Saturday, September 10, 2016

A FINE PAIR (1968) AND THE OUTER LIMITS OF CLAUDIA LOVE



This fall semester I started taking an Italian language class two evenings a week with my daughter, and Thursday night I was looking to decompress after our first big quiz. (Scores haven’t been revealed yet, but I think we did just fine.) So I started rummaging through my shelves and came across the Warner Archives DVD of Francesco Maselli’s A Fine Pair (1968), an ostensibly breezy romantic caper comedy which reteams Rock Hudson and Claudia Cardinale, a pairing their public was presumably clamoring for after their previous outing together in Blindfold (1965), a Universal programmer written and directed by Phillip Dunne, the screenwriter of, among many other notable movies, How Green Was My Valley. I’ve had a mad crush on Claudia ever since I first saw her in Circus World (1964) with John Wayne when I was but a youngster, and I always welcome the chance to visit movies of hers I haven’t yet seen. I was also hoping that she might speak a little italiano in A Fine Pair so I could bolster my current educational experience. As it happens she did, and I even understood some of what she was saying—a win all around, right? Well…

A Fine Pair features a typically nonsensical and, in the context of ostensibly breezy romantic caper comedies of the 1960s, fairly familiar sort of setup—Claudia’s an Italian jewel thief who travels to New York City to enlist the aid of Rock, a no-nonsense NYPD police captain and old friend of her father’s, in a scheme to contritely return the baubles she’s stolen from a prominent Austrian family before said family returns from an overseas trip so that she might escape punishment for her crimes. The thing that Rock doesn’t know is, the jewels Claudia’s claiming to have already stolen are fakes, and she means to use him to help her gain access to that Austrian family compound where she can pluck the real stash of gems.


Will the self-serious police captain fall in love with his gorgeous, carefree, apparently amoral companion? Will the jet-setting lifestyle of the international jewel thief, and the added extra bonus of bedding and taking showers with La Claudia, eventually get good to Rock, compelling him to shed the trappings of his confining and molto convenzionale stateside mores? Will she unexpectedly fall in love with this relatively stiff and cranky hunk and suddenly feel pangs of remorse for luring him into a series of compromising criminal positions? Will the charming the couple prance around various stunning European locations, laughing, riding snowmobiles, drinking with abandon from le fontane di varie belle piazza? Will Rock find out he’s being used?

If you’ve ever seen a movie before, you’ll probably know the answers to these questions just like I did. But the prospect of ogling beauties like Cardinale and Hudson as they bop from the grit and bustle of New York City to the luxurious old-world cityscapes of Vienna and Rome on their sundry escapades holds a certain appeal, one that for some of us will be near irresistible. Unfortunately, director Maselli, best known for ripe dramas like Gli Indifferenti (A Time of Indifference; 1964), which cast Cardinale alongside Rod Steiger and Shelley Winters, and Codice Privato (1988) starring Ornella Muti, doesn’t seem all that interested in his glamorous stars, and he directs almost the entire movie as if he’s a rooftop or two separated from the main action, struggling to maintain interest and engagement.  He and his otherwise very talented cinematographer, Alfio Contini (Il Sorpasso, Zabriskie Point), have chosen to shoot nearly every situation, whether close-ups or master shots, with long lenses of varying extremity, and they deliver a movie filled with human and architectural splendor which has been interpreted with alarming distraction. 


Then, to compound the offense, they’ve turned the footage over to one Nicoletta Nardi, who by all appearances seems to have edited the picture in a dark closet with a tenderizing hammer and a meat cleaver. The result, exacerbated no doubt by Warner Archives’ decision to release the film in a grainy transfer cropped down from wide-screen Panavision, makes absolute hash not only of the locales, but also of simple one-on-one conversations between the actors. Maselli assembles his scenes with the basest regard for the fundamentals of continuity and pacing, and his camera always seems to be lunging and darting around, trying to follow the actors and keep them at least partially in the frame. A Fine Pair might just be the clumsiest and clunkiest attempt at frothy frolic I’ve ever seen.

And given Maselli’s camera subjects, one might think a little lounging, some time to appreciate the lovely actors and their surroundings, would be appropriate, part of the design. But even when the movie does settle down, the lighting is often indifferent at best, impenetrable at worst, frustrating even the potential joy of luxuriating in all that apparently useless beauty. The movie’s central adventure sequence—the infiltration of that Austrian castle—is patently absurd on its surface and would never pass muster for audiences weaned on the sort of surreptitious high-tech shenanigans that are part and parcel of movies like Entrapment (1999) and the Mission: Impossible series. Rock deduces (because that’s what police captains do) that the castle is protected by a temperature-sensitive alarm system that can be disabled simply by heating up its cavernous halls. So, by some sort of fuzzily defined technological means, Rock hikes the temp up to about 190 degrees and the two sexy invaders get to work, he opening the safe where the jewels will be replaced, she seeking out the location of the treasure she really wants to get her hands on. But the heat ends up overwhelming them both and, this being a “sophisticated” romp, it’s not long before Claudia is down to her exquisite lace bra and panties, writhing on the floor in a pre-heat stroke-induced state of agony while Rock, thinking practically, douses her with a conveniently available bottle of seltzer water.


God knows I have no objection to watching Claudia Cardinale soaking wet and undulating in her undies—the possibility of just such a spectacle might be one of the primary reasons a person like myself would ever be compelled to throw A Fine Pair (the jokes just write themselves, don’t they?) into his or her DVD player in the first place. But Maselli undermines even that base pleasure. He makes the cut-rate decision to indicate the intense heat radiating through the castle by tinting the frame red, because red makes you think, you know, “hot.” So the grandeur of Claudia and, in the spirit of fair play, eventually Rock both getting drenched under duress, a cinematic event which ought to least be imbued with some measure of good, dirty fun, ends up, under cinematographer Contini’s injudiciously grainy guidance, looking like a seedy Super-8 S&M porn film shot in a serial killer’s basement and lit by the dim glow of Rudolph’s nose. By the time Rock ends up dragging Claudia’s near-unconscious body out of the room and toward cooler climes, I found it necessary to turn my eyes away, as if I were seeing something truly transgressive, something I shouldn’t be seeing. To construct a scene like this so shoddily as to compel me to turn away from the sight of Claudia semi-nude, well, that ranks, if you’ll forgive me, as a cardinal, unforgivable sin in these blighted eyes.

The one bright spot in A Fine Pair, other than the simple presence of Claudia Cardinale, comes courtesy of the lively champagne fizz of Ennio Morricone’s playful score, which at times gracefully creates the illusion of the good time the audience should be having. Rock Hudson looks trapped in the movie’s clutter, as if he hadn’t a clue what was being asked of him except to look tall and densely packed and vaguely grumpy. It’s up to the legendary Italian beauty to make this limp comedy seem less interminable than it inarguably does—90 minutes has hardly ever seemed like such an insurmountable sit—and she does as well with that task as any legendary Italian beauty possibly could.


As it stands, the picture is certainly for Rock Hudson and Claudia Cardinale completists only, and both actors would, with their very next films, come up with ample reward for the faithful having endured this one. Hudson would subsequently be featured in the sturdy blockbuster adventure Ice Station Zebra alongside Ernest Borgnine, Jim Brown and Patrick McGoohan. And Cardinale, with the wind beneath her wings once again provided by Morricone, would fashion one of the most lyrical entrances in the annals of the movie western to begin her memorable appearance in Sergio Leone’s landmark masterpiece Once Upon a Time in the West. By any account those two films would be penance enough, and a much finer pair, despite the undeniable sex appeal of its two stars, than the one on display in Francesco Maselli’s fatally flaccid affair.

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Saturday, September 03, 2016

JON POLITO 1951-2016

I did not know Jon Polito by name until I saw Joel and Ethan Coen’s Miller’s Crossing in 1990. It’s the sort of performance that needs no introduction—it announces itself. Polito, as small-time gangster Johnny Caspar, opens the movie in the manner to which it will soon become accustomed, with a monologue steeped in hard-boiled stylization, an attempt to convince Albert Finney’s bigger boss Leo of the proper ethics (or as Caspar pronounces it, “ettics”) of rubbing out a hood who has scammed Caspar and happens to be the brother of Finney’s lover. As the conversation slowly moves from a friendly summit to a confrontation charged with tension and possibly violent repercussion, Polito seems to consume the richly detailed dialogue given to him by the Coens, digesting it and using it to produce a characterization fueled by vanity, insecurity, bombast and old-country, common-sense justice, all etched and detailed with a grandiose comic flair which compliments and enhances the Coen’s vision with something uniquely Polito. It’s a brilliant, one-of-a-kind performance, the sort of eye-catching turn that might have opened doors to “bigger” opportunities.

Yet in the wake of Miller’s Crossing, Jon Polito seemed content to keep on his course, continuing to work to create roles, both small and large in TV, movies and on the stage as he had done steadily since the beginning of the ‘80s, adding depth and seasoning to even the most routinely conceived gangster, hardened detective or sniveling yes man. His appearances on shows like Crime Story, Homicide: Life on the Streets, Seinfeld, Modern Family, N.Y.P.D. Blue and It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, as well as turns in films as varied as The Freshman, The Crow, American Gangster, Big Eyes, The Rocketeer and Flags of Our Fathers, added volumes to his experience as an experienced character actor. He won an Obie award in 1980 for his off-Broadway performances and appeared on Broadway in 1982, with Faye Dunaway, in The Curse of the Aching Heart, and in a 1984 revival of Death of a Salesman with Dustin Hoffman, John Malkovich and David Huddleston.


For all this bounty, much of which I have yet to catch up with, it will be Polito’s performances for the Coens—five in all—for which I will most fondly remember him. Polito followed Miller’s Crossing with a turn as a beaten-down, low-level studio suit in Barton Fink (1991), a demanding executive in The Hudsucker Proxy (1994), a hapless private eye in The Big Lebowski (1998) and a shady businessman in The Man Who Wasn’t There (2001). But Johnny Caspar was his meatiest opportunity with the Coens. The role, like Miller’s Crossing itself, seems endlessly quotable and made all the more delicious in the imagining of those great lines sounding out from Caspar’s pointedly pugnacious, Humpty Dumpty-esque physical presence. (“You got references? You been to college? We only take yeggs what's been to college, ain't that right, Dane? I'm joking, of course.”) With that hard-boiled dome, pencil-thin squiggle mustache and an overemphatic confidence often betrayed by a persistently sour stomach, Johnny Caspar comes off like nothing less than the growling, hot-tempered ground zero for Italian-American Little Man Syndrome. And for a likable villain who actually meets his fate off-screen, Polito gets a wonderful throwaway exeunt from the film—as he’s delivered by his driver to the apartment house where that fate will be met, he offers the driver some advice, probably unsolicited, on personal grooming:

CASPAR: You put the razor in cold water, not hot. 'Cause metal does what in cold?

DRIVER: I don't know, Johnny.

CASPAR That’s what I'm tellin' ya. It contracts. That way you get a first class shave.

Twenty-six years later, I follow that advice every time I lather up. Thanks, Johnny.

Though many of the characters Polito played throughout his career might have been classified as the usual variety of brusque tough guys, snivelers or various other dwellers of the collective societal underbelly, he lived his life in defiance of yet another pervasive stereotype. Polito was openly gay and married his longtime partner last year, 16 years from the day they met. I took it as a good sign, a meter of an actor’s ability to live his own life separate from his roles and the expectations and prejudices of the society at large, that I didn’t know of Polito’s sexuality until yesterday, when his death was announced. It certainly didn’t factor into my perception of him as an actor or my appreciation of his work, and it hasn’t caused me to reevaluate Johnny Caspar through a “new” prism. But it did illuminate on another performance for me and validate the current I’d always felt running just underneath it.


Early on in The Man Who Wasn’t There, a traveling salesman by the name of Creighton Tolliver (and played by Polito) gets a trim from morose barber Ed Crane (Billy Bob Thornton) and discusses his interests in a string of dry-cleaning operations. Tolliver at first seems like just another of Polito’s usual richly observed characterizations, mixing the scent of Maysles-esque desperation with a more typical hustler’s confidence and even an oddly touching vanity—the salesman sports a misapplied toupee that looks as though a small poodle were perched on his dome and threatening to slide straight down his slick, sweaty temple, and he daintily removes it when Crane tends to his sidewalls. Later, Ed visits Tolliver at the salesman’s low-rent hotel room, where he finds Tolliver sitting on his rickety bed, bald-pated. Only when he recognizes Ed as a barber and realizes he’s interested in putting up money to start the business does Tolliver suddenly reach over and replace the furry rug onto his head. Tolliver explains the business deal while Crane regards him from a chair in the corner of the room, and once they’ve reached a tentative agreement, Tolliver pours Crane a drink and returns to sit on the bed, this time leaning back in a much more relaxed manner. Legs splayed out, loosening his tie, he stops and gives Crane a look, a slow blink. When Crane makes it clear Tolliver is “way out of line, mister,” Tolliver composes himself and vows to keep things “strictly business.”

It’s a scene we’ve seen in one form or another in countless other movies, usually pitched with a heightened degree of comic anxiety, and with the audience typically put in the position of identifying with the Ed Crane figure, who is most often portrayed as a victim of the predatory gay guy’s impulses. Here, however, Polito and the Coens may be poking fun at Tolliver’s desperate sense of personal fashion, but his gesture toward Crane, however ill received, is not the punch line of another joke. Polito manages to navigate the tricky task of reserving respect for Tolliver even after his misguided move, and even though we suspect he may be setting Crane up for a con. (Tolliver needn’t worry—Crane sets himself up just fine.) I always thought that scene was remarkable in the way it presented Tolliver’s move, made more out of loneliness than lust, as something that could be discarded by Crane and moved past, and certainly something that could be used to richen Polito’s characterization rather than as a cudgel with which Tolliver might be needlessly bludgeoned. I always loved Polito in this movie, and now knowing that he had to have been aware of how this scene might be played—indeed, had been played in various other conjurings— and that he must have felt something of a responsibility to make it something other than the usual cheap shot at homosexuals, makes me appreciate the scene, and Jon Polito, even more, and even sadder to be denied another 20 years of his work.

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For more background on the life and career of Jon Polito, listen to this marvelously entertaining podcast, an interview with the actor from 2013 conducted by Tom Wilson (Biff Tannen in the Back to the future trilogy) in which the two discuss Polito’s life, New York’s La Mama
DRIVER Okay, Johnny.
Theater, working with the Coens, sharing the stage with Dustin Hoffman, and much, much more.

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GENE WILDER 1933-2016



(Photo courtesy of Jason Mecier)

In all likelihood, the events of this past week probably didn’t offer any more or less sadness and pain to be distributed among willing and unwilling recipients, a.k.a. all of us currently participating in the game of Life. It’s a strange, unsettling time to bear status as a citizen of the world, wherever it is in that world one happens to call home. But speaking as only one of billions buffeted about by the weirdness of a human condition in which terrorism has started to feel commonplace, and in which the policies of political campaigns are used as flimsy opportunities to stir fear, prejudice and an increasingly volatile mythology of helpless American victimization at the hands of hordes of murderous invaders, the sorrow contained in this past week crested perhaps a little higher than might have even been expected.

Gene Wilder had been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma in 1989, but according to his nephew, Jordan Walker-Perlman, when the actor died this past Monday it was from complications from Alzheimer’s disease. In a statement released to the press, Walker-Perlman said, “We have been among the lucky ones-- this illness-pirate, unlike in so many cases, never stole his ability to recognize those that were closest to him, nor took command of his central-gentle-life affirming core personality. The decision to wait until this time to disclose his condition wasn’t vanity, but more so that the countless young children that would smile or call out to him, 'There’s Willy Wonka!' would not have to be then exposed to an adult referencing illness or trouble, causing delight to travel to worry, disappointment or confusion. He simply couldn’t bear the idea of one less smile in the world.”


Wilder came into the world in 1933 as Jerome Silberman, later trading in for his more familiar name when, as an aspiring actor, he couldn’t imagine “Jerry Silberman as Hamlet” on a theater marquee. But when he left this world last week at the age of 83 he was known by quite a few other names as well—Leo Bloom, Quackser Fortune, the Waco Kid, Dr. Frederick Frankenstein (you know how it’s pronounced) and Willy Wonka. Wilder’s gift was not only just neurotically walking the line between mania and compassion but sometimes doing pendulum swings between the two and expertly mining the tension on the approach to both for comic gold. In The Producers (1968) Bloom’s hysteria upon discovering that the plan to produce a Broadway flop-for-profit has instead resulted in a hit is hilarious, but the sudden, momentary silence after his partner, Max Bialystock (Zero Mostel), has doused him with a glass of water, is even funnier, because you can see in the actor’s manic eyes that it’s only a very brief break in the storm.


Young Frederick Frankenstein’s attempt to control himself while trying to understand what Igor (Marty Feldman) is telling him about the abby-normal brain he’s stitched into his monster is even more brilliantly tantalizing in its perfectly choreographed approach to emotional explosion. “Are you saying that I put an abnormal brain…” he posits to his assistant, the façade of calm now slipping away in delectable measure, “into a seven-and-a-half-foot-long… 54-inch-wide… gorilla?! Is that what you’re telling me?!!” It’s that beautiful combination of the staccato strangulation gesture and the sharp intake of breath just before “gorilla” which really sends Wilder into the comic stratosphere. (Here’s the whole scene. )

And few actors ever managed such a sublime balance between an accessible, gentle countenance and the eccentric, perhaps even pathological authoritarianism bubbling up around the edges of that welcoming exterior as Wilder did in portraying candy man extraordinaire Willy Wonka. It’s a performance that, despite being the centerpiece of a very mainstream attempt to capture the strange magic of its source novel, absolutely honors the sardonic delight Roald Dahl took in putting gluttonous, deceptive parents and children through their paces before revealing the sweetness at the center of its eponymous protagonist. (Not for nothing was the film known as Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, better to emphasize Wilder’s magnetic turn over the film’s somewhat treacly Charlie who had starred in Dahl’s title.)


Yet one of Wilder’s for-real sweetest, genteel comic performances might just be his turn in Mel Brooks’ raucous, racially potent Western free-for-all Blazing Saddles. Only once does his alcoholic ex-gunslinger the Waco Kid let his placid demeanor slip (“Little bastard shot me in the ass!”)—otherwise, the Kid is the face and voice of reason, providing quiet, moral reassurance to Cleavon Little’s prejudicially besieged Sheriff Bart, in addition to, upon drying out, a supernaturally fast draw. 

There’s a screening of Blazing Saddles happening tonight in Burbank, and even though I’ve seen the movie probably 40 times (including most recently in the presence of Mel Brooks, who introduced it at the Grauman’s Chinese Theater during the Turner Classic Movies Film Festival two years ago) I’m awfully tempted to go see it again. I just can’t think of a better way to say good-bye to Gene Wilder than seeing him in full cowboy regalia at movie’s end, feet up on a crate, munching on a box of popcorn and asking Bart where he’s headed next. As he has every other time I’ve seen the movie, tonight Bart will answer his friend, and the Waco Kid will respond in kind: "Nowhere special? I've always wanted to go there." And this time I’ll think of the journey Wilder has taken us on as moviegoers, as connoisseurs of comic genius and seekers of good, prickly laughs. Perhaps I’ll shed one last tear, I’ll tip my hat and then forever count us all, alongside Wilder’s nephew and the rest of his family, among the lucky ones who got to travel a small part of the way in the company of this very talented man.

(Click here to read the story behind the Willy Wonka candy portraiture seen above.)

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Friday, August 19, 2016

THE SLIFR GUIDE TO DRIVE-IN MOVIES PART 3: OZONERS ON THE BIG SCREEN




(This piece originally appeared as part of a larger primer on drive-in movies that was originally published online at Green Cine Daily on June 23, 2008 and is reprinted here, with updates and revisions, with the permission of the site administrators.)

Finally, in part 3 of the SLIFR Guide to Drive-in Movies, here are 11 moments, in alphabetical order, when the drive-in movie theater appeared memorably on screen in movies that, either momentarily or entirely, took place within the great lots of American (and in one case Australian) outdoor cinemas

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Blue Thunder (1983) One key sequence in this thriller about a high-tech urban surveillance helicopter is staged (during the daylight hours) at the Pickwick Drive-in in Burbank, California, which was razed in 1990. The Pickwick, due to its proximity to the local movie studios, hosted many movie premieres, most famously that of Blazing Saddles in 1974, for which everyone in attendance was on horseback.


Brokeback Mountain (2005) In one scene after his return from Brokeback Mountain, Ennis (Heath Ledger) takes his wife Alma (Michelle Williams) on a date to a drive-in movie theater, which is lovingly (if briefly) recreated in the film. And it’s a very effective moment of movie magic too—the scene wasn’t filmed at a drive-in at all, but instead a converted softball field in Alberta, Canada.


Cars (2006) During the end credits, the cars are shown at the drive-in cinema enjoying parodies of earlier Pixar productions recast with cars in the main roles: Toy Car Story, Monster Trucks, Inc. and A (VW) Bug's Life.


Dead-end Drive-in (1986) A post-Mad Max Australian thriller in which a young man takes his girlfriend to a date at a drive-in movie only to discover it's been converted into a prison camp for murderous gangs. A cautionary bit of social satire that will make your own drive-in having been appropriated as a daytime flea market seem a whole lot less annoying.


Drive-in (1976) Director Rod Amateau's American Graffiti-inspired comedy isn't a particularly great movie, but it does takes place entirely at a Texas drive-in movie theater and as such serves as a nifty piece of small-town ozoner anthropology. You can read my review of the picture right here.


Explorers (1985) My all-time favorite drive-in movie-within-a-movie takes place in this sharp Joe Dante picture. Our young heroes, flying around their town in a makeshift spaceship crafted from an old Tilt-a-Whirl car, buzz the local drive-in on a Saturday night. The recreation of the drive-in movie ambience is brilliant, and we're treated to a hilarious dubbed-English Star Crash-type sci-fi parody playing on the screen as the homemade spacecraft wreaks havoc on the tower and in the snack bar.


Going Attractions: The Definitive Story of the American Drive-in (2014) Director April Wright’s energetic, thoughtful passion project defies simple nostalgia in its scope and is, precisely as advertised, the one movie to see that encompasses the history and unique experience of the drive-in movie. Wright interviewed me for the movie during the summer of 2006, and the changing fortune of drive-ins between the summer of that interview and the year the movie was released prompted the director to shift her emphasis from the demise of an institution to its unexpected resurgence. Stick around— during the movie I get to tell my favorite story about attending a drive-in triple feature during a January snowstorm!


Grease (1978) One musical sequence in the uber-popular Robert Stigwood adaptation of the musical stage comedy features T-Bird Danny Zuko (John Travolta) stranded at the drive-in after getting a mite too fresh with Sandy (Olivia Newton-John). He sings a heartfelt ballad to her while cheery hot dogs and refreshment cups dance and prance on the giant screen behind him. When mainstream audiences of a certain age get nostalgic for the experience of their drive-in movie past, this is usually their go-to fix.


Hollywood Boulevard (1976) Candice Rialson's, Dick Miller, and her screenwriter boyfriend, Jeffrey Kramer,  get liquored up for the drive-in premiere of her first low-budget movie, with very mixed results, in this authentically grungy drive-in sequence directed by Joe Dante and Allan Arkush. This is what going to the drive-in in the ‘70s felt like, except maybe for the part about getting assaulted in the projection booth.


Pee-wee's Big Adventure (1986) The long-gone Studio Drive-in in Culver City, California plays host to the world premiere of the only slightly altered big-screen version of Pee-wee's adventures on his beloved bike in this hilarious sequence from Tim Burton's classic comedy.


Targets (1968) Peter Bogdanovich's first movie, a disturbing thriller inspired by the Texas Tower sniper Charles Whitman, features Boris Karloff as aging horror star Byron Orlok preparing to make an appearance at a drive-in movie theater where the Whitmanesque assassin will soon begin picking off innocent targets. The theater featured in the movie was the Reseda Drive-in. Once located on Reseda Boulevard at Vanowen Street, it closed in 1985 and has since been demolished.

FOR FURTHER RESEARCH AND READING:

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PART 1 of this series can be accessed here.

PART 2 of this series can be accessed here.

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THE SLIFR GUIDE TO DRIVE-IN MOVIES PART 2: AIP AND 13 NOTABLE DRIVE-IN MAESTROS



(This piece originally appeared as part of a larger primer on drive-in movies that was originally published online at Green Cine Daily on June 23, 2008 and is reprinted here, with updates and revisions, with the permission of the site administrators.)

Of all the companies that produced pictures primarily for the drive-in market, none did so with as much brio or thrived because of that market with quite the tenacity and bravado of American International Pictures. Founded by former film salesman James H. Nicholson and an entertainment lawyer by the name of Samuel Z. Arkoff, AIP dedicated itself to providing inexpensive exploitation fare of interest primarily to the teenagers who populated drive-ins in the '50s, '60s and the early part of the '70s.


Some of the key early personnel at American International Pictures responsible for helping to develop the company's signatures of lurid content and creative thrift were producer and director Roger Corman and writers Charles B. Griffith, Richard Matheson and Charles Beaumont. Cinematographer Floyd Crosby, who shot High Noon, added the vivid, sometimes garish and exciting look of many of American International Pictures hits, often working in the 2.35:1 aspect ratio that lent an extra patina of style to the stories of bikers, beach parties and monsters on the loose that made up the AIP menu. And more often than not the movies were graced by the scores of jazz composer Les Baxter.

In an attempt to keep their finger on the pulse of that teenage market, Arkoff and AIP were at the forefront of some pioneering seat-of-the pants marketing strategies. They would frequently poll exhibitors (some of whom were among those who provided the financing for AIP's low-budget slate of pictures) as to the appeal of certain titles of pictures that had yet to be made. If the reaction was lukewarm, the title would be scrapped. But if exhibitors liked the sound of a particular title, Arkoff would then commission a script from a writer, having no idea what the actual story would be.



In this same vein, AIP was the first film company to use focus groups to determine what their teenage audience was interested in, what stories, stars and titles they would pay to see. A typical production schedule on an AIP film might start with the origin of the title, followed by a typically lurid and exciting poster designed by resident art director Albert Kallis, who supervised the AIP art department from 1955 to 1973. The poster was used to raise the cash to make the movie, which only then would be written and finally cast.

Based on this philosophy derived from insistently polling their teen audiences, Arkoff developed a fairly keen showman's sense of what his audience wanted and expected from an American International Picture. After producing a prodigious slate of low-budget thrillers and horror movies in the late '50s, the company hit its stride in three genres that virtually defined the teen movie of the '60s - the "Beach Party" films starring Annette Funicello and Frankie Avalon;; the Roger Corman "Poe Cycle," a series of lavish adaptations of Edgar Allan Poe stories which often had only the title in common with their literary source; and a wildly popular, and to some extent culture-defining spate of biker pictures, beginning with Corman's The Wild Angels in 1966, an antiheroic genre which then gave rise to a slate of psychedelic head movies like The Trip, Wild in the Streets and Psych-Out.



Without the foundation laid by these pictures, there likely would have been no Easy Rider, a non-AIP biker film starring AIP favorite Peter Fonda which adapted the biker formula to a more open-ended narrative template that incorporated more casual drug use, and even drug trafficking, and in the process became one of the major catalysts for changing the way commercial films were financed and made in America in the early 1970s. American International Pictures also provided the distribution for many of the Toho Godzilla movies of the 1960s and 1970s, as well as numerous other Japanese science fiction films like Frankenstein Conquers the World,  Destroy All Monsters! and Yog! Monster from Space. Throw a rock during the 1960s and 1970s and you would likely hit a drive-in playing one of these AIP releases.


A BAKER'S DOZEN OF NOTABLE DRIVE-IN DIRECTORS

American International Pictures was crucial to the popularity of drive-ins during this time, to be sure, but it was not the only force to be reckoned with. RKO Pictures, Embassy Pictures, Allied Artists and even Universal Pictures cast an eye toward the teenage drive-in market too, as well as countless other companies and independent producers, all financing hundreds of B-movie westerns, sci-fi thrillers, monster movies and cheap crime dramas to be displayed at ozoners under the stars all across the country. And within this wide-ranging drive-in "genre," for those who were watching closely, a few names kept popping up as the words "Directed by" flew by in a drive-in movie's opening credits.

They populated outdoor screens with their singular exploitation grandeur during the heyday of the '50s and '60s all the way through the leaner times of the '70s, and in some cases right up through the near-extinction of the drive-in in the '80s and '90s. Here's a brief baker's dozen list of great-- okay, some not so great. Let's just say, here's a brief list of 13 notable drive-in directors and some of the highlights of their prolific and sometimes disreputable careers.



AL ADAMSON Adamson founded Independent-International Pictures in the early 1960s, a company he used to distribute many of the pictures he directed (cobbled together) himself. He gained a reputation as a go-for-broke, inept filmmaker of little taste, and though he never directed anything close to a classic, the movies Adamson made were staples of the drive-in scene. Some of his most well-known horror titles include Psycho-A-Go-Go (1965), Horror of the Blood Monsters (1970) and the famously awful Dracula vs. Frankenstein (1971), though he also dipped into blaxploitation with The Dynamite Brothers (1974), Black Heat (1976) and Black Samurai (1977) starring genre icon Jim Kelly; biker movies with Satan's Sadists (1969); and the female service-worker sub-genres with The Naughty Stewardesses (1975) and The Possession of Nurse Sherri (1975).


JACK ARNOLD Though he was a frequent presence in TV, Arnold's reputation as a drive-in director of major import was cemented by five era-defining sci-fi creature films released by Universal: It Came from Outer Space (1953), one of the seminal sci-fi paranoia thrillers, originally presented in 3-D (though not at drive-ins); the original Creature from the Black Lagoon (1954; also presented in 3-D) and its first sequel, Revenge of the Creature (1955); the spectacular giant-spider-on-the-loose horror of Tarantula; and perhaps his best film, the existentially eerie The Incredible Shrinking Man (1957), based on Richard Matheson's screenplay. Other Arnold drive-in classics include the essential High School Confidential (1958) starring Russ Tamblyn, Mamie van Doren and Jerry Lee Lewis,, the forgettable Monster on the Campus (1958), and the moody and terrific Audie Murphy western No Name on the Bullet (1959). Arnold also directed the early Peter Sellers comedy The Mouse That Roared (1959). After a decade and a half of almost exclusive work for TV, Arnold took one more stab at the drive-in market with 1975's Boss Nigger, a blaxploitation western written by Fred Williamson, starring Williamson, D'Urville Martin and William Smith. And today Arnold’s reputation is enjoying yet another upswing, with many cinephiles classifying his work, in a category coined by critic Andrew Sarris in his seminal book The American Cinema, as a “subject for further consideration.”


PAUL BARTEL As an actor, Paul Bartel racked up nearly 100 different appearances in roles big and small on TV and in movies like Piranha (1978), Hollywood Boulevard (1976) and Rick and Roll High School (1979). The very recognizable Brooklyn-born director made his feature debut as a filmmaker in 1972 with Private Parts, a downright weird horror comedy that would set the tone for much of his career. But if Private Parts set the tone, his next release cemented his status in the drive-in firmament. Death Race 200 (1975), directed for Roger Corman's New World Pictures, was a smash hit in drive-ins and walk-ins and has remained one of the quintessential drive-in B-movies ever made. Bartel made one more picture for Corman and the drive-in crowd, Cannonball, a blatant knock-off of Death Race 2000 (and competitor on the nation's screens that summer with a similarly themed action comedy, The Gumball Rally), before taking a six-year break from directing. He came back in 1982, however, with Eating Raoul, another black comedy that was a sizable hit and put him on the art house map. The movies he subsequently made before his death in 2000, especially Lust in the Dust (1984), starring Divine and Tab Hunter, belied the fact that the drive-in never left his soul.


LARRY COHEN A prolific TV writer throughout the '60s, Cohen made his caustic, hard-edged debut as a director with the satirical Bone (1972) starring Yaphet Kotto. Cohen's gritty grindhouse sensibility flourished in urban centers and drive-ins alike, and it informed his subsequent blaxploitation features, the unusually observant and socially conscious Black Caesar (1973) and its rather less successful sequel Hell Up in Harlem (1973). (Cohen tried reviving the genre with stalwarts Fred Williamson, Jim Brown, Pam Grier, Ron O'Neal and Richard Roundtree, with decidedly mixed results, in 1996's Original Gangstas.) But if Cohen's brutal, paranoid trilogy of killer-baby movies, It's Alive (1974), It Lives Again (1978) and the direct-to-video It's Alive III: Island of the Alive (1987) were his highest-profile pictures, they never defined his boundaries within the world of genre filmmaking. Cohen remained true to his exploitation roots with such oddities as the horror comedy Full Moon High (1981), the flying Aztec creature epic Q: The Winged Serpent (1982), which many consider a genre masterpiece, and even the anti-corporate horror satire The Stuff, about the carnage left in the wake of the unleashing of a killer frozen dessert. But perhaps Cohen's most legendary movies are The Private Files of J. Edgar Hoover (1977), an irreverent tabloid biopic starring Broderick Crawford in the title role, and most especially 1974's brutal theologically tinged psychological drama God Told Me To (1976), in which Cohen uses the narrative of a series of apparently motiveless murders to contemplate, of all things, the existence of God and the validity of religious belief. Cohen's movies are nothing if not prime examples of how exploitation films can move beyond their own ragged standards and sometimes achieve pulp poetry.


ROGER CORMAN Roger Corman helped to define the drive-in movie at American International Pictures and was one of the most prolific directors of B movies during the drive-in's most popular era. Sci-fi/horror concoctions like The Day the World Ended (1955), It Conquered the World (1956), Not of This Earth (1957) and Attack of the Crab Monsters (1957) are signature examples from the genre that he directed. However, Corman never restricted himself to one genre-- he made westerns (Gunslinger, 1956), teen dramas (Rock All Night, 1956), adventures (The Saga of the Viking Women and Their Voyage to the Waters of the Great Sea Serpent, 1957), mobster thrillers (Machine Gun Kelly, 1958) and even movies about the troubled lives of teenage cavemen (Teenage Caveman, 1958). He enjoyed a big hit with his 1959 satire on the pretensions of the bohemian art crowd, Bucket of Blood, starring a young hepcat named Dick Miller as Walter Paisley, a struggling artist who murders women and turns their corpses into critically acclaimed sculptures, and followed soon after with another outrageous horror satire, The Little Shop of Horrors (1960) featuring a then-unknown Jack Nicholson in a cameo appearance.

But it was in that same year of 1960 that Corman unleashed the first in what was to become a series of luridly vivid adaptations of the works of Edgar Allan Poe, or more accurately the adaptation of the titles of works by Edgar Allan Poe. The plots of the films themselves often had very little to do with their literary sources, but they were huge successes nonetheless and showed as often on indoor screens as they did at drive-ins. The Poe films, all shot and released in the span of four years, included The Fall of the House of Usher (1960), The Pit and the Pendulum (1961), The Premature Burial (1962), Tales of Terror (1962), Tower of London (1963), The Haunted Palace (1963), The Raven (1963), The Masque of the Red Death (1964) (with gorgeous cinematography by Nicolas Roeg) and The Tomb of Ligeia (1964). These films were all formally brilliant, sometimes claustrophobic, always stunning tributes to Corman's ability to wring as much atmosphere and emotion as possible out of the miniscule budget of every project. Corman also popularized the biker genre (The Wild Angels, 1966), the psychedelic drama (The Trip, 1967) and the post-Bonnie and Clyde gangster cheapie (Bloody Mama, 1970) before retiring from directing in 1971. He officially returned to the director's chair for 1990's Frankenstein Unbound, but by then his legacy of drive-in cinema, including the movies he produced under the aegis of his New World Pictures in the '70s and '80s, was already secured. Corman, often referred to as the King of the Bs, surely ranks as drive-in royalty as well.



MICHAEL and ROBERTA FINDLAY This husband-and-wife team of exploitation filmmakers are known mainly for their effectively sleazy and notorious Flesh trilogy-- The Touch of Her Flesh (1967), The Curse of Her Flesh (1968) and The Kiss of Her Flesh (1970). But even more notorious was The Slaughter, a low-budget horror cheapie shot in Argentina inspired by the Manson murders which, at the time of the film's shooting, were only about a year in the past. The Slaughter sat on the shelf for several years until it was purchased by producer Allan Shackelton, who tacked on a controversial new ending which showed one of the actresses allegedly being murdered on screen for real. The "new" movie was called Snuff and inspired a long-lasting debate over the supposed existence of actual snuff films in the pornographic underground. The Findlays have never been mistaken for artists, but their contribution to the drive-in culture of exploitation with these films is undeniable. Michael also directed the memorably trashy Yeti horror flick Shriek of the Mutilated (1974).



BERT I. GORDON Indefatigable, amiable and uninspired in equal measure, Bert I. Gordon is perhaps the quintessential giant-monster filmmaker of the drive-in era. (His initials, which allowed for the nickname Mr. BIG, suggest that he was born to this fate.) Gordon was another frequent contributor to the American International Pictures slate of drive-in classics, and though they do exist there is hardly a film in his oeuvre that does not feature an oversized creature of some sort: King Dinosaur (1955; giant dinosaurs); Beginning of the End (1957; giant grasshoppers); The Cyclops (1957; 25-foot cyclops); The Amazing Colossal Man (1957; 70-foot mutant man); War of the Colossal Beast (1958; return of the 70-foot mutant man); Earth vs. the Spider (1958; giant spider); and Village of the Giants (1965; giant teenaged punks). Giants, featuring one outlandish special effects sequence after another, is inarguably Gordon's best movie, featuring as it does Beau Bridges as one of the teenaged colossal beats, er, beasts. After a break of over 10 years from the giant creature genre, Gordon stormed back with two in-name-only H.G. Wells adaptations, The Food of the Gods (1976; giant rats, chickens and assorted other barnyard mutations) and Empire of the Ants (1977; giant ants). Scholars have yet to adequately explain the thematic aberration of Gordon's career, Attack of the Puppet People (1958), in which the main characters are shrunken to the size of dolls. The only reasonable rationale is that by going the opposite way and minimizing his leads, Gordon could then perversely lavish special-effects attention on the now-giant dogs and household insects that occasionally provide the element of menace in the film. In this regard, Gordon's reputation as the Mr. BIG of drive-in cinema remains untarnished.



H.B. HALICKI It is often said of some of the great innovators and artists and showmen of the movies that if, out of all their great contributions, they'd only just made movie "X" or movie "Y," that would have been enough to ensure their position in the pantheon. This seems certainly literally true for auto salvage magnate-turned-stuntman-filmmaker H.B. Halicki, whose sole contribution to the drive-in cinema of the '70s was his independently financed and distributed car-chase classic Gone in 60 Seconds (1974). The plot of the movie is mere window dressing for its main sequence, a wild, realistic chase around the Long Beach-South Bay area of Southern California that serves now, on top of the genuine thrills to be found in the action choreography, as a virtual time capsule of the city as it was nearly 35 years ago. The movie was successfully marketed as featuring the longest car chase ever filmed, and on that count it does not disappoint; it is action cinema purely unadorned by style, the demolition derby as primitive art. Halicki struggled to finance other pictures but produced only two other features, an action-comedy called The Junkman (1982) and Deadline Auto Theft (1983), featuring another near-hour-long car chase. Tragically, it was on the set of Gone in 60 Seconds 2 that Halicki suffered a fatal accident, crushed by a telephone pole during an elaborate stunt sequence. Gone in 60 Seconds was left in the dust by many superior car chase movies before and since which boasted good stories to go along with their great stunt work, but the exuberance and relentlessness of Halicki's masterful hour-long sequence of mayhem cannot be denied. It is rightfully recognized as a high-water mark of action choreography, the centerpiece of a movie that also pioneered a model of independent production and distribution that would soon become one of the rules of the game.



JACK HILL Drive-in stylist Jack Hill began life in the cinema doing assistant directing work (often uncredited) on Roger Corman films like The Wasp Woman and The Terror, but he soon found his own name on the director's chair. His first film and first notable success was Spider Baby (1964), an oddity about a family of misfit siblings headed by a young woman who believes she is a deadly arachnid. Though shot in 1964, Spider Baby finally saw the dim light of drive-in screens in 1968 as the anchor feature of countless drive-in double features, but was rediscovered on video in the '80s as a minor classic of psychological horror. Hill toiled in undistinguished exploitation fare, shooting American scenes for foreign shockers like Isle of the Living Dead (1971) and The Incredible Invasion (1971). But his breakthrough came again courtesy of Corman, who commissioned and distributed his drive-in prison classics The Big Doll House (1971), starring Pam Grier in one of her earliest roles, and The Big Bird Cage (1972), again starring Grier and '70s drive-in icon Sid Haig. Hill and Grier would be reunited for the director's highest profile hits, the blaxploitation classics Coffy (1973) and Foxy Brown (1974), which would make Grier a star of drive-in cinema and the fantasy object of young men of a certain age, black as well as white, yellow, red and brown. Hill continued his drive-in roll with The Swinging Cheerleaders (1974), one of the earliest entries in that stalwart drive-in genre, the randy cheerleader movie, and another satiric celebration of the violent tendencies of a band of babes, this particular group known as the Switchblade Sisters (1975). It's hard to imagine that drive-ins in the 1970s would have been anything but far duller places were it not for the exuberant, slightly cracked cinema of Jack Hill.


JONATHAN KAPLAN A film student with degrees from the University of Chicago and New York University, Jonathan Kaplan has directed two actresses to award nominations-- Michelle Pfeiffer was up for a best actress Oscar for Love Field, and Bonnie Bedelia took her role as race car driver Shirley Muldowney to the Golden Globes where she was nominated for best actress in Heart Like a Wheel. But one actress on Kaplan's watch actually won a statue-- Jodie Foster claimed her first Academy Award starring in Kaplan's 1988 film The Accused. By the time of The Accused, Kaplan had established himself as a go-to director in the Hollywood establishment. But in the '70s he made a mark for himself as the director of some memorable and distinctive hits for the exploitation market. He was recruited by Roger Corman in the early '70s straight out of NYU to helm Night Call Nurses (1972), one of the earliest and zestiest romps of its sort, which led to Kaplan reteaming with Corman for another similar venture, The Student Teachers (1973), in which the stuffy world of academia gets aired out a bit by the lovely likes of Brenda Sutton, Brooke Mills and Susan Damante. Kaplan can also be seen romping with Paul Bartel and Mary Woronov et al in Hollywood Boulevard (1976), which co-director Joe Dante describes as a home movie about what it was like working at New World Pictures and making movies like Night Call Nurses and The Student Teachers. But Kaplan truly made his drive-in bones with Truck Turner (1974), a brutally energized blaxploitation thriller also starring Yaphet Kotto and Nichelle Nichols that takes full advantage of Isaac Hayes' stone-cold cool visage as an actor for the very first time, and most especially White Line Fever (1975). Fever featured Jan-Michael Vincent in a trucker's revenge plot that had the good fortune to land smack dab in the midst of the CB radio craze of the '70s, which helped propel the movie to huge box-office fortune. It was a hit indoors and outdoors, but having seen it at the drive-in, I can attest to its natural appeal as a classic for theaters built around vehicles of all kinds, a very lean and muscular example of the drive-in action template to which many aspired but so few achieved as fully as Kaplan did with this picture.


TED V. MIKELS One of the original drive-in exploitation directors, profiled in a documentary entitled The Wild World of Ted V. Mikels,, Mikels introduced elements of camp and outrageous behavior to movies that were, by the stretch of most imaginations, far less vivid and sensational than the way they were advertised. Thought of in some circles as the William Castle of drive-in and exploitation fare, Mikels rarely showed the imagination of Castle but was just as insistent a promoter of his own films. He is said to have pioneered gimmicks such as having "nurses" and "physicians" on call at the theater should anyone have heart trouble or otherwise come close to being scared to death; signing certificates acknowledging the non-responsibility of theater owners should the patron go into convulsive fits of fear; and the availability of vomit bags for the more sensitive stomachs in the theater. And Mikel's slate of drive-in fare, well familiar from its ubiquity on the movie pages of '70s newspapers, promised plenty of gore, which it sometimes delivered in such titles as The Corpse Grinders (1971; perhaps Mikels' biggest hit), Blood Orgy of the She Devils (1974) and his seminal cheapie The Astro-Zombies (1969) featuring John Carradine and Tura Satana. Mikels produced mostly horror films (and still does - he finished sequels to The Corpse Grinders and The Astro-Zombies in 2000 and 2002, respectively), though he dabbled in women's action films with some success as well; his biker babe epic Girl in Gold Boots and the straightforward actioner The Doll Squad (1973) are probably more generally well-regarded than any of his horror efforts. But it is those movies, and Mikels's own oddball personality, that accounts for his place in the drive-in directors' hall of fame


JACK STARRETT Mention Jack Starrett's name to even a die-hard drive-in or grindhouse movie fan and you're likely to get a blank stare back for your enthusiasm. His is not the most well-known name when it comes to notable directors of the period. But a glance over his credits is all it takes to realize that Jack Starrett truly deserves another look. He took part in the first surge of biker pictures, acting in such titles as Richard Rush's Hells Angels on Wheels (1967), Tom Laughlin's Born Losers (1970; the first Billy Jack movie) and Al Adamson's Hell's Bloody Devils (1970), as well as directing Run, Angel, Run (1969), starring drive-in icons William Smith and Margaret Markov, and the absurd (even for drive-in standards) The Losers (1970), in which Smith and a group of bikers infiltrate Cambodia to rescue a downed CIA operative! But Starrett came into his own with Jim Brown's initial blaxploitation effort, Slaughter (1972) and the wild, Pam Grier-influenced Cleopatra Jones (1973) in which statuesque stunner Tamara Dobson matches wits with a psychopathic Shelley Winters.


But Starrett came up with one for the ages in 1975 when he teamed Warren Oates and Peter Fonda in a mix of car chase action and satanic horror with the all-time drive-in classic Race with the Devil, a huge box-office success at the time and one of the drive-in hits to reveal itself as every bit as punchy and terrific today as it was back in 1975. Starrett also directed the well-mounted suspense piece A Small Town in Texas (1976) starring Susan George and Timothy Bottoms, and ushered out the first wave of Buford Pusser exploitation with the second sequel Final Chapter: Walking Tall (1977). Finally, Starrett was also well known as a character actor in the '70s and '80s, even after he retired from directing in the late '70s. Among his most memorable roles is his turn in Mel Brooks’ Blazing Saddles  (1974), credited as Claude Ennis Starrett, Jr. Starett played Gabby Johnson, the hilariously incoherent parody of Gabby Hayes, whose desperate attempts to warn the citizens of Rock Ridge of the ethnicity of the new sheriff approaching on horseback is continually drowned out by the pealing of the town's welcome bell. Rrrrowrrrrght!


RAY DENNIS STECKLER Better at self-promotion than he probably ever was at directing, Ray Dennis Steckler nonetheless came up with some of the most memorable drive-in movie titles in history-- Goof on the Loose (1964), The Thrill Killers (1964), The Adventures of Rat Pfink and Boo-Boo(1965) and The Mad Love of a Hot Vampire (1971) all suggest, in varying degrees, the anti-academic sensibility at work in Steckler's pictures. But his most famous motion picture is a true wonder, a genre-busting, undeniably brilliant (on some sick level), well-paced and entertaining one-of-a-kind creation, accurately described as the first monster movie musical-- The Incredibly Strange Creatures Who Stopped Living and Became Mixed-up Zombies (1964), starring Steckler himself (as Cash Flagg) and partially shot by soon-to-be-celebrated cinematographers Vilmos Zsigmond and Laszlo Kovacs. Zombies is one of those movies that is best left as meagerly described as possible, the better to preserve its eye-popping, ultra-cheap scenario, from which Steckler wrings genuine energy and laughs even if you're not always entirely convinced he knows how absurd it all is. In fact, Steckler's sincerity, not unlike that of Edward D. Wood, Jr., the patron saint of impoverished cinema, is what ultimately sells Zombies, a quality he would be hard-pressed to duplicate over the course of his career.

(NEXT: In the concluding installment of the SLIFR Guide to the Drive-in Movie, we run down 11 memorable appearances of drive-ins in the movies, plus a short guide to further reading about this great American movie-going institution.)

(PART 1 of this series can be accessed here.)

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