My Thoughts on Cell-Reliance

It's no mystery that I am slow to accept change, especially with technology. Call me unjustifiably old-fashioned. I remember being mortified when iPods carried digital music into a scary new age; sure enough album art and even the album itself has become increasingly irrelevant in our culture. The CDs I grew up with suited me perfectly fine, along with my soft spot for vinyl. The same can be said about phones, I never owned a cell phone until freshman year of college, and it was forced on me because my parents couldn't stand how frequently I was MIA. It's possible this spite-for-change trait is hereditary. My father owned a beeper until pay phones were being ripped out of sidewalks.

Lately we've had a cascade of cell phone advertisements about wireless networks and applications. It still surprises me that so much convenience and information can fit in one's pocket, but for most it's old news. So old, in fact, we're now nitpicking. Ads today boast how much better their wireless maps are, or that their phones run multiple applications at once. The need for immediate satisfaction baffles me. One ad hypothetically asks which network you would trust to upload pictures of your newborn baby on Facebook, while you're all still in the hospital. An important question, for sure.

I've been thinking about my amusing personal history with cell phones. If they were all still alive today and could form a gang, the words "ragtag" or "motley" come to mind. My first cell phone (pictured top left) was a happy blue brick with barely any color in the screen (the picture must be an update, or lie). That phone served me two years, until my parents discovered that I had circumvented the obstacle of a missing keypad shell by pushing a pen or fork into the tiny holes to dial numbers. A new phone came even faster when they found out how well I could dial while driving.

I was excited for my replacement, which was black and flipped open, though it was just about as basic as the previous model. Our time together was brief. Within a year I was in need of another; the antenna had snapped and the screen display was backwards. All the hot glue and mirrors in the world couldn't save it.

I went to a dive cell phone store in Fitchburg determined not to spend money. I was given a "temporary" second-hand flip phone until my contract allowed me to renew a few months later.

That temporary phone proved to be too endearing to let go of when I discovered just how second-hand it was. There were Lil Wayne ringtones paid for and installed. Several videos featured a laughing, drunken fat man in a hot tub. There were pictures of grandparents, children, friends eating cotton candy in front of a ferris wheel, and, um, a dead deer. Finally, several text messages implied the prior owner was a drug dealer, and I couldn't escape the feeling that I'd inherited an orphan. I decided the phone deserved a second chance at life, and that I'd call it my own until the wheels came off.

(I should note before continuing that for years I abhorred text messaging and how often it consumed people that would be otherwise engaged in conversing or living. I didn't really allow myself to text people until as recent as this past Christmas, especially since half of Los Angeles conducts business through texting and e-mail. It took three phones for this to happen.)

It's been two years, and yesterday I finally laid the ol' plow horse to rest. It had shown signs of dementia in its old age, calling numbers by itself at odd hours and often refusing to work except through speakerphone. I'm sad to see it go, but I expect it would have wanted me to move on and be happy.

My replacement is an old phone of my girlfriend's, once again nothing special. It dials numbers and sends text messages. Some day I'll probably end up with a fancy smart phone with internet access and applications, probably when all phones are smart and the new is much newer than the new we know now. Maybe by then I'll be used to them. But I'm sure I'll miss those old fashioned cellular phones.

Cocaine, Strippers, and Dave Foley

Some time back I gave up on the idea of being a "film artist," mostly from my lack of interest in the technical aspect of filmmaking and the ever-improving technologies that always escape my understanding (or attention span). Also, moving to L.A. does wonders for a film student's ego. I do continue writing and working on sets; that makes me happy enough for now. What hasn't changed is my critical approach to film and television, which is lately irrelevant when needing to make ends meet. Some of those film school ideals refuse to die within me, and I'd like to be paid to work only on great films, but money makes the world go 'round. There are of course some outright horrible, soul-crushing ideas that I'll still try to avoid being part of (Summer 2010 is offering two more movies with talking and pooping animals), but working on-set has forced me to see the industry as it really is (a business, jobs for working class people, etc.), and I've grown to appreciate good things when I see them.

Consider a music video I worked on at a strip club in Hollywood. It features a group called Black Robot covering "Cocaine;" yes, that Clapton song. When I got the call to be on set, plenty of sophomore-in-college movie snob synapses fired off in my brain:

-"A strip club? Isn't that clichéd and exploitative?"

-"Cocaine? Really? I don't even like Eric Clapton."

-"Black...Robot...?"

And then I remember that I have to pay rent, and of course accept the work. Film school ideals don't hold up in the working world.

On location, most of my morning was spent driving the strippers back and forth from set to makeup, which was both amusing and informative. Most of the girls were pleasant and down to earth, but the discussions mostly revolved around places they work at and strip classes they take ("Yeah, they usually teach you how to do a full inversion on the first day"). The crew was small and a nice bunch of fellas, and the production demands were remarkably low. What made the shoot special to me was when I heard that Dave Foley (Kids in the Hall, Newsradio) would be there as a favor to a friend of his. Even cooler, that friend is from Boston and toured with David Cross and worked on Mr. Show.

Even though I spent the better part of my day thinking of contrived ways to initiate conversation, my intent to stay professional prevented me from formally meeting Dave Foley. I kept wondering what I'd say, and what made me different from any other casual fan saying something, and realized there was nothing. I did keep a curious eye on him, still flabbergasted that he'd show up in an unknown band's music video. I think I was looking for signs of him looking off in the distance and sighing, or aggravation after several hours spent in a dive bar with hot lights. Instead, he was friendly and easygoing. He made jokes frequently and smiled when giving people responses. He took direction and was game for whatever the director threw at him. In between setups, he would tell people stories. If you didn't know who he was, you wouldn't know he was famous.

I can hear the sarcastic guffaws: "This is where Dave Foley's career is?" This was a low-budget shoot, and whatever he was paid to be there, I promise it wasn't much and was simply a favor to his friend. But I found it charming how genuine he was, and how he seemingly didn't feel the video was beneath him. It makes me feel lousy for even having those sarcastic thoughts when offered the job. I could learn a thing or two from Mr. Foley.

Here's the video, complete with boyish Foley charm... and somewhat SFW strippers:

Chicken Soup for the Demented Soul

I remember being a kid and seeing William Castle's The Tingler after midnight on cable. A few things vaguely stood out in my mind: a creature pulled by fishing line; the sight of blood red in an otherwise black-and-white film; a character literally being scared to death. This was my first "real" exposure to Vincent Price beyond his guest appearance on "The Muppet Show," his brief role in Edward Scissorhands, and being the laughing man from "Thriller." Years later I knew I had a fond admiration for Price, but with only faint or limited reasons behind it. Why? I always assumed that these limited impressions and memories served as pieces to a bigger picture that I enjoyed; I don't think an episode of "The Muppet Show" would bother re-inventing a guest star. A good idea would've been to check out more of his movies.

And there was Vincent Price, forever stored on my cinematic to-do list, somewhere after "see more Bergman and Lean films," plus whatever got thrown onto the pile over time.

I read the AV Club often and am fond of their features; one of them called "Gateways to Geekery." The idea is to discuss icons, artists, publications, or genres of geek cult that people could shun you for not knowing anything about (Monty Python, EC Comics, Westerns, etc.) and the "possible gateway" that could get you started (plus what to avoid unless you're a true fan). An article popped up one day for Vincent Price, and caught my immediate interest.

His early career could be described as no less than normal for the time period. I watched some of these films. He's a main character in Laura, an above-average film noir from Otto Preminger; and he plays the title character in Sam Fuller's The Baron of Arizona with a charming empathy that struggles to overcome Fuller's typically heavy-handed writing and directing. Obviously these roles did not connect the dots with my childhood impressions, and are not even close to what people remember as the Price persona. According to that AV Club article, the "possible gateway" to Vincent Price is, no surprise, The Tingler.

The author went on to provide a laundry list of films to check out after The Tingler, and I was surprised to discover that I was more familiar with Price than I'd realized. He worked with Roger Corman on a few Edgar Allen Poe adaptations, some of which I'd seen in an eighth grade reading class; and I had forgotten about seeing the first film he worked on with Castle, House on Haunted Hill, when I was a lot younger. How could I have forgotten that skeleton rising from a vat of acid?

The picture was becoming more complete, I was discovering that the limited impression of Price that I had wasn't so limited, and that I was actually somewhat well-versed in his brand of oogly-moogly mania. After revisiting both The Tingler and House on Haunted Hill as an adult and fully appreciating both Price's hammy charm and Castle's spooky good-time gimmicks, I decided to approach a few more films that had caught my eye.

The later portion of Price's career is marked by a few revenge films made before his declining health. The most famous title is probably The Abominable Dr. Phibes, with its equally enjoyable sequel Dr. Phibes Rises Again, in which Price plays the mad title character set on avenging his wife's death. Yes, vigilante/revenge films are inherently dumb. Especially now, these films are steeped in heavy plotting, and usually the main character's wife/son/daughter has been so wronged by the justice system/drug cartel/police/government that the audience feels a vicarious joy in the character's journey for personal justice. Conveniently, these films feature stylish deaths, and usually a happy ending. Money!

The difference with the Phibes films is that the main character's driving motivation, his wife's death, really isn't so horrific. She dies during an operation (or at the hands of incomptetent doctors, depending on your perspective), but no evidence suggests that the death was malicious in any way. At worst, it's an unfortunate accident. Amusingly we see none of this; instead we have Price stealing scenes with ham-fisted monologues that simultaneously explain his motives and earn sympathy from the audience. Even with the complicated "seven plagues of Egypt" murders that Phibes commits with incredible ease, it isn't until hindsight that we realize we've sided with and cheered for a lunatic. The same could be said for the sequel, which takes itself even less seriously as Phibes goes to Egypt to give his dead wife immortality. Makes sense, that's the first place I'd think of.

Price alone carries these films. After a while, one can forget the character can't speak (due to a car accident that leaves his mouth sealed shut) from the precise throat movements and gestures to the passion in Price's eyes with each line mourning his dear "Vic-toooooria." There's a lot to be said about the set designs and stylish murdering (I'm especially fond of a misleading death that involves poisonous snakes), but only Price's expressive and energetic performances turn these inherently dumb films into great ones.

The best of the Price revenge films is Theater of Blood, which gives Price the chance to indulge in Shakespearean monologues while still playing a murderer. The premise is similar, but substitute a dead wife for career-ending notices, and doctors for theater critics. Instead of Egyptian plagues, the critics die according to Shakespeare tragedies. This film boasts a screenplay of astonishing wit and style, but it would still be nothing without Price in the lead.

Catch up on Vincent Price; not only is he a joy to watch, his personality alone seems to create a bizarre cinematic universe that combines an infectious humor and energy with a snickering blend of blood and ghouls. His best films aren't so-bad-they're-great (see Troll 2), nor are they exemplary classic horror. He's one of the few actors where the fact that he stars in it is pretty indicative of what kind of film it is. Recently I tried explaining to a friend of mine what makes Price so special. The best I could come up with is that he reminds me of the charm of a homemade haunted house.

I'll stand by that.

UPDATE: I've just found Dr. Phibes Rises Again streaming for free on Hulu, along with House on Haunted Hill. Enjoy!