Wednesday, October 21, 2015

the view from a jaundiced eye: Friday the 13th Part 2

Franchise building, after Sean Cunningham the huckster caught lightning in a bottle with a tosser script and a knock-off films score.  Steve Miner making that first stab at fame.  Some throwaway actors.  A premise of answering the burning question of the first film, about the boy.

He's still there.

Don't get me wrong. I freaking love this movie and how it sticks to a formula that was being established by the film itself and its contemporaries.  Sex, death, skinny-dipping.  Even the guy in the wheelchair has a hook-up, which looks like a promise of hot sex with a comely beauty on the surface, and yet he can't wheelchair down the steps to her cabin, or wheelchair up the stairs to a bedroom in the mainhouse.  So it's all keyfabe, and he goes down the steps with a knife in his head, Harry Manfredini pumping the score.

My least favorite scene was the spearing of the lovers, which I understand was changed by censors.  Wish now I could see the original scene.  I'm doing a send up in a script I'll write sometime next year: a send up of the spear scene, which I'd do and hope is placed in an unrated film.  But after the missionary position scene in the remake, where the man does a sililoquy about the ladies bouncing boobs, I think the censors just don't care anymore, so I can do basically whatever I want.

And I will.

My cousin is Iron Man.  I have documentation.

Also, Jason watches the girl skinny-dip.  This is part of why he gets street cred with the youths.  He sticks to what is important, interrupting coitus while finding debauchery to sate his underdeveloped caveman/woodsman imagination.  Also, there was some context in the filming, working with what was onhand, economy, if you will, in shots of buttocks and so forth, that the director looked over to the DP and said, "we gotta get a shot of that".  And if the skinny-dip girl didn't start your motor, the sweet brunette girl strips to her panties:  this is a moment of divinity, the sublime, the onslaught of commercially-bound artists and the grand guignol without the gutter chants of a rowdy audience, meanwhile I'm ready to hop on the lawnmower and ride to the gas station.

Made that S.O.B. come online, my doggs.  Everytime.

Saturday, October 3, 2015

Chopchop's writted talk from earlier in the week.

This riecheer says Chopchop:
 
"Amongst the ferns and reeds there were the spinning jovial tops of helicopters, the firecracker gun shots rattling fire and lead, we were as admitted into hell, some kind of carnal bigtop, without the agreement or acknowledgement of having purchased tickets, but nevertheless, we had tickets punched, agreed to participate if only from keeping them from working their thin evil slit eyes over us, as scare and filled with loathing at the sight of them as if they were snakes standing upright, scared of what hell followed them, what surprises and wonders they knew in the godless dark of the jungle where the trees, leaves, and grasses themselves sweated.  There were places where those little yellow bastards swarmed out of holes in the earth, like some angry ants pouring upwards, but could there be a spirit of fun, that so many could fit in a little notch in the earth, maybe their own joke, that the holes were there own eldrich version of the classical clown car, where so many were encapsulated in a tiny space.  A spirit of fun comes afterward; what you have is a shock at the absurdity of the place when you are there-the truth of reality, but the fog of a dreamstate."

Duck-Voiced Moralizing: A Lucio Fulci Commentary

Scrawling obscenities onto a car window: deserving of a killing?  A duck-voiced moral sermon?  Nah.  Ask her out.  And thus begins the Lucio Fulci masterpiece New York Ripper.  Ive always seen the duck voice as a criticism, from both Fulci and the speaker, that he mimicked others, even while living a normal life, though the mimicry was the result of a mental block, psychosis, which enabled the horrendous events of the film.

So much seediness in the early eighties in New York, the Red Light District, live sex shows, a palette for the cryptography of Fulci.  Was then the female participant in the live sex act a cryptographically perfect plant of the director?  I think of the horizontal quality of her breasts, the smallness, yet the obvious presence and jut of those.  Was she then a low-budget gloriously unselfconscious distillation of the Madonna?  Actually, I submit Fulci cast her for her mammarial perfection in the murder scene, how her breast hung as she walked in a superfluous shot.  This I understand.

And the woman who witnessed the scene alongside the murderer, the ailing personalities that bounced about the low-lit rooms with the red carpet and cigarette burns.  And a second maniac, a red-herring.

Back to the woman with the strange libido and the tape recorder.  This is important.  She was supposed to be the due-North to calibrate the film, but instead was both a victim and in some senses, deranged, herself.  So few of the adults are normal, giving us a bearing then, in a film that does not but rarely touched the ground of morality and what is thought to be normal sexuality, but fear not, for every fetish is not admitted therein, only Fulci's pet tendences(I don't mean animals, so don't scream foul on me), seemingly, a love letter, then in this, a meditation composed while sitting on a toilet somewhere, in some unfamiliar but naggingly comfortable place.

And I hope he was really playing the foot scene as being a gross-out.  I didn't get that from the film, but I was sickened by it.

Sickened, I tell you.