WELL, THAT ESCALATED QUICKLY...

COME ON, MARCH 26th...

I was looking forward to this sequel anyway,  but when they throw in a one-sheet teaser poster of the Black Widow, the lure is complete.

Ah, ScarJo...

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I grew up with a great geeky love for the character Natasha Romanov, but never in a million years would I have expected to see her on the big screen at all, let alone more than once and played by one of my favorite gorgeous actresses. Yeah, it's a good era in which to be a geek. (That said, I still say ScarJo's a bit too young for the role and does not rock a Russian accent, but you can't have everything.)

A HEARTBREAKING MOVIEGOING MOMENT

This is what I saw un-ironically posted at the theater this evening when I went to see AMERICAN HUSTLE. The fact that we've reached the point where this is even remotely necessary breaks my goddamned heart.

HAPPY MARTIN LUTHER KING DAY, MUTHAFUKKAS!!!

Yes, you read that right. A flyer for a MLK Day-related "Freedom 2 Twerk" event where folks can go to get their drink and hump on while decked out in all their rap music video-style hip-hop finery. There was a bit of media attention about this during the past week-plus, thanks to members of Dr. King's family expressing outrage at his image being inappropriately used in order to promote parties in "honor" of his nationally-celebrated holiday. A figure of considerable dignity, especially revered by American blacks who are old enough to remember what a shithole this country was for us highly rhythmic individuals before the Civil Rights Movement, Dr. King became the face of the struggle for equality in a land of the free that was anything but what it presented itself as, and his tragic death— no, let's call it what it was — his tragic assassination forever ensured him a place as black America's most iconic martyr. If you're black and around my age (48), you know exactly what I'm talking about, especially if you spent any time with your older relatives who likely had at least one framed portrait of Dr. King on their wall, or if you ever went to a church down South and cooled yourself while sweltering in a pew with one of those mass-produced hand-held fans bearing King's face. King's was, and still is, a face blacks of a certain age never wanted to forget, for reasons I cannot even begin to go into here with enough information and cultural/social/historical insight to get it all across to those who genuinely have no clue, so I suggest those among you who only understand MLK as "that black guy who made things okay for other black guys back in the Sixties" take some time to read up on him in-depth.

In the decades since his death, things have certainly improved for American blacks, and aspects of American culture have become so influenced by black input that it's taken for granted now. White kids today probably cannot conceive of a time when our nation's consciousness did not wield such a "just the way it is" melding of black ways and thinking in their everyday lives. In short, the so-called "great American melting pot" is becoming more so with each passing day. But along with that positive shift has come a rise in the glorification of ignorance and thuggery that sickens many of us who struggled to be taken seriously as human beings in communities where we were numbered among the handful of blacks who were not there as domestics. Over the past two decades especially, the exaggerated images and behavior seen in rap videos that rely more on their visual fantasy quality than any that may be found in their lyrics or beats has become seen as a lifestyle to be desired and emulated, perhaps completely missing the irony in such over-the-top macho and possession-oriented visual themes. "Ghetto fabulousness" and the old school pimpin' mentality are perceived as cool by those who don't know any better and that ain't going to change anytime soon. Sadly, Martin Luther King Jr.'s once-sacrosanct persona is now seen as being perfectly acceptable as an element for use in that pimpalicious aesthetic.

The art on these announcements tends to involve images of the venerated civil rights agitator's head Photoshopped onto bodies accessorized in gold chains, black t-shirts, and/or leather, surmounted with fancy cars, bottles of liquor, and scantily-clad women. Basically textbook rap video and album cover imagery, and if I may be completely honest here, I have to admit that the idea is so ridiculous that I laughed my ass off when I first saw examples of the flyer genre in question. It's like something out of National Lampoon during its intentionally over-the-top-offensive days, or the sketch from CHAPELLE'S SHOW that featured suave and wholesome 1950's-era crooner Nat King Cole engaging in pouring champagne over the body of a toothsome young thing while singing about "This is what you want on your vagina." It's funny because it's something that just should not be, yet there it is. However, I doubt that the makers of the MLK Day party flyers have such satire in mind. Maybe I'm wrong and I have unfairly misjudged the creators of this stuff, but when I weigh it against the behavioral slide exhibited by many in today's black community, it seems to me that these come from a place of ignorance rather than one of transgressional humorous intent. Anyway, from the many examples of such that I've seen over the past few days, here are my two favorites, both of which predate 2014. Both are utterly ridiculous, but the one from Endzone takes the prize for its grade school level of photo manipulation, especially the angle at which King's head is planted on the body. It looks like he has a defective neck after surviving a lynching.

ELEGY FOR A TRASH CINEMA PRESERVATIONIST

It is with a very sad heart that I bid R.I.P. to Mike Vraney (Dec. 29, 1957-Jan. 2, 2014), the founder of Something Weird Video. News of his death from lung cancer has apparently only just been made public and I doubt it will make the mainstream news (I received a note about it because I've been a regular customer for over twenty years), but the man's contributions to the preservation of obscure, trashy, cult, and even downright pornographic cinema cannot be overstated. Something Weird has personally enriched my own collection to a considerable degree, with close to sixty examples of their wares evident on my shelves, and for that I owe Vraney a great debt of appreciation. Though I never met the man, I did speak with him a few times over the phone and he was always very knowledgable and nice. Rest well, Mike. And thank you, from the bottom of my heart. The company's official press release follows:

We regret to inform you that Something Weird's founder, Mike Vraney, passed away on January 2nd 2014 after a long heroic battle with lung cancer. He was 56 years old, way too young to leave this planet. There was still so much Mike wanted to do in his life, so many films to be found, and adventures to be embarked upon.
      This sad news may come as a shock to most of you. Mike was a very private person and didn't want anyone, except his closest friends, family and colleagues, to know about his illness. He went through aggressive chemotherapy and radiation treatments for over a year, but sadly the cancer spread and cruelly took him from us.
      Mike had a larger-than-life personality and a genuine enthusiasm for movies. Something Weird was his heart and soul, he was obsessive in his pursuit of tracking down the weirdest, wildest movies out there. And it wasn't enough to find a few forgotten films, he was always in search of the movie motherload. (Making 370 two-hour volumes of Nudie Cuties loops is a good example of this. Who does that?! Mike Vraney!) Even as a child, Mike loved movies. During his teenage years, he worked at the Bel-Kirk Drive-In, and then later as a projectionist at the Green Parrot and Apple Theaters in Seattle. Then around 1990, Mike went in search of as many old, unusual, obscure, and lost low budget exploitation movies as he could, and preserved them for prosperity. Mike amassed thousands of these rare movies and had them transferred to video so that people could relive the good old days of going to the drive-in or grindhouse theater, in their very own home. We have him to thank for introducing fandom to the wonderful world of sexploitation sinema, rescuing it from the dark recesses of forgotten film vaults and defunct movie theatres.
      Some of you may know that prior to Something Weird, Mike was involved in the early Seattle punk rock music scene. He was a partner in Modern Productions, the group who started Seattle's seminal rock venue, The Showbox, in 1979. Mike then went on to manage such well-known bands as The Dead Kennedys, TSOL, and Seattle's own The Accused. Mike always seemed to be at the forefront of whatever was happening and cool.
     Mike's second greatest passion in life was collecting old comics, vintage toys, movie memorabilia, and pop cultural ephemera. He enjoyed going to the swap meet and always had a magical ability for finding great stuff. But when he wasn't working, collecting, or telling great stories, Mike spent quality time with his beloved family. Mike adored his wife and business partner, Lisa, and two (now young adult) children, Mark and Danielle. These three were the center of his universe, and his reason for getting up each and every morning.
      The folks at Something Weird fully intend to keep Mike's incredible legacy intact. Mike may be gone, but his remarkable achievements will live on. One of the happiest days of Mike's life was when legendary David F. Friedman and Dan Sonney called him "the forty-first thief," which to him was the ultimate compliment and recognition for his work. We'd like to think that Mike's now hanging out with his old pals Dave and Dan, reminiscing and talking shop with Dwain Esper, Kroger Babb, Barry Mahon, Joe Sarno, Doris Wishman, Bob Cresse, Dale Berry, Michael Findlay and all the other exploiteers and smut peddlers who've gone to the great grindhouse in the sky.
      We will miss Mike with all our hearts. Goodbye dear friend, husband, father, and fearless leader…
      -- Lisa Petrucci, Tim Lewis, Kendall Bechtel, Mark Vraney, Danielle Vraney of Something Weird Video

BETTER THAN ELVIS!!!

NOT QUITE THE SAME AULD LANG SYNE

I'm so darn glad he let me try it again 
Cause my last time on earth I lived a whole world of sin 
I'm so glad that I know more than I knew then 
Gonna keep on tryin' 
Till I reach my highest ground 

-Stevie Wonder, "Higher Ground"

Dear Vaulties-

Here we are, once again at the turnover of another year, and I for one hope to all fuck that the upcoming annus is a vast improvement over what came just before and, in my specific case, what came before over roughly the past five.

As I write this, I am 48.5 years old and I have done a lot of living in that time, a lot of it good and quite memorable, some of it stuff that if given a chance for a do-over I would have definitely steered clear of. A lot of you out there can probably say the same. Some of you who are at the same stage of life as I have undergone or are undergoing what is commonly referred to as a midlife crisis, and while I'm not sure if what I've been going through for quite some time falls into that exact category, I can tell you in no uncertain terms that the past decade has seen me reach a number of epiphanies and endure a number of defining hardships.

Twenty-four years ago, after a year and a half pursuing a fruitless local career in freelance design and illustration, I left home from Westport, Connecticut to make my fortune in New York City as a member of the Mighty Marvel Bullpen, full of youthful optimism and wide-eyed hope for a future doing what I loved. I worked alongside several college buddies who have since become more dear to me than my own biological family, meeting and becoming friends with many of the greats in the comics biz while partying harder than I had any right to and still remain alive, and those times were mostly good (if low-paying). I lived the comics geek's dream until Marvel entered the dire "Marvelution" era of the mid-1990's and Chapter 11 proceedings wrought massive staff layoffs, with myself being among those who got the axe on the day before Halloween of 1998. After that I ended up at Marvel's in-town rival, DC Comics, a more corporate entity that was a subsidiary of Time-Warner, and there I stayed until the spring of 2003, eventually "let go" after what was at the time the fastest advancement in the company's editorial staff. That was followed by just shy of two years as an unemployed freelancer, and then came my now-infamous stint anchoring the kitchen at a certain Brooklyn barbecue joint. After two years of some very crazy adventures, I left that gig for a staff job at a Manhattan design studio in the capacity of copy writer/proofreader/quality control, but what looked at first to be a promising job very quickly revealed itself to be me landing a position on a sinking ship that paid shit and provided little for me to do. (I was there for three years before the inevitable layoff, after which the place slowly whittled down its staff and continued with nothing even resembling a direction until in closed altogether.) Since then I have been unemployed-but-freelancing for nearly four years, and it will likely come as no surprise to tell you that I am sick of applying for jobs and getting nowhere while living hand-to-mouth.

Over those years my romantic endeavors have mostly ended up as disasters, thanks to my propensity for finding myself hooked up with a succession of women who could kindly be described as...a bit "off" in the head, some more so than others. (And I am by no means insinuating that I am without flaws, some of which run deep.)  Some of those ladies have remained close and trusted friends, others have simply returned to the ether from which they came, and some have been relegated to a roster of creatures to be avoided with the fervency with which one would dodge some of the more terror-inducing beasts of classical mythology or stories penned by H.P. Lovecraft. But whatever the case, I remain a man who adores women and someday hopes to find the right companion with whom to settle into something more permanent than some occasional "sexy time," but at the moment I have been going stag for nearly a year and I've gotta say that it's lonely as hell. And there was a time when I wanted nothing more than a family of my own, preferably with three daughters, but now I'm more than content to enjoy influencing the many nieces and nephews I have via my closest friends since high school and college, so at least there's that.

I bring all of this up because 2013 was without question the most shit-tastic year of my life thus far, and during that time I had to contend with a life-avalanche of ongoing unemployment/poverty, another romantic crash-and-burn (though the lady in question was not a villain and we remain friends), the untimely death of a dear old friend, being there to support a few friends who were in deep emotional crisis, an escalating wave of exorbitant medical issues that I had to contend with without medical insurance, and last, but definitely not least, having a stent put into my heart in order to open up some minor blockage that was found there.

To call all of that a rollercoaster would be something of an understatement, so as this crappy year draws to a close, I have opted to sit this New Year's Eve out and instead stay at home by my lonesome, watching Season 5 of SONS OF ANARCHY while contemplating how I can actively work to make 2014 an improvement over the year that immediately preceded it. I wish I had a squeeze for tonight but that didn't happen this time around, and I admit to being  spoiled by having female companionship to help usher in the past three new years, so here's hoping for a return to form from here on in.

Anyway, I'm staring to ramble, so let me just say in closing that may all of us have a better year in 2014 than we did in 2013, and may all our misfortunes and miseries be turned around into joy, prosperity, and lots and lots of "sexy time."

-Yer Bunche

INEVITABLE, THY NAME IS THIS

I'm a big fan of the TV series GAME OF THRONES and also of the series of novels upon which it is based, and so are millions of people worldwide because the entire franchise is a money-making juggernaut. Thus, with that level of popularity in place, it was only a matter of time before some enterprising pornographer lensed a tenderloin version of George R.R. Martin's intrigue-laden tales of the royal families of the land of Westeros. I'm just glad to see that the makers of this uglies-a-bumpin' parody opted for an old school cheesy title and not another instance of prefacing the source title with "This Ain't" or adding a "XXX" at the end. And extra points for the pornification of the Stark family's motto. Come to think of it, will the Stark's be renamed as "Stark-Naked?" And who is that supposed to be, seated upon the Iron Throne? I've read all the books and seen the entire run of the TV series and thus I recognize all of the other characters, so who is she?

LET'S HEAR IT FOR...STARFISH HITLER!!!

MIRANDA (1948)

The one and only Glynis Johns as Miranda, a lonely mermaid who's out to catch herself a man.

Ever since I was a little boy I have loved and been fascinated by the lore of the mermaid, an interest likely sparked by the adorable Neptina, the tastefully topless half-fish girlfriend of early anime hero Marine Boy. I was one of the rare little boys who never found girls to be "icky," so I was fascinated by the female from Day One, plus I had a deep interest in aquatic lifeforms that led my earliest job aspirations to lean toward marine biology, so the concept of a magical creature that combined my two loves into one was bound to appeal. From the early days of watching Marine Boy and Neptina "fighting evil 'neath the sea," I moved on to reading world mythology and absorbing the many cultural variations on the mermaid, and as I got older I sought out any movies that had to do with them, nearly all of which revolved around mermaids falling in love with men from the surface world. The list of the genuinely good films in this niche category is rather small and until now I held the Daryl Hannah vehicle SPLASH! (1983) as the exemplar of the form, but now that I've seen Britain's 1948 cult classic MIRANDA (based on a stage play by Peter Blackmore), Madison's reign is over and her Cornish predecessor has taken her place in my heart and mind.

Dr. Paul Martin (Griffith Jones) fails to entice his wife, Clare (Googie Withers), into joining him for a fishing trip to Cornwall, so he leaves by himself for a bachelor's holiday. While out angling in a boat, Paul's line is snared by what he presumes to be a very large fish and he is pulled overboard, where he is promptly seized and spirited away to the underwater cave of Miranda Trewella (Glynis Johns), a lonely mermaid who's looking for a man — she'd previously caught other men but threw them back because they were too short — and instantly takes a liking to the married doctor. She makes it very clear that she intends to keep the doctor forever and he is absolutely not immune to her considerable charms while stuck in her hideout (despite his love of his wife, which he immediately tells Miranda about), so, understanding Paul's fidelity (which is fighting a losing battle against her otherworldly allure), Miranda agrees to set him free, provided he takes her back to London with him for a three-week stay. She wants to see and experience all of the things she's read about in books and magazines found mostly on ships, and she would be willing to pretend to be an invalid during her stay, covering her fish tail with long dresses and blankets while riding around in a wheelchair of being carried. Paul agrees to her request and brings the beautiful creature to the London flat that he shares with his wife and their live-in servants, butler/chauffeur Charles (David Tomlinson) and maid Betty (Yvonne Owen), with Miranda playing the role of a patient who needs Paul's care over a specifically-stated period of three weeks. 

During the course of her stay, every male that she meets is completely enthralled with Miranda and not one of them stands a chance against her spell (though Paul puts up the most resistance). She bewitches Charles — who's engaged to Betty — and Nigel (John McCallum), an artist who's betrothed to Clare's best friend, snobbish hat designer Isobel (Sonia Holm), and enters into affairs with both, which of course results in all sorts of romantic mishegoss that postwar British society found scandalous and wholly inappropriate. Yet as all of this extracurricular spit-swapping occurs with the two mesmerized young men — and, to a certain extent, Paul as well — Miranda remains as sweet as honey and it's impossible to hate her for what appears to be simple (albeit powerful) sex appeal, and not even the women whose men she's stealing really hold it against her (their ire is instead directed at their helpless paramours). Especially not Clare, who eventually twigs to Miranda's secret, realizes there's some form of magic involved in all of the seduction going on, and settles back with an amused eye to watch what she knows will be an inevitable emotional train wreck (or as much of an emotional train wreck as the British stiff upper lip of 1948 would allow). It all amounts to a (mostly) one-set sex farce that leads to a rather surprising ending, especially for a film of its vintage and country of origin.

MIRANDA is a delight from start to finish and it wastes absolutely no time in getting the ball rolling, with Miranda coming into the narrative about two minutes after the opening credits. Highlights include:

• The eerie-but-charming siren song that Miranda sings at night, a strange melody heard by the entire household.
• The depiction of Clare and her performance by Googie Withers. It would have been easy to portray Clare as a shrewish wife who sought to tear down the invalid Miranda for her obvious effect on Paul, but Clare is both very smart and realistic, gradually realizing there's more going on than her husband's head, and the heads of the other men, being turned by a pretty wheelchair-bound girl. A refreshing change from what's expected in this kind of scenario.
• Miranda's adventures around London while chauffeured by the increasingly-smitten Charles, especially her argument with a sea lion after she orally catches and swallows a fish meant for it during feeding time, an argument loudly conducted in fluent sea lion, no less.
• Miranda's prodigious appetite and consumption of raw seafood.
• Miranda revealing in a throwaway line that she is the bastard daughter of her mermaid mother and a Covent Garden chorus boy named Matthew Trewella.
• British cinema legend Margaret Rutherford as Nurse Carey, the health care professional whom Paul brings in to attend to Miranda's "special needs" who is ideally suited to the case, thanks to her "eccentric" nature. She believes in mythical creatures, so her reaction to the reveal of Miranda being a living, breathing mermaid is one of utter delight, so it is never in doubt that she will keep Miranda's secret.
• The early pairing of Glynis Johns and David Tomlinson, some sixteen years before they were cast as Mr. and Mrs. Banks in the Disney classic MARY POPPINS. Seeing a still-gentlemanly Tomlinson overcome with lust for the lovely mermaid and losing his battle with himself is very funny to see.
• The running gag involving Miranda treating the Martin's well-populated fishbowl as a candy dish. At the beginning of the film there are around ten fish in the bowl. By the end...not so much.
• As her time on land grows short, Miranda gifts her three men with neck-worn tokens containing locks of her hair, in celebration and remembrance of "a love that might have been."
• The scandalous notion that Miranda, while owning other undergarments, does not own a single pair of panties, much to the shock of Clare and her maid.
• "Sea Cow?!!? SHE KNOWS!!! If you think you're going to take a peek at my tail, you're very much mistaken!"
• Miranda's tail, which looks exceptionally realistic when its seen flopping about in water. The tail is even afforded an onscreen credit for its maker, namely Dunlop.
• The black and white photography lends the story a dreamlike aesthetic that greatly benefits the proceedings.

One of the things that most fascinates me about this film is that when looked at from the point of view of a rather jaded audience member some 65 years after its release, it's fun to ponder just how risque this movie must have been when it hit the U.K.'s screens during its original release. For one thing, you get a mermaid who's topless when she's seen in the water (though her hair is always strategically placed), and piled on top of that there are several references to fish (and their smell) and wetness that bear intentionally vulgar connotations, and Miranda's sweet-faced, very matter-of-fact sexual aggressiveness, which brings me to the film's ending.

WARNING!!! HERE THERE BE SPOILERS!!!

Far from being merely the male sex fantasy adventures of a beautiful horny mermaid on the loose, Miranda's sexual campaign is revealed near the end of the film to be her acting not only on her personal loneliness, but also taking action to ensure the survival of her species. She earlier states that her mother had an affair with a human man, and she also mentions that mermen do exist but their unattractive looks make them unappealing to her — and presumably other females of her species — so she's opted to mate outside of the more obvious choice, and her dalliances with the three men under her thrall are an effort to widen the genetic options. It's never explicitly stated as such, but that's exactly what's going on. And while the goal of conceiving a child out of wedlock via three different men was probably scandalous enough for its era, an aspect that absolutely would never have flown in an American film, it's the film's very last shot that really raises eyebrows. When Miranda escapes back to the sea after Clare subtly calls her out for being a mermaid — and there is no malice about that; Clare is fascinated, but she wants to make the discovery public, which Miranda (and Paul) is not at all thrilled about — we see Miranda swim away, after which there is a flash-forward that shows a very happy Miranda on the shores of Majorca with a mer-baby on her lap. So in a film made by one of the most propriety-obsessed European societies during the postwar/pre-Profumo era, we get a feel-good story about a hot chick who gets knocked up by one of three possible babydaddies and we're happy to see the unashamed result.

How in hell did they get away with that in a 1948 British comedy, and did it ever get an American release? (I'm guessing that it was okay by virtue of Miranda not being a human woman, but even so it's still a bit of a shocker for its time.)

The movie is dominated by the performance of Glynis Johns as Miranda, and I defy you to find any straight guy who wouldn't willingly end up a slave to the character. She's beautiful, dryly funny, has eyes that draw one in like quicksand, has charm to spare, and she's horny as hell in a classy British way. And while Miranda is a natural-born seducer — which may be magically assisted, though it's never explicitly spelled out — and knows full well that's she's messing with men who are all involved in very committed relationships, she doesn't have a malicious bone in her body, so her man-stealing ways are impossible to hate, especially once we get that she's doing what she's doing by way of acting on a biological imperative. In short, she's an ideal fantasy creation who carries equal irresistible appeal for both adults and kids. This movie can be run for kids and not be considered salacious because when viewed through innocent eyes, Miranda's romantic entanglements can be seen as simply kissing and such, the kind of thing that mermaids get up to in even G-rated kiddie flicks, and the scene fades out during the three instances when it's obvious to adult audience members that the Beast with Two Backs is about to be made. (Don't ask me exactly what the logistics of achieving successful intercourse between a human male and a mermaid may be in this specific instance. Unlike Madison in SPLASH!, Miranda does not have the ability to become bipedal below the waist, so I'd say that magic is a definite factor here. That, or a process similar to the fishy mating process involving the female's eggs being fertilized by the male's milt, which when translated to this sort of scenario would amount to bukkake, which is something best not thought about in this movie's charming context.)

MIRANDA proved popular enough to generate a Technicolor sequel, MAD ABOUT MEN (1954), which brought back Glynis Johns and Margaret Rutherford, but it appears to be unavailable on DVD in an official release, either domestically or in a foreign edition. That makes me quite sad because I loved MIRANDA and I've read several reviews that cite MAD ABOUT MEN as being superior to the original, so I'm anxious to see it. Anyway, take my word for it and check out MIRANDA for yourself. It's a rare and unique treasure. I would love to see it rediscovered because it really is a classic deserving of wider recognition on these shores. (Then again, the one possible negative byproduct of MIRANDA getting rediscovered is that some Hollywood douchebag will greenlight an unnecessary remake, replete with modern day raunchy humor and frat gags, so maybe it's better off staying in relative obscurity.)

Poster from the original theatrical release.