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.

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