chrisparson82

2:57 A.M. SATURDAY MORNING, NEW YORK CITY.

The eleven-dollar electronic alarm clock read "2:57 AM". The wind blew calmly through the icy concrete streets. Inside, a lone cold beer sat in the fridge with only a ketchup packet and a container of baking soda to keep it company. On the radio for the millionth time was Janis Ian's ode to teenage insecurity, "At seventeen".

It was a Saturday morning and all my dames were out earning their rent money. I was only minutes away from the end of my life... and I didn't even know it.

And I, your ingenuous, sarcastic ruffian couldn't sleep. I thought, "Maybe I'll take a sleeping pill and go back to bed. Yeah."

CLICK!

Instead, I turned on my vintage, American-made Zenith, fired up an American Spirit, and drank my longneck cerveza. On the tube was an old black-and-white B-picture... SQUAD CAR, from 1961. I should have known that "squad car" was English for "waste of time" -- but I was young and foolish at 3 AM. A review in the TV Guide said the words "inept", "eighth-rate" and "instantly forgettable".

But I couldn't see the writing on the wall.

The narrative -- oh, yeah, something about murder and counterfeiting -- dragged on... and... on. Lifeless, hopelessly wooden performances by a cast of professional non-actors made me scream to the heavens above, "Why! Why are you punishing me?! Ahhh!" I tried to change the channel, but the television failed to respond to my request, and I was out of triple-A batteries. With the stength of 47 men, I pulled the plug out of the socket.

But, somehow without electricity, SQUAD CAR kept playing, keeping my newfound Hell on Earth alive and well. I should have known that the director's name --Ed Leftwich -- was English for "Architect of Cinematic Misery".

But I didn't.

After seven minutes and fifty-one seconds of SQUAD CAR, I thought of a way out: I downed that bottle of sleeping pills and ended all of the misery that it caused me. As I sat there, gradually fading out, I saw the end title cards.

I screamed: "Oh my God! The movie -- the misery of SQUAD CAR -- is over!" But, I would have to live with the pain that it has caused me.

"To hell with having my stomach pumped!"

I would rather leave this world with dignity than live as a SQUAD CAR victim.

Please, ladies and gentlemen, stay away from SQUAD CAR -- or it'll run you over, like it did me.

"Inside... Strangelove" is, as the title states, an account of the making of Kubrick's jet-black cold war opus. Covering topics as diverse as Pablo Ferro's dazzling handwritten titles, to Laurie Johnson's musical adaptations, to Gilbert Taylor's striking black-and-white camerawork, to Terry Southern's kinky sense of humor, no subject pertaining to Strangelove has been neglected. Even Kubrick's lawsuit against the makers of the thematically similar "Fail Safe" is recounted, with "Fail Safe" helmer Sidney Lumet adding comments! This picture is a model of economy. Lasting only 45 minutes in length, the creators crammed an astonishing amount of information, and interview subjects, within a relatively short running time. If you have a Bachelors in "Strangelove", this documentary will give you a Masters.

The only liability is the somewhat annoying narration, which could be an homage to the equally annoying narration in The Killing (1956). Aside from this minor problem, "Inside... Strangelove" beautifully documents an important work by one of America's finest directors. Don't miss this one!

Q: HEY, CHRIS, WILL I ENJOY "LOOK AT LIFE"?

Yes, but only if you enjoy seeing a plethora of still pictures thrown at you in the span of a minute. If you don't dig this kind of artsy and pseudo-pretentious vibe, skip Lucas's student films altogether.

LOOK AT LIFE pioneered the kind of rapid photo montage that has now become a staple on such guilty pleasures as VH1's BEHIND THE MUSIC. (Even the E! TRUE HOLLYWOOD STORY gets into the spirit once and awhile.) But, hell, even big feature films use this technique. What would the montage-heavy Ted Demme film BLOW be without Lucas's influence? Okay, so you're insulting/applauding me for the observation, but wait till you see LOOK AT LIFE. The influence is there, Dear Readers.

BUT CHRIS, AREN'T MOST BIG TIME FILMMAKERS WEIRD ABOUT LETTING THE PUBLIC SEE THEIR EARLY WORKS? HOW WOULD I EVER SEE THIS THING?

A: Yes, most big time filmmakers are weird about letting the public see their early works. But, there is hope. If you're currently attending Mr. Lucas's alma mater, you'll be forced (at gunpoint) to watch the thing... Even if you're in the university's Dentistry program.

Here's another student effort from the guy who made it cool to attend film school: Georgie Lucas. Surprisingly audacious cinematically, and almost plotless scriptwise, "The Emperor" is another in the long line of Lucas's student films that showcases the director's skill in establishing tone. This is a jokey documentary on a southern California disc jockey who proclaims himself "The Emperor". (Perhaps if you've seen a later, feature-length Lucas film, the title character might remind you of someone.)

While Lucas's other USC efforts ("Freiheit", "Anyone Lived in a Pretty How Town", and "Herbie") are humorless, well-meaning but dull, "The Emperor" is just the opposite. Benefiting from a worthy subject, this opus is funny, fast, and, at times, astonishingly innovative. Crammed with a rock soundtrack of sixties classics, "The Emperor" now feels like a precursor of "American Graffiti" (1973), albeit with a different visual approach; Graffiti was shot in 35mm color Techniscope. "The Emperor", on the other hand, is laced in a Richard Lesterish/French New Wave style: grainy B&W 16mm handheld camerawork and clever use of intertitles. (Note: "The Emperor" has an amazingly long pre-credit sequence; it's only beginning once you think it's over.) "Apocalypse Now" co-writer (and USC alum) John Milius was one of the crew members. Look sharp for a George Lucas cameo at the top of the film.

When Gang Tapes reaches theaters in 2002, stuffy critics will undoubtedly describe it as: "Blair Witch meets Boyz in the Hood." Of course, this description doesn't do justice to Gang Tapes. Directed by Adam Ripp (in his directorial debut), Gang Tapes is far more coherent and engrossing than the dreadful Blair Witch, and succeeds in making the once-potent Boyz in the Hood now look like an after-school special. Like Kids (1995), Gang Tapes pulls no punches. Murders, sodomy, beatings, and drive-by shootings are all shown on camera, albeit in a way which serves the story and is unsensationalistic. So, if Gang Tapes deserves a nickname at all, that name should be "HOODFELLAS". The story begins when a young teenager named Kris "acquires" a garden variety camcorder from John and Jane Q. Tourist. Armed with his newly liberated camera and tape, young Kris proceeds to document everything: the violent, humorous, tragic, joyous, and sexual moments of his world.

While by no means a perfect film, Gang Tapes works well as a minimally plotted study of lost teenaged souls; it also feels like an informal rebirth of Italian neo-realist cinema. There are no "name actors" in the film. There is no hot young rapper, no comedian, and no heartthrob to look at. Instead, Gang Tapes offers a cast of mostly non-actors performing with gusto. If you're hoping Gang Tapes will "let you off the hook" with wall-to-wall, watered-down pop tunes, forget it. Gang Tapes' soundtrack is hardcore rap, which perfectly accentuates the equally rough-edged events. With a digital camera recording all of the goings-on, there are no Ophulsian tracking shots or lengthy Steadicam moves -- only a handheld look at the brutal concrete jungles of South Central Los Angeles. In Gang Tapes' world, all Hollywood presuppositions are thrown to the wind: even the nice guys get killed. Yet Gang Tapes is not just about brutality. Ripp and co-writer Steven Woolfson carefully examine their characters but don't waste time judging them. Instead, the script subtly addresses issues pertaining to media. For example, when Serial commits his first act of violence after being parolled, he immediately wants to see a replay of his handiwork. This moment is far more telling than all of the heavy-handed (and pedestrian) "Fifteen Minutes"(2001), which dealt more centrally with on-camera crimes. Kris's humorous "test drive" of the digital camera recalls the joy of David Holtzman's cinematic discovery in the sadly underrated "David Holtzman's Diary" (1968). Gang Tapes will undoubtedly incite controversy and divide audiences when it is released: Some will say it is sensationalistic, while others will applaud its raw cinematic power. But, ultimately, it offers first-rate performances, and an effective (if episodic) script. With his directorial debut, Adam Ripp succeeds in creating a sobering look at hell on Earth -- and the lives living in it.

"Record City?" you say, "eh, never heard of it." Before there was EMPIRE RECORDS, there was RECORD CITY. After CAR WASH, there was.... well, RECORD CITY. Now, some of you film geeks out there might notice that this is auteur Dennis Steinmetz's only feature film. Yet the financiers didn't give the poor guy enough dough, because this opus was shot on tape, then transferred to film. Dennis deserved better! There are a few liabilities here... including the video photography -- which is reminiscent of having visine in your eyes. But, there are some virtues to be found: including some delightful performances by Alice Ghostley and Ed Begley, Jr and a script that combines the episodic flavor of CAR WASH -- only set in a record store. Considering that this film cost $6.95, it's good stuff. However, and this is not an insult, RECORD CITY plays beautifully after you've had 17 or 18 beers. Now, how many films can you say that about? If by chance this film is aired on television, I highly recommend taping it on the highest quality videotape you have available. Or, if you're a real cool kitty cat, record it on your dvd-recordable player. You owe it to yourself to have this film in your film collection -- to have and to hold -- forever and ever. RECORD CITY, all the way.

If you have not seen this motion picture, you're missing the gift that keeps on giving. Why? Here's why this film was robbed at the 1987 Oscars:

1) The story. "Guy hides from vindictive businessman by going back to high school" That log line alone deserves an Academy Award.

2) Performances. Jon Cryer is so good, you're wiling to overlook that fishy-looking beard (courtesy of makeup department). Why was there no Oscar nomination for him? Keith Coogan as Patrick is brilliant in a role that is, admittedly, beneath him. Did he get an Oscar nod? No, but he should have. Annabeth Gish is so charming and likeable as Ryan, that after the film is over, you realize that Cryer's character -- who's like, 30 yrs. old -- was dating a 17 year old vixen. And we know that that's just wrong, dear readers.

3) The direction. Bob Giraldi, who directed Mike Jackson's "Hair-on-Fire Pepsi Video", goes above and beyond the call of duty with this opus. Sweeping dolly shots, flawless blocking of both camera and actors, and flawless choice of camera lenses put this one in a class of it's own.

And yet, those stuffy academy members decided to give that golden statue to some dude named Bernado Bertolucci. I don't remember the name of BB's movie, but if you want Oscar-worthy entertainment without taking 12 hours to see it, Hiding Out is for you.

Ah, yes. Boys and Girls, the year is 1985. Before Val Kilmer embarked on a career of playing the bad-ass non-smiler, there was the comedy role of his career, as Mr. Chris Knight. The film, of course, is Real Genius. Before William Atherton appeared in the classic film Bio-Dome, there was Real Genius. Director Martha Coolidge brilliantly uses Kilmer's unstoppable sardonic whit to keep this beautifully realized opus afloat. Of course, Real Genius is galvanized by the cat and mouse rivalry between Kilmer and Atherton, who basically reprises his role from that little film called Ghostbusters. Performed with gusto by a young and able cast, other scene stealers include Michelle Meyrink and Jon Gries in the unforgettable role of that closet-hiding-long-haired-smarter-than-everyone-put-together-going-on-forty student, Hollyfeld. Oh yeah, and if anyone tells you that comedies can't be widescreen, tell them to check out this film -- it's one of cameraman Vilmos Zsigmond's finest hours. Stop whatever it is that you're doing at this moment -- I don't care if you're having mind-bogglingly good sex. Rent this movie, on laserdisc, so you can see the camerawork. You're renting this movie. Tonight. Now. I said right now.