Well, dear readers, the evening shall be a mere memory in a matter of moments, for the midnight hour shall soon be upon us and we will sleep in a reverie of shared nocturnal and preternatural wanderings. Say what? Why did that suddenly pop out from the deepest recesses of the windmills of my mind? Enough with these nocturnal nothings – don’t we have notes to write? Don’t we have our next performance of The Brain From Planet X to prepare for? We cannot waste time and nocturnal and preternatural wanderings and reveries, no, we must buckle down Winsocki and do our notes. All else is so much fish. Speaking of so much fish, yesterday was a perfectly odd day, filled with perfectly odd things. For example, I slept until ten. That was perfectly odd. Then I arose, did a bunch of stuff on the computer, made some telephonic calls, and then suddenly it was noon. I went over to Fed Ex to ship a big box o’ stuff back home – we packed it up, I filled out the Ground paperwork, but their computers wouldn’t process the Ground order (it was happening to others there, as well). So, I had to leave my credit card info, and they said they’d call me with the tracking number. I came back home and after two hours I’d received no call, so I called them back and at first was asked who had helped me. I explained that I had no idea who had helped me and this idiot girl said I’d have to come in – I suggested she put someone from the Fed Ex desk on the phone, which she finally did. He looked up my package and gave me the tracking number and cost – if I hadn’t called, they never would have called me. I did some more work on the computer, then took a nice, long walk, during which I had a couple of nice, long telephonic conversations. I then came back and got a pastrami sandwich from the Subway downstairs and it was actually quite tasty. After that, I laid down on the bed and fell asleep for about forty minutes, after which I did some more work on the computer and then put a DVD in for my evening viewing adventure.
Last night, I watched a motion picture entitled Death Proof, directed by the geeky Mr. Quentin Tarantino, a director and writer who has made a career out of paying homage to his betters. To the male teen, he is “cool” even though they have not a clew as to the films or experiences he’s paying homage to – oh, they read about it, but they’ve never actually seen any of these films and if it was anyone but Tarantino, they certainly wouldn’t tolerate the originals to which he so lovingly pays homage. Death Proof was originally the second half of Grindhouse, a tribute to the 70s grindhouse double bills (which, in reality, were triple bills, at least in the 42nd Street grindhouses). Never mind that the target audience had no idea what these films were or what a grindhouse was – no, the target audience was reared in the world of anonymous cineplexes. Certainly those of us who used to attend those films in those theaters regularly look back with some fondness to that lost era. So, the conceit was okay, and I understand that the theatrical release of Grindhouse had trailers, missing reel slugs, coming attraction slugs we all know and love, and the like – all running a whopping 190 minutes – I gather each feature was around ninety minutes, although the Rodriguez film was probably shorter than that (Planet Terror). In releasing the films on DVD the inane decision was made to separate the films and release them as stand-alones, which, of course, completely negates the POINT of them. As a total experience, the scratches, matching 70s film stock, bad reel changes, splices, missing dialogue, all at least make sense, like it or not. Remove the conceit and it makes no sense at all to those who aren’t familiar with the milieu. Tarantino’s Death Proof was the second feature, and it’s been expanded by at least ten to fifteen minutes – I’d much rather see the shorter version, because at 113 minutes, much of the film feels interminable. Stylistically, I enjoyed the 70s homage, and they get all the scratches, reel changes and film stock look exactly right. People who know nothing have said in their “reviews” that the faded color was really accurate. The color isn’t faded – it’s the way 70s inexpensive Eastman film stock printed – too contrasty, but colors are accurate and, amusingly, match the drained look of many of today’s films, which simply remove as much blue as possible, which is why I loathe the look of today’s films. However, Mr. Tarantino switches the look of the film at the half-way mark, when it suddenly shifts into pristine black-and-white (for no reason whatsoever – are we having an homage or aren’t we?), then to pristine but way too yellow color (I much prefer the too contrasty look of the first part). Again, there’s no reason for the switch, since the film is still the film. And what about the film? It’s all fine and dandy to have sport with the genre, but unfortunately Tarantino spends twenty minutes at a time in some of the most boring dialogue sequences I’ve ever sat through. Most of the film, until its mid-point bit of action and violence, and then the film’s final fifteen-minute car chase, is talking, talking, and more talking. There are two sets of female characters who unfortunately all sound and are played exactly the same. There are some good stunts, and laudably no CGI, and a few of the actors do well, especially Kurt Russell as a psychotic stuntman. Michael Parks puts in an appearance and he’s turned into Edgar Buchanan. The score is filled with lifted snippets from scores for other, better films – by Herrmann, Morricone, Cipriano and other Eyetalians, as well as some “hip” rock-and-roll. I didn’t hate it, but I was annoyed by all the endless yakking and the inconsistent style. The transfer is excellent, as I’m sure the sound is, although there’s no way to judge that on Ye Olde Computer.
What am I, Ebert and Roeper all of a sudden? Why don’t we all click on the Unseemly Button below because frankly I’m ready for my reverie of nocturnal and preternatural wanderings.
Today, I shall be going to the Acorn around eleven, where I will be shown that the sound system has been fixed, that our show disc is working, and that all mics are working, so that I don’t have to worry before the performance. I hope the cast has been running things in their head during their three days off and that we get right back into the swing of things. We have a decent-sized audience at this point, and I’m hoping we pick up some traffic close to show time. Our two four-thirty performances are very light (so are all the other NYMF shows in the large venues doing four-thirty shows), so if you know anyone who’d like to see the show, send ’em down on Wednesday and Friday. Closing night looks like it will be a very nice house.
I think dear reader Jeanne will be at tomorrow’s matinee, and certainly Miss Karen will be there, so I’m sure we’ll all do something for dinner, which will be fun.
Well, dear readers, I must take the day, I must do the things I do, I must, for example, get a good night’s sleep with some excellent reveries and nocturnal wanderings, I must attend a sound check, and then a matinee of The Brain, and then a dining adventure. Today’s topic of discussion: What were your favorite movie palaces growing up – describe the exterior and interior and your favorite films you saw whist attending. And what were your favorite grindhouses, those faded and not kept up former nice theaters where you saw your favorite exploitation films. Let’s have loads of lovely postings, shall we, whilst I begin my nocturnal wanderings.