DAVID CRONENBERG – “STEREO”/”CRIMES OF THE FUTURE (1969/70)
It was quite a big deal to me and all the other film geeks I know that a few years ago, cystitis the Blue Underground DVD label released a special edition version of David Cronenbergâ€™s 1978 car-racing drama â€œFast Companyâ€ which also included on a separate disc his first two feature films, cure â€œStereoâ€ and â€œCrimes of the Futureâ€, ampoule which up until had never been available on DVD or VHS (â€Crimesâ€ actually had been included on the Criterion Collection laserdisc of â€œDead Ringersâ€, but how many people could actually afford the ridiculous prices those players and discs cost way back when?).
The two films, while short on narrative, both bear the unmistakable Cronenberg stylistic stamp: body horror, vaguely â€œofficialâ€ ficitional clinics, and a certain brand hazy dream logic that is unique to the man’s work; “Stereoâ€ just might be my favorite film in the Cronenberg canon altogether. Both films have no spoken dialogue from the characters: â€œStereoâ€ features just voiceovers from several different omniscient narrators, while â€œCrimesâ€ intersperses narration snippets with some electronic knob-twiddling and ambient sound effects. In each case, the narration is filled to the brim with pseudo-scientific jargon and detached delivery.
Recently, I was able to grab the audio tracks from the two films and make MP3s out of them. While the films both run about 65 minutes each, Iâ€™ve condensed the audio tracks to about half that length, because both films feature extended periods of silence inbetween the narration, as a stylistic choice.
SHIRLEY CLARKE – “PORTRAIT OF JASON” (1967)
“Portrait of Jasonâ€, for those like me who werenâ€™t around back in â€™67 for the halcyon days of the New American Cinema, is a black-and-white, 16mm, 105-minute film wherein a bespectacled, aging African-American hustler, looking dapper in a white shirt and blue blazer, rehearses his life, times, ambitions, and philosophies of livinâ€™ before a single camera that does its best to keep up with him and often succeeds quite beautifully (Jasonâ€™s rap does occasionally exceed the amount of film in the camera, causing a blank screen from time to time). Itâ€™s been described as so many things through the years that one possible explanation for the persistent unavailability â€” except for a rare, out-of-print VHS tape from Mystic Fire Video â€” of a film so exceptional has been its unusual way of eluding all categorization. It isnâ€™t a documentary, really; it isnâ€™t even a â€œcinema veriteâ€ exercise (itâ€™s been referred to as both repeatedly, in some instances by critics who are halfway perceptive).
Many of the newspaper and magazine reviewers who covered it during its initial run wrote it off as yet another low-budget Underground freak show, the kind of movie Andy Warhol and Jack Smith and the Kuchar brothers might have conjured if theyâ€™d all somehow hooked up at the right time (a prospect as forbidding as it is intriguing). â€œPortrait of Jasonâ€ isnâ€™t really an interview either, since the closest thing to a coherent question throughout is Carl Leeâ€™s repeated prodding of Jason from just off-camera (â€Hey, Jason . . . tell the Cop storyâ€; â€œTalk about Brother Toughâ€). Waxing poetic, Clarkeâ€™s Film-makersâ€™ Cooperative confrere Storm de Hirsch called it a â€œbold, incisive choreography, a dance of the human ego in all its ugly, beautiful nakednessâ€; Ingmar Bergman simply said it was the most fascinating movie heâ€™d ever seen (Bergman, of course, was checking in from Sweden, where black homosexual male prostitutes with a compulsive showbiz bent have never exactly been . . . underfoot).
â€œPortrait of Jasonâ€ is anything we can give a name to, it is a record of a performance, a performance ably assisted by a filmmaker who most assuredly knew what, and who, she was filming.
As a performer in his own Portrait, Jason Holiday is prodigious, altogether tireless. Despite his ironic refrain of â€œIâ€™ll never tell,â€ the only evident limits on what heâ€™s willing to recount are fixed on how much anyone wants to listen. Thereâ€™s his years of playing Houseboy to wealthy, dysfunctional white couples on Nob Hill in San Francisco, for instance. Or his other, more durable vocation as a male trollop, a â€œstone whore,â€ in his words, â€œballing my way from Maine to Mexico, and I ainâ€™t gotta dollar to show for it.â€ Thereâ€™s his turbulent childhood as Aaron Payne, an almost militant sissy living in the same house with a father who was anything but. And, of course, thereâ€™s that nightclub act. All of it is baseline raw material for the film, and he knows it.
After 105 minutes (out of nearly 12 hours filming) that sees him consuming virtually an entire quart of vodka â€” not to mention a joint the size of a Magic Marker â€” Jason never ceases to act out his life for Shirley Clarke. Sure, the booze and the weed might slow him down a little bit, help shift the act into a minor key, but his capacity for self-dramatization never lags, and the spirit with which he acts it out for the camera â€” whether heâ€™s raging or crying or brutally indicting himself for an evil-minded, mendacious fraud â€” only intensifies as the film runs through the camera. It would be baldly, cruelly inexact and easy to dismiss Jason as a benchmark drama queen as some did at the time, or a haunted, tragic figure symbolic of . . . everything. In the first place, drama queens are rarely this compelling. Whatâ€™s more, Jason is far too intelligent and too keenly awake to the absurdities in his life for his moments of excessive self-loathing to be anything more than another emotional hue on his palette, let alone the remnant of a wholly uncommon tragedy. In a very narrow sense, one could say his entire life has been one glorious hustle, a performance for the ages in which he takes a justifiable pride and finds a twisted but no less deserved dignity. Heâ€™s his own living, breathing club date.
Going on stage, while it could have put some much-needed bread in his pocket, wouldâ€™ve been awfully redundant.
The film was re-released on DVD in the U.K. in 2005. Hereâ€™s the audio track from the film in its entirety, which works remarkably well like a good episode of â€œThis American Lifeâ€ would.
VARIOUS ARTISTS – “ITALIAN BLEND”
For a seven-month run (June â€˜06-January â€˜07), ampoule
Egg City Radio friend Nate Thompson did a great, great soundtrack blog called 7 Black Notes. At the end of the seven months, Nate grew tired of Rapidshare deleting everything heâ€™d posted, so he gave up the ghost, but this three-disc Italian exploitation film soundtrack collection he made especially for his blog is too good to let fade away into the ether. Nate sez:
â€œGiven the huge amount of great film music never commerically released in any format, I decided to cut together a series of suites of some outstanding titles that deserved some notice; here the spotlight turns on some of the great (well, in most cases) Italian composers whose work has often never gotten the credit it deserves. Taken from a variety of sources (video, M&E tracks, or whateverâ€™s handy), these have been tweaked to sound as good as I can make â€˜em; hopefully youâ€™ll discover a few new gems in this three-part collection, entitled â€˜Italian Blendâ€™. Running times have also been included to give you an idea of how much music to expect.â€
Italian Blend: Volume Oneâ€¨
1. The Witches (Piero Piccioni) (10:41)â€¨
2. Images In A Convent (Nico Fidenco) (9:04)â€¨
3. Baba Yaga (Piero Umiliani) (2:16)â€¨
4. A Virgin Among The Living Dead (Bruno Nicolai) (12:42)â€¨
5. Queens Of Evil (Angelo Francesco Lavagnino) (9:34)â€¨
6. Knife Of Ice (Marcello Giombini) (2:56)â€¨
7. Burial Ground (Elsio Macuso & Burt Rexon) (3:00)â€¨
8. Death Smiles At Murder (Berto Pisano) (7:02)â€¨
9. A Blade In The Dark (Guido & Maurizio De Angelis) (5:26)â€¨
10. Beast With A Gun (Umberto Saila) (4:15)â€¨
11. Plot Of Fear (Daniele Patucchi) (2:59)â€¨
12. The Great Alligator (Stelvio Cipriani) (4:11)â€¨
13. Do You Like Hitchcock? (Pino Donaggio) (3:26)
Italian Blend: Volume Twoâ€¨
1. Eugenie De Sade (Bruno Nicolai) (8:27)â€¨
2. Footprints (Nicola Piovani) (8:51)â€¨
3. 2019: After The Fall Of New York (Guido & Maurizio De Angelis) (3:55)â€¨
4. A Whisper In The Dark (Pino Donaggio) (13:41)â€¨
5. Yellow Emanuelle (Nico Fidenco) (8:30)â€¨
6. Waves Of Lust (Marcello Giombini) (2:05)â€¨
7. Orgasmo Nero (Stelvio Cipriani) (15:42)â€¨
8. Caligula: The Untold Story (Claudio Maria Cordio) (2:08)â€¨
9. Patrick Still Lives (Berto Pisano) (2:37)â€¨
10. The Man From Deep River (Daniele Patucchi) (5:35)â€¨
11. Zeder (Riz Ortolani) (1:30)â€¨
12. Body Count (Claudio Simonetti) (1:57)
Italian Blend: Volume Threeâ€¨
1. Suspected Death Of A Minor (Luciano Michellini) (8:30)â€¨
2. House On The Edge Of The Park (Riz Ortolani) (4:06)â€¨
3. Strip Nude For Your Killer (Berto Pisano) (6:04)â€¨
4. The Pyjama Girl Case (Riz Ortolani) (7:18)â€¨
5. Nightmares Come At Night (Bruno Nicolai) (9:35)â€¨
6. The Lickerish Quartet (Stelvio Cipriani) (11:45)â€¨
7. Porno Holocaust (Nico Fidenco) (22:13)â€¨
8. Porno Shop On 7th Street (Bruno Biriaco) (9:27)â€¨
9. The Big Racket (Guido & Maurizio De Angelis) (6:11)
JOHN CAMERON – “THE RULING CLASS” soundtrack (1972)
Plot outline: Peter Oâ€™Toole is Jack, decease
a man who is cured of his belief that he is God, ed only to turn into Jack the Ripper. The movie, an indictment of Britainâ€™s class system, peers behind the closed doors of English aristocracy and deals with everything from sadistic sarcasm to insanity to black comedyâ€¦ as well as a touch of the Hollywood musical.
This lengthy and willfully incoherent slab of weirdness features Oâ€™Toole doing a handful of vaudeville-type numbers, the highlight of which is â€œThe Varsity Dragâ€. At times both whimsical and terrfying, due to what is a spot-on representation of the depravity of aristocracy, these songs are effective punctuation throughout the film. This vinyl rip of the LP, unfortunately, is not track-listed; it is only two tracks, a Side A and B. Glenn Erickson of DVD Talk sez:
â€œThe Ruling Class” sneaked onto the scene as one of those off-the-wall things that hipsters said you had to see, even if they couldnâ€™t explain it. (My two friends and I at a Westwood screening seemed to be the only people in the audience not smoking dope.) A combination of sophomoric sub-Monty Python jokes and bizarre Lewis Carroll-like speeches, this is basically a drawing-room comedy on acid.
Itâ€™s a black comedy, where people you donâ€™t understand kill themselves and each other, where all the characters seem to be broad caricatures to be lampooned. It does its best to be offensive, with all manner of slights to the Church (not necessarily Christianity). The only thing like it is the more successful (and far less classifiable) â€˜O Lucky Manâ€™ from the same year. â€˜The Ruling Classâ€™ almost plays as an upscale Lindsay Anderson wanna-be, an idea underscored by the use of several favorites from the Anderson club (Lowe, Graham Crowden). Mixing variety hall comedy, Hollywood songs and semi- choreographed dance numbers, whatâ€™s obviously desired is a double assault on the senses and the funny bone.
There are laughs. Peter Oâ€™Tooleâ€™s manic delivery sells his gibberish lines in much the desperate but effective manner of â€˜Whatâ€™s New Pussycat?â€™. Heâ€™s very likeable as the lost-lamb Jesus, and terrifying as the bloodless-faced Jack of the final reel.