"Fictional Dystopias Better Than the One We're Living In" in Booth

My latest conceptual piece, "Fictional Dystopias Better Than the One We're Living In" has been published in the January 2020 issue of Booth, the literary journal of Butler University.

Only now does it occur to me... DREAM A LITTLE DREAM (1989)

Only now does it occur to me...  that DREAM A LITTLE DREAM is a weapons-grade '80s oddity, a repository of batshit craziness, and one of the strangest, most uneven films to emerge from the decade.

The average viewer couldn't be faulted for assuming that DREAM A LITTLE DREAM is just another post-FREAKY FRIDAY body-switch flick along the lines of VICE VERSA, 18 AGAIN!, BIG, or LIKE FATHER LIKE SON, with the major differentiation being that this one happens to star "The Two Coreys."

But they would be wrong. For starters, while the body switchers (Corey Feldman and Jason Robards) would seem to fit the criteria for an '80s body-switch flick

Jason Robards is too old for this shit

(old man has to go to high school! young man has to deal with dentures!), it's not even a proper switch: while Robards is transported into Feldman's body during a dream-meditation/bicycle wreck (don't ask), Robards' and his wife's bodies simply disappear as Robards enters Feldman's body, and Feldman enters Robards' dream-world.

The dream world looks like the regular world, except with a blue filter, and the only people there are Feldman and Robards. Feldman prefers the dream-world to his precarious teenage existence (even though there seems to be nothing to do in the dream-world) and tasks Robards with fixing his real-world life (get the girl, score well on the SATs) or else he won't let Robards exit Feldman's body and rematerialize in the real-world as his elderly self, alongside his wife. Freddy Krueger references aside... are you bored yet?

And I suppose that is DREAM A LITTLE DREAM's biggest surprise: that it's pretentious! I swear, this film feels like it wants to be ALTERED STATES or AWAKENINGS or SOLARIS and then it gets T-boned by LICENSE TO DRIVE or BETTER OFF DEAD. You definitely get the sense that the filmmakers were going for a deep metaphysical dive, and then were saddled with a "Two Coreys" picture. Its uneven nature even extends to its soundtrack, which is best described as THE BIG CHILL meets TOP GUN. We have Jon Bon Jovi rip-offs playing over elderly folks eating dinner and then '50s oldies playing over aerobicise sequences. Timbuk 3 ("The Future's So Bright I Gotta Wear Shades") featured alongside Frank Sinatra ("Young at Heart"). Wilson Pickett ("The Midnight Hour") flows into R.E.M. ("It's the End of the World as We Know It") and none of it feels motivated. Though I'll let the Timbuk 3 slide. What am I, a monster?

Oh, and did I mention that Harry Dean Stanton and Piper Laurie are in this thing?

It's like the world's worst David Lynch movie

They're playing Jason Robards' best friend and wife, respectively, and Harry Dean's appearance here prompted Roger Ebert to disavow his famous "Stanton-Walsh Rule," which posited that "no movie featuring either Harry Dean Stanton or M. Emmet Walsh in a supporting role can be altogether bad." Well, at least Piper Laurie gets a weird little Lynchian moment where she does a sassy solo dance with a tea service.


Coulda been a Golden Girl

Speaking of sassy dancing, Corey Feldman (while hosting Jason Robards' character's mind) does a Michael Jackson solo set to a hideous '80s cover of "Dream a Little Dream."

To say that this is deeply uncomfortable, and for a myriad of reasons, would be an understatement.

A poster for THE LOST BOYS gets a cameo, 

 

and the two Coreys are allegedly on so much coke and heroin that their dynamic actually feels like a teenage BIG LEBOWSKI or CUTTER'S WAY, with a relaxed-yet-overwhelmed Feldman standing in for Jeff Bridges' character(s) and a manic Haim stumbling around with a cane and an 'Nam bomber jacket as the Goodman/Heard-style sidekick, ready to erupt at any moment, a 5'5'' ball of pure id.

Rounding it out, we have the naturalistic Meredith Salenger (VILLAGE OF THE DAMNED '95, THE JOURNEY OF NATTY GANN) managing (along with Stanton and Laurie) to be one of the few actors here who doesn't embarrass herself. That she still spends a good 45% of her screentime doing jazzer- and aerobicise may or may not factor into this assessment.

Salenger plays the girl of Feldman's dreams, who happens to be already dating William McNamera (SURVIVING THE GAME, Argento's OPERA)

so obviously it's up to old man Robards in a teenage body to break them up and save the day or whatever. The final ignominy is the fact that they make Jason Robards do the 'ol soft-shoe and lip-sync over the end credits

as a duet with Corey Feldman, who is continuing to do his poor-man's Michael Jackson routine, which essentially makes it feel like an outtake from MOONWALKER. Whew.

In closing, I have to make a point about FREDDY'S GREATEST HITS, the 1987 novelty album by "The Elm Street Group," which features Freddy Krueger (Robert Englund) performing covers of several classic songs and a few originals, including an instrumental (!). On this album, he performs "The Midnight Hour" (featured in this film) and, on the back cover, affects a Michael Jacksonian pose.

Given the Krueger reference, I have to believe that DREAM A LITTLE DREAM's makers were perhaps really jibin' with the glory of FREDDY'S GREATEST HITS (the film was released in 1989) and you cannot tell me otherwise. That is all.

Only now does it occur to me... DEATH WATCH (1980)

Only now does it occur to me... that I would ever see Harvey Keitel trying to strangle Harry Dean Stanton while Max von Sydow tries to stop the violence.





The circumstances of this assault involve a sleazy television producer (Stanton) and his "camera-man" with cameras installed in his eyeballs via science-fictional contrivance (Keitel). Keitel has been tasked with filming the voyeuristic drama of woman's (Romy Schneider) excruciating death in a world where illness has otherwise almost been eradicated. Max von Sydow is the dying woman's husband.

The film––made in 1980 and directed by Bertrand Tavernier––is melancholy as hell and beautifully photographed by Pierre-William Glenn (DAY FOR NIGHT, COUP DE TORCHON). It's based on a spectacular novel called THE CONTINUOUS KATHERINE MORTENHOE (1973) by D.G. Compton which is said (and rightfully so) to have predicted the trajectory of reality television. I  recommend both works––especially the film, which feels very proto-Atom Egoyan in its assessment of an alienating mediascape.

R.I.P., Harry Dean Stanton

It is with a heavy heart that I reflect on the death of Harry Dean Stanton. He may have been 91, but I was sure he'd never die. He seemed to remain the same age––about fifty?––from circa 1960 to 2010.  He wasn't simply one of the finest character actors to ever live, he was one of the finest actors, period. And he could do more with the briefest of appearances than some actors can achieve in an entire career. He brought a vulnerability to every role. A mystery. Not necessarily a joie de vivre, but something approaching the pure animism of existence.  Consider his "avenge me" scene in RED DAWN. Or his beaten-down hangdog delivery of "That godammed trailer's more popular that Uncle's day in a whorehouse, you see what I mean? It just means I've....more shit I gotta do now," in TWIN PEAKS: FIRE WALK WITH ME (a character he reprised to great effect in TWIN PEAKS: THE RETURN).

Hell, for the few minutes he's on screen, he even makes DOWN PERISCOPE and MR. NORTH watchable.

His rare appearances as a leading man (PARIS, TEXAS, REPO MAN, and presumably the forthcoming LUCKY) show us the vastness of the human soul. Hell, most of his performances show us the vastness of the human soul.

His collaborations with John Carpenter (ESCAPE FROM NEW YORK and CHRISTINE) are full of scuzzy Americana underbelly charm.

His work with Lynch (the aforementioned TWIN PEAKS, THE STRAIGHT STORY, INLAND EMPIRE, THE COWBOY AND THE FRENCHMAN, WILD AT HEART) is strange and sad and somehow capable of plucking at our heartstrings even when he's just muttering "gaaaad damn" or "what the heehhhl?' or yipping and yapping at hyenas on a television.

A string of charlatan, thief, outlaw and sleazy cop roles in the 60s and 70s (DILLINGER, STRAIGHT TIME, FAREWELL MY LOVELY, WISE BLOOD, PAT GARRETT & BILLY THE KID, THE MISSOURI BREAKS, FLATBED ANNIE AND SWEETIE PIE: LADY TRUCKERS, THE FORTUNE, COCKFIGHTER) were all infused with a similar, downbeat existential energy. I swear nobody else can say "Things ain't workin' out for me today..." with such pained authenticity and hillbilly mysticism.
 
We were always lucky to see his musical performances too, and he worked them in whenever he could––in from "Hand Me Down My Walking Cane" in STRAIGHT TIME to the eerie hymns in BIG LOVE to the sloppy drinking songs in AGAINST THE WALL to the trailer park ballad in TWIN PEAKS: THE RETURN.

Then there's the appearances you'd never expect––like PRETTY IN PINK, THE AVENGERS, THE ANIMAL. Shit, the man's got the saddest death scene in ALIEN. Not even the cat cares.

He was one-of-a-kind, that's all I know. And I wouldn't know how to end this any better than to leave you with a few thoughtful words from the man himself:

"I'm 87 years old...I only eat so I can smoke and stay alive. The only fear I have is how long consciousness is gonna hang on after my body goes. I just hope there's nothing. Like there was before I was born. I'm not really into religion, they're all macrocosms of the ego. When man began to think he was a separate person with a separate soul, it created a violent situation. The void, the concept of nothingness, is terrifying to most people on the planet. And I get anxiety attacks myself. I know the fear of that void. You have to learn to die before you die. You give up, surrender to the void, to nothingness. Anybody else you've interviewed bring these things up? Hang on, I gotta take this call... Hey, brother. That's great, man. Yeah, I'm being interviewed... We're talking about nothing. I've got him well-steeped in nothing right now. He's stopped asking questions."

Only now does it occur to me... FLATBED ANNIE AND SWEETIEPIE: LADY TRUCKERS (1979)

Only now does it occur to me... that a full five years before he played one in the seminal REPO MAN, Harry Dean Stanton was already repossessing vehicles across the American West in FLATBED ANNIE AND SWEETIEPIE: LADY TRUCKERS!




It's unfortunate that this genre died out (do we blame MAXIMUM OVERDRIVE?), because these movies are all pleasant enough (see: HIGH-BALLIN', WHITE LINE FEVER, and the like) and usually deliver hearty doses of Americana bizarre-itude, zany high-speed chases, and blue collar Davids versus corporate Goliaths.

All of this, naturally, is accompanied by janglin', crawdaddyin' country grooves thicker than Burt Reynolds' chest hair and sweatier than Southern Fried Sleaze-o-Rama.  This particular film puts its own spin on the genre with lady truckers, played by DON'T BE AFRAID OF THE DARK's Kim Darby and CORVETTE SUMMER's Annie Potts.

When Darby's trucker husband (played by Fred Willard) is injured in the line of duty, she has to stay one step ahead of the repo men and joins forces with her best friend to keep the big rig runnin'.  That's pretty much the entire plot.  There's a lot of Harry Dean Stanton "slow burn"

set to banjo music, and I can really get behind that.  It's also notable for being the first and only film appearance of Billy Carter, full-time brother of then-President Jimmy Carter and part-time huckster of Billy Beer.
'
He's given the opportunity to smile a lot, which really plays to his strengths as a performer.  I love that there's a rich history of this sort of political gimmickry, including Roger Clinton's appearance in BIODOME.  But it's really too bad that Jeb Bush never appeared in something like, say... THE PAPERBOY.

 In the end, it's the sort of film where random men declare, "You are some kind of woman, Flatbed Annie!"
 
and it feels only natural. Amen.

Only now does it occur to me... DOWN PERISCOPE

Only now does it occur to me... that DOWN PERISCOPE may possess the lowest ratio of "overall quality in comparison to amount of Great character actors" from any comparable film.

I think most of us think of DOWN PERISCOPE as the moment in the 90s where our nation's thirst for the "submarine movie" peaked, having enjoyed THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER, CRIMSON TIDE, THE ABYSS... before beholding the Rob Schneider version.
 
 The Rob Schneider version.

Conversely, you may also think of this as "the time Kelsey Grammer put out the feelers to see what his post-'Frasier Crane' stock might be worth."
 
If we were to examine DOWN PERISCOPE through that lens, I think we'd find that it is not typical of his actual post-FRASIER output:  clearly he's found his new niche acting against type in the third installments of modern action franchises (X-MEN III: THE LAST STAND, THE EXPENDABLES 3).

Anyway, I've digressed from my original point, which is that DOWN PERISCOPE is indeed terrible, but that it contains performances by some of our finest character actors.  There's a certain cognitive dissonance that expresses itself when you're watching Rip Torn:

William H. Macy:

Bruce Dern:

and Harry Dean Stanton:

doing their best to deliver peabrained jokes about bird shit and penis tattoos.  Whew.

Only now does it occur to me... THE AVENGERS

Only now does it occur to me...  that THE AVENGERS is not in fact a stupendously budgeted CGI extravaganza, but in fact a bizarre safe haven for unexpected character actor cameos.  

For example, in this scene apparently involving the "World Security Council" we are entreated to none other than Powers Boothe (SOUTHERN COMFORT, RED DAWN, EXTREME PREJUDICE, TOMBSTONE, U TURN, SIN CITY, DEADWOOD), Jenny Agutter (Roeg's WALKABOUT, LOGAN'S RUN, EQUUS, AMAZON WOMEN ON THE MOON, DARKMAN, CHILD'S PLAY 2), and Donald Li (not pictured– "Eddie Lee" from BIG TROUBLE IN LITTLE CHINA, MEMOIRS OF AN INVISIBLE MAN, ONE CRAZY SUMMER, SAVED BY THE BELL: HAWAIIAN STYLE).

They're fairly unrecognizable at first glance, but hey– they're still there.  And now we can partake in the vague satisfaction that the third highest-grossing film of all time has Powers Boothe in it.  It's not an actual satisfaction, just slight validation, like seeing your friend in a commercial or in an ad on the side of a bus.  I feel the same way about David Warner being in TITANIC.

Then we come to the major setpiece of the film– no, not the wholesale destruction of New York nor the opening of portals to dimensions out of Norse mythology– I'm talkin' 'bout Harry Dean Stanton, appearing here as an eighty-something security guard who encounters the Incredible Hulk:


Harry Dean Stanton:  national treasure and America's primo old man since the 1970s.  Needless to say, during this bit of the film, I had an enormous smile on my face.

Anyway, as to the film itself– it's big and dumb and overblown, but I enjoyed it far, far more than I thought I would, and not just because of the character actors.

(Final thought:  Thor should have been played by Dolph Lundgren.)

Only now does it occur to me... AGAINST THE WALL

Only now does it occur to me...  that Harry Dean Stanton must occasionally request for "singing" to be included in his contracts.  

As he broke into song, I recalled Harry Dean's hearty rendition of "Hand Me Down My Walking Cane" in STRAIGHT TIME, Harry Dean's eerie hymnals in BIG LOVE, and I'm pretty sure he sorta sings along with the radio in WILD AT HEART.  That's just off the top of my head, I'm sure there's more, but in general, I must say that I'm happy we get to see Harry Dean belt one out in every other movie.  Anyway, that minor observation was just a portal into the movie at hand: John Frankenheimer's made-for-HBO historical movie on the Attica Prison riots, AGAINST THE WALL.

And of course it wouldn't be a prison movie without Danny Trejo.  That's a major prerequisite.

See also:  RUNAWAY TRAIN, THE HIDDEN, KINJITE: FORBIDDEN SUBJECTS, LOCK UP, MANIAC COP 2, WEDLOCK, CON AIR, ANIMAL FACTORY, etc., etc.

There's a frightening turn by Clarence Williams III as one of the instigators of the riot.  He also played a terrifying villain in 52 PICK-UP, Frankenheimer's Cannon Films classic.

And, hey– remember Clarence was in TWIN PEAKS for a couple of episodes as an FBI Agent?  There's a whole TWIN PEAKS connection there with Harry Dean Stanton, who memorably played in FIRE WALK WITH ME.

Speaking of TWIN PEAKS– here, Harry Dean plays the father of...

Kyle McLachlan!  "Damn fine coffee!  And hot!"

So wait, if we're to believe that Agent Cooper took a demotion to "prison guard," does this take place before or after the [NEBULOUSLY PHRASED TWIN PEAKS SPOILER ALERT] 

"transformation" at the end of Season 2?

...

Aaaah!!  BOB!  "Through the dark of futures past, the magician longs to see.  One chants out between two worlds, fire walk with me.  I'll catch you with my death bag.  You may think I've gone insane, but I promise I will kill again!"  Indeed!

P.S.  Apologies for foisting my ludicrous pop culture crossovers onto what is a pretty serious and socially relevant flick.  Occasionally it wanders into moments worthy of an After School Special, but on the whole, it's intense, well-acted, and held together by the crisp, workmanlike direction of John Frankenheimer.

Junta Juleil's Top 100: #45-41

45. THE CRIMINAL LIFE OF ARCHIBALD DE LA CRUZ (1955, Luis Buñuel)

One of the wildest and weirdest films in Buñuel's entire oeuvre. Often, cineastes delve into Buñuel from one end or the other (either from his early, surrealist works like UN CHIEN ANDALOU and L'AGE D'OR, or from his latter-day international arthouse successes like THE DISCREET CHARM OF THE BOURGEOISIE or BELLE DU JOUR) and neglect the lesser-well-known films of his Mexican catalogue (roughly 1947-1960). There's some real gems in there, films like EL, FEVER MOUNTS IN EL PAO), SUSANA, NAZARIN, and THE CRIMINAL LIFE OF ARCHIBALD DE LA CRUZ. Following a daydreaming milquetoast who believes himself responsible for a series of murders (and maybe he is...), the film delves deeply into thought crimes and 'the murderous urge.' Is it aberrant? Perverse? Can it be healthy if not acted upon? Toss in some insane, uncomfortable imagery and a wicked sense of humor and this is one of Buñuel's finest works.


44. KICKING AND SCREAMING (1995, Noah Baumbach)

I first watched KICKING AND SCREAMING the weekend before I graduated from college. I thought it was funny and quotable, sure, but I can't say it had too much of an impact. Then I watched it again about eight months after graduation, and suddenly it was relevant, it was poignant, it was real and it was true. I can't really think of a better example of a film that improves with real-life context, and perhaps it can all be summed up in one critical line of dialogue: "What I used to be able to pass off as a bad summer could now potentially turn into a bad life." But it's hilarious, too, and the whole pre-SQUID AND THE WHALE Baumbach gang is here, and in top form: the deadpan, crossword puzzling Chris Eigeman who at one point faces off with his trashy teenage girlfriend against a man who "ALREADY would rather be bow-hunting," Carlos Jacott's propensity for pajama tops and hiding from the cookie man, Eric Stoltz as the aging perpetual-college-student-bartender dispensing nuggets of wisdom and overseeing an awkward two-man book club, Baumbach himself accusing you of cow-fucking. We've got Parker Posey as the typical (but always welcome) lovably bitchy character that she plays, Elliot Gould as another cypher for Baumbach's own father, and Josh Hamilton and Olivia d'Abo as a doomed(?) couple that forms the emotive core of the picture. In the end, it seems that either you'll connect with the subject matter in KICKING AND SCREAMING, or, like the cacophony of anti-Baumbach voices that accompanied it when it entered the Criterion Collection, you plainly just won't get it. But it doesn't matter– for its target audience, KICKING AND SCREAMING (like other early Baumbachs like HIGHBALL and MR. JEALOUSY) initiates you into a devoted cult where the members say things like "Ding!" and "Gotta have id" and "There's food in the beer" and then chuckle and remember how damned good this film really is. Alright– two last selling points: it features Dom DeLuise's son as a bouncer and the line "Is that copy of DR. GIGGLES letterboxed?" is uttered. Okay, I'll stop now.

43. SEVEN BEAUTIES (1975, Lina Wertmüller)

I don't know what happened to Lina Wertmüller. In the 1970s, she was a top dog in the art film world, she became the first woman ever nominated for the Oscar for Best Director, and her films were adored by critics. In 2011, when I try to have a discussion about her, invariably I have to mention that she did the original version of a terrible Guy Ritchie/Madonna movie (SWEPT AWAY) before I see a flicker of recognition. It's a goddamn shame, because SEVEN BEAUTIES (her masterpiece, as far as I'm concerned) is one of the finest films ever made about the Second World War. Giancarlo Giannini (who would be Wertmüller's De Niro if she were Scorsese) is Pasqualino "Seven Beauties," a pompous, struttin' two-bit hood with seven ugly sisters who becomes wrapped up in a picaresque plotline which ferries him from vicious murder to an insane asylum to a conscription in the Fascist army to the shivering, cold, hard realities of a concentration camp. Darkly comic throughout, it frequently meanders into the grotesque– a starving man must seduce an obese Nazi Shirley Stoler, whose character is based on the notorious "Bitch of Buchenwald;" Buñuel-crony Fernando Rey gives a partly hilarious, partly terrifying performance as a concentration camp prisoner who may have the greatest exit line in filmdom ("I go into the shit!"); and Tonini Delli Colli (who worked with Leone, Fellini, Malle, Polanski, et al.) films for us grand, operatic, colorful images (which are occasionally intruded upon by bodily fluids). Could make for a good double-feature with THE TIN DRUM if you're interested in hastening your own suicide. Regardless, it's a bold vision of passion and hate and war and survival, and it really deserves an exalted position in the canon of world cinema.

42. TENEBRE (1982, Dario Argento)

Oh, boy. TENEBRE. How is it possible that I haven't reviewed this? Where do I even begin?? The ludicrously long crane shot around a piece of modern architecture which has curled the toes and blown the minds of the likes of Brian De Palma and Quentin Tarantino? The skillfully crafted twists and turns which make it, alongside DEEP RED, the most exquisite and hilariously twisty giallo ever written? The stylized murders, which eschew the typical expressionist Argento colored lighting in favor of pure imagery– dilating pupils, the black glove, spurts of blood, and Antonioni-style locales of urban alienation? The tough cop who says he only drinks on duty? The mind-blowing, arcade-frequenting Italo-lesbians? Goblin's pulsating disco score, which, with a roll of synthesized timpani somehow nullifies and transcends all of their prog rock roots? The mind-blowing, transgendered flashbacks? Tony Franciosa's amateur detective work and gosh-darned likability? John Saxon's sleazitude? Daria Nicolodi's endless, endless, endless screams? The incredibly and outrageously self-reflexive plot, which begs the question: DOES DARIO ARGENTO ACTUALLY KILL PEOPLE? Yessir, TENEBRE is all this and more. A dark, bold statement from a master of horror who pulls no punches in his dogged pursuit of cinematic truth and, uh... artistic murders of beautiful women.

41. WILD AT HEART (1990, David Lynch)

As I have said before: Magnificent, beautiful, and disturbing, Lynch's Palm d'or-winning adaptation of Barry Gifford's novel, filtered through the emerald lens of THE WIZARD OF OZ, is certainly as fiery and unpredictable as the slow-motion flames that are wont to erupt intermittently from the screen.
A masterpiece of style, a frequent complaint is that the whole is less than the sum of the parts. I can concede that this film is not for everyone. It's not. But how can you say 'no' to a Nic Cage that's so intense, he karate chops the air when he dances and wears thong underwear; a Laura Dern so sultry, she's posing with her hand sweeping through her coiffure for most of the film; a Willem Dafoe so creepy his gums cover half of his teeth (and whose first appearance, a slow stroll amid Christmas lights and morbidly obese porno actresses- is one of the most comically terrifying entrances in film history); a Harry Dean Stanton so endearing he tugs at your heartstrings even as he yips and yaps at hyenas on TV; a crippled, lipstick-smeared Grace Zabriskie who is so goddamned freaky that she'll make your hair curl; or a Diane Ladd whose tremendous performance is punctuated by the real-life mother-daughter relationship? There's a cameo by Crispin Glover that packs more material and layers of performance and meaning in a mere two minutes than most actors can aspire to in a feature. There's John Lurie in a Confederate flag hat. There's Jack Nance with an invisible dog. There's Angelo Badalamenti making the most blood-curdling use of a brass section, ever. There's homage to Jacques Tati (involving a giant red pipe in Big Tuna) and Akira Kurosawa (the feed store dog with the severed hand like in YOJIMBO). It's 124 minutes of exhiliration, dread, and magical Americana. And there's as much oddness, terror, love, and joy as there really is in this world that's so "wild at heart and weird on top," and to give any more away would do the film a disservice. One of the greats.


Coming up next: Magic glasses, nosey noses, and my favorite ghost movie!


-Sean Gill