Oops, I seem to have blown my self-imposed deadline again; please accept my abject apologies. I’ve been calling this a biweekly newsletter that comes out about once a month but maybe it should be “vaguely” rather than "about." What do you think? Be sure to let me know.
Suffice it to say that this, that, and the other thing got in the way of my follow-through, including writing that I got paid to do (if you embrace the annoying libertarian adage “information wants to be free,” keep in mind that even if groceries also want to be free, they aren’t).
I guess I could also invoke the dying words of the Repo Man punk who, lying mortally wounded after his botched attempt at a convenience store stickup, blurts out, “I blame society.” Yes, like most of you I continue to reel in the wake of one right wing sucker punch after another, lately in response to the SCOTUS Roe v. Wade leak. That damn court should really change its name to SCROTUM, though SCOTUS does sound a little like CONTROL, the acronym for the conglomeration of arch-fiends from the ‘60s TV show Get Smart, certainly an appropriate association.
Further along in this communique I will touch on examples of blissful escape from our daunting present and future but I implore you (I’ll also beg if necessary) not to go full-on ostrich in response to the rising far-right toxic tide. And as odious as the corporate-backed majority of Congress is (a hearty please go die to, among many others, J. Manchin and K. Sinema), don’t give up on voting. Even if you’re settling for the lesser of two evils, less evil will always be better than more evil, an observation that doesn’t seem all that complicated to me. Another stupefyingly obvious fact: going to the polls doesn’t preclude doing a political thing or two (or more) in addition to electoral activity. Let a thousand anti-fascist flowers bloom, etc.!
Engaging in primal scream therapy while marching in the streets last week felt better than the always-tempting option of staring despondently at the walls. I considered yelling Samuel Becket’s inspired line “I can’t go on, I’ll go on!” but instead I joined the enraged youth on Market Street in bellowing “Fuck the Church, Fuck the State!” That was satisfying, as was the variation that substituted “Court” for “Church,” though I can’t remember the second part of the chant. It definitely wasn’t “the people united will never be defeated,” a blessing not to be taken lightly.
Moving onward through the terrifying politics section of this Dispatch, I’ll spare you much of the back to the ‘80s fear of World War 3 thing except to recommend the interview with the venerable and justifiably venerated Noam Chomsky in the notes below. While it’s longer than your standard-issue social media instapundit outburst, Noam’s well-informed, incisive analysis of the nightmare in Ukraine and Washington’s responses to it is well-worth listening to or reading. He also deals with other important matters (e.g. could all these floods and wildfires be an indication of some sort of ecological imbalance?), and I’d wager you will find it more thoughtful than the latest serial killer podcast.
In more joyful (?) news, issue #9 of Namaste, Motherfucker! has finally hit the bus station news racks. This time around, in addition to bringing you down with another cornucopia of depressing U.S. history, I pay tribute to the healing power of watching motion pictures in theaters. You know, the way they were meant to be seen.
I was pleased as punch (thanks to the Nixon-era impressionist David Frye for planting that expression in my memory) to review radical gonzo Tinseltown mover and shaker Clancy Sigal’s memoir, Black Sunset, for Noir City magazine a while back, and am equally happy that said piece now appears in N,MF! #9. Sigal lived life to the fullest (and then some), sticking to his radical politics without ever lapsing into the boring self-righteousness which is all too common on the left. He fought the good fight but didn’t take himself too seriously and took his comic relief where he could find it. Seems like a good role model to me.
In this latest issue I also wax rhapsodic about Blue Collar, the underrated 1978 film that was Paul Schrader’s debut as a director and features Richard Pryor’s best dramatic performance. I will go to the mat (at least metaphorically) in defense of that assessment, and I’ll also jump into the imaginary ring to sing the praises of Pryor’s co-stars Yaphet Kotto and Harvey Kettle. Heck, I’ll even take a shot at yodeling their praises if that can get your attention.
Now go ahead and buy the magazine for more such effusive gibberish! You can get it at one of these fine establishments: The Green Arcade, Bird and Beckett, Amoeba Records, Dog Eared Books, or Medicine For Nightmares (formerly Alley Cat Books) in San Francisco; Pegasus on Shattuck in Berkeley; and of course Better Read Than Dead in Brooklyn. For you mail order enthusiasts, simply go the Green Arcade link in the notes below and put another charge on whichever credit card you haven’t maxed out. So you don’t forget, order before midnight tonight!
Er, back to moviegoing. Forget those interminable zoom presentations and your home entertainment center, there’s no substitute for films on a big screen with an audience, albeit as socially-distanced as possible these days. I encourage you to support our remaining independent move houses before they get destroyed by lazy-ass addiction to streaming services. Let’s be frank. It’s nothing less than your cultural duty to attend a film festival near you, or even just a one-off screening of some high-brow or low-brow alternative to the gazillion dollar CGI-packed superhero movies which dominate our fucked-up nation's dullsville multiplexes.
I too have noticed that the damn pandemic is not over but I have a good mask and resist the lure of buttered popcorn so it stays on indoors. And that slight edginess from nervously scanning the crowd for unmasked patrons to avoid saves me money on extra coffee. Hence I am no longer depriving myself of the only real way to enjoy my favorite visual art, not to mention my favorite form of entertainment aside from watching MAGA leaders being launched permanently into deep space (a boy can dream).
In late March I had the pleasure of taking in ten of the fourteen features presented at the first local Noir City film festival in two years. In past years the flagship San Francisco version of that annual fest has been ten days long, and all but two of its previous 18 iterations have been held at that Fog City temple of cinematic worship known as the Castro Theatre. This year, apparently due to the Castro’s owners being busy negotiating a big ka-ching deal for an extensive makeover with a dubious outfit called Another Planet Entertainment, Noir City head honcho Eddie Muller was unable to nail down a commitment for use of the venue.
What Ed Sullivan would still have described as “a really big show” was instead presented at Oakland’s Grand Lake Theater. Getting to the Grand Lake from San Francisco takes a while on public transit but East Bay noir addicts have been schlepping to the Castro for 18 years so it seemed fair that they got a shorter commute this time around. Alas, due to economic necessity the Oakland theater’s balcony had been sealed off to accommodate a second screen, which meant fewer seats than the Castro. Consequently advance tickets were a wise choice, which I should have stressed to my noir hound pals who didn’t score ducats early and were turned away on opening night. Oopsie!
Despite that reduced seating capacity problem, the well-preserved movie palace’s original downstairs is still cavernous enough to capture the essential time travel with criminal overtones ambience which veteran attendees craved so badly. It was beyond swell to see so many familiar faces from years past, though not their entire faces until maskless mingling took place outside the theater. I hadn’t seen most of those obsessive celluloid culture vultures since early 2020, and it was a good reminder that human contact before and after movie watching helps leave home viewing in the proverbial dustbin.
Every Noir City lineup has an overarching theme elaborated on by Eddie in well-written, beautifully laid out programs which make perfect envy-inducing gifts for friends and relatives unable to attend. This year the banner headline on the typically terrific festival poster (fedoras off to Bill Selby) read “They Tried to Warn Us,” an apt hook for a series of mid-20th Century features addressing social ills that are all still with us (racism, fascist idolatry, misogyny, mentally ill military veterans with assault rifles, grifters in public office).
I’m partial to the writer/director Abraham Polonsky, one reason my favorite double feature of the weekend was Force of Evil (1948) and Odds Against Tomorrow (1959). Polonsky scripted both of them, and directed the earlier movie, his first outing behind the camera. Thanks to the McCarthy era witch-hunt, he wouldn’t direct another film for twenty years. At least Polonsky survived that anti-communist crackdown, unlike Force of Evil star John Garfield, who suffered a fatal heart attack in the midst of sustained hounding by the House Un-American Activities Committee. Working around the blacklist, he also ghostwrote an amazing sceenplay for Odds Against Tomorrow, a movie which proves beyond a doubt that Harry Belafonte is one of the coolest humans of all time. See more on that double bill and the rest of this year’s noir residency in my piece for EatDrinkFilms, conveniently linked to below.
Note that the Green Arcade still has plenty of John Waters books (everything he’s written that’s in print) left over from last week’s party celebrating the release of Mr. Waters’s first novel, Liarmouth, which my employer describes as “comedy for comedy’s sake.” It’s a fun read which inspired me to cackle loudly on public transportation, and is filthy enough to maintain Waters’s reputation as Baltimore’s most perverse artistic troublemaker.
A good time was had by the all at the shindig, with plenty of youngsters attending alongside grizzled die-hard fans. John was as brilliant as ever (since I got to pass along greetings from a mutual friend who shall remain nameless (Jack Stevenson) I feel I can presume to be on a first name basis with the great man), though sadly I missed a few one-liners while doing my best to peddle books. I did catch, and appreciate, his loathing for overuse of the word “journey,” his rightly noting that Donald Trump ruined bad taste, and his recommendation of the excellent Romanian film 4 Months, 3 Weeks and 2 Days in response to an audience member’s request for a good movie about abortion.
Afterward the core of the event workforce went out to a passable diner-style establishment on Polk Street, reenacting the old ad where a bunch of hardy types toast an adventure with Canadian Club. We didn’t actually guzzle any Canadian booze but I was treated to a sumptuous meal of mozzarella sticks, French fries, and onion rings. Quite appropriate for capping off a night with the Pope of Trash! The entire evening was a stellar team-building exercise far more enjoyable, and effective, than any of those obligatory exercises in corporate drudgery you read about in business books on how to grow a unicorn. I mean, obviously!
NOTES
Get N,MF! #9 while it’s still hot: https://shop.thegreenarcade.com/s/search?q=namaste
My overview of Noir City 19’s offerings: https://eatdrinkfilms.com/2022/03/24/the-czar-of-noir-may-not-ring-twice-but-he-always-delivers-the-goods/
Noam’s still got it: https://theintercept.com/2022/04/14/russia-ukraine-noam-chomsky-jeremy-scahill/
Don’t give in to despair! That’s an order!: https://postcardstovoters.org/