Categories
30Hz Bl-g The Best Thing

Bob’s Burgers: The Best Thing I Watched This Week

Every so often we happen across a movie or a television show that’s so far up our alley that we have to stop and question how we’d co-existed in the same world for so long without crossing paths. So that happened this week. I had been watching a movie last Sunday night. When the movie ended, I flipped back to my cable feed. On my television I found myself staring at a show I’d long heard about but never watched. Confession: I’d long since given up on animation offerings on major networks. “The networks” just don’t take the risks necessary to make animation truly essential. At this point in my life I don’t have time for anything that’s not essential. Five minutes of Bob’s Burgers had me hooked.

the best thing I watched this week

 

Bob’s Burgers: The Best Thing I Watched This Week

 

This was the particular episode in question:

 

 

Once the novelty of hearing the voice of Sterling Archer (H. Jon Benjamin) performing the doughy, middle-aged titular Bob wore off (not to mention the number of references/connections between Archer and Bob’s Burgers), I found myself enraptured, held in comedic bliss. The family owns/runs a greasy-spoon Burger joint but that setting only provides a backdrop for endless opportunity for riffing on the various  personalities. The wiser-than-their-years children contribute most of the immediate laughs in juxtaposition with the languid, laid-back, even-tempered and thoroughly put-upon working-class Bob and his Jersey-ish wife Linda. The inimitable Kristen Schaal voices Louise, a perpetually bunny-eared pre-teen with isolated megalomaniac tendencies. Eugene Mirman (Flight of the Conchords, Archer) makes magic with Bob’s naturally dim son, Gene, who lives to provide the musical score to the family’s hijinx on a Casio DG-20. Set to electric mandolin. Okay, sorry… Flight of the Conchords reference. Gene’s keyboard is really good at sampling though. And then there’s the pubescent and sexually (perversely so) confused Tina (Dan Mintz) with a bizarre affection for horses. Bob’s Burgers is often perverse and a little bit crass, but a good-natured sincerity provides a baseline that grounds these characters as humans despite their crudely drawn animation and preposterous reactions to everyday events. There’s a bit of South Park, a touch of Archer’s banter and a heap of The Simpsons’ familial unit tucked into Bob’s DNA, but don’t let the similarities direct your judgment. Bob’s Burgers carves out its own unique slice of that animation pie.

Bob’s Burgers is available on Netflix Streaming and Hulu. Since I stumbled across this show on Sunday, not a day has gone by that I haven’t watched at least one episode. I can’t get enough. I’m off to see Mad Max: Fury Road tonight, but you can bet that I’m going to come home and queue up some more Bob’s Burgers to cleanse my palette. If I had to recommend a favorite episode from all of those that I’ve watched, I’m going to have to pick “Sheesh. Cab, Bob?” — the episode in which Bob starts driving a taxi and inadvertently becomes a pimp for a gaggle of transsexual prostitutes in order to pay for Tina’s 13th birthday party. Pure gold.

 

Categories
Cinema

30Hz Underrated 1985

Underrated 1985

(originally appeared on Rupert Pupkin Speaks)

Tuff Turf New Avengers

I spend all this time and money amassing a media collection of impressive size, quality and breadth but when I sit down to watch one of these “important” or “artistic” films I display proudly, I inevitably just toss in another disc from a $5 compilation of 12 movies from the 1980’s. I’ll blame coming of movie-watching age in the 1980’s. The neon titles, the synth-laden scores, the frivolous use of gratuitous nudity and bloody squibs. The movies of the 1980’s were childish and fun, but also often pulpy and expressive in ways that grew directly out of (and rebelled against) the experimentation in the 1970’s. 1985 sat in the middle of that marvelous decade. From that year of plenty emerged Back to the Future, Ran, Brazil, The Purple Rose of Cairo, Real Genius, Fletch, and Clue among many others. These are films that contributed heartily to my early cinematic education. And they continue to impress and entertain me today. And while none of the following films became as formative as those aforementioned titles, they recall that youthful exuberance during a time when I was just beginning to learn how much cinema was out there to discover — be it good, bad or awesomeful. I’m looking at you, Burt Reynolds.

 

Tuff Turf

Tuff Turf poster

“Don’t let them fool you, it’s the 80s, size does matter… I mean not in bed, we’re all the same size in bed.”

Connecticut country club teen, Morgan (James Spader), moves to L.A. to escape uncertain troubles only to become embroiled in a brutal pissing contest with West Side Story-style flunkie/perpetual senior Nick. Local rock ‘n roll punk (Robert Downey, Jr.) acts as Morgan’s Virgil, helping him navigate L.A.’s moral turpitude. The twist here is that Spader’s outsider isn’t clueless; he’s been through this before and merely underestimates the unlimited supply at Nick’s jerk store. Despite the beatings and bicycle homicide, Morgan falls in love with Nick’s girl, Frankie (the crimped, punky and effervescent Kim Richards before becoming a Real Housewife of Beverly Hills), and faces the timeless teenage dilemma: go after the girl or save himself the hassle. And all this is set to killer 80’s jams.

Tuff Turf isn’t a musical, but it suffers from musical envy. One gets the impression that director Fritz Kiersch has aspirations of combining West Side Story with Footloose.  Sometimes he pulls it off. Downey’s new wave/punk band rocks a warehouse dance party. The band, in fact, is the Jim Carroll Band. One might recall Carroll as the author of the 1978 autobiography The Basketball Diaries. Later on Morgan and co. crash a country club with a positively groovy house band. During a set break Spader sidles up to the piano and does some pitchy crooning (his singing voice was laughably dubbed). At one point Spader even stands outside Frankie’s apartment with a little radio, predating Lloyd Dobler by four years.

Eventually the movie takes a predictably earnest turn as Morgan’s extracurriculars encroach upon his family life and he must settle the score with Nick once and for all. You can watch this final third and groan or you can embrace the thrill of badass James Spader and awesomeful dialogue like “I don’t think you can hold onto anything until you let it go.” If nothing else, embrace the fact that this is a movie that would never get made anymore – a silly R-rated teen drama with sex, language, and absurd amounts of violence. Now that I mention it, I have no idea for whom this movie was actually made. 1980’s nostalgists, apparently. Also, I need to find this soundtrack on vinyl. Immediately.

Sidenote: As it turns out, Tuff Turf also predicts Avengers: Age of Ultron. Early in the film, Spader and Downey stand next to a wall with “THE NEW AVENGERS” graffiti scrawled plainly behind them. Neat, right?

 

Stick

Stick burt reynolds poster

“What’s a boomerang that doesn’t come back? It’s a Stick!”

Burt Reynolds made some bad movies in the 1980s. Hell, Burt Reynolds made some bad movies throughout his entire career, and we love him for it. Well, I love him for it anyway. I can’t speak for everyone else. 1985’s Stick ranks among the movies considered Burt’s worst of the worst.  I had to sample a few of the “Top” lists on the Interwebs in order to find out just how little regard the general populace holds for Stick. One list put it at number 48. 48! Right next to The Crew.

It’s true that Stick should be better than it is. A script by Elmore Leonard based on a book by Elmore Leonard. A supporting cast featuring George Segal, Candice Bergen and Charles Durning in a orange fright-house wig. Where could Stick go wrong? This might confuse you, but the answer to that last question might just be Burt Reynolds. With his career in a tailspin, Burt was so anxious to spoon feed this surefire hit to the masses that he opted to direct and star in it. So miscast is Burt Reynolds in the role of Stick that after only five minutes, you’ll be off searching IMDB to figure out what numskull cast Burt Reynolds in this film. Trick question. Burt Reynolds cast Burt Reynolds in Stick. Elmore Leonard called this character “Dustbowl farmer turned hobo.” Burt plays stick smarter and much more worldly than he has any reason to be. Stick shouldn’t be a star turn. Can you imagine Burt Reynolds as a Dustbowl farmer?

Reynolds also plays the role straight, without some of the trademark smirk and smarm we’ve come to associate with him. Instead, Burt gives his supporting cast carte blanche to chew scenery and give Stick life. George Segal and Charles Durning are especially snappy as a cigar-chomping dimwit financier and a nefarious baddy with a cast of henchmen and caterpillar eyebrows. Richard Lawson plays another one of George Segal’s help staff and his interracial tête-à-tête with Stick recalls Argyle and John McClane in Die Hard – only more cynical.

Stick makes good use of its gaudy setting in south Florida. There are lots of sweaty humans, swamps, leathery faces, palm trees, scorpions, a synthy score and a chase sequence through a Jai Lai stadium. If we’re playing Miami Bingo, we’re all winners.

Some of the movie’s reputation stems from the behind the scenes troubles. Burt’s face betrays the health problems he had as a result of an accident on City Heat when he was hit in the face with a metal chair. His liquid diet caused him to lose 30 pounds. He was also reportedly addicted to painkillers. After filming concluded, Universal demanded not insignificant reshoots that included the beginning and ending. These reshoots led to Elmore Leonard disowning the film after release.  These studio recuts excised Annie Potts from the final cut even after she had a credit on the teaser poster. Nobody cuts Annie Potts and gets away with it.

Despite all this, Burt pulls an entertaining film out of his magic bag of tricks. It might be corny and pulpy in the wrong places, intermittently offensive, and occasionall ill-humored but goshdarnit, Stick plays… if your expectations are reasonably kept in check.

Also, from the “Hell yeah, 1985” files: Anne Murray sings an end-credits theme song over Burt and Candice Bergen talking on wired car phones… until they finally meet up and embrace in a freeze frame.

 

Water

water movie poster

“Nevermind the pineapple, old sport. Wrap your lips around this.”

Michael Caine first appears in Water in a gaudy Hawaiian print shirt and Dodgers baseball cap, smoking a joint, enjoying the fruits of his homegrown labor. Despite the hundreds, nay, thousands of characters Michael Caine has portrayed in his long career, this entrance remains his finest. Baxter may be his crowning achievement in cinema.

Water contains some pseudo-political sub-plot about British colonialism and big business, but that’s just mashed in to justify making a movie about a forgotten British colony in the Caribbean. Caine runs the island on auto-pilot. His colonial rule is opposed by a local militia (really just Billy Connoly calling himself the Cascara Liberation Front) that sings protest songs, but otherwise doesn’t speak. (“Is that a political posture of speech impediment?”) Rastafarian Jimmie Walker runs the local radio station and pre-dates Robin Williams’ weather reports in Good Morning, Vietnam when he forecasts the Cascaran weather. “IT’S HOOOOOT!”

Conflict arises when the homeland politicos opt to cut off funding to the already impoverished island, and an American drilling company discovers a huge source of natural mineral water. Baxter’s idyllic, pot-smoking, wife-ignoring existence becomes threatened when Cascara becomes the center of everyone’s attention.

Like many great comedies, Water becomes unhinged when narrative gets in the way of good gags… like the fundraising concert spoofing George Harrison’s Concert for Bangladesh featuring the likes of Eric Clapton, George Harrison and Ringo Starr in the Singing Rebels’ Band… or the gestures that accompany the Cascaran national anthem, which mime the various swimming strokes to honor the fact that the island’s inhabitants are descended from shipwreck survivors. If a comedy is measured by the glorious details, Water deserves legions of adoring fans and a much better DVD release that the VHS-dubbed disaster that currently exists.

 

Restless Natives

restless natives poster

Ronnie: “You see the point is that we’re smarter than they are. “
Will: “I keep getting these funny wee warts on my fingers.”

A light-hearted Scottish flick about bored, broke Scotsmen who start robbing tour buses for something to do and inadvertently become local heroes and celebrities (behind their wolf man and clown masks, anyway). It’s part lighter-hearted Bill Forsyth, part Full Monty, part something else that I can’t quite place… but I’ll get there with enough time to ponder.

…still pondering…

Anyway, don’t think too hard about how Japanese motorcycle manufacturers or local news can track down and capitalize on the infamous Robin Hood/Rob Roy-bus thieves while the local police can’t catch up to them. Like, don’t let it enter your mind, because you’ll start to question things and when you start questioning and thinking you’ll miss out on the tremendous fun to be had with Restless Natives.

Oh and while I’m still pondering, it’s notable that Ned Beatty shows up for a bit. That’s right. THE Ned Beatty.
The lead actors (Joe Mullaney and Vincent Friell) prove to be affable enough and lend some necessary complexity to their characters. The script moves along briskly and efficiently, but it’s the spirit of the film that’ll draw you in. The memorable cinematography of the Scottish hills and moors, the care given to a relatively minor picture, the soundtrack by the Scottish rock outfit Big Country.

Restless Natives is a movie that makes you feel good about movies, the joy of watching an underseen gem, no ironic enjoyment required. Director Michael Hoffman would go on to bigger but not necessarily better Hollywood projects like One Fine Day and Soapdish before scaling back to direct the excellent Game 6. Save this one for a rainy day in need of some levity. In a fair world, this movie might have been revered on a level reserved for Ferris Bueller, but the movie’s appeal never traveled outside Scotland, where it was a local box office success.

 

The Shmenges: The Last Polka

“The military needed jars. In the summer of 1945 all glass jars in the country were seized, crippling vaudeville in Leutonia.”

This SCTV-produced mockumentary aired on HBO in 1985 and featured characters introduced on the Second City TV sketch comedy program.

Leutonian-born Yosh (John Candy) and Stan (Eugene Levy) are the Shmenges, the biggest polka act in the history of the world. SCTV regulars appear in abundance. Dave Thomas narrates. Rick Moranis plays lounge/polka singer Linsk Minyk. (Minyk and his amazing facial hair deliver a memorable rendition of “Touch Me” by the Doors.) Catherine O’Hara, Robin Duke and Catherine’s sister Mary Margaret appear as one of the many Shmenge collaborators, The Lemon Twins. (The extramarital scandal between the three Lemon sisters and the Shmenges catapults their act to the top of the polka charts.)

It would be easy to liken The Last Polka (a loose parody of The Band’s The Last Waltz) to a polka-cized version of This Is Spinal Tap. The main difference might be that The Last Polka doesn’t try as hard to be funny. Polka, on its own, is just natural comedy; John Candy and Eugene Levy do less mugging than one might expect (and certainly less than Rick Moranis in his pint-sized role) for a polka-based comedy. The mockumentary works best when it’s played completely straight, like when Yosh and Stan take a mid-concert break during a Tuba solo. Romantic close-up on the labored tuba player’s face as he struggles to survive the “break.”

The music’s genuine in The Last Polka, and the laughs are placed there on the stage for you to appreciate. Or not. I certainly found myself watching the entire 55-minutes of The Shmenges: The Last Polka with a huge smile on my face. The joy culminates in a Shmenge tribute to Michael Jackson complete with a Polka version of “Beat It.”
The Last Polka has never been released on DVD, and the VHS is becoming a little difficult to find. Lucky for us all, an enterprising soul has put the comedy on Youtube, thus preserving, at least temporarily, the Shmenges’ legacy.

 

Transylvania 6-5000

transylvania 6-5000 poster

“Master, I’ve had enough aggravation for one day.”

Here’s a tip: Lifeforce/Transylvania 6-5000 double feature. Truly. There’s a certain symbiosis in the Lifeforce and Transylvania 6-5000 pairing. Not only do the two films share the same 1985 release year but also wacked notions of what vampires can be if we forget the Dracula kind for a moment. Of course there’s a far cry from space vampires to Geena Davis… but somehow Geena Davis still takes the prize for oddness.

Critics ripped this movie to bits and, well, it has a certain infamous reputation. Reputations be damned. If the movie features Jeff Goldblum, Michael Richards, Geena Davis, and Carol Kane it’s worth watching… on some level. Of course it’s dumb. Of course, many of the jokes try too damn hard. But this was the 80’s when movies knew how to have a 5 IQ and still reward with creative ineptitude and brilliant character actors just doing pratfalls. Carol Kane just being Carol Kane. Ed Begley, Jr. in a starring role! Jeff Goldblumage off the charts.

Instead of attempting to explain why this movie is worth watching or why it doesn’t exactly deserve it’s reputation — I’m not sure there’s a legitimate argument other than joie de vivre! — I’ll just make this movie another entry in the “Why I Love the 1980’s” coffee table book, which I’m quite sure will convince you all that the 80’s were, like, ohmygod, the best decade ever for amazingly fun bad movies.

 

Honorable Mention 5-Pack:

Remo Williams: The Adventure Begins
Trouble in Mind
The Man with One Red Shoe
Secret Admirer
Mr. Vampire

Categories
30Hz Bl-g Cinema Music

Why I (mostly) stopped writing about music

If you’ve been reading this bl-g for any amount of time, you may recall that I founded this Interweb space on the premise that I would write about music and my rediscovery of vinyl records as part of my recovery from a bout of depression and anxiety that occurred in 2010. I know the exact date, you see, because I’d just returned home from the movies. I’d seen Black Swan on it’s opening weekend. I came home that night and after a short conversation with my wife about the movie, I broke down. I’d been experiencing these symptoms of depression for about a month by this point, but I couldn’t put the feelings into words, nor did I truly understand what was happening to me. I told her that I didn’t know what was wrong, that I knew I’d been distant. The things which had made me happy no longer had value. I’d largely stopped watching movies, reading or listening to music. I hadn’t been able to write. I told her I didn’t know what to do to make myself better. It felt very confessional. She says what shocked her the most about that night was when she asked if I wanted to see a therapist. Without hesitation I said, “Yes.”

After six-plus months of conversations with my therapist, I finally considered myself recovered. I continued to attend sessions for over a year, however. I’ve remained emotionally well (with one or two minor lapses) ever since. The existence of this bl-g represents the first step taken toward recovery. It reinvigorated my writing and gave me a focus again. Writing about music, just for the love of music, kickstarted my first steps toward wellness. As I dove into the vinyl hobby, I started going to concerts again. I wrote about all of it. I explored new music and what music had meant to me as a child as an 80’s youth. I wrote about the nostalgia that still fulfilled me.

Somewhere along the way, writing about music, however, became less fulfilling.

I don’t spend less time listening to new releases or scouring record bins for hidden gems. I just stopped writing about music.

Anyone who has spent any time writing knows that the endeavor is a very solitary activity. When writing and submitting fiction to literary magazations, publishers or agents, there’s no immediate response. Often not even denial. Often there’s just the kind silence that hurts more than negativity. Each and every story or novel is a slog with only the sound of that internal, nagging voice spurring you forward. Silence sides with that voice. Writing this bl-g proved helpful. Short bites of writing followed by immediate response. I was writing. People were reading when I wrote more about music and nostalgia. For awhile the topic of the vinyl resurgence held a regular audience.

But as my writing turned back toward new artists and new releases, response dwindled. I was again writing for the void. I didn’t need more silence in my life, so output lessened. I grew disinterested in the bl-g, and this space remained largely dormant until I conjured an idea for a post about some of that good old fashioned nostalgia. Even then, due to my less-than-regular posting schedule, I found myself begging for views. No one checks in if you’re not putting up words. Nor should they. That’s not what this is about, nor is it what I’d intended when I signed up for the writing-as-therapy gig.

If it’s not familiar, if it’s not already welcome or expected, it’s often not accepted.

But then there’s the other side of that coin. Much of my disillusionment stems from reading the greater oeuvre known as “music writing.”  As “music writing” has grown, so too has criticism of music writing. We’ve reached a point with the proliferation of music blogs that criticism of criticism has become it’s own genre. I’m also implicated here. I read P-fork (as the spearhead of this particular genre of music writing) like rubberneckers view the aftermath of a traffic accident. I often blame P-fork for everything that ails music writing, but they’re not alone. This is part subjective disagreement and part fundamental discord. Even when I agree with the overall opinion of a review, I often can’t relate what I’ve just read to the music it intends to describe. Purple, expressive and flowery prose often aptly describes the feeling that a certain music inspires. P-fork (just as one example I apparently plan to beat like a rented mule) has allowed rampant negativity to cloud their reviews. “Listenable” has taken on a very negative connotation. Not all music has to break new ground. Not all music must “challenge” in order to justify its existence. Talented writers work in this music writing genre, but I more often than not feel that they’ve completely lost sight of the goal — to express their connection to the music — in favor of fostering aural elitism.

I’m generalizing, but I don’t have the time to write a full treatise here… so generalizations will have to do.

This culture of elitism has plagued music writing since the dawn of the Interwebs (probably before as well). The “I knew about this band when they were playing out of their garage” mentality spread. Soon it included the notion that most average humans haven’t yet developed the aural IQ necessary to appreciate said music/noise of choice. I’ve never to my recollection begrudged someone for “not getting” a particular artist or record. I believe, however, that music appreciation develops and adjusts over time. We become more discriminating, more appreciative of true greatness. Greatness does not require innovation. Greatness can be the evolution of something familiar or merely a catalyst for change. What I’m trying to say, through far too many words, is that music listeners, overall, need to listen to more music and rely less on the hyperbolic elitism fostered by the most visible of music writers.

This is where I radically change directions for a drastic juxtaposition (and to get to the point).

When I started writing about James Bond for The James Bond Social Media Project, I found connections that had eluded me while I wrote about music. Despite being joined at the hip, the online cultures for music and film couldn’t be more disparate. I’m sure others have had different experiences; I can only speak to mine.

When I started the #Bond_age_ live tweet series, I immediately made stronger connections than I had through two years of writing about music. There’s greater acceptance and exchange of new ideas and opinions. Guilty pleasures are discussed and accepted. Where social media has shifted the focus of film criticism and appreciation away from the tedious and nebulous elitism once fostered by a handful of film critics, it has only exacerbated that effect in music. As a result, I’ve gravitated toward writing about film — oddly enough where my writing began as a 15-year-old kid writing movie reviews for Mandel and Patrick’s Movie Corner.

My friend and I began writing that page in 1994 as high school freshman and continued until we went to college. Writing homegrown reviews now seems quaint at best, but this was 1994, goddammit. This was the future. We earned a full-page writeup in the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette and had our reviews syndicated by MTV’s Adam Curry (who at the time was more than just a forgotten punchline). Sadly little of that endeavor remains, only fossilized records in Google searches. We each wrote reviews for at least two movies per week. We even had our own Top 100 lists. I still have the PPG clipping, and you’ll occasionally see our names pop up in really random book citations, like this one for Accounting for Taste: Film Criticism, Canons, and Cultural Authority 1996-2006 by Jonathan D. Lupo.

:

Screen Shot 2015-04-29 at 3.36.58 PM

 

…and you can still find us in many old-timey lists of favorite movie review sites that more closely resemble ancient Internet sea scrolls. That’s us down there in that list alongside the San Francisco Chronicle and Usenet! If you’re old enough to remember Usenet, you’ll also find that amusing. Or not. I’m no authority on outdated Internet humor.

 

Screen Shot 2015-04-29 at 3.44.43 PM

Maybe writing about music was never my bag. Writing about music may have just served as that temporary dose of adrenaline to bring me back from the brink. It’s entirely possible I just don’t have the stomach and/or necessary disdain for humanity. For as long as I can remember I’ve written about movies; it was just James Bond brought it all back. Though I may never reach the lofty heights of Mandel and Patrick’s Movie Corner (some sarcasm intended), I’ve met people through talking and writing about movies whom I believe will remain lifelong friends and contacts beyond the Twitterverse, even when The James Bond Social Media Project too has also joined the legions of websites in the Interweb heavens.

Am I crazy in thinking that that’s what this is all about anyway? Are any of us doing it for fame or money? I hardly think so. Writing for free, writing with time that would otherwise be spent living AFK, all of this is about the connection with people who share similar passions. As long as this bl-g remains part-time therapy and subject to the whims and memes of my life, it will be about the movies, music, writing, literature and guilt-free nostalgia that fulfills me for just as long as the end result, the connection, justifies the effort.