7 Star Wars Anthology Film Ideas

Rogue One: A Star Wars Story comes out tonight. I'm stoked! You guys stoked?!

Even more than last year's The Force Awakens, Rogue One ushers in a new era of hype and entertainment for Star Wars fans. It's the first of an infinite number of Star Wars spin-off or standalone or anthology or whatever-you-wanna-call-'em movies planned for the future. Star Wars content has been perpetually put out on all possible platforms for the past year or so, but nothing outside the main saga is potentially more exciting than the anthology movies. Since the first Star Wars came out in '77, all the best Star Wars content outside the original trilogy has exploited the inherent vastness of the Star Wars universe. The future anthology films are an opportunity to explore the rich terrain and far corners of our favorite galaxy far, far, away more successfully than ever.

With an infinite number of stories to be told, Disney has a chance to take risks with these movies and let their artist's tell these stories through unique lenses. Despite all the re-shoot and corporate control rumors surrounding Rogue One, the finished product will be a decent barometer of how far they're willing to let these movies go "off-brand" for the sake of worthwhile film-making. And on the off chance that Disney's listening, here are 7 of my favorite ideas for Star Wars anthology films--some I've read elsewhere online, some wholly my own. Just a heads up: I didn't include an Obi-Wan movie on my list because recent rumors suggest we're going to get one after Obi-Wan's role in the new trilogy is fully fleshed out. So here are some more hypothetical ideas. Enjoy...


1. Once Upon a Time On Tatooine

An iconic scene from Sergio Leone's Once Upon a Time in the West
provides a template for what a Star Wars Spaghetti Western might look like.

Among all the mythological and cultural influences that coagulated inside George Lucas' brain and gave birth to Star Wars, the American Western looms large. Han Solo--arguably the most popular character of the series--personifies that influence. Likewise, the desert planet of Tatooine and its seedy towns, farms and hermetic dwellings make for an undeniably Western world. I'd love to see a Star Wars movie go full Western, and I'd love to see that movie took an aesthetic queue from Spaghetti Westerns like Sergio Leone's Dollars Trilogy or Once Upon a Time in the West. Imagine a mexican stand-off like the one at the end of The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly, only on the outskirts of Mos Eisley spaceport, between some dangerous Outer Rim bounty hunters, with a soundtrack halfway between John Williams and Ennio Morricone. Frankly, I can't think of any Star Wars movie I'd rather see than a Space-Spaghetti Western called Once Upon a Time On Tatooine.


2. Suicide Squadron

It looks like we already have a Dirty Dozen-esque Star Wars movie in Rogue One, but what if we took that concept one or two steps further for a movie that's even closer to Suicide Squad or Inglourious Basterds? What if, after the Battle of Endor, the leaders of the New Republic bring together a vicious group of Imperials, bounty hunters and war criminals and force them into some crazy suicide mission? It'd be a great opportunity to portray the rebel alliance in a less heroic light, and spend some quality time with a cast of badass, morally ambiguous characters.


3. Star Wars: Underground

Star Wars 1313 Concept Art

Every Star Wars fan has uncharted corners of the Star Wars universe that peak their interest. At this point it should be clear that Star Wars' seedy underbelly peaks mine. We've had plenty of vivid glimpses of it--from the Mos Eisley cantina in A New Hope to the gathering of bounty hunters in Empire. Now, just imagine a whole movie focused on Star Wars' criminal underworld. Before Disney bought Star Wars, there were a couple projects in the works that intended to focus on this very concept. One was a planned live-action TV series called Star Wars: Underworld. The other was a video game called Star Wars 1313, which would have dealt with Boba Fett's early bounty hunting days roaming the literal underground of Coruscant's planetary metropolis. A crime movie in space, somewhere between these two projects, would be a Blade Runner/Heavy Metal-esque visual feast of a movie.


4. Princess Leia: A Star Wars Story

Moving forward, I think the key to the anthology films will be knowing which stories are worth telling and which ones aren't. For the most part, I think origin stories would fall in the latter category--especially ones involving the saga's most iconic heroes (needless to say, I'm already super skeptical of 2018's Han Solo movie). Having said that, I can't imagine not enjoying a movie about Princess Leia's formative years. The young female heroine archetype is quickly becoming the favored protagonist model for Star Wars, so why not make a standalone film for the original badass space princess?


5. Boba Fett: A (Non-Origin) Star Wars Story

Rumor has it a Boba Fett movie is already in the works. I hope to God they don't make it an origin story. The aura of mystery surrounding Boba Fett accounts for much of the character's longstanding appeal, and the best way to uphold the mystery would be to make a Boba Fett movie that takes place during or after the original trilogy. Fans of the old Star Wars expanded universe (now designated by Disney as non-canon with the title Legends) will remember that Boba Fett escaped the sarlacc pitt after Return of the Jedi. Now would be a perfect time to bring this story into the new canon and detail Boba Fett's post-ROTJ adventures. For a short glimpse of what this movie might look like, check out the epic fan trailer below:

6. Knights of the Old Republic

I've never played any of the Knights of the Old Republic games, but from what I hear they contain some of the most interesting stories and characters from the Legends canon. Right now, there's nothing in the new official canon that predates The Phantom Menace (though a Darth Maul prequel comic is set to come out soon). A Knights of the Old Republic movie would be a perfect place to start exploring the pre-saga history of the Jedi and the Sith. We'd get both large and intimate scale light-saber action, mysterious heroes and villains, and maybe even a story that could break down, or even subvert the myths that both the Jedi and the Sith have built around their equally dogmatic holds on the Force.


7. Droids

Early reviews of Rogue One are already touting it as the first Star Wars film completely for the grown up fans. If that's the case, we should let the kids have a Star Wars movie all their own as well. When I was a kid, I loved R2-D2 and C-3P0 more than any other Star Wars character, and I was a huge fan of the '80's Droids cartoon. A feature-length animated reboot of Star Wars: Droids would be the perfect way to please the kiddies. And I'd still watch it, because c'mon, droids are fun AF.


Now that you've heard my two-cents, what are some of your favorite Star Wars anthology ideas? Comment below...

11/9/16 - Did You Hear About the Midnight Rambler

"Make no mistake about it: We are at war now..."

-Hunter S. Thompson, 9/11/01

November 9, 2016. 4:45 a.m. Waking up after about an hour of sleep. Jenna is packing the rest of her bags. I'm taking her to the airport where she'll be off on a work-related trip to Italy. Like just about everyone else in America, we thought we'd be waking up this morning to the end of an election in favor of Hillary Clinton. Last night, as we watched with horror as the poll maps went red with the fire of Trump's unprecedented campaign, we realized how much Jenna would need this trip. Good to get out of the country for a few days and detox. Meanwhile I'd be in for a weekend fortifying myself in our apartment, working from home and trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Just me and the cats.

On the 405 now, en route to LAX. It breaks my heart to look over to Jenna, taking in the wounded look on her face as she tells me she doesn't know how she's supposed to look to this person as her president, a man she would literally be terrified of if she met him on the street. If the president were anyone else, this would sound melodramatic. But it's Donald Trump she's talking about, so it sounds terrifyingly right. I'm sure women across the country feel the same way. This election has told them that their work, accomplishments, and ownership of their bodies is inconsequential under the completely unchecked irresponsibility and tyranny of the white male machine.

---

I drop off Jenna at the terminal and head back onto the freeway. I connect my phone to the bluetooth for some music. Early yesterday evening, when I still thought Hillary was going to win, I jokingly remarked to Jenna that a Trump presidency would mean a rebirth for rock n roll. Today I'd take the death of rock n roll forever over this. Nevertheless, when the chips are down I turn to rock n roll. And right now there's only one song I can think of to listen to: The Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter":

Ooh, see the fire is sweepin'
Our very street today
Burns like a red coal carpet
Mad bull lost its way

War, children, it's just a shot away

It's just a shot away
Rape, murder! It's just a shot away 

It's just a shot away

The anthem is appropriate, but a more cryptic, yet surprisingly more appropriate one comes up next as my phone shuffles through the album:

Did you hear about the midnight rambler
Everybody got to go
Did you hear about the midnight rambler
The one that shut the kitchen door
He don't give a hoot of warning
Wrapped up in a black cat cloak
He don't go in the light of the morning
He split the time the cock'rel crows

...the vision is clear and instant. The demon spirit of the Midnight Rambler--a creeping violent specter of the night, sneaking up on unsuspecting prey and slitting their throats where they stand--

Did you hear about the midnight rambler
Well, honey, it's no rock 'n' roll show
Well, I'm talkin' about the midnight gambler
Yeah, the one you never seen before

The Midnight Rambler--summoned by the exalted ignorance of America--has crept up and slit all our throats--and almost no one saw him coming.

---

In addition to being a colossal shit excuse for a person, Donald Trump has secured his place as the most successful con man in American history--conning his way to the top--the seat of the most powerful man in the world. Boy, we were suckered. The truth is out, folks: We are dumb. We were dumb to think there was any other outcome but this, and last night, we were dumb enough to be shocked by it. Today, Michael Moore writes:

Everyone must stop saying they are “stunned” and “shocked.” What you mean to say is that you were in a bubble and weren’t paying attention to your fellow Americans and their despair. YEARS of being neglected by both parties, the anger and the need for revenge against the system only grew. Along came a TV star they liked whose plan was to destroy both parties and tell them all “You're fired!” Trump’s victory is no surprise. He was never a joke. Treating him as one only strengthened him. He is both a creature and a creation of the media and the media will never own that.

If the media will never own it, then we should own the fact that we bought into the media's shameful obsession with Trump's personality and Hillary Clinton's email non-scandal. And we need to own the fact that we were dumb enough to think that merely having progressive ideas was enough. Like the Peace & Love generation of the 60's, we have yet to learn that a communal high--whether chemical or ideological--will never bring about progress on its own. This is the kind of thing that makes the words from Hunter S. Thompson's Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas ring truer than ever:

There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . .

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . .

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back.

---

The freeway veers east as I get closer to Long Beach. The sun is rising and I'm driving straight into it, no sunglasses handy. My eyes are starting to hurt, though not as much they used to hurt when I drove a floral delivery truck in Utah, setting out at dawn en route from Provo to Vernal, headed east on Highway 89 into the blinding white heat of the sunrise...

...Utah....Utah....Up until my move to California almost a year and a half ago, Utah was my home. In recent years, the state has become a cultural battle zone in its own right--the inevitable center of the war for the heart and soul of the Mormon faith. It's been a rough year for Mormons as the Church's definition of God's love appears to be narrowing. Last November, the Church introduced a policy that would label all Mormons in same-sex marriages apostates subject to excommunication, and bar children living in same-sex marriage households from baptism and other church ordinances. The policy also states that these same children may only be baptized as an adult, and only after they disavow their parents' "lifestyle". As a result of this policy, the Church is steadily hemorrhaging members--especially Millennials. The faith we were raised in has failed us and many others, shown us that our ideals, our identities, and our lives are too messy to assimilate into the main body. Historically, the pattern of the Church has been to adapt to the times, but with about a 20 to 30 year delay (as evidenced by the church's 1978 lift of a racist priesthood ban on black members). So whatever immeasurable progress is actually happening in the Church may come far too late to reclaim the rejected.

As for me, I've tried to keep one foot in the faith--largely because it's a place I've felt I can leverage my position of privilege to do some good. My congregation here in Long Beach is one of cultural, racial, and economic diversity, and it feels right that I've stuck around long enough to wind up a part of it. But after seeing Utah's polling numbers last night, the thought of sticking around to find the good among so much bad ain't sittin' quite so right with me.

Utah had an anomaly in third-party presidential candidate Evan McMullin. A Mormon himself, McMullin's "independent conservative" platform and clean-cut, milquetoast image led me to believe he might just steal the state from Trump. But as the final poll numbers show, Trump won the state with 47% of the votes, with Clinton and McMullin coming in at 28% and 21%, respectively. I guess I should be encouraged by the unprecedented turnout for Clinton in one of the reddest states in the country, but that doesn't seem like an olive branch worth extending. And if the Mormons who voted for McMullin think their vote clears them of responsibility or says something exceptional about their faith, they should think again. The truth is, McMullin's candidacy represents a morally bankrupt ideology. Clearly his voters needed a candidate who looked liked them and didn't upset their prudish sensibilities with gross hair and bad words. As for the overwhelming majority of Mormons who voted for Trump, their vote is a clear slap in the face to their Muslim brothers and sisters. Claiming to love the Muslim community and support Muslim refugees, then vote for a man who has built a campaign on Islamophobia, is a vicious and cruel act, and like the November LGBTQ policy, it shows that the Mormon version of love & charity barely even runs skin deep. If Mormonism was ever exceptional, make no mistake--today it is not. Like every other branch of American Christianity, it rests in a dark state of serious midnight.

Did you hear about the midnight rambler
He'll leave his footprints up and down your hall
And did you hear about the midnight gambler
And did you see me make my midnight call

Today the LDS church will issue a statement congratulating Trump on his win, and admonish us to pray for him and the rest of the leaders of our country. As someone who believes in prayer--not to mention a God who hears prayers--I gotta say, the time for prayer is not now, it wasn't yesterday, and it definitely ain't tomorrow. Our country doesn't need empty prayers from apathetic people. Surely I wasn't hearing things when they told me in seminary that faith without works is dead.

One of the great doctrines of Mormonism is that we have both a Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother (an inefficient gender binary for many, I know, but I'd like to think that the Father and Mother God together are ultimately a symbol of the divinity of all genders). Trouble is, as long as I can remember, Heavenly Father has had 100% of the spotlight. Mormonism has made Heavenly Mother a silent partner, a non-entity, an invisible God. By now it shouldn't come as much of a surprise to anyone that I'm no longer what you might call a traditionally believing member of the church, but a belief in God and the eternal progression of the soul remains the driving force of my life. Maybe it's finally time to break with the Father God and turn to the Mother--the Queen of Night, Diety Disrupter, Goddess of the disenfranchized and dispossessed--dive head first into the eternal river of her blood and ride the crest of a new crimson wave, down, down, down, all the way to the exaltation of all humans.

--- 

I'm back in my apartment. The cats are restless and begging for food and the smell of their freshly used litter box is adding to my headache. I feed them, then I sit down and dive into my phone.

My Facebook and Twitter feeds are full of stories, stories, stories, stories of friends and strangers, already feeling the crippling effects of this infernal election. I read the words of Muslim friends who are living in the reality post-9/11 Islamophobia all over again, LGBTQ friends who fear for the ultraviolent undoing of all the basic human rights they've fought so hard to claim, black friends who fear for their lives now more than ever, I think of Jenna's latinx students who now live under the very real threat of deportation, and on and on and on. To say that all these people didn't deserve an election overwhelmingly decided by racism and misogyny is a pitiful understatement. And just as quickly as these stories come in, so do the apathetic voices of the white privileged masses, telling everyone to buck up, stop being so dramatic, you lost get over it, and so on and so on....so I engage. I start arguing, not even knowing if it's my place to argue, because I can't hold it back. And for two hours I'm posting and arguing, and arguing and tweeting, until finally I come across a Facebook post from Ty Segall, L.A. garage rock champion and one of my contemporary rock n roll heroes:

I puked my guts out last night.
And woke up this morning crying.

I never use this stupid account. I still believe that people can talk to each other how they used to. Neighbors talking to neighbors. People talking to people no matter what they look like or who they are.

But I want to say that in the face of doom, I still believe in people, and want all of you to believe in each other still. This world can still be beautiful.

I'll be seeing all of you in the streets.

The streets. Yes the streets. Go outside, get some fresh air, nurse that sick head of yours, get some food, see some faces. All this social media raging didn't do any good before and it won't do any good now. Time to sign off, disconnect, get out under the sun and embrace the world your Mother God gave you.

---

It's hot outside, and it still feels like I've slipped off into some alternate reality, leaving behind a world where we're celebrating the election of the first female president. She was far from the ideal candidate, with a great many flaws that have had negative consequences on the American people for years, but there was no question that we could have done a hell of a lot worse. Let's all calm down now and hold her under the fire when we need to. She'll be great. Love wins...

But that's a lie isn't it. Or maybe it's just a seductive manifestation of denial, the 1st stage of grief. Whatever the cause, this weird feeling of dimensional displacement doesn't change the fact that I'm living in the same reality I was in yesterday, and it's a reality I helped create. But I'll be damned if I don't help create a better future.

Ty's right. On the streets, the people are still beautiful. Strangers smile as I pass them and I feel more compelled than ever to smile back. Everyone looks as confused and whiplashed as I feel. At the moment, 11/9/16  feels like some weird mirror image of 9/11/01, and the glass between those two dates is made up of all the changed plans and all the hate and willful ignorance that brought us here. Henry Rollins writes today that "America is currently at its most transparent. The veil of civility has been shredded and maybe it’s about time. It’s a rough room, America, but at least we now know where we’re at." The next four years are sure to be rife with battle of all kinds. There will be violence, riots, and spiritual bile from all angles, but hopefully there will be much more clear speaking and civic action.

In the meantime, keep your eyes open, and keep a constant lookout for the all-seeing blade of the Midnight Rambler...

And if you ever catch the midnight rambler
I'll steal your mistress from under your nose
I'll go easy with your cold fanged anger
I'll stick my knife right down your throat, baby and it hurts!

God speed.

My Season of Horror 2

A few days have passed since Halloween, and after spending the last two months watching horror movies in a festive rage, I find myself feeling how I used to feel as a kid after Christmas--like  all the fun in the world is over. And just as the annual onslaught of early Christmas marketing begins, I hope I can still spread a little Halloween cheer with these humble notes of horror-love.

Last year, My Season of Horror was probably my favorite blog post to write because it helped me focus on a genre I've come to love, despite my relative inexperience with it. This year I decided to dedicate not just one, but two months to watching as many horror movies as possible. Though I still didn't end up watching as many as I would have liked, I was able to cover some solid ground and figure out which corners of the horror film universe I want to visit next.

Now that I've made it this far down the horror movie rabbit hole, it's even more apparent that I'm still only scratching the surface. Last year I admitted that, though I loved horror films, I'd not yet watched enough to feel like I could call myself a true horror fan. This year, my rapidly increasing enthusiasm for all things horror that tells me the opposite. After all, isn't enthusiasm the thing that makes you a true fan of something?

So, here's the format going forward--same as last year, I'll offer a quick-and-dirty review of every horror film I watched during the Halloween season (excluding repeat viewings), in chronological viewing order. I'll also give each film a letter grade, but don't take that too seriously. These are kind of first-reaction reviews, and if the film gets a B or higher, its a definite recommendation.


The Evil Dead

Kicked off my 2016 season of horror with the one-two cult classic punch of The Evil Dead and it's beloved sequel Evil Dead II. For me, both these films lived up to the hype, and then some. There's probably little to say about these movies that hasn't already been said. But whether it's been said before or not, I'll say this: The first Evil Dead film is a shining testament to both low-budget and genre film-making. The more horror films I watch, the more I realize that it might be the most technically innovative genre of the entire art form. Low-budget horror filmmakers are often ravenous dogs backed into a corner, with no choice but to use the camera and the editing bay to fight their way out. Evil Dead is rife with signs of this type of film-making. My favorite type of special effects are ones that only do half the work, leaving the other half up to camerawork and editing. Evil Dead's best and most impressive moments are all brilliant utilization of this. The story is simple, strange, and fun, and it's been done before and since several times (bunch of friends at a remote location, attacked by supernatural evil...and zombies). But what makes the Evil Dead so special is the kinetic, inventive approach. I'm using a lot of broad platitudes here, but if you haven't seen Evil Dead, watch it and it won't take long to see what accounts for its lasting appeal.

Grade: A-



Evil Dead II

When a low-budget surprise hit leads to a bigger-budget sequel, the result is often lackluster at best. As it's reputation suggests, Evil Dead II is definitely not such a case. Sam Raimi manages to maintain, and sometimes exceed the standard of camera work, editing, special effects, humor, and frenetic energy of his first Evil Dead picture, while somehow keeping it all vibrant and fresh. This movie is also where star Bruce Campbell's Ash really comes into being, and again, it became immediately apparent to me as to why this series of films, and their ludicrous hero, have garnered such an enthusiastic fan base.

Grade: A


The Cabin in the Woods

It's hard to know how much more I would have liked this one had I seen it upon its release, rather than five years later when I've got a serious case of Joss Whedon fatigue. There's much to enjoy about this film, but at this point I can only take so much riffing on any given thing before I just want to enjoy the original thing on its own merits. That is to say, I'd rather watch an actual cabin-in-the-woods horror movie than a send-off, even if it's as clever as The Cabin in the Woods insists it's being. But before you Joss Whedonites get your pitchforks out, let me just say, I did appreciate how the film seemed to get more and more creative with its premise as it went along, eventually becoming its own animal entirely. At the end of the day, this movie a lot of fun, but the cult classics it is satirizing (like Evil Dead, for instance) will always be more fun.

Grade: C+


Hush

Hush isn't a new classic by any means, but it is a taught, efficiently executed contemporary thriller. It's winning premise--a deaf writer being terrorized by a sadistic burglar in her remote forest home--is mostly given an effective enough treatment. Ultimately, though, much more could have been done technically to immerse the viewer into the sensory world of the deaf protagonist. There are a lot of wasted opportunities in this film, but over all it's a pretty good bit of viewer exploitation.

Grade: B


The Hunger


On a purely aesthetic level, this one's an A++. In other areas, it's still really great. Every frame of this vampire love triangle (featuring a brilliant trio of stars in Catherine Deneuve, David Bowie, and Susan Surandon) is sexy as hell, and the blackish-blue New York setting is every bit as moody and dreamlike as Blade Runner's future Los Angeles. I've watched the film's music video-esque opening scene a few times since my first viewing, and I'm still getting a visual buzz from it. The Hunger was also a bitter sweet treat to watch in the year of Bowie's death, a cathartic reminder of the man's unique star-power and prismatic talent.

Grade: A-


The Wicker Man

A bizarre tale of a puritanical police sergeant sent to a pagan Scottish island village in search of a missing girl, The Wicker Man is an almost comic orgy of weirdness (both literally and figuratively) up until its horrifying twist and finale. I don't think I've ever seen a film that leans so heavily on the terror of one moment and succeeds so thoroughly in doing so. With a slew of gonzo performances (including the always fantastic Christopher Lee as the village's nefarious leader) and plenty of unnerving imagery, The Wicker Man is a very fun, very creepy delight.

Grade: A-



Repulsion

Along with it's more famous counterpart, Rosemary's Baby, this brilliant Roman Polanski horror classic captures the daily terrors of what it's like to be a woman in a man's world. Though the film is technically a surreal journey through the life of Catherine Deneuve's sex-repulsed protagonist, the most horrific scenes are often the most realistic. There's a slow-burning attempted rape scene in particular that is absolutely terrifying in its quiet, technical restraint. Roman Polanski's infamous personal history also makes this film a disconcertingly clear example of art transcending the artist.

Grade: A


Hellraiser 

The earliest manifestations of my interest in horror were when I would peruse the horror section of Blockbuster as a child, staring at the VHS box art with perverse fascination. Of all the iconic horror movie images from that time that burrowed deeply in my mind, the image of Hellraiser's Pinhead--the guy with all the nails in his white face and scalp--looms largest. Finally watching the movie from whence this specter of my childhood sprang was a singular experience, equal parts alluring and demystifying. The film itself is a novelesque melodrama, probably because it's the directorial debut of horror novelist Clive Barker. Horror films and horror literature seldom feel like each other. But this film felt curiously like reading a good piece of horror fiction, while also offering the visual catharsis and baroque gore of a distinguished horror movie.
Grade: B


Planet of the Vampires

Planet of the Vampires is my first foray into the filmography of Italian director Mario Bava, but it sure as hell won't be my last. This sci-fi horror cult classic is a wonderfully campy, fetishistic cross between Forbidden Planet and Alien, with delightfully BDSM-ish costume design and low-budget practical effects that are beautifully augmented with style. If you're looking for pure aesthetic pleasure, check this one out ASAP.

Grade: B+


Bone Tomahawk 

This neo-western thriller is a surprisingly well acted, well written, and well directed film that finds a meaningful place for Eli Roth-style torture porn gore without taking the fun out of it. Kurt Russel (one of American cinema's most underrated actors) leads a magnificent cast of crusty frontiersman on a mission to rescue some their townsfolk from cannibal cave dwellers. Stylistically, Bone Tomahawk leaves something to be desired in comparison to other films I watched this year, but it sure is an effective genre portrait of Anglo-society and its inability to co-exist with the more mysterious forces of nature.

Grade: B+


Army of Darkness

Given the significantly lower Rotten Tomatoes score (not that I usually put any stalk in Rotten Tomatoes scores) and its troubled post-production history, I went into this third installment of the Evil Dead franchise ready to be slightly underwhelmed after having loved the first two. I was an idiot. Army of Darkness is fantastic. Picking up where the Evil Dead II leaves off, Bruce Campbell's Ash finds himself transported from the cabin in the woods to a medieval wasteland to battle the undead once again. If you think that sounds ridiculous, you're probably imagining something much tamer than this movie. Army of Darkness is an insanely fun ride with some of the most fun practical effects I've ever seen.

Grade: B+


Children of the Corn

Don't be me. Don't believe your mom when she tells you this movie is so scary that when she saw it as a teenager she slept on the floor in her parents room for a week. This movie is really boring and annoying, and I don't know why it maintains a reputation that would have anyone believe otherwise. I wish I could say it was at least campy, like fun campy, but it's not. And it's not so-bad-its-good either. It's just bad. And that's a shame, because the premise is great, and the opening scene--where diner patrons in a small Midwestern town are massacred by their own children--sets it up to be great as well. It takes an earnest stab at exploring themes of tension in religious fundamentalism, as well as the tension between pure faith and blind obedience. Ultimately, though, it only dabbles in what might otherwise be interesting thematic territory. This is a story that's ripe for a good remake, and it'd be great to have a new Children of the Corn that's actually good instead of one that should be good, but is really bad.

Grade: C-


Creep

It's not a particularly distinguished piece of work (as a found-footage thriller is wont to be these days), but I'll be damned if Creep isn't a ton of fun. Director Patrick Brice (who also did 2015's criminally unnoticed dark comedy The Overnight) leads us through a delightful descent into madness with the ever-inspired Mark Duplass as the film's titular character. The film's improvisational nature probably accounts for both its strongest and weakest parts. There are definitely some distractingly unbelievable moments, but ulimately all the pieces amount to something really fun and genuinely shocking.

Grade: B+


Halloween (2007)

John Carpenter's Halloween is arguably the gold standard for the slasher genre. It's also the first slasher film I remember watching, and remains one of my favorites. Needless to say, I never gave much thought to watching the Rob Zombie remake, until a few trustworthy sources urged me to give it a shot. Right from the beginning this is a delightfully effective retelling of Michael Myers' story. The way Zombie subverts and builds upon this franchise's iconography and mythology is fresh and intriguing. Though things kind of come screeching to a halt in the middle (after the compelling first act, which covers Michael's childhood transformation into the monster we all know), the film picks up again and ends on a surprisingly powerful emotional note. I'm really looking forward to watching Zombie's Halloween II, which, from what I hear, is the real winner. I'm also looking forward to watching more of Rob Zombie's work. There were so many great directorial choices and moves in this movie that I really want to see what he does with original material as well. I guess what I'm finding out as I write this is that I enjoyed Halloween for what it introduced me to as much as what it reminded me of.

Grade: B+


Hausu

If you're a film fan, you've probably seen the marketing material for this one (usually featuring a big, bright orange cat with cartoonish lips and jaws) all over the place, even if you haven't seen the film itself. I had heard plenty about Hausu before seeing it, but nothing could have prepared me for how beautiful, bizarre and brilliant it really is. There's much to unpack in Hausu, but upon first viewing I was simply overjoyed at the visual insanity on the surface. For more on the feminism of Hausu, read this insightful article over at Smug Film, one of my absolute favorite film sites/podcasts.

Grade: A


Carrie

Finished off the season with a long-overdue classic. I'm already certain that, had I seen this like 10 years ago like I should have, it would have been a cemented favorite, and probably would have set me on a path to a 2016 where Brian DiPalma is my favorite filmmaker instead of Kubrick. In other words, I adored this movie. Just about everyone is aware of it's iconography, has seen pictures, if not actual footage from the film's climax where Carrie is covered in blood and reaking telekinetic havoc on her high school prom. But unless you've seen the whole thing, you really can't understand how brilliantly horrifying it really is. Much like The Shining, Carrie is the result of a master at work, changing the horror genre forever by making it his own. My favorite kind of movies are the ones that force you to consciously acknowledge the medium, and Carrie does this to chilling effect. It's a classic genuinely acknowledged as such by the mainstream. But if Carrie and The Shining are hailed as cinematic masterpieces, then that acknowledgement should put some serious cracks in our cultural misgivings about the entire horror genre.

Grade: A


Top 5 of the Season
1. Carrie
2. Repulsion
3. Evil Dead II
4. Hausu
5. Halloween

A Teardrop for Frankie

My last post on this blog was a tribute to David Bowie upon his passing. It's six months later and another one of my musical Buddha's--Alan Vega of the legendary punk duo Suicide--has passed away. I think I'll always remember 2016 as the year the music died.

But rather than write another tribute post like my last one, I thought I'd share a short story I wrote for a zine a few years back. The story was inspired by "Frankie Teardrop" and other songs from Suicide's 1977 self-titled debut. I could list a thousand artists and albums that I love, but only a handful that changed everything for me. Alan Vega is one such artist, and the first Suicide record is one such album.

Anyway, here's the story:

A Teardrop for Frankie

by Andy Andersen

based upon “Frankie Teardrop”

 and other songs by Suicide

            Frankie had a wife and three kids and a job working all night at the factory. Let’s hear it for Frankie.

            Frankie couldn’t make enough money for his wife and three kid’s at the factory. Let’s shed a teardrop for Frankie.

            Queue the soft electric beats of dying industry. This was the beat that followed Frankie home on the last night he came home from working at the factory from 7 to 5. He had been laid off that day. He decided he couldn’t make it. He had no job, not enough food, and he was getting evicted.

            Frankie can’t make enough money. Let’s hear it for Frankie.

            Frankie’s desperation peaked when he reached his apartment, and the sun set and the drum machines in his head kept drawing from his last day at the factory and spinning industrial beats that pierced his temples. Then they were slowly but surely aided by the accompaniment of an electric wheel, spinning out terrible vibrations and the vibrations omitted evil electronic melodies in Frankie’s head.

            Frankie gonna kill his wife and kids. Let’s hear it for Frankie.

            Frankie entered his apartment and let out a short scream to break the repetition of the wheel spinning and the drum machine omitting the factory beats in his head.

            Poor little Frankie.

            Frankie pulled a gun from a hidden compartment behind the top shelf in a kitchen cabinet. Then he went to the room of his kids and more electric wheels were spinning drones of synth chords that pulsated in his head. Together they made more and more horrific melodies.

            Frankie gonna kill his wife and kids. Oh Frankie, Frankie.

            Frankie pointed the gun at his 6-month old kid in the crib. Oooh Frankie.

            Frankie let out another short scream and the electric punk music in his head kept moving. He left the kids room and went to the couch where his wife had fallen asleep in front of the record player.

            Frankie’s so desperate. Frankie gonna shoot his wife.

            Frankie pointed the gun at his wife. He tride to hold back bursts of violent whimpering and mumbling. “Mmm…mmm…ah…mmm….mm..” Frankie pointed the gun at his wife and pulled the trigger and screamed a horrific, all-encompassing scream. The scream overcame the musical vibrations of the drum machines and wheels spinning violent melodies in Frankie’s head, and when Frankie pulled the trigger the music omitted light and pulses of color from the barrel of the gun and the light and colors enveloped the room, and then replaced the room ‘till there was nothing but black and colorful visual representations of electronic punk music coming from Frankie’s head, and he was alone, still whimpering and mumbling violently. “Mmm…aahh…mmm…what’veahdone….what’ve….what’veahdone…mmm….”

            Frankie pointed the gun at his head, then he went, “ah….aahhh….aaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!” He screamed and his head was opened and the music was outside him now, more and more wheels and drum machines pouring out and spinning more melody laughter.

            Mmm, Frankie’s dead.

            Frankie woke up in a hell of his own making. All was black except for the music. Sounds of children’s play things and winds and cars driving by at top speed on the desert highway resonated quietly from far away. Carnival noises. Orchestras tuning up. And at the center of it all was the beat of the drum machines and the electronic vibrations of the spinning wheels, and now a primitive synthesizer executed high pitched chords through violent punching of keys, sounds that burst through the droned wave of every other sound in the darkness.

            Frankie looked toward the distant sound of the desert highway, and saw a ghost rider, a dead motorcycle hero, riding one of Frankie’s screams all the way to the corner of Hell closest to the surface of the earth. Frankie shouted after the ghost rider. “Tell them they’re all Frankies! Tell them they’re all Frankies lying in hell! Aaahhhh….aaAAAAAAHHHH!!!”

Mmm Frankie’s dead.

Then the ghost rider was out of sight, and Frankie waited for the right time to interject with the beat of the drum machine, and spoke with the music.

“You’re all Frankies.” He said. “You’re all Frankies lying in hell.”

Frankie let out one final scream to drown out the music, though it didn’t drown out the music even if it was louder than the music.

Frankie sings in hell, “Rocket rocket U.S.A. Doomsday, Doomsday.”

Let’s shed a teardrop for Frankie.

Frankie died on November 4^th, 2012. Nobody heard his screams in life, and nobody heard his screams in hell, except for a couple of punks in New York in 1973 who heard Frankie’s call from the ghost rider. They heard the call and wrote it all down, and one banged on his synthesizers and drum machines and the other sang, Rocket Rocket U.S.A. Doomsday doomsday.

RIP Alan Vega

R.I.P. David Bowie

Something happened on the day he died

Spirit rose a metre and stepped aside

Somebody else took his place, and bravely cried

(I'm a blackstar, I'm a blackstar)

How many times does an angel fall?

How many people lie instead of talking tall?

He trod on sacred ground, he cried loud into the crowd

(I'm a blackstar, I'm a blackstar)

-David Bowie

David Bowie and I share something very special in common. We both discovered The Velvet Underground as young men and knew we had to do something about it. 

But I was listening to Bowie long before I had ever heard of The Velvet Underground. 

Most of my early memories of music are in my parents' car, listening to classic rock radio. Bowie was always in the mix—songs like "Fame", "Rebel Rebel" and "Let's Dance"—not his best work, but still better than anything else they played on those stations. There was a singular sophistication to the sound of Bowie that set him apart from anything else I had been exposed to as a kid. I had no idea at the time that these songs were a small but significant piece of a discography that would send me to outer space and back many times over.

When I started writing lyrics and singing lead vocals for my own band, the art-rock trinity of Bowie, Lou Reed and Iggy Pop was my bible. I was obsessed with their particular brand of theatricality—the weirdness, the alien-ness, the strange beauty, the danger—something that I could see was missing from my local music scene. As most young artists do, I imitated my idols, but in doing so I found my own creative identity. My first year as a rock'n'roll singer was spent trying to imitate Bowie's voice. It didn't always work, but it taught me how to interpret music and lyrics, and communicate that interpretation to the audience. Bowie taught me how to find the drama in a song and perform from that point. He once said he didn't fancy himself a great singer, but he knew he was good at interpreting a song. I don't fancy myself a great singer either, but I think I've become a pretty darn good musical interpreter because David Bowie taught me how. 

Another thing Bowie taught me was the art of persona. The very DNA of the rock'n'roll stage persona is contained in the many faces of Bowie.  My own musical alter ego is an amalgam of many interests and influences, but Ziggy Stardust, Thin White Duke, and Halloween Jack are all at the top of the list. Persona can be autonomy, or it can be prison. Bowie always knew when his persona was becoming a prison, when to kill it off and create something new from the ground up. It's his gift to those of us who otherwise wouldn't know when to move on.

And then there's the music. Other artists have been lucky enough to create innovative music for two or three years. Bowie did it for 40. He was always moving forward, and it was always authentic. His music stayed so good for so long that you'd be hard pressed to find someone who doesn't have some type of personal connection with it. Like a million other young people, Bowie was the soundtrack to my college years. His songs taught me to celebrate being different in a place where same was thought to be next to godliness. My wife and I share a deep love for Bowie (my wife's band Saliva Plath does a really awesome, spacey cover of "Moonage Daydream" now and then). "Heroes" was our song when we were dating, it's the song I performed for her right before I proposed, and its the song we danced to at our wedding. There's still not a week that goes by that we don't listen to Bowie together. Drive down Interstate 5 in Orange County and you may just spot us cruisin' along to "Diamond Dogs", "Changes" or "Ziggy Stardust". We're sci-fi enthusiasts, so naturally, Bowie is often the soundtrack to our imaginary journeys through time and space.

David Bowie has metaphorically died and been resurrected so many times over the course of his career that it makes his literal death all the more painful. At the same time, he has transcended so many mediums (music, art, film, fashion, culture) that it only seems natural for him to transcend life on earth. His latest album, Blackstar, was just released a few days ago, on his 69th birthday. Bowie's longtime friend and producer Tony Visconti has confirmed that the album was a heartfelt goodbye—the work of a man who knew his death was coming soon (trust Bowie to die cooler than anyone has ever died).  Blackstar is a graceful and gracious exclamation point—a poignant epilogue to a career that permeated popular culture for four decades. Right now I feel blessed to have spent almost 27 years sharing atmosphere with David Bowie. It's heartbreaking to be on a planet where he's no longer with us, but it's also a great time to celebrate his music, which will always be there to take us to the stars.  

Love you Starman.

-Andy Andersen