Only now does it occur to me... HANSEL AND GRETEL (1987)

Only now does it occur to me... how much narrative padding has to go into HANSEL AND GRETEL to make it feature-length. Let's be honest, the bullet points are these: mom and dad are struggling; Hansel and Gretel go into the woods on an errand (or are abandoned there by their parents, depending on the telling), find the witch's candy house, almost get eaten by the witch, and then they shove her into the oven. There's a reason why the best film version (Tim Burton's) runs about 35 minutes. But this is not early Tim Burton––it's a Cannon MovieTale.

That's right: the children's movie/fairy tale offshoot of Cannon Films (probably only created to get a tax break or something), the same one that brought us Christopher Walken as PUSS IN BOOTS. And, hoo boy, this thing is a mess. As the parents, we have David Warner (TIME BANDITS, TRON, TITANIC, TWIN PEAKS) and Emily Richards (EMPIRE OF THE SUN, ENEMY AT THE DOOR), who clearly deserve better. There's a lot of dignity up for grabs here. Look at Emily Richards, she's so upset she can barely stand up by herself. For starters, she's dressed like an Oktoberfest wench at a knock-off Disneyland.

And poor David Warner. He's trying his best. He's wearing a community theater peasant blouse they stole from a production of THE PIRATES OF PENZANCE. They didn't even launder it first.

They pad this shit with 44 minutes of family drama before we even see the candy house. Lotta Aryan-types moping and puttering around a medieval cabin. It's like the world's worst Ingmar Bergman film. 

Finally, the candy house. You'd have to imagine this would be a holy grail for a production designer––you could really go nuts with it. Instead we get this sad sack shit.
They thought they could jazz it up with some half-assed star bows from the Dollar Store that were lying around in somebody's junk drawer. A child would have done a better job.

You'd think you couldn't get any more depressed. Maybe if they shoehorned in an Oscar-winning actress who deserves a lot better? Somebody like Cloris motherfuckin' Leachman (THE LAST PICTURE SHOW, THE TWILIGHT ZONE, DILLINGER, DAISY MILLER, YOUNG FRANKENSTEIN)?

At least she has fun with it. You can tell she wasn't directed at all. None of this movie was. Half of her shots have her leering and extending her fingernails like she was told to "act witchy" and then they forgot to say "Cut!" She gets to go full-HOCUS POCUS soon enough, and in one of the film's two stylistic decisions, they give her some SUSPIRIA-style Argento lighting. 

 

So there's that, at least. She just keeps going, though, cause, like I said, they totally forgot to say "Cut!"

She captures the kiddies and we get a few iconic images.

I recommend singing aloud––to the tune of Nazareth's "Hair of the Dog"––"Now you're messin' with a... Leach-man wiii-iiitch! Now you're messin' with a Leachman witch!"

We even learn that her grounds are populated with the still-living bodies of her victims, children who have been entombed within weeping gingerbread men:

"If you look closely, you can see the tears." Hell, that shoulda been the tag-line to this movie. Speaking of which, throughout, all of this is crosscut with David Warner wandering in the woods, looking for his kids.

It's very post-Beckett, and we return to it a comical number of times. Yep, time to check in on Warner again. No dialogue. Just fruitless searching. And disappointment. It's sweaty out there. If you look closely, you can see the tears.

He's giving us some real "I need to fire my agent" vibes. It's great.

They try to make it a plot point that the witch can't see without her magical, enchanted magnifying glass

but it's totally one of those plastic magnifying glasses that you get as a prize from a cereal box. It doesn't even have glass as a lens, only thickened plastic. Tough to sell it as a magic totem, is what I'm saying. Anyway, the kids lower her into a subterranean oven with a rope (which is much less satisfying than shoving her into a more conventional stove)

 

but then comes the coup de grâce, and the second creative stylistic decision the filmmakers made. That's right, the house explodes in a SHINING-style ejaculation of foamy Leachman blood: 

And it just

keeps

gushing!

The other kiddies break out of their gingerbread prisons

and, mercifully, it's over. This has been a Cannon MovieTale.

R.I.P., Billy Drago

I was very sorry to hear that Billy Drago died today––prolific character actor, cheekbone wonder, menacing Kansan, and portrayer of exquisite madmen. He was one of my favorite eccentric performers in an A-and B-movie canon (and Cannon) full of them... I've written before that his brilliant volatility ought to have resulted in warning labels on VHS tapes that said "HERE THERE BE DRAGOS."

Some classic roles included when he enforced Al Capone's reign of terror in De Palma's THE UNTOUCHABLES, engaged in complex cartel homoeroticism with Chuck Norris in DELTA FORCE 2: THE COLOMBIAN CONNECTION, preached and handled snakes in GUNCRAZY, led a punk gang against vampire Grace Jones in VAMP, ran an insane asylum in THE HERO AND THE TERROR, slithered through INVASION U.S.A. while testing all the coke, and was a frighteningly pathos-filled john in MYSTERIOUS SKIN, among many, many others. His body of work runs the gamut from arthouse films to workaday TV shows to Cannon actioners to music videos to the only episode of MASTERS OF HORROR deemed too extreme to air (directed by Takashi Miike). In each performance, he imbued his characters with a real, lived-in quality; an authenticity that was sometimes startling, sometimes nightmarish, and always profound. Here's to you, Billy: R.I.P.

Only now does it occur to me... THE LAST AMERICAN VIRGIN (1982)

Only now does it occur to me... that this seems like something of an appropriate week to reckon with a film like THE LAST AMERICAN VIRGIN (1982), an early Cannon Film attempt at teenage relevance and an '80s update of director Boaz Davidson's own 1950s-set Israeli coming-of-age film, LEMON POPSICLE (1978).

Half of the film feels predictably culled from the brainless sex-comedy genre, films like PORKY'S, REVENGE OF THE NERDS, or JOYSTICKS––



Needless to say, the '80s rule of pools is in effect––which is to say that if there is a pool present, a character will be pushed into it, flailing, in a zany comic moment

––whereas the second half feels like it could be at home in an artistic coming-of-age picture by the likes of Catherine Breillat, Lasse Hallström, or Maurice Pialat.

The suburbo-angst is tangible

Like FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH (which was released in August 1982, two weeks after this film's July premiere), it presents a toxic, often alienating, and generally bewildering teenage wasteland; a minefield of harsh, unavoidable truths about the human condition; a labyrinth of pain and nascent sexuality fired willy-nilly in all directions, like a tommy gun.

Of course, a Cannon sex comedy can't be on the right side of history all the time, so there are several cringe-inducing scenarios, like PORKY'S-style locker room peeping, a dick-measuring contest set to Devo's "Whip It," or a bizarre sequence of group sex with a Latina housewife that plays on the surface as "weird and sort of racist," or very generously, perhaps, as a satire on the absurdity of teen sex comedies of the era? (Probably not.) At least the scene where our horndog protagonists visit a prostitute plays out in a manner that's bleak, melancholy, and broken, like a tableau out of Tennessee Williams or Flannery O'Connor.

Conversely, this could be a scene from BARFLY

As with any '80s film whose major focus is its protagonists attempting to "get laid," there's going to be a poisonous strain of male entitlement running throughout,

And a lot of popped collars

but THE LAST AMERICAN VIRGIN actually makes an attempt to grapple earnestly with the consequences. It's partly owed to Tel Aviv's own Boaz Davidson (SALSA, GOING BANANAS), who lends the film a peculiar sort of Eurotrash/Euro-arthouse-quality where there can be wild tonal shifts, often within the same scene, of silly Hollywood artifice giving way to Neo-realistic emotion and moral ambiguity.


While FAST TIMES tackles similarly weighty subjects, this is the only '80s film I can think of who dedicates the stretch ordinarily reserved for a makeover or training montage to a sequence where a young woman undergoes an abortion while another boy (who did not impregnate her) scrambles to pawn his belongings to pay for it.



Especially remarkable is that the woman's point-of-view is not only considered in this sequence, but that it's central––the viewer has a real sense of the emotional and physical drain the dark and ethically ambiguous shadows of the adult world have cast on her life and the lives of those around her.


Of course, this happens in a film where a group of guys get pubic lice and the subsequent, incessant scratching is played for yucks. Well, that's Cannon Films for you––for better or worse. Nonetheless, it feels morally superior to a few of the options at an American multiplex in July of 1982. While you could indeed catch BLADE RUNNER or John Carpenter's THE THING, it's perhaps more likely that a boneheaded teenager would go see ZAPPED!, a film where Scott Baio uses telekinesis to rip the clothing off of his female classmates.




[Side note: Probably the first thing the viewer will notice about THE LAST AMERICAN VIRGIN is the soundtrack, which would cost more than the entire film's budget today. It's shocking how much 1982 radio they manage to cram in here, with hit songs by Journey, The Police, Tommy Tutone, Blondie, U2, Devo, Oingo Boingo, The Cars, The Human League, Blondie, The Waitresses, REO Speedwagon, KC and the Sunshine Band, and Quincy Jones, to name a few.

It's also worth mentioning that TWIN PEAKS' Kimmy Robertson also turns in a delightful comic supporting performance:

She's always been underutilized (do we blame SPEED 2: CRUISE CONTROL?––technically she played the title character, as "Liza, Cruise Control/Cruise Director"), and hopefully the revived TWIN PEAKS will get her some more work.]

Film Review: ALLAN QUATERMAIN AND THE LOST CITY OF GOLD (1986, Gary Nelson)

Stars: Hoo Boy of 5.

Running Time: 99 minutes.

Notable Cast or Crew: Richard Chamberlain (THE MUSIC LOVERS, THE LAST WAVE), Sharon Stone (CASINO, BASIC INSTINCT), James Earl Jones (STAR WARS, THE HUNT FOR RED OCTOBER, SNEAKERS), Henry Silva (SHARKY'S MACHINE, BULLETPROOF, GHOST DOG), Cassandra Peterson (ELVIRA MISTRESS OF THE DARK, PEE WEE'S BIG ADVENTURE), Robert Donner (COOL HAND LUKE, HIGH PLAINS DRIFTER). Produced by Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus. Based on the novel by H. Rider Haggard (KING SOLOMON'S MINES, SHE). Screenplay by Gene Quintano (SUDDEN DEATH, OPERATION DUMBO DROP) and Lee Reynolds (WHO AM I, DELTA FORCE 2). Directed by Gary Nelson (FREAKY FRIDAY, THE BLACK HOLE). Music by Michael Linn (AMERICAN NINJA, BREAKIN' 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO) and Jerry Goldsmith (TOTAL RECALL, ALIEN, GREMLINS). Second unit directed by Newt Arnold (BLOODSPORT, BLOOD THIRST).

Tag-line: "24 Karat Entertainment!"

Best one-liner: "We're starting to piss off somebody's god!"

I've written before at length about the "Cannon Quatermain Canon"––the two films, KING SOLOMON'S MINES and ALLAN QUATERMAIN AND THE LOST CITY OF GOLD, were made simultaneously in 1985, were based on outworn adventure novels by H. Rider Haggard, and were shamelessly attempting to cash in on the success of the INDIANA JONES series.

These films, even moreso than the average American globetrotting adventure film, are xenophobic, racially insensitive (they actually use brownface on Robert Donner to transform him into the excruciatingly offensive Indian character "Swarma"), and generally spit-take inducing. I honestly can't tell if these films are an elaborate joke on the audience, a spoof of the genre's racist tropes, or a genuine attempt at action-adventure entertainment by woefully out of touch individuals.  [It's also worth noting: Cannon's FIREWALKER (with Chuck Norris) was made in the same period and is definitely cut from the same cloth.]

The plot concerns Allan Quatermain (Richard Chamberlain, who deserves better)

Note how his fedora differs from Indiana Jones' in that it is handsomely garnished with a swatch of leopard print from Jo-Anne Fabrics.

and Willie Scott––er, I mean Jesse Huston (Sharon Stone, who also deserves better)

She doesn't even get to sing.

are searching for... not the Ark of the Covenant nor the Sankara Stones nor the Holy Grail, but, I shit you not... a legendary white African tribe who lives in a lost city of gold. At one point, Sharon Stone is made to exclaim, "The white race does exist!" I cannot overstate how unsettling this is.

James Earl Jones (who also obviously deserves better) shows up in a tailcoat, a plastic bone tooth necklace, a Native American feather headpiece, and no pants.

He is playing the warrior sidekick "Umslopogaas," and he wields a giant axe that is conspicuously lightweight and shiny, almost as if it is a piece of plastic covered in reflective paint (which it is). At one point he is captured by the guards of the white tribe's lost city, who are black men wearing white hoods. Again, these decisions appear to be so plainly tone deaf and misguided that it is better to believe they are not deliberate.

According to James Earl Jones, he only signed up for this picture because it allowed him to piggyback his shoot dates with an African vacation. I hope it was a nice vacation.

Master of crazy-eye Henry Silva rules the Lost City like Jim Jones, wearing community theater biblical robes and a Gene Simmons wig. He is clearly based on "Mola Ram" from INDIANA JONES AND THE TEMPLE OF DOOM (complete with a floor-opening sacrificial chamber and a mine full of slave labor), and the major difference is that he does not rip out his victims' hearts, but rather dips them in gold. He screams things like "Which one of you is going to die for slaying our sacred beast?" and appears to be having something approaching a good time.

And wait a minute, who is that on the left, in the Valkyrie breastplate?

Why, it's none other than Elvira (!) herself (Cassandra Peterson), who mostly lounges around and gives the evil eye, which makes her role in this mess the most enviable, from an actor's standpoint.

ALLAN QUATERMAIN AND THE LOST CITY OF GOLD is treasure trove of cheap costumes, depressed actors, incompetent matte work, and mind-bogglingly terrible ideas. There are giant maggot attacks, a wild raft ride (that attempts to mirror TEMPLE OF DOOM's mine-car chase),

and a zany bazaar salesman whose wares include bulletproof spandex.

Furthermore, Quatermain solves literally 95% of the problems he faces with trick-shooting (at tomatoes, natives' faces, trap doors, stalactites, etc.) which is a great message for the youth, too, sure.

In the end, the film is troubling, bizarre, baffling, and frankly the whole thing has aged about as well as the Gold Dust Twins. Now you must atone for your sins by watching the entire catalogues of Ousmane Sembéne, Sarah Maldoror, and Gadalla Gubara. Whew.

Only now does it occur to me.... DANGEROUSLY CLOSE (1986)

Only now does it occur to me... that Cannon Films––the studio of DEATH WISH 3 and INVASION U.S.A.––was capable of turning out a socially progressive message picture! While BREAKIN' 2: ELECTRIC BOOGALOO may sort of tackle corrupt real estate developers and BLOODSPORT might address shady Kumite ethics, DANGEROUSLY CLOSE––helmed by Albert Pyun, director of CYBORG, VICIOUS LIPS, and KICKBOXER 2: THE ROAD BACK ––takes a bleak and (mostly) sober look at yuppie vigilantism and institutionalized hate, updated for the '80s.

It's an oddly effective mashup of THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME, FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH, WALL STREET, and THE STEPFORD WIVES with a sort of STREETS OF FIRE/music video aesthetic (the smoke machines are working overtime).

It depicts a gang of preppy neo-fascists (called "The Sentinels") who are hell-bent on ridding their Academy of "undesirables,"

whether that means subculturally speaking, or otherwise.

In other words, the lone punk in a sea of preppies should be worried.

It prefigures HEATHERS (with none of the humor) as a cynical high school movie willing to "go there," particularly in depicting its suspicion of authority figures, the horror of school shootings,

 toxic jock culture,

and the American System's segregationalist tendencies.

The best part is that this is all dressed up in a video box that gives top billing to "Featuring Robert Palmer's Grammy Award-Winning Song 'Addicted to Love'!"

[Indeed, the soundtrack is pretty good––featuring music by Depeche Mode, Black Uhuru, Fine Young Cannibals, The Smithereens, and T.S.O.L., among others.] 

I wouldn't call it a masterpiece, but it's more sensible than you'd expect from Pyun, and almost plays like a grim riposte to the optimistic sex comedies, Savage Steve Holland romps, and John Hughes flicks that dominated the '80s teen landscape.