Saturday, July 21, 2018
In "Ghoul School Days," Sigmund decides to run away, so he won't cause the boys any more problems. He is afraid of getting them into trouble and wants to "make it on his own."
Meanwhile, the monsters in Sigmund's cave are visited by the principal of the Ghoul School, who warns them that Sigmund has not been showing up to school. According to sea monster schools, at least one child per family must attend school. If Sigmund doesn't return, then one of the other brothers -- or Big Daddy -- must go in his place, and that's something they don't want to do.
Now, two sets of brothers must find Sigmund!
Well, there's a problem here. Last week's Sigmund and the Sea Monsters (1973-1975) was a rehash of a Bugaloos episode. And this week, we get another rehash from the same Sid and Marty Krofft series. In "Today I am a Firefly," Sparky (Billy Barty) runs away from his friends in the Tranquility Forest to prove he can make it on his own, and not be a burden. That is exactly Sigmund's journey this week.
Beyond this issue, however, the episode is not bad. We learn for instance, that Zelda's last name is Marshall...the same name as the stranded family in the Marshall series Land of the Lost (1974-1977). Is Zelda related Rick, Will and Holly? I'd like to think so.
Also, this episode gives the audience a new monster costume, for the Ghoul School Principal. The monster looks like a sea monster school marm, and the costume must have come at some expense to the production.
There's also a Godzilla joke here, keeping with the idea of a culture of diverse monsters (supported by episodes featuring the Wolf Man, and The Frankenstein Monster). In this case, Mr. Godzilla is Sigmund's home room teacher.
Finally, as usual, the episode ends with Johnny singing only a tangentially-related song (another hold over from The Bugaloos).
Another notable aspect of this episode: Walker Edmiston, who plays Enik in Land of the Lost appears this week, out-of-costume, which is a rarity in Krofft lore. I interviewed Edmiston back in the year 2000, and he was one of my favorite interviewees. He would break out into various character voices during the conversation, and was a true gentleman.
Next week: "The Curfew Shall Ring Tonight."
Wednesday, July 18, 2018
Monday, July 16, 2018
Saturday, July 14, 2018
In "Monster Rock Festival," Sigmund listens regularly to a popular radio show and decides to participate in a new contest to win prize money. The sea monster writes and performs his own song for the show, as "Swinging Sigmund," and to his surprise, wins the contest.
This victory creates two problems for Sigmund, Johnny (Johnny Whittaker) and Scott (Scott Kolden).
The first problem is that the radio disc jockey wants to meet Sigmund in person, so he can record him singing his song live. Of course, if the D.J. meets him, that would reveal Sigmund's identity as a sea monster.
Secondly, Sigmund's villainous family wants in on the action, and decides to put on its own (bad) musical show.
This episode of Sigmund and the Sea Monsters (1973 - 1975) feels like a call-back -- or perhaps a left-over teleplay -- from an earlier Sid and Marty Krofft live-action Saturday morning series: The Bugaloos (1970 - 1972).
As you may recall (hopefully from my blog posts), that cult-TV program involved teenage rock singer/insect people living peacefully in "Tranquility Forest," and facing constant jealousy from Benita Bizarre (Martha Raye). Benita wanted to be a musical star, but didn't have the chops to succeed. Most episodes involved her stealing the songs or talents of the Bugaloos so she could become famous.
In "Monster Rock Festival," the same dynamic exists. Sigmund writes and performs a song that wins a contest, and faces jealousy from the villains of this series: his family. In fact, this story was actually the plot of The Bugaloos episode "Our Home is Our Hassle," in which the firefly Sparky (Billy Barty) won a radio song-contest sponsored by the Tranquility Forest D.J., Peter Platter.
So if this story feels familiar, there's a good reason. Still, at least this week's plot is a little different from the repetitive Sigmund and the Sea Monsters fare of late, even if it seems ported in from another show.
Next week: "Ghoul School Days."
Friday, July 13, 2018
Die Hard is the movie that launched a hundred cinematic knock-offs or so, and the journey began on July 15, 1988, approximately thirty years ago.
John McTiernan’s blockbuster so dramatically and thoroughly revolutionized the action genre at the end of the eighties in fact that -- for at least half-a-decade -- virtually every new entry in the genre was described as “Die Hard in a (fill in the blank.)”
Movie-going audiences soon saw Die Hard on a Bus (Speed ), Die Hard on a battleship (Under Siege ), Die Hard on a Train (Under Siege 2 [1995), Die Hard on a Plane (Passenger 57 , Executive Decision ) and even Die Hard in a Hockey Stadium (Sudden Death ).
The film is very closely based on novelist Roderick Thorp’s (1936-1999) literary work, Nothing Lasts Forever (1979), which in turn was inspired by the author’s viewing of The Towering Inferno (1974).
The novel concerns a retired detective, named Leland, who visits the L.A. high-rise HQ of a company called Klaxon Oil. He is there to visit his daughter Stephanie, for the Christmas party, when a German terrorist, Anton Gruber, takes seventy-four hostages.
Many elements in the film, including a barefoot hero, the gun taped to the protagonist’s back, and the use of explosives in an elevator shaft, recur directly from Thorp's written words.
Rich in invention and humor, Die Hard (1988) succeeds on many levels, and remains today much more than a thrilling fusion of disaster film and thriller tropes.
First and foremost Die Hard is absolutely dazzling from a visual standpoint, in large part because director McTiernan eschews excessive and unnecessary cutting, and preserves the space or geography of the action by utilizing tilts, pans, and other, often extreme or sudden camera motions.
Not only is the space of the action preserved in this fashion, but the rapid camera motion accelerates the film’s sense of pace.
Our view of the action literally banks, turns and performs barrel rolls. It’s as if we’re seeing through the furtive eyes of the desperate hero, registering everything, everywhere, in an effort to endure and survive.
Secondly, for all its bells and whistles, Die Hard essentially boils down to a battle of wits between two evenly-matched opponents, one ruthless, intellectual and urbane (Alan Rickman’s Hans Gruber) and one wide open: Bruce Willis’s John McClane.
At times it actually feels like a realization of destiny that these two resourceful, ingenious, determined characters should face each other, “mano e mano” at the Nakatomi Plaza. No other place in the world is tall enough for both of their egos and self-confidence, perhaps.
Yet in terms of its pure, psychic appeal, Die Hard is actually something more than a great and eminently satisfying action movie.
It is undeniably a primal male wish-fulfillment fantasy that was forged in a time when masculinity was facing existential questions about its value and worth in the larger American culture.
John McClane’s battle in this film is not simply to defeat Hans Gruber or rescue the hostages in Nakatomi Plaza, including his wife, Holly (Bonnie Bedelia).
No, his battle, as I hope to explain in this review, is to redeem himself as an alpha “male” and showcase his viability as such.
Some might suggest that this leitmotif renders the film sexist in some way. I’m not here to make any particular conclusions or social judgments about that notion, only to draw your eye and your intellect to the argument the film crafts on both a visual and often sub-textual level.
“Just a fly in the ointment, Hans, just a monkey in the wrench, just a pain in the ass.”
For Christmas, the NYPD’s John McClane (Willis) flies to Los Angeles to be with his estranged wife, Holly (Bedelia) and his two children, John and Lucy. A limousine delivers him to the high-tech Nakatomi Plaza, where Holly works a successful and high-powered career executive.
When John and Holly reunite, they argue about their marriage, and the fact that Holly now uses her maiden name, Gennero, rather than her married name, McClane.
Their personal differences must wait, however, because a group of European terrorists led by Hans Gruber (Rickman) invade the building, cut the power, and take seventy-four Nakatomi employees hostage, including Holly.
John seizes an opportunity to escape the offices, into the larger building. Almost immediately, he begins taking on the terrorists, one-at-a-time, much to the irritation of the erudite, well-organized Gruber.
John also gets a call outside of the building for help, and ends up teaming via walkie-talkie with L.A. cop Al Powell (Reginald VelJohnson).
Before long, news crews, and the F.B.I. are also on the scene, but McClane is the only man on the inside of the building, the only man who can stop Gruber’s plan.
That plan involves explosives, a bank vault and much deceit…
“It’s Christmas time, Theo. It’s a time for miracles.”
It is plain to see how Die Hard adopts many key elements from The Towering Inferno. There’s a rooftop rescue that goes awry in both productions, for example, a lot of fire, and the same central location: a Los Angeles high-rise building. In both productions, helicopters are destroyed too.
Die Hard takes that setting and those creative elements, however, and creates something new for the cinema, an action movie in which the hero is an “every man” who is outnumbered, out-gunned, and cut-off from authority He is tested quite egregiously, and must succeed based on nothing but his wits and his cunning.
McClane is a man alone.
The highest plateau of film quality, for me, arises with the idea of visuals mirroring or reflecting thematic and narrative concepts. We see this idea play out in Die Hard as director John McTiernan deploys a kinetic, almost constantly-in-motion camera. Objects -- like a whirring table saw, for example -- loom suddenly in the foreground. Or the camera suddenly shifts on its axis, and goes plummeting down a basement staircase the viewer has not yet detected.
This approach possesses two virtues.
The first is that this brand of camera motion preserves the space of the battlefield, to adopt a war metaphor. Were the film to feature an over-abundance of cutting, the space (and time) would feel fractured. But by whirling to register objects, or tilting and panning to see things, McTiernan makes us feel like we are trapped in the building with McClane.
The second virtue is connected to the first. The camera’s movement -- always “discovering” new objects, rooms, and enemies -- recreates the mental state of the film’s characters. Around every corner could be a threat or an opportunity, and the camera work expresses a kind of nervous energy as Gruber and McClane both harness the (same) environment to win the day.
The camera-work also is adrenaline-provoking. We are never sure what we will see next, and so we start paying attention to every detail, every moment of the action. This is reflected in the character dynamics in so many ways. Hans picks up that McClane is walking barefoot, and in the next moment, orders his henchman to shoot out the glass from a nearby pane, creating an impediment for his opponent. The camera and the characters learn things at the same time, and seize on that learning for their game of chess.
Sometimes, the camera moves brilliantly to reveal the proximity of danger. At one point, for example, cinematographer Jan de Bont's camera tilts up from a smoldering bullet-hole in a vent shaft to a close-up of a vulnerable McClane, perched inches away. The director could have cut to a reaction shot, instead, of his hero. But that simple tilt tells us just how close McClane came to death.
The whole movie is filled with anxiety-provoking moments such as that one. As a result, Die Hard is fun to watch -- a veritable roller-coaster ride of a movie -- and that’s primarily because of the ingenuity and efficacy of so many compositions. The visuals engage us, and demand attention.
As I noted above, Die Hard is also a primal male fantasy.
It is about a man who grew up with heroes like John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Roy Rogers and James Arness (Marshal Dillon) discovering, as an adult, that men like that are no longer called for in American society.
Those cowboys were protectors and patriarchs, but Gruber dismisses them all as products of a “bankrupt culture.” Even other 80s male icons such as Rambo are name-checked, and Lee Majors’ The Fall Guy is seen on TV at one point. The idea, I suppose is that American culture has changed radically in the 1980s, but no one has bothered to tell the movies about that fact. We still raise our boys into men thinking they can be cowboys. They still kill the bad guy, get the girl, and ride off into the sunset.
Yet just consider for a moment the shift in demographics and the economy that occurred in the eighties and how they changed the picture for masculinity in this country.
By 1985 half-of-all college graduates were women, and women with outside-the-home careers jumped to 49%. Women moved successfully into traditionally-male held jobs in banking and white collar management too.
On one hand, movies like Working Girl (1988) epitomized the era. On the other, efforts such as Mr. Mom (1983) dramatized the opposite side of that equation: a stay-at-home Dad raising the kids.
Die Hard, very simply, concerns a man, John McClane (Bruce Willis) who doesn’t cope well with this shift in cultural expectations, and what that change means for his ego and self-respect. His journey in the film involves a successful attempt to re-assert his role, value, and place in the American family when he is no longer the primary bread winner or the "hero."
That opportunity occurs at the workplace of his wife, Holly, who has moved out of John’s home in New York with his two children, and earned kudos as an executive at a Japanese-run corporation. Holly is a complete success, and is so confident in that career success that she goes by her maiden name, “Gennero” instead of her married name, “McClane.”
Several times, the film gives us visualizations of that name, Gennero. We see it in the building registry and on the door to Holly's office. In a very concrete, visible way, then, Holly has separated herself from her marriage, and her husband.
But then John ultimately saves the day, and Holly introduces herself to Al Powell not as Holly Gennero, but as Holly McClane.
That, right there, is the the punctuation of the whole movie. That’s the whole wish fulfillment aspect in a nut-shell: the idea that John can bring his wife around to his “idea of what this marriage should be.”
He doesn’t do this by being a good listener, by being a shoulder to cry on, by being a good dad, or by being a partner in the work-force, an equal earner.
He does it by being just like those predominantly cowboy heroes of yesteryear. By besting the bad guys, getting the girl, and riding off into the sunset.
The sub-text, of course, is that John McClane and other men have been somehow emasculated by the rise of women in the workplace in the 1980s. John is rudderless and alone, and must re-assert himself and his male-ness.
This idea gets a surprising amount of visual play in the movie because of a nifty little bait and switch trick. John keeps seeing gorgeous, often naked women, and though he registers them, he doesn’t act on his sexual impulses to conquer them.
What type of shot or sequence or shots recurs in Die Hard quite frequently?
Well, it is a shot of a beautiful woman who is “seen” by McClane either in the same shot, or in cutaway reaction shot. Then, he kinds of sighs, and moves on, with resignation, after noticing her allure
This happens again and again in the film, and one must ask why. Why does this composition recur?
Let me give you the examples before I answer that question.
In the airport, McClane sees a women in tight-white pants leap effortlessly into the arms of her boyfriend. Her rear-end appears to defy gravity.
At the party, McClane ogles a woman standing beyond a fountain, in long-shot. Here we get both the object of his gaze, and a view of his gaze.
Then, in Holly’s office, a sexually available woman bursts in with her lover. John sees her, through the mirror, so that we get his gaze, and the object of his gaze in the same composition.
Immediately after McClane escapes from Holly’s office, John heads to a floor upstairs. He looks out a window, and sees an apartment across the way. A half-naked woman is lounging there, in front of her window. The camera moves in on McClane as he registers her presence. Again, this encounter features two shots: the object of McClane's gaze, and a view of him gazing at that object.
And, finally, during his chases back and forth through the infrastructure of the Nakatomi Building, McClane twice sees a pin up of a nude woman. She catches his eye on one occasion, and he cranes his neck to look at her. On another occasion, he speaks to her like an old friend.
There are no fewer than six instances, then, in Die Hard, wherein John’s gaze is explicitly connected to the visual of a sexually-desirable woman.
What does it mean?
Quite simply, there’s the idea here that marriage and society -- and modern convention too -- shackle men, and prevent them from being their true selves. These things hold them back, rendering them impotent, just as new-fangled 1980's ideas about women in the workplace take away their manhood too (by the movie's way of thinking; not mine).
And how does John exert or assert his manhood, if not by conquering these available, luscious women he constantly encounters?
By shooting guns. A lot. By killing terrorists.
By shooting guns. A lot. By killing terrorists.
In Die Hard, McClane asserts his masculinity not by having sex with all the abundantly desirable women he miraculously keeps casting his eyes upon, but by committing bloody violence and re-taking his place as a powerful alpha male.
Now, no man is an island, of course, and John still requires emotional support, even while doing things that a man must do. He turns not to his wife (who is unavailable to support him), but to a "bromance" with Al Powell. McClane finds that for his emotional needs in a time of crisis he needs, simply, another man, and one who is, importantly, a cop like he is.
Al Powell has been rendered impotent by society too. He’s a desk jockey who hasn’t fired his gun since an accident years earlier.
How does he get his groove (and masculinity) back?
Again with a pistol, by killing someone.
Once more, I would like to stress that I’m not rendering any kind of judgment, pro or con for the argument that Die Hard so carefully constructs. However, it is abundantly plain the message is there, and part of a wish-fulfillment fantasy aimed straight at men in the eighties.
They have been held back too much, and if they want to earn back the respect of women and men around him, they have to be gun-toting heroes in the mold of John Wayne, Rambo, or any of the other heroes that Gruber names.
The appeal in Die Hard, not entirely unlike the appeal of the Dirty Harry films, is the characterization of a male hero -- in a time of change -- reverting to "simple" cowboy form. Die Hard makes that characterization funny by references to Roy Rogers’ sequin shirts, and by McClane’s foul-mouthed but nonetheless immortal catchphrase.
In other words, Die Hard is a movie that is both primal male fantasy and simultaneously smart enough to be self-aware about it.
It would be easy to write much more about this film.
For instance, Die Hard is one of my favorite Christmas movie of all time, because -- again -- it deals so ironically and with such self-awareness about the contradictions between a holiday celebrating love and peace and the bloody violence in the Nakatomi Building.
This conceit, this juxtaposition, reaches its zenith of brilliance in the film’s final shot. Nakatomi burns and smolders, and the soundtrack plays the song “Let It Snow.” The lyrics, in case you have forgotten, commence with: “The weather outside is frightful. But the fire is so delightful.”
The fire at Nakatomi Plaza is delightful?
Hell yeah it is. For John McClane, who has won back his wife, defeated the bad-guy, and is horizon-bound.
When I first devised the idea of writing about Die Hard (1988), I thought about all the approaches I could take, and realized just how brilliantly the film fulfills multiple functions.
It’s an ironic Christmas story.
It’s a development of the Towering Inferno setting.
It’s a primal male fantasy about re-asserting manhood according to the Hollywood definition of that term, and, finally it’s an elegantly-shot action film too.
Sadly, the passing of Alan Rickman demands that I add one more paragraph to an already too-long critique of this film.
His Hans Gruber is, without exaggeration, the perfect movie villain. Not because Gruber can shoot. Not because Gruber threatens people. But because Rickman projects so much intelligent, wit, and cunning.
At one point, Rickman's Gruber quips about the “benefits of a classical education,” and that dialogue makes a valuable point.
Rickman, a slender intellectual sort is able to project so much cerebral menace as Hans Gruber that we feel the muscular, t-shirt clad McClane is in constant danger from him.
In short, Rickman proves that not only is smart sometimes sexy, smart is also sometimes damned scary.
His best scene in the film involves Hans’ on-the-fly adoption of an American accent when he unexpectedly encounters McClane. This scene is rife with tension because we don’t know what John knows, and we didn’t expect Hans to prove quite so…adaptable in the field.
Gruber also gets a death scene that has yet to be topped in the action film genre (pictured above).
So if my description of Die Hard as a primal male fantasy is somehow disturbing or uncomfortable for anyone, there’s no need to focus exclusively on that aspect.
Die Hard features so many other virtues -- from its stirring fight scenes, accomplished camera-work and great performances to its brilliant Michael Kamen score -- that’s it difficult to choose which one really makes the movie soar.
So the year 1988 and the dawn of Die Hard?
A “time of miracles” indeed.
Thursday, July 12, 2018
In "Bad Medicine" two wealthy old Chicago socialites are murdered, their extravagant gems stolen right out from under their corpses. Naturally, Kolchak (Darren McGavin) investigates the crimes. He soon learns of a Native American legend, the Diablero, and suspects that the supernatural being may be stalking Chicago.
Kolchak explores Native American lore to help find a way to stop the sorcerer, an individual who can "transmute" himself, transforming into an animal such as a crow or a wolf. According to legend, the Diablero is also gathering a fortune in gems, to pay off an eternal curse. He is able to hold his victims in an unbreakable trance.
Kolchak learns that the Diablero's power rests in his eyes, and that if he sees his reflection, he will be destroyed. Now he just must find where the monster is hiding...
Although "Bad Medicine" treads into some typical cliches of Native American lore on TV (namely the portrayal of such individuals by non-Native Americans), it is nonetheless a fun and worthwhile episode of Kolchak: The Night Stalker (1974-1975).
Richard Kiel -- Jaws of The Spy Who Loved Me (1977), Moonraker (1979) -- portrays the monster of the week, a diabolical sorcerer preying on Chicago's wealthy. Kiel's physicality makes him effective in the role, even though he is not relegated to shadows or darkness. In other words, he isn't frightening, but he is creepy.
Two scenes mark this episode as especially noteworthy.
The first is Kolchak's attempt to break into a gem auction populated by the rich. He fakes his way in to the society event, and then pretends to speak the language of the haves-and-have mores. He is also, amusingly, described as one of the "Hoboken Kolchaks." That's not a high-class sounding lineage, according to this New Jerseyite.
The second scene is one closer to the climax, and which perfectly encapsulates Carl's character. He travels alone to Champion Towers, the high ground taken as sanctuary by the Diablero. Kolchak has brought with him a small, hand-held mirror to use to stop the supernatural being. As he approaches the monster, however, he clumsily drops the mirror and it shatters on the floor. Now he has no weapon, and he has signaled his opponent to his presence in his lair. Kolchak is -- as usual -- left to improvise, while experiencing stark, raving terror, as well. Fortunately, Kolchak runs across the accouterments of a bathroom, including a mirror, in the level under construction, and is able to yield a shard of it against the Diablero.
In 2018, the special effects, make-up, and even general pacing of these 1974 episodes render them largely non-scary, and most non-suspenseful. However, the humor and the humanity of Kolchak still shine through. The narratives may leave much to be desired by today's standards, but the idiosyncratic nature of the writing and acting make each installment a treat.
Next week: "The Spanish Moss Murders."