I did not understand that Return of the Living Dead Part II (1987) was meant to be a comedy. I watched it at my neighbor's house on pay-per-view (back when you had to call the cable company). It terrified me. In the months that followed, I would sneak into my neighbor's backyard pretending to be Suzanne Snyder - screaming and running from imaginary zombies coming at me from all directions. Gay.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Friday, May 21, 2010
I found an old Matthew Sweet CD under my bed last week along with a bottle of CKone and it's made me downright nostalgic. This time of year, as the weather gets warmer and the days grow longer, has me longing for the simple pleasures of high school!
Picture it: shaggy hair tucked behind my ear, converse shoes and perfectly weathered jeans. The first blooms of springtime making it entirely impossible to concentrate on class. I'd take my sketchbook and charcoal pencils to the graveyard to rub out a quick still-life. Could it be that I was simply enacting my favorite scenes from Stephen King's unfairly-maligned Sleepwalkers (1992)? Let's see...
After two years in the public eye, Shelly the waitress had enough of Twin Peaks. With all that cherry pie and the incessant rantings and lamps being thrown from Lara Flynn Boyle's trailer, it was no wonder that she fled to rural Indiana as fast as the Greyhound could take her! She got herself a nice job at the local movie house, cleaning up and making popcorn for the locals. She moved in with Ferris Bueller's parents. She was wearing lots of flats. Things were going great. Unfortunately, Shelly's shitty taste in men didn't change with her zip code.
Charlie Brady is the new boy in town. He is attractive. He has a cherry 1977 Trans-Am. Charlie is very close to his mother. Ostensibly, Charlie is a catch. It seems everyone in town wants a piece of him. On his very first day of class, his creepy english teacher follows him home and tries to cop a feel! Can you imagine? I can. Suddenly, we can see the cracks in Charlie's porcelain veneer. Charlie hates gay people. He hates gay people so much that he proceeds to tear his english teacher to bits in the forest with his bare hands! How rude.
A lot of years have passed since high school and I ‘ve learned a thing or two. I have my skin care regime down pat. I know which colors and sizes compliment my figure. And I know that you shouldn't go on a first date to the cemetery unless you've known the boy for at least a month prior. I can also attest that Sleepwalkers is just as good as it was eighteen years ago. No other movie offers the Borg Queen acting opposite a sofa in a town run by crime-solving cats. I was once at a party with Mick Garris. Without flinching, I told him how much I adore this movie. He responded with equal sincerity, "There's no accounting for taste."
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
"Everyone has an opinion. As long as they keep renting the movies I couldn't care less."
For anyone who has the audacity to suggest that horror movies aren’t consumed as ravenously by the gay community as a broiled chicken breast buffet at a Fire Island barbeque, then I ask you to turn your attention to the work of David DeCoteau.
David DeCoteau movies are the black sheep of horror sub-genres; chock full of shirtless Canadian men who feign interest in barely-there girls and often dabble in the occult. Sometimes the protagonists are witches, sometimes they're sadomasochists - they're usually brunette.Invariably, these young men come close to kissing as the camera lingers on their tighty-whities. Blackout. The end. DeCoteau movies are completely unconcerned with plot or crossover appeal beyond the gay/fangirl market. But the same could be said for those Twilight movies and look what happened there!
Cut from the same Roger Corman cloth that produced James Cameron, David DeCoteau got his start making direct to VHS schlock in the 1980s (most notably, Sorority Babes in the Slime Bowl-O-Rama which starred scream queen Linnea Quigley and Andras Jones from Nightmare on Elm Street 4).
Akin to the B-movies coming out of Troma, DeCoteau films have always veered inexplicably towards the homoerotic. This was something I understood even at twelve years old when I'd sneak downstairs with all the lights off to watch USA's Up All Night with the volume turned way way down so Mom couldn't hear me being gay!
Well, I don't know if you've been paying attention, but this queen isn't even pretending anymore! Dont believe me? Just pop over to netflix and check out his adaptation of House of Usher (2008).
A man with dated lesbian dive-bar hair pulls up to a bed and breakfast on his motorcycle. He's greeted at the door by another man dressed in his best Victorian-era Matrix attire. They speak of life during wartime. Neo has turned himself into quite the shut-in, as alluded to by his LatinX, man-servant. Soon enough, the two men are hugging each other good night when the impossible happens: they actually kiss! Then they are unbuttoning their pants. Then they strategically pull their underpants down and the camera focuses on their bare bottoms... I don't remember this in the Edgar Allen Poe story!
Friday, May 7, 2010
"I have silver bullets in here."
Lately, I find myself growing increasingly weary of Los Angeles. Any day now, I'm sure that I'll wind up running around naked in some farmer’s backyard in Fresno waiting for the aliens to come and take me home.
I’m just sick to death of these fratty, trust-fund kids-turned-executives with their endless, meandering “notes.” They’re all dating teenagers who can barely walk in heels, let alone speak coherently on the subject of healthcare reform. None of them care about TV and just want to be sports agents, but their dad’s know the CCO of Lionsgate, so here we are - they get offices and I have a blog. Enough is enough!
All my snack breaks are spent perusing Manhattan real estate over my Danon Light & Fit yogurts. Then I remember that real magic of California living is that I can always hop in my car with my ipod blaring and, an hour later in either direction, I can have a day-trip in some of the most beautiful landscapes in the country. Just ask Dee Wallace (formerly Stone)!
Dee was equally burnt out in the early eighties.
As a single mother, she had to work at least three jobs to keep her gay son in leg-warmers and jelly bracelets. Her E.T. check had yet to clear so she was working as a TV journalist, going undercover for the LAPD.
One night, after a particularly arduous stakeout in a pornography shoppe, she reached her breaking point. Nothing is ever enough when you work for straight men and you’ll never get a thank you or a grapefruit basket! What’s it all worth?
Dee needed to get away so, upon the bequest of her therapist, she drove a couple hours north to a day spa in the redwoods. Good for her. My therapist just tells me that everything’s my mother’s fault – she never offers me a weekend away, all expenses paid.
What The Howling lacks in nuance and tone and effects (it’s a very different animal than An American Werewolf in London), it makes up for it in damsel-in-distress/Dee Wallace realness.
Just like a transplanted New Yorker trying to make sense of Los Angeles, Dee is emotionally raw and it's fascinatingly out of place. With that said, I think I'm gonna drive my Mazda rx7 up the coast this weekend. I could use a day of redwood yoga!
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
A few thoughts upon watching The Human Centipede (2010):
Tony Soprano is gonna be wicked pissed when he hears about what this nazi is doing to Meadow.
I can appreciate the lack of jump scares and tension that this movie has going for it. I do not, however, understand the point. Why are we watching this? What's gained? As a trailer, The Human Centipede is a riot - it does not play as a feature. I'm never going to Germany. I hate nazis.
This movie is extraordinarily unpleasant. Maybe I'm getting old, but I've seen enough of these silly "torture porn" videos. I like joy in my horror. I like ladies with gay besties who overcome adversity in gorgeous outfits. I do not like fecal matter. No, thank you.