Vinyl

I know what you're thinking: But Andy Warhol movies are lame and tedious. And, admittedly, most are. But Vinyl is definitely the most watchable. Not coincidentally, it was also the film that introduced Edie Sedgwick, the closest thing to an actual movie star in his gang of "superstars."

Ostensibly a NYC hipster version of A Clockwork Orange, Vinyl is sort of a vague lo-fi exploration of S&M, homoeroticism and go-go dancing. Lots and lots of go-go dancing. Mostly to the Kinks and the Vandellas. The Anthony Burgess plot and the world he created are pretty much dropped for a single set--hell, a single shot--of a few people in a basement shouting random phrases in each other's direction. In this respect, it is like many Warhol films.

Gerard Malanga is the ostensible star of Vinyl, the delinquent who breaks the law (all the laws) and must be forcibly reformed. He spends a lot of time posing and dancing and occasionally lifts weights or shoves someone around. As far as what passes for acting, he holds forth in the usual Warhol manner, i.e. a vague gesture at 40s-50s B-movie style. Sure, he would fit in pretty well in the background of Motorcycle Gang or Dragstrip Riot, but his stilted line readings would likely prevent him from doing much more. (Stop trying to make "scum baby" happen, Heather!)

Edie says nothing, but she's the center of attention thanks to sheer star quality... okay, and a little help from screen position. However, she gives a clinic in how to be present in--and even dominate--a scene without technically doing or saying anything by absorbing everything, reacting to everything. (When i recently made a brief and weird return to the stage, i had a good 10 minutes of  "nothing" at one point, and Edie in Vinyl was inspiration for how to handle it. Also Marlene Dietrich in anything.) In a room full of people giving attitude, presenting themselves in this pose or that stance, she just is.

Eventually, Malanga gets ranted at by the cop and worked over the the sadists and everyone drinks plastic-cup cocktails and chainsmokes while someone plays records in the background. And that's part of what makes Vinyl interesting: There are always several things going on at once--if the foreground monologue bores you, there's always the background dancing, or someone getting fucked with or fucked up over on the side or whatever Edie is doing.

Intermittently, they give up on the dialogue and Malanga frugs frantically in his tight white hustler jeans as the  "cop" leans back in his office chair and leers. Sedgwick sways back and forth, weaving one eloquent arm. In the background, another guy in white jeans roughs up a shirtless man in a gimp mask while two other men watch dispassionately. As everyone drifts off into their own little bubble of vice and bliss, it's like the after-hours of countless drug-dipped downtown Manhattan parties.

Along with being a fine illustration of what Andy Warhol's famed Factory must have been like on a good night, Vinyl is a record of that weird 60s moment halfway between beatnik and hippie. Today when people talk about "underground," it's just another buzzword for your Facebook/Tinder/marketing profile. (No one knows what "poseur" or "sellout" mean either.) but Vinyl is a relic of a time when the edge really was a place that few people saw and even fewer actually went.

Cool World

I wrote about Ralph Bakishi's live action/animated trip through Las Vegas and the Cool World for my day job at the Vegas Seven. A deeply flawed film, but it has its moments....

The Wild World of Batwoman

What do you get when you combine go-go-girls, seances, "happy" pills, hearing aids, bare midriffs, lecherous middle-aged men, "Oriental languages," chocolate milk, the Watusi, mad scientists, pool parties and government surveillance?

The Wild World of Batwoman, that's what!

Another flick that operates on an Ed Wood-level of competence, The Wild World of Batwoman is an odd hodgepodge of leftover plot points and cheap sets. It makes the 60s Batman television series look like Game of Thrones..

There's an odd opener of two blondes (one of whom looks a lot like Amy Schumer) and a brunette in baby doll nighties blathering about strawberry yogurt and vampires--apparently this bit was tacked on when the producers were sued for copyright infringement (Who knows why they wouldn't want their intellectual property associated with such a fine work of art as this?) and the movie had to be retitled She Was a Hippy Vampire, although this is all we will hear of vampires. Picking up scraps is part of the the aesthetic of The Wild World of Batwoman--the monster shots are cut in from another movie, there's also street footage of what might be Sweden.

Batwoman is played by une femme d'un certain age with a cockade of Siouxsie Sioux hair, a bustier and a Batman symbol drawn on her cleavage--with eyebrow pencil, I'm guessing. The Batgirls seem to be a random assortment of go-go dancers and cocktail waitresses who recite a lot of Girl Scout-like oaths and "fight evil with all sincerity." We see a guy get mugged, a Batgirl get roofied and kidnapped--the Batgirls' crime-fighting skills seem to be limited to the Frug, the Pony and calling for help. Compared to them, Yvonne Craig's Batgirl is Imperator Furiosa.

So, one of the Batgirls is kidnapped by a couple of motley henchmen and an inept mad scientist with the standard creepy deformed assistant. It turns out they are in the service of Batwoman's arch-enemy, Rat Fink--no idea if he's related to Ed "Big Daddy" Roth's Rat Fink or the Rat Pfink of Rat Pfink a Boo-Boo. Apparently he is trying to get hold of some magical hearing aid that can eavesdrop on anyone, anywhere. And it's also an atomic bomb. Or something.

You know the Ajax company that occasionally pops up in the Disney universe, employers of incompetent ghost exterminators and spluttering ducks? They are too high-end for The Wild World of Batwoman, hence they use the knockoff, factory seconds version...

So, there's much rushing back and forth and escaping and getting kidnapped. The mad scientist keeps dispensing happy pills to everyone, because somehow there's not enough footage of Batgirls (and the occasional hunchbacked assistant) endlessly go-go dancing in midriff tops. That's what the happy pills make you do: Gyrate like it's inpatient talent night on American Bandstand.

Then our plot takes another bizarre turn as suddenly Batwoman needs to contact the spirit world (by holding hands around a table, these folks being too cheap to spring for a Ouija board) to tell her where the bad guys' lair is. Which is odd, because Batwoman has already been to said lair, but "it was dark" and she just can't find it now. Huh? Is it in one of those subdivisions where all the streets are named for types of cacti and all of the houses look alike? Which is actually entirely possible--like the "torture chamber" of Olga's Girls was obviously someone's basement full of random stuff, the "lab" in The Wild World of Batwoman is clearly a garage down to the shelves of cardboard boxes and side door entrance.

The Wild World of Batwoman is dopey and illogical but amusing nonetheless. It's girl power at its goofiest--actually, Amy Schumer's next movie should be a low-budget piece of superchick schlock with Neil Sedaka's "Bad Blood" as a theme song. All the girls will be non-supermodels--Melissa McCarthy, Margaret Cho, Kristen Schaal, Niecy Nash, Jinkx Monsoon, Fran Liebowitz, holographic LaWanda Page. They can let Jennifer Lawrence be their Lena Dunham, maybe bring John Waters out of retirement...

Ginger

Ginger is another film from that classic year, 1970 -- also the annus mirabulis of Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, Dinah East, The Party at Kitty and Stud's, Bloody Mama and no less than six vampire movies. It was the era of porno chic and pretty much everyone was working blue.

Ginger sounds totally reasonable on paper -- a "female James Bond," except where Cleopatra Jones crosses the genre with blaxploitation, Ginger crosses it with porn and sets it in New Jersey. The title role was played by Cheri Caffaro, born in Florida, raised in New York City.

Our heroine is even more likely than Bond to drop trou for a mission and she carries the nudity -- and the subsequent action -- far further than Her Majesty's Secret Service would ever dare. But, before anybody gets upset, let me point out that Ginger also has plenty of full frontal junk for those of you who prefer the pole to the hole.

Our heroine makes her big entrance in her bitchin yellow 'Vette ("cars courtesy Derio Oldsmobile Inc.") and goes to an office where she get her "mission." Which is to save the Jersey Shore -- there's some "rich kid" named "Rex" who's dealing drugs and blackmailing summer vacationers and the rich parents of Jersey are willing to throw down a hundred grand to keep the cops out of it. She also gets a cool super-spy briefcase with a gun and ammo and handcuffs and a camera and infrared film and some trail mix and one of  those little spray bottles of Evian and a matchbook that has most of the matches missing and...

Ginger heads off to the Shore, where we get a peep at our villain... Rex. Wearing eyeliner and a studded dog collar.

Really... this guy? What, was everyone else in jail or off fighting Tojo and this was the best villain they could find? Rex's gang consists of suburban whitebros bitching about their fathers' board of directors meetings. Except for the one black guy who is, of course, the drug hookup and is not rich. He's in it for one reason: As he explains, "You promised me all the ass I wanted. White ass." 

  Note pre-self tanner white lines, natural tits and old-school bush.

Ginger promptly infiltrates the gang by gyrating around a bar in hiphuggers and midriff top, thus arousing the prurient interest of one of the wealthy homosexuals in Rex's gang. (No, really, i mean the gang member played by an actor who was actually a gay porn star. Because back in the 70s you could get away with things like gay porn stars in "mainstream" films or a regular major network TV series about science.) This pisses off the ladies of the gang, who challenge Ginger to some kind of bikini catfight on the beach.

Whether it's fuckin' or kickin' ass, Ginger is gonna do whatever she has to do to get the job done. Ginger does not care how many times she must whip her top off or how many chicks she must hogtie with their own bikinis or how many guys she needs to strap down spread-eagle on a bed with piano wire around their balls, she is gonna clean up the Jersey Shore. If only she'd been around in the days of Pauly D.

Anyway, one of the gang girls bends Ginger's ear with an overly detailed account of her entry in the gang, precipitated by a run-in with the demon weed. "Then D.J. took out a joint, took a couple puffs on it and handed it to me... I don't know why in God's name I took it! I'll never know why, but I did!" Ginger comforts the girl by taking off her blouse and making out with her, basically because that's Ginger's modus operandi, regardless of the situation.

Who cares if she doesn't know how to button her shirt? She drinks with her pinkie out like a lady...

She manages to pump her new friend for info about the prostitution ring and of course friend winds up dead. Ginger flashes back to her friend and then to her brother begging her for help -- and totally flips out and strangles the gang member unlucky enough to be nearby. Flashback followed by violence is another Ginger modus operandi. Hey, it worked for Charles Bronson!

So, with the full fury of vengeance -- sure, she seems somewhat wooden and lethargic to the naked eye but, trust me, there is a roiling cauldron of emotions behind that deadpan stare -- Ginger decides to finish the gang off. One the way, there's plenty of breaks for tricks, blow jobs, dominance/humiliation scenarios, various ways of tying people up and the aforementioned flashbacks and castrations.

The adventures of Ginger actually continued into two more films, The Abductors and Girls Are for Loving. Cheri Caffaro went on to a guest spot on Barretta and wrote the script for sororitysploitation flick H.O.T.S. before eventually dropping out of showbusiness, but producer Don Strain is still working -- he produced all the High School Musical flicks. I think we can agree that Ginger and its sequels were the zenith of his career.

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls

Much as i love Valley of the Dolls -- and i do, enough that i've shown it at screenings and based Oscar parties on it -- i love Beyond the Valley of the Dolls even more.

Largely because it is like the original but more. More bodacious ta-tas, more big hair, more fabulous outfits, more ridiculous dialogue, more bad acting, more drunk scenes, more kinky melodrama. And you read that right: Roger Ebert, beloved film critic co-wrote this masterpiece. And, trust me, it is a fucking masterpiece. If you have not seen this movie, your life is poorer for it.

In the fashion of the original Valley of the Dolls -- as well as other girl-power masterpieces such as How to Marry a Millionaire, The Heroic Trio and Sleater-Kinney, not to mention Charlie's Angels -- it's the story of three women and a shared goal.

This is Kelly, lead singer and guitarist. Like all lead singers/lead guitarists, she is narcissistic and unreliable and preoccupied with getting laid. She also has an inexplicable British accent that comes and goes. Kelly is played by Dolly Read, better known to Playboy readers as Miss May of 1966. She later married (and divorced and then married and divorced again) Dick Martin, of Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In.

This is Casey, the bass player. Like all bass players, she was hired for aesthetics/backstory rather than musicianship and digs whatever kind of downers you can give her, man. Casey is played by Cynthia Myers, best-known as Playboy's Miss December of 1967. I saw her on a Russ Meyer TV show several years ago and damn if she has not changed. Well-preserved and/or i want the name of her plastic surgeon.

 This is Petronella, aka Pet, the drummer. Like all drummers, she doesn't understand the concept of consequences and is mostly interested in getting high. Pet is played by Marcia McBroom. McBroom was the daughter of prominent Civil Rights activists, Stokely Carmichael was her cousin and Katherine Dunham and Duke Ellington were family friends. She was also in Jesus Christ Superstar, got over this shit and is now a history teacher in New York City.

At the opening of the movie, the ladies and their band, the Kelly Affair are playing some kind of school dance. For those of you who wonder how a Russ Meyer film passes the Bechdel test, it happens right here, where the girls spend about three minutes talking about hauling equipment and scoring dope.

But enough of that, time for the traveling across the map montage! The Kelly Affair and their manager, Harris, a sad sack who is also Kelly's boyfriend, head out for Los Angeles. Apparently Kelly's aunt is there and she owes Kelly some inheritance. Also L.A. is where it's at for musicians, man. Remember, this was before the internet, so people had relatives they hadn't communicated with in over a decade and there still was a music industry.

Kelly finds her Aunt Susan in her over-the-top 70's fashion studio -- an appropriate profession, given the series of sensational outfits in this flick. Despite the "This is not a sequel. There has never been anything like it" billing, Beyond the Valley of the Dolls was originally intended as a sequel to Valley of the Dolls. The Aunt Susan character was actually Anne Welles and Barbara Parkins originally signed up to play her. Then things went south. I think someone read the script...

Anyway, Aunt Susan whisks Kelly off to a party thrown by music producer and Hollywood it-boy Ronnie "Z-Man" Barzell, a sort of Phil Spector figure with a pseudo-Shakespearian line of patter. This party scene stands out as one of the best party scenes ever filmed.

 

Yup, you read that right. The second Austin Powers movie stole a good half-dozen lines from Beyond the Valley of the Dolls verbatim. I guess they figured Ebert wouldn't get noisy about asserting ownership. I would have though: That shit is timeless! Another steal? Look closely at Kelly's palazzo-pant jumpsuit. It's the same one worn by Sharon Tate in the original Valley of the Dolls.

So, the rest of the girls (and boy) show up, the band plays a song (with some help from the Strawberry Alarm Clock), Z-Man decides to sign them after changing their name to the Carrie Nations. Sad Sack is kind of upset, but is also easily distracted by porn star Ashley St. Ives, played by Edy Williams, aka Mrs. Russ Meyer.

Yup, another steal.

Also, if you have not yet adapted yourself to the unique rhythms and editing of a Russ Meyer film, please do so quickly. Everyone just sort of recites their dialogue and the camera cuts as quickly as possible from person to person to object to person to boobs to person to object to person to boobs to boobs to boobs. Meyer had a thing about actors blinking, so he would cut away every time anyone's eyes shut for even a fraction of a second.

So, the Carrie Nations' careers kick off in a big way. Kelly tosses Sad Sack aside professionally for Z-Man and personally for vapid gigolo Lance Rocke. Sad Sack takes up with  Porn Star. Casey is the victim of some really heavy-handed pickup attempts and takes up with predatory fashion designer Roxanne. Pet hooks up with a waiter/law student who knows where she can score some weed.

Sad Sack starts getting so hammered that he can't get it up anymore and Porn Star leaves him. Law Student is so busy studying that Pet starts making eyes at a Muhammad Ali knockoff. Kelly and Gigolo keep scheming to get a bigger chunk of the inheritance. Casey is popping dolls and huffing grass. What next, you ask? A lot of things. Amazing things. You'll have to watch the movie to find out, but i can promise you that all of this happens...

There's a peculiar irony that arch-chauvinist Russ Meyer wound up making a number of films that are now considered pseudo-feminist masterpieces. Beyond the Valley of the Dolls is no Faster Pussycat, Kill Kill, but it does have three women who write their own songs, make their own decisions and bang whoever the hell they want. Sure, they're bubbleheaded hedonists, but no more so than anyone else in the film and less than most.

 Beyond the Valley of the Dolls was a critically panned flop when it came out, ending Russ Meyer's brief Hollywood majors career. However, it has since become one of the cult classics, an over the-top-piece of camp genius that must be beheld to be believed and whose influence can still be seen today.