Sunday, December 31, 2017
Saturday, December 30, 2017
Friday, December 29, 2017
THEME FROM "WORLD'S SHITTIEST PIZZA BOY"
For some reason lately, I've been thinking about my first real job, which was delivering pizzas for Old Masters. This was from about December of 1987 to maybe March or April of 1988. I was a fucking terrible pizza boy, constantly smoking in the car, usually late because I'd take the pizza car (a 1986 Chevy Sprint) through downtown - this was still in the days of cruising town on Friday and Saturday nights, and I'd usually be slurping out of your Coke - all our Cokes were fountain drinks that were poured into this milk-carton-looking thing and clipped shut with a plastic binder clip, very easy to open and shut again. I had a boom box in the car with me at all times, because the boss was too cheap to buy a delivery car with a tape deck.
I got my first traffic ticket in the pizza car, got hustled by more mulletized trailer-park heshers than I can recall, stiffed for tips, wrecked the pizza car (which eventually died when one of my coworkers dropped the transmission on US-31 while trying to lay rubber), starved myself for 2 days so I could eat $60 worth of food from the salad bar when the boss complained I wasn't taking advantage of my employee discount, etc etc.
Mainly, though, when I think of that job, I think of driving around and listening to music. Those were heady days for me, in terms of hearing some great rock and roll for the first time. I still thinking of delivering pizzas - and getting stiffed for tips - when I hear some of those songs.
Thursday, December 28, 2017
Wednesday, December 27, 2017
Tuesday, December 26, 2017
Monday, December 25, 2017
Sunday, December 24, 2017
Saturday, December 23, 2017
Friday, December 22, 2017
Thursday, December 21, 2017
Wednesday, December 20, 2017
Tuesday, December 19, 2017
Monday, December 18, 2017
Sunday, December 17, 2017
Saturday, December 16, 2017
Friday, December 15, 2017
Thursday, December 14, 2017
Wednesday, December 13, 2017
Tuesday, December 12, 2017
Monday, December 11, 2017
WHEN JOANNA LOVED ME....EVERYTHING WAS DOG SHIT
So many great films came out in the 1960s, it was inevitable that a few works of genius slipped by relatively unheralded in their own time, destined for fanboy-fetish "lost classic" status in our own. So many, in fact, that the whole "lost classic" thing has become a complete cliche bestowed anything obscure enough to reinforce some toxic fanperson's self-image as a connoisseur of great art.
That being the case, it's oddly refreshing to watch a piece of complete shit like Michael Sarne's "Joanna."
This must have seemed like HOT STUFF in its' era: a lost little rich girl from the suburbs heads down to The Big Black Smoke Of London, determined to Find Herself and to Make Something Out Of This Big Crazy World, only to find - big shock here - a cynical world of parasites, grifters, and casual sex. Can't fuck THAT up, right? WRONG.
There are so many things wrong with this piece of shit, it's hard to know where to start, but I'll give it a shot - first of all, Geneviève Waïte - the female lead - can't act, and she has the most incredibly annoying Rita-Tushingham-on-Helium voice, total nails on chalkboard. Secondly, the entire film is hilariously badly dubbed, it makes Sergio Leone looks like naturalist theater. The film tries for topicality with a flair of artiness, and winds up only a confused, directionless soap opera with annoying pretensions to artistry - these incredibly irritating "Easy Rider"-ish non-sequitur dream sequences are shoehorned into the narrative about every 12 minutes. I didn't think Donald Sutherland was even capable of acting as badly as he does in this film, as a dying, sort of Tara-Browne-meets-YODA type of figure, this doomed lispy aristocratic jackass barfing up muddled "psychedelic" profundities in this hilariously affected cartoonish Ronald Coleman voice ("good to get out of stuffy old London, what?"). There's treacly, slimy soundtrack music all over the place, lounge lizards crashing the party at the Bag-O-Nails (or whatever) - Rod McKuen doing his thing, and a hilariously over-the-top DEATH by VIBRATO love theme from from Scott Walker.
Did I mention that the cast BREAKS THE FOURTH WALL by singing a fucking CHORUS LINE at the end? God almighty. Strong stuff! This is the sort of film you want to STOMP on after seeing it. The last line in the film - as poor, brokenhearted Joanna returns to the suburbs to have her LOVE CHILD (spoiler alert, fans of unwatchable shit), she sticks her head out the train window and says - as the thing pulls away, of course - "I'LL BE BACK." There's a review on IMDB where somebody describes seeing this turd in the theater in 1969, and when Joanna promises/threatens to return, apparently the few people left that hadn't walked out in the middle started riotously BOOING and THROWING POPCORN and CHUCKLES at the screen. That's really all anyone needs to know about this piece of shit, I think.
Thanks for reminding us, "Joanna," that dog shit existed in the 60's, too.
That being the case, it's oddly refreshing to watch a piece of complete shit like Michael Sarne's "Joanna."
This must have seemed like HOT STUFF in its' era: a lost little rich girl from the suburbs heads down to The Big Black Smoke Of London, determined to Find Herself and to Make Something Out Of This Big Crazy World, only to find - big shock here - a cynical world of parasites, grifters, and casual sex. Can't fuck THAT up, right? WRONG.
There are so many things wrong with this piece of shit, it's hard to know where to start, but I'll give it a shot - first of all, Geneviève Waïte - the female lead - can't act, and she has the most incredibly annoying Rita-Tushingham-on-Helium voice, total nails on chalkboard. Secondly, the entire film is hilariously badly dubbed, it makes Sergio Leone looks like naturalist theater. The film tries for topicality with a flair of artiness, and winds up only a confused, directionless soap opera with annoying pretensions to artistry - these incredibly irritating "Easy Rider"-ish non-sequitur dream sequences are shoehorned into the narrative about every 12 minutes. I didn't think Donald Sutherland was even capable of acting as badly as he does in this film, as a dying, sort of Tara-Browne-meets-YODA type of figure, this doomed lispy aristocratic jackass barfing up muddled "psychedelic" profundities in this hilariously affected cartoonish Ronald Coleman voice ("good to get out of stuffy old London, what?"). There's treacly, slimy soundtrack music all over the place, lounge lizards crashing the party at the Bag-O-Nails (or whatever) - Rod McKuen doing his thing, and a hilariously over-the-top DEATH by VIBRATO love theme from from Scott Walker.
Did I mention that the cast BREAKS THE FOURTH WALL by singing a fucking CHORUS LINE at the end? God almighty. Strong stuff! This is the sort of film you want to STOMP on after seeing it. The last line in the film - as poor, brokenhearted Joanna returns to the suburbs to have her LOVE CHILD (spoiler alert, fans of unwatchable shit), she sticks her head out the train window and says - as the thing pulls away, of course - "I'LL BE BACK." There's a review on IMDB where somebody describes seeing this turd in the theater in 1969, and when Joanna promises/threatens to return, apparently the few people left that hadn't walked out in the middle started riotously BOOING and THROWING POPCORN and CHUCKLES at the screen. That's really all anyone needs to know about this piece of shit, I think.
Thanks for reminding us, "Joanna," that dog shit existed in the 60's, too.
In the immortal words of Rudy Ray Moore, "bitch, are you FOR REAL?"
Sunday, December 10, 2017
Saturday, December 9, 2017
Friday, December 8, 2017
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