Dion Does Greta

Last week, I went to see Dion Conflict's addition to the 3D Fest at the Fox Cinema. Along the way, I laughed to myself that the only screenings I've been at for six weeks were either at Trash Palace or The Fox! And ironically, the three times I've been to the Fox in the past six years were for Dion screenings-- the first was The Stewardesses in 2002. (On a trademark Greg Woods sidenote, I should also mention that I have yet to go to a screening this year, where I haven't run into someone I'm not on a first-name basis with. I love the little surrogate family that grows in these supporters of such independent events.)

My prejudicial assumption of having to travel out to hell's half acre to see something at the Fox is fast eroding, as for this west-end boy the trek to and from the Beaches seems less the big expedition it seemed to be to my shorter legs ten years ago. And if the Fox continues to carry the torch of showing more hip stuff that used to be shown by other cinemas previously in the defunct Festival chain, yet closer to the downtown core, I'll happily take the trip out here more often.

Of all the 3D films offered up this time, Dion's offering, The Three Dimensions of Greta, a 1972 swinging London softcore epic by Peter Walker (best known for his horror films of the period) was likely the most..... -um- two dimensional. The only 3D parts in this flimsy spectacle (in which some bloke with a terrible German accent ventures to London to look for the statuesque Greta) occur in the four flashback sequences (hence, why this film is originally titled The Four Dimensions of...), identifiable by beginning with the swirling dissolve used in the old "Batman" TV series (minus the bat insignia of course), so the viewers can don their red and blue glasses, and in honesty, only occasionally do these sequences work.

But still, this mild romp, which follows Greta down the road to threesomes, strip joints and gangsters, is enjoyable for its self-referential humour, where one of the characters make a joke about "like being in a British sex film", and as such, it is rather clinical in its depiction of debauchery and depravity. My favourite scene aptly captures the distaff approach to the narrative. Outside a strip joint, a middle-aged barker accounces repetitively "Completely naked, and they move on stage."

Well, thank God for that.

Oh yes, I happened to win one of Dion's prizes-- a CD label maker. But it's Windows based, and I can't use it. Interested parties, drop me line.

The Third Floor Drive-In: Season Four, Episode 5

The May 13 episode of The Third Floor Drive-In was the science fiction-horror film Monster on the Campus (1958). While Jack Arnold had made many films under contract for Universal, this economical director is best known for his string of science fiction movies made in the 1950's. Today, such films as It Came from Outer Space, Tarantula,and The Incredible Shrinking Man still hold up very well for their no-nonsense, matter-of-fact delivery, and thoughtful writing. Tonight's film is one of the last and lesser-known of his fantasy pictures, while not on the same caliber as the others, it's not as muddled as The Space Children either (admittedly, I've wanted to give that one another look).

University professor Donald Blake (Arthur Franz) receives a coelacanth (that's a prehistoric lungfish) embedded in ice, and accidentally cuts his hand on one of the fins, and as a result, at times turns into a hairy monster that starts a lot of bodies to pile up on campus. Of course, things were already getting fishy (no pun intended) as they disposed of a giant dragonfly who grew to such proportions after landing on the coelacanth, and even their nice doggie grew big fangs and attacked people after having lapped up some of the melted ice that encased the fish! Since it's the 1950's, of course the fish was exposed to radiation. Of all of the atomic-themed fantasy films Arnold made, this is surely the silliest and least mature, but at 77 minutes it's a fun little film. Despite that Arnold himself didn't care for this movie, it's still rather briskly made, despite the less-than-special effects, and is often cleverly shot. And oh yes, teenage heartthrob Troy Donahue makes an early appearance as one of the college kids. What the hell, it's the drive-in, and pretty much anything is acceptable when you're in a blanket under the stars.

The Third Floor Drive-In: Season Four Episode Four

Hey, we're getting caught up with all of our "third floor drive-in" posts that had remained in "draft" mode for some time.

The April 24 episode of the Third Floor Drive-In was the Sunn Classics 1981 epic, Earthbound, preceded by the trailer for the 1968 masterpiece, Mission Mars.


Conceivably having run out of paranormal subjects to make cheap documentaries about, Sunn Classics extrapolated on their other winning formula, the family movie. Earthbound was a feature made as a pilot for a proposed TV series, but when that fell through, the film crept out to theaters instead.

This inoffensive fare features a nice nuclear family of human-looking extra-terrestrials whose spaceship crashes in the woods. They are befriended by nice old Burl Ives and his grandson who take them on a cross-country trek to a university to get what they need from a science lab to repair their vehicle, so they can leave. Along the way of course they are being pursued by government agents led by Joseph Campanella, who you know is the bad guy because he's always in a fedora and sunglasses (regardless of time of day). Christopher Connelly (as the patriarchal alien) spent the rest of his career making a lot of Eurojunk before his death in 1988. (I'm not sure, but I wonder if his gravelly voice here is symptomatic of the cancer that would take his life.)

The film, from director James L. Conway (Sunn Classics journeyman who gave us In Search of Noah's Ark, Hangar 18, among others), has an unfairly bad reputation-- it's cute, harmless and mildly engaging, even if for the most part it is episodic, and some of the writing is sitcom level (no surprise given that it was intended for television), appealing to the younger audiences with the alien daughter joining some high school girls to ogle at boys, and the extra-terrestrial boy helps his human friend win a basketball game (with some really crummy special effects), and how can we forget, the aliens' pet-- a blue monkey! However, admittedly it falls apart in the last third with some sudden plot turns left to expand upon in the alleged series.

You could do far worse with films made after the Star Wars craze. Still, this is one of those films where redneck folks suddenly start grabbing their rifles looking for Martians as soon as they see a light in the sky, and where the aliens have the technology to fly across the universe, yet cannot afford any better wardrobe than silver suits that came from "The Lost Saucer". But this silly family fare is somewhat refreshing-- full of an innocence that we seldom see in movies anymore.

It Came From Baltimore

Last week, in preparation for an article I'm writing for "Micro Film" magazine, based out of Illinois, I had the pleasure of interviewing Mr. John Paul Kinhart, for his wonderful, recently released documentary Blood Boobs and Beast, which chronicles the life and work of Baltimore filmmaker Don Dohler. Before his first film, the micro-budget cult classic, The Alien Factor (1978), Mr. Dohler had already established himself as a "do-it-yourself" inspiration, with his self-published underground comics in the 1960's, and his well-remembered "Cinemagic" magazine in the 1970's, whose coverage on how to do special effects was an influence on contemporary Hollywood players.

I have long been a fan of Don Dohler's work as a director, as his precocious no-budget wonders are infectious in their adulation of the "oh golly gee" mindset of 50's sci-fi and horror flicks, while adding modern staples of gore and flesh. Many of his early works belie their costs with the inclusion of some geniunely nifty special effects. Admittedly, I have only seen Dohler's first four films, before his hiatus until he appeared back in the 1990's direct-to-video horror market in partnership with Joe Ripple. Yet his early work (The Alien Factor, the brilliant suburban black comedy Fiend, the gonzo effects-laden Nightbeast, and the hilarious rednecks-in-peril spoof Galaxy Invader) demonstrate that, despite the obvious liabilties of working with limited actors and resources, this guy clearly "had something", and won high marks alone for being a low-budget regional filmmaker whose heart is in the right place.

In late 2006, I had made a new year's resolution to try and track down Mr. Dohler for an interview in 2007, however I had no idea at the time that he was sick, and was therefore shocked to learn that he passed away from cancer in December of that year. Dohler's work strikes me with the same giddy enthusiasm that befits many of the 50's sci-fi films that influenced him, but also, with all of his independent pursuits (in not just filmmaking, but also in publishing) he continued to be a positive role model for movers and shakers like myself who continue to toil in the trenches. When Don Dohler made the unprecedented feat of selling his $3000 wonder The Alien Factor for broadcast in cable television packages, I was among the many in the 1980's who caught it during its constant runs on the late late show, usually at 4 AM, and was ingratiated that such a film could be seen by many: "Hey, I can do this too!"

Thank God for Mr. Kinhart's documentary, which had been shot for over two years, and wrapped just before Mr. Dohler's passing. While Don Dohler is surely not a household name, I was delighted to hear that a documentary was being made to honour his work. As such, I would have been content just to see a work with the typical framework where Dohler talks about his films, intercut with bountious clips from his little wonders. But much to my delight and surprise, Blood Boobs and Beast (whose title refers to the three requisites to sell a direct-to-video horror flick), goes much further than that. Within a few minutes of this layered documentary, I was hooked. Its 75 minutes is a compulsively fascinating look at Dohler's work (generously featuring his publishing in tandem with his filmmaking), and is surprisingly candid in his personal life off-camera. It is fitting that you come away knowing even more of Don Dohler as a person. The films are secondary, much as they were in Dohler's own life. There is also a darkly amusing meta-narrative, with behind-the-scenes footage from (what would be his final work) Dead Hunt that, intentionally or not, shows us that even doing a little movie like this is also beset with problems. As such, I did something in one week I seldom do with a movie: I watched it twice. After the initial viewing of garnering my notes, I just had to see it again to visit Dohler's world some more, and was equally rewarded.

In an age where there are so many "behind the scenes" documentaries made about filmmakers (often for DVD extras), it is gratifying to find one so thorough, aptly portraying a deeply complex man. Blood Boobs and Beast is still being screened sporadically, and will hopefully be released on DVD for all to see. To learn more about this film, and other works by John Paul Kinhart, please visit the filmmaker's website here.

The Analog Video Enthusiast Book Four: Randy, Where Are You Now?

Upon preparation for this blog entry, over the weekend I pondered just exactly how many video stores (including convenience stores who had given over significant retail space for movie rentals) had existed in my home town during the boom years of the VHS revolution. In 1983, there were three stand-alone video stores. In 1988, four-- plus five or six convenience stores. In 1993, there were perhaps eight convenience stores doling out video rentals. In the interim, the three original stand-alone video stores had closed, and two more sprung to action. The more I thought of this, I was reminded of an old National Geographic documentary about cowboys in the 20th century, and the oldest ones would talk at the dinner table about how many saloons there used to be.

Among the three stores that had closed up, the smallest, yet the one with the most interesting history, was Hollywood Nights, which was located at in a strip plaza on West St. Its amusing slogan was "Take home an Oscar tonight"-- a misnomer for two reasons. At first, like many video places, it stocked a lot of low-rent sleaze, because people would put anything in their stores, as VHS was such a craze that customers would virtually rent whatever they could find to play on their newfangled VCR. And then, in its twilight years, the inventory became more geared towards art-house stuff that the Academy would ignore... and here is where my episode begins.

In 1990-1, back home from university, I had begun my "art film" phase. While still devouring whatever schlock I could find, I also opened a window for whatever foreign or art-house pictures would fleetingly appear on the shelves. In truth, previously, ever since acquiring a VCR, I had probably rented from Hollywood Nights once a year- tops. But in the intervening years that I was away, the inventory had given itself over from things like Beast of the Yellow Night or 1990: The Bronx Warriors, to well-regarded art-house films like To Kill a Priest or The Unbearable Lightness of Being... titles that were always available for rent, if you catch my drift. And as such, I became friendly with Randy, the manager, as he had some interesting out-of-the-way titles that would satisfy my new interest. It was through him that I had my first real taste of Kurosawa (I don't count the time I fell asleep through Rashomon in film school), as he had a few of the Connoisseur VHS releases that he would lend to people. Why he didn't rent out his copies of Ikiru and Throne of Blood is beyond me, but maybe he didn't want to lose them.

His renting policy was certainly curious-- when you paid your money to rent a movie, he'd only write down your name next to what titles you took out. He never asked for your phone number, because if you were trying to rip him off by giving him a fake name, the number would be fake too, right? THAT is a business built on trust.

I believe he was the sole employee in Hollywood Nights' later years, and his store was the one video outlet in the county that was led on a singular vision. In others words, he stocked his store with titles that interested him, instead of things that interested the customers. A risky move for sure, especially in a small town whose residents think that Truffaut is the name of a chocolate. And as such, the adage of "Build it and they will come" didn't work.

Another curious entrepreneurial ambition was that in the latter weeks of the store's life, he was also renting his record collection! Another video store in town was renting CD's, as compact disks still cost an arm and a leg those days, but Randy, God bless him, was really going old school by renting out LP's at a couple of bucks each for a weekend.

But alas, this presumed attempt at bringing in some more business was not to be, as in late spring of 1991, Hollywood Nights ended with a whimper, as the door was chained up, and soon his stock disappeared from the shelves. Perhaps my most enduring image of Randy was late in 1990, when a friend and I went to the Pizza Delight next door in the strip plaza. He had come in for a drink after work, then went back to the store. After we were done, and pulled out of the parking lot, I looked back out of the passenger window and saw the interior lights of Hollywood Nights giving a dull glow into the empty lot. There was Randy in his sports jacket, sitting at the counter, smoking, watching something on a little TV set-- whatever it was I'm certain was unique fare, once again playing to an audience of one.