Thursday, April 28, 2016

Movie: Maximum Overdrive

There was a time when I watched Maximum Overdrive at least once a year.

Stephen King all but denies the existence of his directoral debut, dismissing it as a coked-out fever dream, but I rather think there is so much good in the film, that the quality of the work redeems itself.  Now it was not a big film, nor important, but ultimately competent despite pharmaceutical influence.  Performances are wrought by King and a talented cast.  There are scenes where I can imagine King just telling them to go off on the material, take it to the maximum, as per the title.

This goes back to something I've meditated on lately: "instantly-recognizable typology".  Lloyd Kaufman brought this little phrase to mind, as I watched the Toxic Avenger Earth Day Marathon on the El Rey Network, particularly on the first day, April 22 2016.  You might dismiss the typology as stereotypes, but its deeper, archetypal, but in a modern way, which means that I'm recommending Kaufman and Toxic Avenger as a sociological milestone.

A story from New England in the King short story Trucks, is transplanted into rural North Carolina in Maximum Overdrive. The script is great, though the characters are sometimes perhaps a bit cliche, but this is more of that "instantly-recognizable typology", but it is the explanation, how the whole ruse of the picture is figured during the humid North Carolina night, in a moment of reflection by the hero character of Emilio Estevez.  Here our hero is an ex-convict short-order cook in a truck stop.  His is a good man who has went wayward.  Classic King, how he gives a big dose humanity to those that have erred against society.  Pat Hingle works as the evil boss.  We have the patronized waitress.  "The road twitch", hitcher young woman.

Amongst my favorite scenes are those of the waitress, with one of the patrons punctuating the action, saying "sweet thang".  Finally that "sweet thang" comment rubs the waitress wrong, when things get really serious.  Her scene of "we made you!" is pushed to its limits, frought with emotion.  Love that.

It was the explanation of a planned alien invasion that sounded a bit thin.  I rather liked that aliens controlled the equipment, tho, and thought that could have went another direction, but here King has dropped something entirely original, if also implausible and unsatisfying, on our unsuspecting heads.  So that we are surprised, after personifying machines, thrown a new curve, then King was successful, even if it were only a pyrrhic victory.

This is a Halloween festival film, though I have scarce mentioned it on a blog before.  I hope this oversight has been corrected satisfactorily, and King the artist sated, but perhaps blushing with all his artistic flaws exposed, though the film was highly effective in my mind.....

Also, I have fond memories of visiting some of the Wilmington-area scenery used in the film.  So.  There.  Then the area of the highway, with its scrub growth and pines.  That's my home, man.  Long live the pines.  Just looks like home, to me, here on the banks of the Pee Dee river, butted against the Sand Hills region, where the pines go for miles and miles through large tracts of government-owned woodlands.  Pine trees and sand.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016

The Proposed super 1980's Film Festival

Creepshow-represents Romero working with some star power, also features the writing and acting of Stephen King, so we've covered two icons with one film.  Film strikes a festive note to begin the festival.  A theme of paternity runs through the film, beginning with the most obvious and working down the line to the least obvious, cheapest but no less effective conclusion.

Basket Case-cheap, with some scenes that are done, well, on a shoestring, but oh-so effective.  A pure work of genius as it pertains to low budget deals.  And family is emphasized.  So there is a positive message behind the shouting and killing.

Critters-our festivals arguably biggest foray into the work of indie companies.  Idiosynchracy marks this one.  Yes!

Nightmare On Elm Street(1-3)-The first film is classical Wes Craven, working to his own formula, his own secret sauce.  The second film is a teen thing, with all those youthful anxieties rampant.  The third is lose-able in the festival, but a good film, perhaps with too much of an independent mindset without being independent at all, just using the trappings, the paraphenalia of the underground.

April Fool's-Pure teen stuff.  Muffy.  Buffy.  Film is weak but has a hook at the end that redeems it.

Toxic Avenger-indie comic book stuff.  Gore, violence, John Ford-like scenes in front of audiences.  If I made a film, I would want it to look like this.

CHUD 2-Just the right emotional note to hit after the teen stuff then toxic avenger.  a send-up!

The First Power-Just a straight horror film with a good idea.

Shocker-Wes Craven straying again from formula(also strayed with Serpent and the Rainbow), but not that far, because our main character is a teen.  Good idea executed really well, foreshadowing some of the quick scares of the later film, Scream, which everyone ga-ga-ed over.

The capstone of the festival is the film that is as good as any, but just doesn't fit:

The People Under The Stairs(1991)-Just as Apocalypse Now ended the 1970's era of film, so to does this later work end the beguiled 1980's.  Craven makes a more intimate work, yet broader in theme, with many pitch perfect moments.  This is the closest I get to praising Spike Lee(just kidding).

Thursday, April 21, 2016

Tormented by emotional turbulence in the dreamworld.

Part of me was afraid to go to sleep, afraid of what would come when my eyes closed.  What would come from within.  I should listen to that part of me more often, the scared part.

Something old and dead was indeed alive within me.  Old places.  Old people.  I navigated admirably, keeping the peace-yes, me a peacekeeper!, defending my friends and going after the woman I loved.

The woman I love(d).

Now where did that come from?  Where does any dream stuff come from?  Was it the past?  Is it the present?  Was I hypnotized into loving someone, or was it a dream delusion?  I ask myself these questions on a quiet morning at the hill.  And I feel like a different person.  I have an expression for that feeling, which I will not share here, but suffice it to say that smokewagon just budged a few feet.

A feeling that shakes the nerves, and causes one to re-evaluate things.

I didn't know I was in love.  Now or in the past.  And yet.  Very real in the fog of dreamtime, neigh, real enough to make me believe.

And I can't keep this stuff straight any more, whether people think I'm asexual or gay or something; not that I should live to the notions of others, but here I am before you relating my feelings, wondering where I stand in your eyes.

At least in this format I define the variables.  So it was a woman.  Not a man or a child or an animal.  Fruit, vegetable, or mineral.  Something visually pleasing, soft and warm and moist in the cunt-rind.  Profitable for many purposes, but best used for one purpose, and then to just look pretty the rest of the time.

And oddly enough, the very topic of the same woman caused my last "emotional episode" years ago, my last moment of outwardly-directed turbulence.  I went "psycho" about a Jeopardy clue.  I wouldn't watch Jeopardy for many days after, but I eventually came back.

I consider things within the kaleidoscope of my own learnings and experience.  I come to conclusions, I do classifications and categorization and qualification on my own, which leads me frequently to be misunderstood by others.

There have been times I have been understood perfectly.

The woman in my dream does not understand.  She lives like a robot-I have seen as much-filling her hours with things she deems productive.  It sounds heartless, but she has a heart, however hidden it may be at times.

She lives like life is a job.

More on that later.  I'll talk about her.  I gotta give myself some therapy some way, run down these asinine dreams, to come to an end to this torment, to inoculate myself against future repetitions.

Monday, April 11, 2016

Langston: The New Fragrance For Unusual Men

It grabs you!  It wraps its sweaty arms around you and shakes you!  It shakes it's butt in your face!

A bubble-butt.  That of a black bodybuilder.  With a lazer tongue.


Phenomenal.  When the personality is unleashed and the being is allowed to have some fun, good things happen and three are lifted up together!  But should there be four, instead of three?  Like a Zig?  That the team is not just a team and a fruit-loop, but an entire, vibrant brand.

Then if Big E and Zig team up, they could call themselves the Angel and the Badman, a sub-brand of New Day.  Zig has developed a style and cadence in his performance that I believe would slot in nicely to a tag team format, primarily the science of physical endurance, the beat down, taking a licking and barely ticking, winning by the skin of the teeth.  There is always that kind of tension via a lull in tag matches, no?

Sometimes you have to eat it.


Friday, April 1, 2016

Camelbutt porn and other wild imaginings.

I have a chaotic touch in my imaginings.  I confess it, I am thus aware of it, but unable to control it.

I talk pretty tough for a guy that watches FNC and baseball all day.  I will try to see every Atlanta Braves game this year.

Megynzines are a recursive, glossy medium that reflect the recent past.  They scream for attention, offering up their opinions and medicine ads.

The Isis magazine?  Ads for the New Jersey Lottery.  "You can win 5k a week until your suicide!"  For the lifestyle-oriented jyhadi.  "You guard, take this discarded magazine and wipe yo ace with it!"  Photos of camel butts for those cold desert nights.

A man needs to dream.

Johnny Mathis Christmas songs would be great to get piped in around-the-clock at Getmo.

Here I spoke of chaos earlier, perhaps a lingering of juvenile daydreams.  One cannot apologize for things that he or she imagines, for the mind can be, perhaps, uncontrollable at times, like the contraction and flexion of an involuntary muscle.  Like the wild, continuous writhing of the tongue.  And I will not be held liable for things beyond my control-even things within the airy province of my own mind!