All posts by Allan Mott

S&Man (2006)

J.T. Petty’s well-made look at the underground world of pseudo-snuff horror movies troubled me more for its final thesis than for what it actually shows onscreen. While featuring interviews with real-life filmmakers, actors and academics (including a personal hero of mine, Men, Women and Chain Saws author Carol J. Clover), the film’s dominant narrative comes from the fictional investigation into the cinematic activities of a doughy loser named Eric Rost (Eric Marcisak).

As the man behind the titular S&Man (pronounced “sandman”) series, which consists of him stalking attractive women on camera before killing them onscreen, Eric is reluctant to give away his filmmaking methods — afraid that doing so will undermine his reputation and mystique. Unable to contact any of the women who have appeared in the films, Petty (playing himself) is faced with the very real possibility that Eric’s product is the genuine article.

It’s no easy task to combine the real and the fictional as well as Petty does here, but ultimately, I found myself troubled by the conclusions he reaches. In his final narration, he tells us that we watch horror movies knowing that the violence is fake, while wishing it were real — which, in my case, simply isn’t true.

The fact is, I am generally indifferent to the violence in horror movies — I enjoy them for other reasons I don’t have the time or space to go into — and I am able to watch them without self-inflicting psychic trauma because I am able to take comfort in the knowledge that what I am seeing isn’t real. To suggest otherwise is to indict myself with a cultural crime I have not committed.

The other problem with Petty’s thesis is that in order to fully exploit it, he ruins the film’s delicate balance between journalism and fiction. It simple isn’t credible that a conscionable documentarian wouldn’t, at a certain point, take what they have learned about Eric’s activities and report them to the police. And while Petty’s inaction is meant to support his apparent contention that there is little difference between real and staged violence, it instead only works to prove how ultimately misguided that contention is. —Allan Mott

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The Legend of the Lone Ranger (1981)

There are some cinematic disasters that live on despite their failure, achieving a dubious kind of legend that actually serves them better than if they had succeeded. The Legend of the Lone Ranger is not one of them. In fact, it’s a film few people remember and even fewer ever talk about. When it flopped, it skipped right past infamy and went directly to oblivion instead.

The only reason I’ve remembered it over the years is because of a sweet childhood memory involving my parents waking me up to watch the Betamax copy they’d rented while coming home from a night on the town. I’ve come to assume that they were probably slightly tipsy when they did this, since they never did anything like that ever again, but I still find the recollection of it moving nonetheless.

Returning to the movie three decades later, I feared the worst, especially knowing its star discovery — the improbably named Klinton Spilsbury — was a male model who never acted again after having all of his dialogue replaced by James Keach (who occasionally sounds recorded in an echo chamber), so I was pleasantly surprised by how entertaining the experience of watching it turned out to be.

That’s not to say it’s a good movie, but rather that I found much amusement in its inelegant attempt to marry the charming innocence of the classic Lone Ranger iconography with the graphic brutality of the post-Peckenpah/Leone Western landscape. Imagine The Apple Dumpling Gang with gaping bloody bullet wounds and you can almost picture it. Does The Legend of the Lone Ranger deserve its obscurity? Probably, but that won’t stop me from returning to it again. —Allan Mott

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6 Movies I Saw in a Theater in 2001 and Only Barely Remember

1. Angel Eyes — The trailer made it seem like it was a spooky supernatural romance, but it just turned out to be about some asshole who was really, really sad.

2. Rock Star — Mark Wahlberg plays a normal guy who becomes the lead singer of his favorite band, but is too starstruck to notice that no one’s given a fuck about heavy metal since The Funky Bunch ruined music for everyone. He would go on to reprise the character five years later in Invincible.

3. Kate & Leopold — Meg Ryan is so desperate to get laid (and fuck Wolverine), she decides to abandon her life and go back in time to when she couldn’t vote or own property.

4. Sweet November — Keanu Reeves pretends that a month of hot sex with a dying Charlize Theron is bittersweet instead of just fucking awesome.

5. The Musketeer — What if The Three Musketeers were just like The Matrix, only really terrible? And starred Mena Suvari?

6. Get Over It — I have no idea what this was about, but it is weird to think how just 10 years ago, Kirsten Dunst was a reason why I would go to a movie. —Allan Mott

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Saturday the 14th Strikes Back (1988)

Recently I watched the Australian superhero satire The Return of Captain Invincible. I mention this because it happened to be an unfunny comedy that suddenly and inexplicably turned into a terrible musical 20 minutes into its running time, so when I was 15 minutes into Saturday the 14th Strikes Back and the peroxide blonde vampiress who looked just like an ’80s New Wave porn star started singing about how much she misses vegetables, I was hit by a profound case of the what-the-fucks.

Luckily, this scene turned out to be an aberration, and none of the other characters felt compelled to burst out into song over the hour that remained until the movie limped along to its merciful conclusion, but the constant threat that they might at least managed to inspire the kind of tension the rest of Strikes Back sorely lacked.

Written and directed by Howard R. Cohen, the auteur also responsible for the original Saturday the 14th, Strikes Back was clearly made for a young audience, but that doesn’t excuse the fact that it is neither funny nor scary. The cast is game and there are some potentially amusing surreal touches (such as the mother’s strange aversion to serving healthy foods), but they are all so poorly timed and executed that none of them stick.

It doesn’t help that the film includes several shots from Allan Arkush’s Rock ‘n’ Roll High School during its inexplicable climax, painfully reminding you of a much better way you could have spent the previous 80 minutes of your life. —Allan Mott

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Times Square (1980)

Times Square is the kind of movie I love not despite its flaws, but because of them. Rather than be put off by its lack of authenticity and enormous leaps of logic, I find myself instead pulled into its fantasy and want to stay there for far longer than I am allowed. It’s not great. It’s probably not even good. I don’t care.

Directed by Allan Moyle, who also made Pump Up the Volume (which is great), the film follows two mismatched young girls who meet in a hospital room while being tested for their psychosomatic fits. Pam (Trini Alvarado) is the daughter of a well-known New York councilman. Nikki (Robin Johnson) is a charismatic delinquent who likes to cause trouble. The two run away together and become famous, thanks to a popular radio DJ (Tim Curry) who relishes the irony of the councilman’s daughter being a street kid on the very street her father has been tasked to transform.

In reality, the girls would have been torn apart by the titular location within minutes of their arrival, but Times Square is a fairy tale. Viewed as such, it is a well-made and moving one, thanks especially to a stand-out performance by Johnson (who should have gone on to much bigger things, instead of her only other film, Splitz). Equally important is the amazing soundtrack, which features not only the best music of the era, but also two great original songs performed by the leads.

I can’t recommend that you check Times Square out, because you’ll probably hate it, but I love it all the same. I’ll take uplifting musical fantasy over gritty, depressing reality every single time. How does that not make sense? —Allan Mott

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