On Saturday night, or Sunday morning, whichever you prefer to call it, Toronto programmer Dion Conflict fulfilled his long-held ambition to have an all-night film show, entitled "Shock and Awe", in tribute to the Grindhouse days of yore, held, ironically, at The Fox Cinema, in the heart of The Beaches, where not much else goes on in this sleepy yuppie retreat all year long except for The Beaches Jazz Festival (which is derided by most of its locals except the business owners). This location is certainly a long way from the fabled Times Square grindhouses, or even our own Yonge Street strip, which in its heyday housed the Rio, whose all-night runs of sleaze films influenced Dion's own desire to give Toronto another taste of such long-extinct action. But The Fox itself is representative of how times have changed, and so it is doubly ironic and fitting that we received doses of cinematic sex and violence in such a family-oriented neighbourhood.
Those who read Bill Landis and Michelle Clifford's quasi-romantic reportage of the debauchery in the Times Square theatres as collected in their book Sleazoid Express will be informed that no rough trade, clouds of marijuana, drinking or police raids were found this night, and the only cans rolling in the aisles were Red Bull. I went to the bathroom a lot, but that was because I was drinking so much coffee. The audience was well-behaved, the decor was modern, and my shoes didn't stick to the floor. Perhaps one should be grateful for the passage of time, after all. Thus, all of the ingredients of the iconic grindhouses were found on the screen, not below it, and that suits me fine. Seeing these half-dozen artifacts from less politically correct times was enough of a history lesson on how much cinematic form and content has changed. But perhaps more importantly, seeing these films on a big screen with a responsive audience added another dimension even to the movies on the bill that I had previously seen. Getting the chance to see any non-current film on a big screen is a valuable cultural lesson, and also a fragile gift that we must continue to appreciate, lest it go away tomorrow.
For those not among the eighty troopers who watched films from 11:30 AM to 10 PM, here's what you missed:
The Boogeyman (1980): I've always considered director, former Fassbinder protege and current direct-to-video hack Ulli Lommel to be a two-trick pony. This and Brainwaves were the only two good films he ever made, in my opinion. The event wisely began with this well-remembered horror film-- the perfect appetizer to get everyone wound up for the six-course meal. All of its weird violence kept the audience going, and after having seen it a couple of times on video, its mood still holds up quite well (also love the use of primary colours in the last third). But the viewers' snickering at the non-horror scenes only confirmed my belief that Lommel can't direct actors to save his life. But isn't wooden acting also part of the menu for a grindhouse festival? Plus, I love Tim Krog's electronic score-- soundtrack album, anyone?
Perhaps the surprise hit of the evening was Matt Cimber's apocalyptic The Black Six (1976), which has the giggly novelty of having six football players filling the title contingent... and not one of them is Jim Brown or Fred Williamson. To be sure, the audience had a blast watching these guys kick some cracker butt, as well as digging the hip dialogue. One of the six discovers that his brother was kicked by some white trash bikers, and his friends help him get revenge. The plot is operable at best-- as it takes about as much time for him to find the culprits as it does to get a haircut. Instead, the narrative is more thought-provoking for its politics evoking everything from Angela Davis to Uncle Tom, showing the complexity of white-black race relations, and its climax lets no-one off the hook.
At best, Naughty New Orleans (1954) is a valuable filmed document of exotic dancers, musicians and comedians from the period-- and I use the term "filmed document" very loosely, as there is little that is cinematic in this rigid affair, replete with day-for-night shots, the same bizarre reaction shots of toothless patrons and spectators who inexplicably bring their wives along to see the strippers, and a nailed-down camera a la Warhol that records dancing moves that wouldn't pass amateur night at The Brass Rail. Interspersed with the acts is the emcee whose tableau of real groaner jokes are at least better than the average homegrown show on The Comedy Network. In the same tradition of a Sam Katzman musical, the plot is merely an excuse to string along the acts. Yell "yeah right" with me unison as I reveal the storyline about a jetsetter who goes out book-shopping in N'awlins, comes across this burlesque club, and is delightfully surprised to see that his girlfriend isn't a secretary after all. The burning question of what kind of book store he'd find at midnight remains unanswered, but I'll bet it would be like that smut shop on Yonge St. that mercifully closed last year.
And now, for a double-shot of 70's hedonism. Rene Cardona Jr's Tintorera (1977)is one of the many "Jaws" rip-offs of the period, but to say this is a shark movie is to call Porky's a stinging satire of our educational system. Mostly, this is a sex romp, as a three-way act is rudely interrupted by a pissed-off tiger shark. Like other Cardona films (Survive; Guyana- Cult of the Damned) this is completely shameless. At least it delivers more sex than most non-porn films of the era ever dared. It is an ugly movie about people with equally ugly morals-- when the shark shows up one almost can read this as a biblical metaphor about the fornicators being punished for their sins, but when the danger passes, people go right back to the pelvic push. This just wouldn't get out of the gate today with its likely authentic scenes of clubbing sharks-- if there was anyone from the Humaine Association on this set, they were likely being serviced while the crew was out filming. It is a fascinating piece of misanthropy.Danish Pastries (1973) on the other hand, seems like a frolic. This featherweight cheerfulness shows what happens when an aphrodisiac gets mixed up in the water supply, and the students of an all-girls school have their way with all the cartoon-like male goons in the village. This Euro-trash mixes sex with typically overcranked and overdone slapstick, centering on the switching of suitcases... the other containing some potion which would have controlled the passions of the young ladies during the predicted passing of Venus, to prevent another exercise in debauchery that occurred in seventeen-hundred... and sixty-nine. But what fun would that have been?? This silly hardcore fluff was sinfully entertaining to watch on a Sunday morning.
Finally, with the sun already high in the sky, we had the headliner act, Peter Jackson's Dead Alive (1992), presented in its seldom-seen uncut version. While surely it is one of the bloodiest films you'll see in a month of Sundays, all of the carnage is perversely cheerful. Jackson instead delivers a non-stop roller coaster ride in the spirit of Sam Raimi's Evil Dead films. A hapless schmoe's domineering mother becomes a flesh-eating ghoul after a bite by a rat monkey, and soon more of the undead begin piling up in his basement. This crazed film may not be everyone's cup of tea, but it is surely not boring. It is a Grand Guignol exercise, with every nuance overplayed to operatic proportions-- almost every shot swoops, zooms and tilts. At the heart of it all is a pitch-black Oedipal satire unlike any other on the screen, where the poor guy can't shake free of his mother, even when she's a shambling, rotting corpse. Dead Alive was the perfect jolt in the veins after such a trip through various aspects of grindhouse culture. While this film was made well after most of the archetypal grindhouses had been plowed over in favour of Starbucks and condos, it surely keeps in the gleefully nasty spirit that encompasses the rest.
As it stands, "Shock and Awe" was a fun night alone for its marathon journey through the history of exploitation. But it just wouldn't be a Dion screening without his bizarre prizes -which were drawn every intermission- and blue light specials (finally-- a copy of Sun Bunnies). Plus, the Fox also served up burritos, pizza and -haha- Danish pastries, making this a night full of goodies. It could hardly be called just a night at the movies-- it was a piece of history, and an event unto itself. Such a good time was had by all that they're already talking about doing another grindhouse festival in the fall. Bring it on MacDuff.... and keep those blue light specials coming....
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