my nearly-forty years of life, this was the closest I’ve ever come to having a Herbert Selby, Jr., moment. The image was but a millisecond on my retinas (as I immediately one-eightied back into the waiting area), but it was a scene that will haunt me forever. This man, dear friends, by simultaneously ingesting and excreting, was the Ultimate Multitasker. And I bow to the wisdom behind his yellow-glazed eyes.

Getting back on the Megabus was less efficient than boarding from PA largely due to the fact that the NY side of Megabus seems to employ a higher degree of crackheads who simply shout: “Everyone to the left!” when what they mean is “Please form an orderly line for the bus to Pittsburgh.” All the “Everyone to the left!” succeeded in doing was encouraging synchronized shuffling, as eighty or so exhausted and miserable people bound for the Land of Sports and Zombies shifted their weight in a unified clump from one ten-foot of sidewalk space to the other.

With another seven-or-so hour trip ahead of us, we settled down in more-or-less comfort and willed ourselves to drift off to sleep. We’d survived our 24-hour military-grade entertainment excursion with Myrmidon proficiency. Take that, rapidly-aging body!

Next up: ALL ABOUT EVIL, PART II: SILVER SPRINGS, MD! (Or, “I love New York in June (July and August) Even Though I’m Not in New York and It’s Almost September… part III

I Love New York in June (and May and July and August) – How ‘bout you? Part 1

I enjoy New York City. Probably because I don’t live there. But I love visiting. Yes, it’s crowded and hectic and often smells like the inside of my own colon, but it’s New York City. The more we visit, the more familiar I become with this Mecca and the more I can pretend I’m a native. I’m particularly fond of smacking cab hoods and shouting “I’m walking heah!” then diving for the sidewalk as the cabbies gun the engine and chase me into the nearest Tim Horton’s.

This year we’ve made multiple trips to NY for a variety of reasons. One of the summer’s first was to celebrate Justin (Skin Crawl’s) Cthulu-themed birthday party, which also afforded us the opportunity to join Scooter McCrae and Alex Kuciw for lunch at a tiny little Irish pub during one of the key World Cup games. They were on their way to see Eastern Condors, hosted by Sammo Hung. It’s difficult to discuss classics of New Wave Hong Kong cinema while drunken hooligans cheer a never-ending pass.

(And if I may be snarky here, having witnessed “football frenzy” in London during an Arsenal-Manchester U. game, I have to say American “soccer” hooligans just look nerdy. Not a Vinnie Jones among the group nearest our table in NY. The butchest among them would have been hard-pressed to pull off a Casey Siemaszko.)

A few weeks later, we were back in the Big Apple for the premiere of the Diggerfilms documentary Under the Scares. This was a special event for us for a number of reasons. It marked the first time we visited Brooklyn by ourselves and it was the first time that I realized “Tribecca” used to be called “Hell’s Kitchen”, and that they are not separate places.

While we had visited Brooklyn once before, in the company of Alan Rowe Kelly, Scooter McCrae and Mike Gingold, that had been a particularly lovely part of the Borough. A place where trees were not only reported to grow, but could be witnessed growing. For the Under the Scares weekend, we stayed in the “auto body repair shop” district of Brooklyn, making it a considerably different experience. This section, a multi-cultural area, boasted a vehicle garage approximately every twenty-six feet, run by dangerous-looking men of every nationality. Further along, we discovered a heavenly-smelling bakery from which emanated the shrieking calls of many exotic birds. Unable to locate either the birds or the entrance, we could only draw the logical conclusion that flamingos were making fresh bread somewhere within the depth of that pre-war brick bunker. And if they weren’t making the bread, certainly the self-same flamingos were being slaughtered in the horrific Asian poultry garage further down the block. Suffice to say, the smell from that location was far from heavenly. Further south, if you get my meaning.

We wiled away many a tense hour waiting for the Diggerfilms guys to arrive. We were sharing a hotel room with them and were unable to check in. Parked outside the Comfort Inn, Amy and I read, listened to the radio and daydreamed about bygone days when we were not parked outside of a Brooklyn-area Comfort Inn, waiting for our Canadian compadres. (Amigos? Hommes-boys?)

Fretting not, once Steve Villeneuve, Nancy Tellier and Dave Aubin (with Simon Geraghty making an appearance later) arrived, we whisked ourselves away to midtown Manhattan via the reliable underground, aka, “The Subway”. Possibly the “F”; I forget now.

For the unwashed masses among you who may be unaware of Under the Scares, it’s a documentary about the world of independent filmmaking, produced by the fine folks at Diggerfilms, aka “The Guys Who Shot Demon Divas and the Lanes of Damnation who speak mainly French to freak me out”. That’s how I know them, anyway. They’re very talented, stylish filmmakers in their own right, but I like to give everyone I know a “me” frame of reference. Speaking of me, Under the Scares doesn’t have enough me in it.

It does, however, have a lot of Amy, Debbie Rochon, Frank Hennenlotter, Rod Gudino, Herschel Gordon Lewis, Robert Kurtzman, Gary Jones and a ton of Happy Cloud Pictures movie clips. Some of the latter were used ironically, however. (Narrator: “Sometimes low budget filmmakers can only hire their family and friends.” Cut to basement scene from The Resurrection Game.) Still, there’s a lot of HCP love, despite the near-dearth of me time, so I can forgive.

The Diggerfilms consortium was working on Under the Scares when we first met them, years ago at Robyn Griggs’ second Twisted Nightmare Weekend in Ohio. It was at this show that Amy, Debbie and I (among others) were interviewed for the doc. Having been previously solicited via email, we walked into the reserved conference room fully expecting to find a group of reprobates, broken-down DV camera in hand, asking us the usual questions like “How did you get started in filmmaking?” and “Can I borrow some money for food?”

Instead, we found a group of very professional reprobates (from the French meaning “reprobates”), a three-point lighting set up, lavaliere microphones and a snazzy prosumer HD camera. The questions were very well-thought out and prepared specifically for each subject, which I thought was classy, even though they were delivered in accents so thick I needed them to repeat themselves several times. (Actually, I didn’t need them too, but since camera operator Hugo Bissonnet was, while neatly dressed and purple-y coiffed, obviously hung over, asking him to repeat himself—“louder, please!”—was vastly entertaining. To me.)

Over the next couple of years, the group (sometimes a quartet, sometimes a quintet, sometimes a sextet, if you can believe it) worked diligently on the doc, intercutting the interviews with footage from their first film, Stories of a Gravedigger, as well as behind-the-scenes from that very project. Also taking clips from the films of their subjects, the finished project, Under the Scares, is a very informative and insightful look at the independent horror film scene. Not afraid to poke fun at themselves, the doc puts their pitfalls up on screen alongside their successes, making it clear to the viewer that filmmaking is not only hard work, but far from an exact science, and any notion of “magic” is dispelled almost immediately. Not discouraging by any means, the message of the movie is clear: before you attempt your own project, try and have a clear idea of what you want it to be, what you expect to happen, what you have to do, and what you will do should any of those things above not come together. It’s funny and it’s realistic.

There still isn’t enough of my interview, but that’s really neither here nor there. They keep telling me that the second disc of the DVD release will be nothing but me. When have they ever lied to me?

Seeing Under the Scares for the first time in the swanky Tribeca theater with a lot of friends and plenty of colleagues was just the frosting. Prior to the showing were a number of trailers—Suzi Lorraine’s upcoming Won Ton Baby and their own nourish dark comedy short Dead Pussy—and immediately following was a trip to a local indoor/outdoor bar/restaurant where we wiled away the rest of the night, discussing film and future ambitions.

As the night wore on the attendees from both ends of North America began to hear the call of the mild. Amy, Steve, Nancy, Dave and I were among the last to leave, staggering back to the subway to whisk us back to the comfort that Brooklyn was sure to provide. It was about three AM when we reached the aromatic platform and bought our tickets, wondering who these grade-school kids were and why they were loitering in midtown Manhattan so late, or if they knew if the crackhead giggling to himself by the change machine was likely to attack and eat us.

The highlight of the evening, indeed the cherry on the sundae, was seeing the toll a night on the town can take on caution-free adults. None of us were suffering, but earlier in the day, we’d been made aware that quite a bit of our nation’s finest navy men were on leave. We witnessed many a sailor wandering through the city with arms draped over the shoulders of very decidedly non-movie hookers. These were fresh-faced men on their way to and from exotic locales, spending time with women whose normal locales were obviously less-than exotic. On the platform opposite us, two officers in their finest dress blues awaiting a train to take them to the last exit to Brooklyn. To the astonishment of our Neighbors from the North, one of the officers was heaving mightily into a horrid trash can, making appalling noises heard even above the squeal of the passing non-stop express trains. I refrained from leading them in a round of “O Canada”, as I sensed things had already reached maximum-awkward.

Dragging ourselves back to beloved Brooklyn, assuring ourselves that our car not only remained we’d left it, but was still in one piece, we collapsed into our reserved beds and allowed the highs and lows of the day to wash us away to slumber.

(Hit the official Under the Scares site to see when this awesome doc with too little of me might be playing by you.)

(All photos swiped from Steve Villeneuve's Facebook page. Go there. Friend him. Speak French. See if I care.)

More words about the JONAH HEX movie than it's really worth...

 

Thanks to Todd at New Dimension Comics, Amy and I got to see an advanced preview of Jonah Hex. Since my father is a big western fan, I grew up with the Jonah Hex character. He’s a tough-as-nails bounty hunter that looks to most like Clint Eastwood but to me resembled Kirk Douglas. His defining features: a Confederate officer’s uniform and a hideously-scarred face thanks to a run-in with some Apaches. Knowing what I do about the comic book business and the constant urge for corporate revisioning (I’m told now Hex trolls a post-apocalyptic wasteland bereft of plastic surgery, to which info I can only sigh), I was certain that this movie adaptation would have a touch of the supernatural and more than a touch of the illogical. Unless a character is as well-defined as Batman or Spider-Man (and even when they are), comic book heroes don’t stand much of a chance on screen by themselves. They have to be fancied up. Jonah Hex is a fringe character (brought back to life in comics a few years back by the wonderfully awesome Jimmy Palmiotti and Justin Gray), a niche character. Have to make him sexy so the kids will buy him. Have to make him “cool”.

I’ve raged against “cool” before. I’m as indifferent to cool as I am aggravated by “hip”. Don’t care for either of these things because they’re fleeting and insubstantial. The Wild One was so “cool” in its day that it inspired generations of Hell’s Angels. Show a modern cycle jockey The Wild One today and they’ll beat you to death with the DVD box. “Cool” is also a replacement for genuine. If you concentrate too much on “cool”, you loose the substance. But because Hollywood is all about the opening weekend, “cool” has to be layered on by the trowelful. Hell, audiences are pigs and “cool” is the slop—just dump it on them. Make it fast, flashy and noisy. If something sticks, all the better, but if it doesn’t, well, the studios got your ten bucks, what do they care what you Tweet afterward?

But comic book movies have been pretty good recently. I’ve managed to squeeze satisfaction out of the mis-managed likes of Daredevil and Ghost Rider.  And Iron Man, with a title character I never cared about, ranks among my favorite big-screen adaptations. (With that in mind, I feel differently about Samuel L. Jackson Samuel L. Jacksoning all over Nick Fury because, well, he wants to make the character “cool”. Although to me, the character was already cool. He didn’t need to be Samuel L. Jacksoned. He was cool in and of himself. Real cool—not that fleeting, temporary kind… And don’t make the “But he’s not David Hasselhoff!” argument because that’s just stupid.) So I thought to myself, out loud and in Amy’s direction, as long as I enter the theater knowing that dumb was coming my way, but covered in sticky-sweet cool, maybe I’ll be okay.

Another strike in the movie’s negative column, though, was that Jonah Hex would not be screened for critics. Which meant that the Studios considered a screening to be a suicide move. And that’s never a good sign. That means they want the audiences to be disappointed by the movie, not the review. Then I read that the running time was a mere 81 minutes. In an age where the trailers run slightly over two hours, 81 minutes seems like a cut-scene from the coming-soon video game. And since the movie has flown under my radar for the most part, I only recently learned about the re-shooting, re-tinkering, additional Megan Fox insertions, then deletions, and an army of uncredited screenwriters brought aboard during the actual production, I started to think that maybe forewarned wasn’t nearly forearmed enough. Maybe I’d need a Gallagher poncho in the theater because god only knew how much cool was going to get splashed all over me.

But the ticket was free. Even if I hate it, I already had my refund. As for the “but it’s 81 minutes of my life I’ll never get back” lament, to be honest, I’d likely spend those 81 minutes watching a movie anyway. And with my recent track record, they’ll be 81 agonizing minutes anyway, dedicated to the survival of something cinematically-yucky anyway. So, really, I was already ahead because I liked the Jonah Hex character and I really like Josh Brolin, or, as I like to call him, “the saving grace of The Goonies who isn’t Robert Davi”. Josh Brolin saved the Americanized Nightwatch… if only he’d been there to rescue the Danish Nightwatch.

Advanced screenings have changed since I was a wide-eyed innocent. Growing up, you’d get a photocopied flier in the mail, good for “two passes” to something studios didn’t have a lot of faith in—Tremors, The Best of Times, Gorillas in the Mist are three I remember hitting this way. Nowadays, the passes are professionally-printed and delivered in stacks to specialty stores, often with a bar-code that will be scanned at the theater to ensure that it’s genuine. So that happened. And then we had to run the security gauntlet. One designate looked through bags and purses while two more wanded people for… well, I didn’t know. So I asked the guy, point blank, who was wanding me, “What are you looking for? Should I be worried about getting shanked at the concession stand?”

My keys set off the wand. So did my change. And my Swiss Army knife. But no, they were more concerned about our cell phones. I could have been packing a bazooka and Amy could’ve been carrying a silverback gorilla with social anxiety disorder, but so long as neither of those things captured video, these flacks couldn’t have cared less. Which made me think that the stakes were exceptionally high here. DC and Legendary produced the thing, but Warner Brothers was releasing it. Warner Brothers, already on the ropes with the smelling salts beneath its nose and the defibrillator at the ready, couldn’t risk another failure-due-to-piracy, despite—or because of—having what already seemed like a loser on their hands. They needed to squeeze money out of this thing--$47 million had already been spent. They needed that back.

Except that they’d gambled on an obscure character, set in a Western period, who didn’t have superpowers, was known for his gray-area morality (if he was known at all), and sported an unsexy facial scar. You could hear the suits, by the time the credits rolled during their executive screening, asking each other, “Why did we do this again?”

And earlier in the day, before heading to the theater, I read this bit of info: ‘Brolin exclaimed to MTV News[,] "And then I had a moment a week later and I thought why is it awful? Maybe the thing to do is to do the most awful movie I can find."’

It seems that Neveldine and Taylor, the sugar-addled Red Bull addicts behind the incomprehensible Crank series, had dropped out of directing the movie back in 2008. It was then handed to Jimmy Hayward, whose big screen introduction had been Horton Hears a Who.

Still… it was free.

Amy had suggested we get their early and I wish I’d listened and not dallied at a rain-damaged Barnes and Noble for ten minutes. By the time we stripped down to our sock-garters for security and reminded ourselves we were there for a movie and not a flight the theater was filled to the rafters with Internet reviewers, comic store employees and random teenage mouth-breathers. Two of the three in front of us had just discovered Let the Right One In via On Demand and were attempting to describe it to the lone girl in their row that both hoped to bang but were resigned to the knowledge that she was going home with the usher with the bad skin but his own car. “It’s like Twilight only, like, deeper.” Said Thing One.

“I loved the part when the one kid was in the pool and you just saw his head,” said Thing Two.

“I’m totally not into Twilight,” said Girl Thing. “I loved the books, but Taylor Laughton [sic] or whatever is cross-eyed and not Jacob.”

“Yeah,” agreed Things One and Two.

It’s difficult to attempt suicide with a cell phone. I mean, yeah, I still had my pocket knife, but since security was so afraid of my phone, it felt like an implement of destruction. It wasn’t. It was still a phone.

And, again, the screening was free. And we got a cool extended Inception trailer out of it.

As expected, Jonah Hex is a wreck, but it is, definitely, a fun wreck. The script and structure is so muddled that about 40 of those 81 minutes are dedicated to flashbacks—the same flashbacks. In order to explain Hex further, we are treated to a stylized animated back story that fills us in on his relationship to the Crow Indians, who brought him back to life from “near death”, which enables him to talk to the dead. New to me, but I was still with it. His nemesis from the comics, Quentin Turnbull, as gnashed by John Malkovich, was just as evil son of a bitch as he was in the old comics, but unafraid to kill anyone. Large amounts of anyone. Folks hooted and hollered when Megan Fox appeared on screen—a woman I find so shallow that if converted to 3D, she’d still only make it as far as Flatland—but she had precious little to do. She’s a classic frontier whore in a one-whore town who has somehow pioneered the art of eyebrow tweezing and lip gloss application. Any hope I had that this would be closer to Deadwood than Blazing Saddles went out the window the minute she showed up.

Oh boy, the cool just kept a-piling on, though. Hex rides into town after his three backstories dragging three corpses behind his horse. When the sheriff attempts to renege on the bounty, Hex fires up twin 50 cal gattling guns strapped to either side of his horse. Beltless gattlings, with magic bullets, that somehow manage to mow down only what he’s pointing at and at no time blowing off the horse’s head. Or searing the horse’s sides. Fine. I have friends who would view that scene and sum it up with “It was awesome!” while abandoning any sense of logic, the ideal audience for a movie like this. Since my new medication was kicking in, I was able to jettison my disbelief.

Even when he’s presented with a pair of custom-made crossbow pistols that fire sticks of dynamite. Even when his ability to raise the dead seems not only silly, but reveals itself to be utterly pointless. Just as Megan Fox’s entire character is superfluous (and despite her tough talk, this woman would not have lasted a day in the post-Civil War frontier and would have been raped to death by someone who looked like Jack Elam). I was able to ignore the fact that the second-in-command Irish bad guy sported facial tattoos far too intricate for the time period, the application of such, in that time, would have likely killed him. Even Turnbull’s central MacGuffin—so angry is he at America, waging the war among the brothers, apparently, just to kill his son that he combines a Civil War battleship with the Guns of Navarone to build an industrial-age Death Star—didn’t strike me as overly silly. At this point, I was expecting the laws of gravity to disappear and was just happy the characters cast shadows. That the credits rolled without my seeing a single saloon Pepsi machine should have made my heart soar.

With the three corpses dragged behind the horse, I knew what I was in for. Hayward and company were making a modern-day Spaghetti Western. This is a cheap way of making a “modern” western and imbibing it with as much cool as possible. John Ford rose from the grave just to commit suicide when the Italians usurped the Western. Because the tropes of the American West as defined by Ford, Hawks—even Anthony Mann—were cast aside by Leone and his like for favor of the “revisionist” Western. While this led to the “demystifying” of the Western, it also led to the inclusion of grotesqueries, amoral anti-heroes and nonsensical gun battles filled with the type of ballistics that gave the Warren Commission its gravity.

When modern modern westerns, like the remake of 3:10 to Yuma, include nonsensical style over substance, the producers quote the Spaghetti Western philosophies. It’s a way to justify “cool”. If you want a shoot-from-the-hip, lives-by-his-own-code, larger-than-life hero, you have to go with Eastwood or Franco Nero. Today’s audiences just don’t dig Robert Mitchum or John Wayne. And like anyone would believe that It’s a Wonderful Life guy could be a badass (like in Naked Spur or Bandolero). And all of this is fine, really. But let me make a parallel that some of you will understand: saying modern Westerns are better when they’re like the Italians’ is like saying that zombies are better when they wear oatmeal on their faces and fight sharks. There’s more than room for both, but you can’t tell me the latter is better than the former.

Anyway, from the flashy photography to the heavy-metal Mastodon musical score, I was dripping with cool by the time the lights came up. The Three Things in front of us who laughed and bounced all the way through proclaimed, “That was stupid!” as they left. As they no doubt viewed me as one of the elderly, I had nothing to add. If “stupid” is the new “cool”, it just means I don’t watch enough Jersey Shore to understand that.

For all the stupid/cool that dripped out of Jonah Hex, I will say that James Brolin was terrific. His make-up is distracting and looks incredibly painful, but that’s what it was designed to do. If Jonah Hex had been played straighter, I think the make-up would have vanished for me, leaving only the character and the situation. He brought the scenes to life and it’s a good thing that he’s in virtually every frame. Without Brolin, Hex would have collapsed under the weight of its own uber-ness. With him, though, it’s a pretty entertaining, if disposable, comic book western. I hope it makes a bucket of money and stays off Pirate Bay for at least the rest of the weekend (so far, though, a couple of cams have already appeared), in the hopes that a superior sequel can be crafted. But as it stands, it was definitely worth the price we paid for it, both the free ticket and the blathering of the Things Trio. It’s no replacement for The Searchers—or even Duck, You Sucker!—but it isn’t the worst thing I’ve ever seen.