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Apparently, Drillbit Taylor was just a fluke. After a year which saw comedy giant Judd Apatow score with Knocked Up, Superbad, and the highly underrated Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story, 2008 sure started off with a stumble. Though the former Freaks and Geeks creator who literally resuscitated the dying big screen laughfest played a small role in the Owen Wilson flop, some saw the underperforming picture as an indicator of a fleeting 15 minutes. Apparently the funny business funeral was scheduled a little early. Instantly becoming one of this year’s best films—humorous or not—the hilarious Forgetting Sarah Marshall shows that this satire sage and his gang of comic compatriots are not going anywhere anytime soon.

After five years of heartfelt togetherness, TV actress Sarah Marshall and her cop series composer boyfriend Peter Bretter are breaking up. She’s started seeing UK rock sensation Aldous Snow. He’s suddenly alone, devastated, and lost his will to live. Luckily, Peter’s stepbrother Brian suggests he take a trip. Our hero picks Hawaii, one of Sarah’s favorite destinations. Sure enough, the star is there with her cocky British boy toy. Undercut by the coincidence, he sinks into himself. Quite by accident, he ends up befriended by sympathetic hotel clerk Rachel Jansen. As their relationship blossoms, Peter still carries a torch for Sarah. Somehow, he believes, the feeling may be mutual—and he just might be right.

Written with a sensationally smutty Woody Allen expertise and loaded with big fat bawdy barrel laughs, Forgetting Sarah Marshall is another wacked out winner. It continues the solid ‘buttheads getting hot babes’ formula that fueled last year’s Seth Rogen hit while proving that Apatow remains the MSG master of crudity. Everyone he works with—in this case, writer/actor/friend Jason Segel—sees their game enhanced ten-fold. This is a wonderful film, a foul-mouthed fiesta of heart and true human emotions. One of the things that critics constantly miss when musing on the Apatow-supported oeuvre is that the dialogue is never overly cute or purposefully ‘written’. Instead, the characters communicate like real people do, from the sex-obsessed teens of Superbad to the depressed dramatics here.

Casting is crucial to making a movie like this work, and first time director Nicholas Stoller does an amazing job in choosing his actors. Segel, who usually sinks into the background as a second banana’s second banana, is wonderful as Peter. He is just pathetic enough, wussed out and whiny without completely getting on your nerves. When things start to turn around for him romantically, we instantly root for him. We want to see him happy. The same can’t be said for Kristen Bell. Her title tart is the film’s most complex part. She has to be selfish without being totally self-centered, driven without seeming drastic. Her break-up scene works well since it comes right up front, before we learn more about Sarah’s flaws. By the end of the narrative, we’ve grown to both hate and pity her.

On the supporting side of things, Mila Kunis is incredible as Rachel. Her demeanor has to be faultless in order for us to champion Peter’s ultimate choice. She works the focused freespirit angle expertly, and we sense a real chemistry with Segel. Indeed, Stoller’s major achievement is finding performers who are both individually fearless and totally in sync with each other. No one catches a break here—all the characters are uncloaked, purposefully presented warts (STDs) and all. About the only awkwardness comes from Russell Brand’s Snow. He’s such a Brit band cliché, a worldview wimp who believes sex is a God given bad boy birthright that we just want to smack him silly. Luckily, Segel’s script takes him down a notch to a semi-human level before simply restating his repugnance.

But the humor here goes far beyond the plausible personal interaction. Apatow typically champions an “anything for a giggle” dynamic, and Forgetting Sarah Marshall follows this mandate magnificently. Some of the best moments are derived from genitalia based putdowns and sexual pantomime, but there’s also some very inside wittiness (Bell’s actress gets blasted for being in an unsuccessful horror film in which cellphones kill people ala Pulse) and a brilliant puppet musical spoof that ends things with a bravura bang. Toss in gratuitous male nudity, a wonderful sibling rivalry between Peter and Brian (Bill Hader is brilliant in the role) and you’ve got the standard Apatow cocktail—heavy on the vulgarity, incredibly light on the lameness.

Perhaps the most stunning part of Forgetting Sarah Marshall isn’t how clever or unconventional it is. No, what really sets this film apart is its dark and rather desperate tone. Peter is not the fun-loving loser who just can’t get lucky in the love department. He’s a self-loathing lump who uses rejection and domination as a means of emotional connection. When he learns to have fun, to simply sit back and let life have its way with him (for bad and for good), he finally finds freedom. He’s still a bitter man, and this is a narrative that definitely thrives on such acidity. The Woody Allen allusion is totally apropos. This is a film filled with angst-driven head cases hoping to avoid the classic “dead shark” analogy. Watching them try is what makes Forgetting Sarah Marshall work.

With the Will Ferrell/John C. Reilly effort Step Brothers coming out in July, and the Seth Rogen/Evan Goldberg scripted Pineapple Express arriving in August, Apatow shows no signs of slowing down—and if either of those films is as funny and fresh as Forgetting Sarah Marshall, here’s hoping he never does. This is the movie last years horrendous Heartbreak Kid remake wanted to be. The only things missing then were nerve, talent, foresight, and intelligence. A broken heart can be a bitch. Thanks to Jason Segel and his sensational screenplay, it can also be a beautiful, laugh out loud thing as well.

Sometimes, the creative writing is splashed all over the workprint walls. Anyone seeing John Avnet’s name on the directing credits should take a moment to contemplate asking for their money back. After all, he’s been responsible for mindless dreck like Fried Green Tomatoes, The War, Up Close and Personal, and Red Corner. Not the greatest big screen resume. To make matters worse, he has teamed up with screenwriter Gary Scott Thompson, whose poisoned pen scribbled slop like K-911, K9-PI, Hollow Man, and The Fast and the Furious. What made either man think they could take on the by now stale serial killer thriller begs the question of their individual sanity. How they conned one of our greatest actors to lower himself to such a paycheck cashing conceit borderlines on the criminal.

The result is a pile of contrivances called 88 Minutes, and our above marquee name is none other than Al Pacino. In this tortuous career killer, the artist formerly known as a ‘70s stalwart plays Dr. Jack Gramm. A high profile forensics psychologist, he has successful profiled everyone from Ted Bundy to “Seattle Slayer” Jon Forster. Of course, our smooth talking slayer claims innocence, and nine years later, he’s about to be executed for his crimes. Suddenly, a copycat murder occurs, and Forster’s guilt is thrown in jeopardy. Even worse, Gramm’s ethics are questioned. As his students react to the news, our headshrinker gets a strange call. The voice intones something very sinister—Gramm only has 88 minutes to live. Even worse, it looks like he’s being framed for the latest round of corpses.

So convoluted that ADD addled teenagers find it unfocused, and lost in a cinematic situation of unfinished scenes, awkward dramatic pauses, and random illogical tangents, 88 Minutes is a mess. It’s a futile attempt at making a CSI mountain out of a mediocre Silence of the Lambs molehill, and never establishes a realistic look at how professional profilers earn their keep. Wasting the talents of much of its cast—though many deserve their “who’s that?” sense of relevance—and using Seattle for its apparent nonstop supply of dank, Avnet and Thompson test the patience of even the most ardent Pacino fan. Granted, the Oscar winner has made a lot of lame choices in the last 10 years (Gigli? Two for the Money?), but this pompadoured doc has to be a new low.

At first, we’re not sure what to make of Jack Gramm. He seems deeply troubled, losing himself in casual sex, professional spite, and a curmudgeonly classroom manner. He’s supposed to be a superstar of his trade, and yet nothing he does appears born out of his abilities. Instead, it all feels written, the product of a computer, not a plot. This is one of those “of course” movies, the kind of entertainment were information is given, and then when additional facts are added to ratchet up the supposed suspense and/or drama, we smirk to ourselves and say…“of course”. A character will have an abusive boyfriend… who turns out to be her violent ex-husband…who happens to have spent time in prison…at the same place that the Seattle Slayer has been sitting on Death Row. Of course.

This is also a film clearly set in the only part of Washington State where the elusive red herring lives. There are so many individuals subtlety screaming “I DID IT”—from a tattooed twink campus security guard to the world’s most obvious non-doorman doorman—that you wonder how the cops missed these particular “individuals of interest”. Gramm is also surrounded by several manmade MacGuffins. His secretary is a lesbian with something potentially damaging to hide. Several of his students know way too much about Forster and their teacher’s involvement in the case, and one henna-haired harpy carries a loaded handgun—you know, for kicks! The list of showboating suspects grows so great that you wonder how Avnet will explain them all. Believe it or not, he doesn’t. He just lets them drop.

Indeed, Avnet’s directing here is jaw-droppingly bad. There’s a moment where Pacino is after an important suspect. He and his costar pull up to her home, get ready to exit, and then everything stops so Al can deliver a speech about the death of his little sister several years before. At least it ties into the reason behind the title. But early on, the man behind the lens lets time fritter by as grown men sample cookies and milk and Pacino has randomized, unfiltered flashbacks. Individual moments appear endless, there is no real sense of mise-en-scene (meaning one sequence doesn’t successfully segue into the next) and the pacing provides zero dread. Had the movie tried for a real time conceit, maybe such a strategy would work. But at 105 minutes, it’s bloated and boring.

The final nail in 88 Minutes pauper’s coffin is the premise itself. Since Gramm is told he has less than an hour and a half to live, it seems like a trip to the local police station, or his buddies at the FBI would be a reasonable first step. Tell them what’s going on, give them all the facts (the escort he slept with, the potential connection to Forster) and sit back and enjoy a cup of justice. Ninety minutes later, all should be right with the world. Even if our determined doctor decides to do a little private dicking on his own, he can engage the help of individuals actually trained in the art of detection. Instead, Thompson gives us a group of groan-inducing coeds who can’t seem to find the course syllabus, let alone a viable lead.

One hopes this is all in service of some sensational twist where we learn that Gramm is actually a mentally unstable man who believes himself to be…well, you get the idea. Instead, one of our maroon fish finally plays their hand, a formulaic standoff occurs, and we get the deathly dull villain with no internal monologue vs. the shifty eyed, ever-plotting victim. While the actual ending does give audiences a reason to cheer, it’s the final fade out that will make viewers the happiest. It means this tepid terror is finally over.

The information is eerily the same. A lack of education, unemployment, limited opportunities, rampant poverty, and future prospects that seem dim at best drive the problem. These young men, lives marginalized by a majority that doesn’t care, have no other outlet for their aggression. As a result, they become easy targets for gangs, groups that prey on such a disenfranchised feeling, using the rage to wage war on society. No, this is not some overview of the urban crime scene circa 1988. We’re not dealing with South Central Los Angeles or downtown Detroit. Instead, this is what Morgan Spurlock, famed documentarian (Super Size Me) learns when talking to people in the Arab world. He wants to figure out why Al-Qaeda is so seductive to supposedly sensible individuals. The answer, sadly, shocks no one.

In his fascinating, fly by night overview of the Middle East crisis, Where in the World is Osama Bin Laden, Spurlock uses the impending birth of his first child as a catalyst for cutting through the political rhetoric and the international posturing. While premised on a search for the infamous terrorist kingpin, this is really more of a Lonely Planet for the limited attention span. It does its job remarkably well, and is eye opening in ways both important and superfluous. But just as he did with his attack on McDonalds (and to a lesser extent, his otherwise excellent 30 Days series for FX), Spurlock stuffs the cinematic ballot box. He hedges his bets, going for the obvious score vs. the insightful if complicated underpinning.

It happens almost immediately upon entering Egypt (the film is built around a multi-country tour with our grinning guide playing a terrorist-trailing Tony Bourdain). Whenever he comes upon a disgruntled group of citizens, the message is repeated like a mantra - we don’t HATE the people of the US, just their horrific, misguided, and totally out of touch government. Over and over again it is repeated: we love you, we despise your failed foreign policy. Even in occupied territories outside Israel, where Palestinian refugees suffer unusual and horrid hardships, few are fuming at Uncle Sam’s nieces and nephews. Aside from one or two obvious militants, the same sentiment is voiced over and over - population good, president bad! 

Yet there is more to Spurlock’s madness than just delivering this one note communication. Unlike so many news reports that want to cast Muslims as one big bearded bunch of Islamic radicals, Where in the World… gives faces to this decidedly foreign issue. They are no longer villains in veils and headdress. Instead, they are actual human beings (Shock! Horror!) who just want schools, drinking water, financial help - oh, and some minor sovereign recognition and democratic rights would be great as well. The whole Jihad angle is substantially downplayed, the interviewees more than willing to rag on their radicalized brethren as not “representative” of the Middle East. As stated before, this is far from a revelation.

Where Spurlock stumbles is in the follow up department. He never gets to the Mike Wallace/60 Minutes question. Instead, it’s all passive aggressive acceptance. In Saudi Arabia, he gets the party line and nothing more (including a memorable scene where two teenage school boys are questioned under the watchful eye of their suspicious teacher and principal). A group of Hassidic Jews paint the people of Israel in an equally unappetizing light. They rant and rave, screaming their hate filled threats, before literally pushing the filmmaker off their part of the world stage.

In both cases, our host doesn’t try to contradict or add context. He just lets jerks be jerks and moves on. Similarly, one senses that all these pro-peace pronouncements could be easily countermanded by a look at the cutting room floor. Like the director he’s most often compared to - Michael Moore - Spurlock clearly has an agenda. He’s more interested in fact flagging than finding. The viewpoint he puts out in Where in the World… may indeed be his overall experience, but it’s clearly one filtered through careful editing and a specific unbalanced viewpoint.

A well-defined motive is also missing here - and the ‘what are we afraid of/my baby’s future’ angle is specious and frequently forgotten. We understand implicitly that the world is not the way our power-mad officials make it out to be. We also are clear that not everyone in the Middle East wants to hug a Westerner or adopt an Israeli. Somewhere in between lies the truth, and yet Spurlock is only interested in putting forth his ‘Kumbaya’ concept of globalization (though he purposefully mocks said message toward the end).

Still, as the magnificent strains of Elvis Costello’s reading of Nick Lowe’s “(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding” start up, as the credits roll and the people we’ve met smile kindly for the camera (even the radicals), something strange happens. Beyond all the ADD inspired graphics, the video game goofiness, the Charlie Daniels on Demerol theme song, and the overall reliance on generics, Where in the World is Osama Bin Laden becomes a very effective film. It’s as if the music makes the points that Spurlock avoids, questioning and commenting on the tenets he tries to expose. There was never a chance he would find the fiery fundamentalist. Yet somehow, Spurlock still found the truth - or at least part of it.

Okay all you young hot shots. It’s time to pitch your next project to the same old unimpressed suits. Sure, you’ve got a half-completed script by some wannabe indie icon who used to be stripper but now supports liberal causes while continuing to cook up more mindless pop culture reference strewn dialogue. There’s also that lame J-Horror remake you’ve been mulling over. The scary movie ship may have already sailed (guess that ‘gorno’ project is out as well), but there’s probably some gullible teens left out there willing to give more of their disposable text messaging money. A-listers aren’t returning your calls, and the current controversies like the War in Iraq and Britney’s battle with media mental illness have proven to be box office poison. So what do you do? How do you get your foot in the door and your lips locked on some studio’s keister before they claim you’re washed up and should be scripting reality TV instead?

Here’s an idea - ROCK IT! That’s right, the big screen musical is still reestablishing its must-see legs, and if you can’t find the perfect guitar-oriented project among the current crop of smelly greasepaint and roaring crowds, perhaps a look back at theater’s sketchy past might help. There are lots of undiscovered prospects among the Andrew Lloyd Webber revivals and jukebox jive of the Footloose/Xanadu zeitgeist. Since SE&L is never one to close its eyes toward any entertainment possibility, we gladly submit the following six shows for your consideration. Some were minor hits. Most were outright flops. But what’s clear about each and every one is that they were way before their time - and one or two may still be waiting for said era to finally arrive. Yet with the right approach, and the proper salesmanship, you’ll be rolling in development dough in no time. And don’t forget our finder’s fee. In this business, nothing is free.

The Lieutenant (1975) Book, Music and Lyrics by Gene Curty, Nitra Scharfman and Chuck Strand

The Pitch: It’s Stephen Sondheim meets the Seventh Circle of Hell!

What better way to set tongues wagging and critics complaining than this, an actual opera (meaning no linking dialogue) centering on the horrendous events of the 1968 My Lai Massacre. That’s right, the forward thinking efforts of these first (and last) time musical makers believed that ‘70s audiences were ready for a show featuring the senseless slaughter of hundreds of Vietnamese women and children, all set within the infamous trial of Lieutenant William Calley and 13 other officers. With song titles such as “Kill”, “Something’s Gone Wrong”, and “The Conscious of a Nation”, this was some high minded stuff, especially for a public still reeling from Watergate and the generational divide the war created. Opening and closing in a record eight days (after nine performances and seven previews), now may be right for such a revisionist work. If Sweeny Todd can heartlessly slit throats while singing, why can’t misguided US troops mow down innocent civilians while carelessly crooning? Seems reasonable enough.

Paris (1982) Book, Music and Lyrics by Jon English

The Pitch: It’s 300 meshed with Les Miserables!

It started off as a joke. Back in 1982, English was writing songs for his 12th album, Some People. Inspired by the mythical legends of the Trojan War (and the recent Ultravox hit “Vienna”), the musician decided, on a lark, to write a tune for the hero of the classic Greek tales. When DJs played the song however, they misinterpreted it as a shout out to the famous French capital. Thus began a long gestation that saw English finally finish his epic exercise, record a star studded soundtrack album (including contributions from the London Symphony Orchestra) and chalk up some impressive sales. Warner Brothers dropped the CD from its catalog, anyway. Several stagings in Australia later, and Paris now seems poised to be a lost genre gem. Just imagine Zak Snyder revisiting his Spring 2007 success with Gerard Butler back as the title character (he was the Phantom in the film version, you know) and it’s a possible muscle musical extravaganza.

Dude (1972) Music by Galt MacDermot, book and lyrics by Gerome Ragni

Pitch: It’s the Book of Genesis jerryrigged into a Peace and Love paradigm - Kerouac style?

Conceived as a major multimedia presentation and featuring the work of Hair pair MacDermot and Ragni, this story of the road trip journeys of the title Everyman was highly anticipated by New York elitists. After all, while it seems dated and quite dopey today, the duo’s previous effort (with help from James Rado) was the seismic shock the staid Broadway musical had desperately needed. But from the very logistical foundations of the show (once described as a ‘circus taking place in a primeval forest’) to the disastrous previews, the ‘happening’ was constantly taken off the boards and reworked - unsuccessfully, one might add. It ran for only 16 performances. While not as lambasted as MacDermot’s folly of a follow-up (a futuristic mess entitled Via Galactica) it’s clear that Ragni’s approach was too technologically sophisticated for an 8-track and analog mentality. Thanks to our newfound addiction to the digital domain, this could be resurrected as the late author/composer intended.

Carrie (1988) Book by Lawrence D. Cohen, Lyrics by Dean Pitchford, and Music by Michael Gore

Pitch: It’s the Hairspray of Horror!

It remains one of the most notorious flops in the annals of Broadway, a show so misguided that a cult of devotees practically sprang up somewhere around Act II. Adapting Stephen King’s novel about an outcast teenager with telekinetic powers is not the worst idea for a major musical, but the interpretative approach seemed antithetical to what late ‘80s audiences wanted. After all, they were lining up in droves to see people dressed like cats! The cast contained some stage powerhouses, with Betty Buckley prominent as the religious fanatic mother of the title character, and Debbie Allen handled the complicated choreography. But for many in the audience for the five total performances, the leap of logic - and faith - required to accept the onstage situations was just too great. Yet as Marc Shaiman has shown, it’s possible to take a straight film, rework it for song and dance, and then bring it back for another shot of cinematic glory. Maybe Pitchford and Gore can give him a ring. 

Blitz! (1962) Book, Lyrics, and Music by Lionel Bart

Pitch: It’s Merchant/Ivory meets All This And World War II!

His Oliver! remains one of the great stage experiences of all time, a perfect amalgamation of man, melody, and material. So when Bart decided to turn his mannered musical hall attention to one of the greatest tragedies ever to beset Britain (the Nazi bombing of London and the surrounds) it seemed like the perfect subject for the slightly insane maverick. After all, this was an award winning composer who couldn’t read music and had to whistle all his ideas to a stenographer. Taking the standard star-crossed lovers storyline (featuring two feuding families, one Jewish, one Cockney) and superimposing it onto massive stage recreations of Victoria Station, Petticoat Lane, and the Bank Underground required a great deal of that patented Bart chutzpah. While UK audiences loved it, keeping the show on the boards for 568 performances, costs and perceived American indifference toward the subject matter kept it from our shores. With its built in spectacle and Bart’s tunes, this has massive mainstream movie potential.

Kronborg: 1582/Rockabye Hamlet/ Somethin’ Rockin’ in Denmark (1976) Book, Lyrics, and Music by Cliff Jones

Pitch: It’s the Greatest Tragedy of All Time as a Full Blown Rock Concert!

Commissioned by the Canadian Broadcasting Company (where it later appeared as part of a radio series) Cliff Jones’ cobbled together take on the archetypal melancholy Dane sounds like a Jurassic Park level horrendous idea. Yet apparently our neighbors in the Great White North just couldn’t get enough of it. After several successful stagings and tours, Broadway vet Gower Champion brought the show to a Bicentennial batty New York. Closing after only seven performances, it was clear that audiences were more interested in celebrating the USA than sitting through a baffling take on the Bard. Jones has revived the show several times, changing the title to suit the situation. With such songs as “Don’t Unmask Your Beauty to the Moon”, “He Got It in the Ear”, and “The Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Boogie”, the camp factor alone should guarantee a certain susceptible demographic. Besides, all you have to do is convince school-age adolescents that this be-bopping update will replace having to read the actual play, and they’ll line up in droves.

Once upon a time, in a freaked-out future that’s already a decade past, the entire planet is in the grip of BIM. You can’t go anywhere without experiencing the magic that is…well, that is BIM. BIM is a pop song. BIM is a mass-marketed body sticker. BIM is a tall triangular glass and the ruby red joy juice drunk from it. BIM is…you have no idea what BIM is, do you? Guess what, neither does anyone else in the pre-Apocalyptic world of…well, the world.

Yes, the planet is run by the music industry (at least one accurate prediction that even Nostradamus, Alvin Toffler, and Jeane Dixon all missed), and Mr. Boogalow is the business’s chief chart-topper. He pairs up innocuous tone-deaf teens with names like Pandi, Dandi, Bibi, and Alphie, and turns their trite tunes into a regular opiate for the masses. But there is more to the demented Don Kirshner than meets the eye. You see, Mr. Boogalow is…wait for it…the DEVIL! And he is trying to hypnotize the entire world toward the ways of wantonness via that objet d’evil - the hit record.

So when a couple of rubes from the backwater burg of Moose Jaw enter the World Vision Song Contest with the hope that their self-penned anthem “Love: The Universal Melody” will whip up on the overwhelmingly more popular “BIM is the Power,” Boogalow uses the infamous red tape (no, not bureaucracy—an actual crimson cassette) to rig the results (apparently, Jem and the Holograms took third). He then applies the marketing-appropriate mantra, “If you can’t beat ‘em, own ‘em,” and tries to get the couple to sign away their souls…sorry, publishing rights. Soon, Bibi is indentured to this hyper-mega-super-duper conglomerate Boogalow International Music (B…I…M…oh, yeah…like BMI. Now it makes…no, it doesn’t) and it’s up to Alphie to save her from an incendiary afterlife. But it will be hard. After all, she’s had a bite of The Apple literally.

Did you ever wonder what the world would be like if God were a white-leisure-suit-wearing tycoon type who drove his solid gold Rolls down from Heaven to transport a commune of hippies over to a brand new planet? Or if Satan were a fey music mogul who resembled Udo Kier’s interpretation of the role of Carmen Ghia from The Producers? Perchance, what if Adam and Eve - or at least a “babes in the woods” folk-rock and roll interpretation of same - were an Australian idiot boy and the star of Night of the Comet? And let’s just say for the sake of silly argument that the Devil employs a few mediocre minions who are incredibly sad excuses for Roger Daltrey, Nina Simone, and Meshach Taylor. Layer on the worst musical score since Sly Stallone’s brother proved why “Staying Alive” is not necessarily a good thing, and you’ve got The Apple, a gamy glitterdome of outrageous kitsch passing itself off as a futuristic fable.

Resembling a stage show version of the Rapture as interpreted by Disco Tex and his Sex-o-lettes (“Get Dancin’,” y’all!), this aimless allegory about the battle between good (or at least kind of decent) and evil (or as construed by this film, the flamboyantly fashionable) has all the subtlety of a steam-powered enema and reeks just as pungently. If you ever wanted proof of the madness that meanders through the mind of Menahem Golan (famous Cannon Films producer of such classical gas as The Happy Hooker Goes to Washington and Breakin’), look no further than this tale of Mr. Boogalow and his plans for a dictatorial fascist state based in and around the culture of the pop song (and this predates boy bands by a good decade).

The fact that this concept did not work out too well for either Brian DePalma (his Phantom of the Paradise is a noble failure) or 1977’s abortive TV series A Year at the Top (costars Greg “BJ and the Bear” Evigan and Paul “David Letterman” Shaffer never got past the first couple of months of the titular time frame) didn’t stop Golan from pursuing his crappy cinematic concept album. Indeed, it appears that the entire entertainment world in the mid to late 1970s was fixated on two divergent, yet still forced to cohabitate together, themes - mainly, that the future would be a dire, dreary place dominated by Bob Mackie’s designs, and that rock and roll would have to step up to save all of our mortal souls.

From the Bee Gees / Peter Frampton flop based on The Beatles’ Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band to the just plain awful Americathon, everyone was predicting that the 1990s would be the time when the population finally paid the piper for lousing things up. Oh, and for making such beat-heavy horsecrap as “Push in the Bush” and “Boogie Oogie Oogie” Grammy Award-winning and popular. And, aside from grunge and the introduction of the mp3, they may have had a point.

The Apple indeed polishes its loopy fruit via this future shock silliness. According to this sci-fi fart, 1994 was to be the temporal space when everyone wore multicolored prism stickers on their faces and caked on more makeup than Boy George after a night at TABOO, and when police give citations for failing to “BIM” (whatever the Hades that anagram really stands for—“Beelzebub’s Irritating Musical,” perhaps?). It will take a group of radicals to stand up to the persecution and provocation of this wah-wah pedal man-goat-backed police state, so you’ll never guess who The Apple pegs for its protectors. Why, the great unwashed, otherwise known as hippies.

That’s right, gang…hippies. Peace, love, and flower power. In the realm of The Apple, when faced with the prospect of Hell on Earth, mankind will turn to a Jerry Garcia clone and his “still somehow relevant” roundup of peaceniks to save the world from eternal damnation at the hands of ersatz Duran Duran (the Barbarella version). Who cares if they live in a cave, avoid soap and water, and warble Moby Grape songs to each other - these are the saviors of the universe!

Worse yet, when all appears lost, Mr. Topps - AKA old Yahweh himself - cruises down the horizon in his sacred stretch limo and decides to send Jerry and his kids to another planet, to start over again without the influence of Boogalow and what he represents (i.e., rock and roll). So the ultimate message of The Apple is that (a) music is bad, (b) the Devil is bad, (c) letting your freak flag fly wins you a ticket to a new cosmic homeland, and (d) producers of B-movie mung should never be allowed to interpret the Good Book via power ballad.

And that’s the main issue here. More important than all the Biblical bull broth is the fact that The Apple is, for want of a better term, a musical. Really, it’s more of a Gilbert and Sullivan light operetta than a rock and roll opus - if, of course, the particular creators you’re thinking of are Gottfried and Annie. Such a spectacular sonic scourge that your tightly honed sensibilities may never recover, the score here is the antithesis of melody and harmony. You name a genre or style - reggae, ‘50s ballad, disco dirge, Broadway-style show tune - and The Apple rapes it like the Sabine women or the swan-serving Leda. With lyrics composed by a random phrase generator, and an old-fashioned Eastern Bloc Iron Curtain interpretation of contemporary accompaniment, the tunes here put us through the aural equivalent of a painful rectal itch.

Lines fail to rhyme, emotions are so spelled out that inbred invertebrates can figure out the meaning, and everything feels like it was produced by Georgio Moroder’s insane brother, Earl. Like a baby watching magic (an actual line from one of the hackneyed horrors here), The Apple‘s musical cues confuse and frighten us - not because of how bad they are, but for how painfully close they come to the Billboard ballyhoo actually arcing across radio dials all over America circa 2008 (add a guest rap or two by 50 Cent or Ludacris, and it would be impossible to tell the difference).

Sadly, The Apple is not a cult classic - unless, of course, you’re referring to the kind of fodder that would actually cause the Branch Davidians to answer their “calling.” It’s not bad/good like Can’t Stop the Music or awful/artful like KISS Meets the Phantom of the Park. No, this surreal seminar on the abuse of filmmaking power is in a deranged category all its own. It tends to dwell in the “What the Hell?” or “How Can This Be?” realm of the ridiculous. The film is so unfathomable that you can’t imagine anyone walking away after reading this script and thinking, “Now there’s something sensible.” With an overall design scheme that recalls Blitz kids with leprosy, and a narrative that never really understands the requirements of a parable, The Apple plays more like the fever dream of a deposed priest, an awkward overreaction to the popularity of religiously-based rock musicals (as if we didn’t already have reason to hate Godspell).

Perhaps the best way to watch this film is to turn on the English subtitles and read along with the kindergarten song craft as game performers belt out completely incompetent brain busters. It may be worth a look, and there could be a few who actually tune in, turn on, and drop out - of the gene pool, that is - based on the befuddling film before them. The Apple should be a celebration of all that is camp. Instead, it’s just seriously disturbed.

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