“I feel this was made by a ghost, mine perhaps. I don’t see it as a film but as a piece of space that formed…that’s the best I can describe it, “a piece of space that formed.”
—Giuseppe Andrews

In the early part of 2009, avant-artist and auteur of the trailer park, Giuseppe Andrews, decided to retire from making movies. With The Fast, an eclectic look at one man’s surreal journey into self-help, he seemed to be suggesting a new approach to life. There were plans to focus solely on music, a newfound spirituality, an unusual mention of vegetarianism and an accompanying “raw” diet. And then recently, the man mostly known for his sunny SoCal explorations of the fringe, married and moved to Austin, Texas. Now, as part of his West Coast swansong, we get Diary, a 90 minute focus on how humans fetishize technology and our need to feel like part of each other’s media. Revolving around a family that becomes way too familiar with their daily camcorder journal, we get a more mature, more reactionary Andrews, and the results are amazing.

He was a child of war, a forever twisted byproduct of the Nazi party and its Eastern European collaborators. Born into the aristocracy only to be initiated into evil, he would eventually evolve into a world class psychiatrist, renowned renaissance man, and perhaps, the most brutal serial killer of all time. Indeed, Dr. Hannibal Lecter, as conceived by former crime reporter turned bestselling novelist Thomas Harris, would transform the horror genre, making the calculated mass murderer an icon and jumpstart a few dozen dire imitations. Even the character’s own legacy, peppered with awards and parodies, highlights the fickle nature of filmmaking, as well as the always dangerous quest of trying to recapture creative lightning in a bottle built from consistently diminishing returns.

Over the course of four novels - Red Dragon, The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal, and Hannibal Rising - and five motion picture adaptations of same, the myth of this man-eating monster (Lecter is best known as a classy, cultured cannibal) has gone from curiosity, to phenomenon, to unimpressive afterthought. He’s risen to ridiculous heights and fallen farther, faster, than any other fright film figure. Sir Anthony Hopkins earned his one and only Oscar for playing this dark, deceptive manipulator, even replacing the prior treatment by (a better) Brian Cox. The Scottish thespian originated the role in Michael Mann’s excellent Manhunter, offering up a casual cruelty that Hopkins would later accelerate and amplify.

Have you seen Jonah Hill recently? No? Well, go Google his name and look at some of the latest images of the Superbad and Get Him to the Greek star. See something unusual? Perhaps, even shocking? No? Well, obviously you have a need for some glasses - or something a bit stronger. You see, over the course of the last year, Hill has dropped a dramatic amount of weight (the total amount has, so far, managed to allude the tabloid tell-all of the media press) and he’s been showing off his svelte new look as part of the promotion for his recent movie, Moneyball. With the big screen adaptation of early Fox TV favorite 21 Jump Street in the works, many assumed the change was mandated by the leap into action/adventure mode.

In recent interviews, Hill has said all the right things: the decision came as a result worry over his health; he was too young to be so overweight; he sought out the help of a nutritionist and lost the pounds ‘the right way.’ He even addressed an obvious concern that many in his fanbase voiced - is his still funny? The response, a kind of measured “wha…???” tied to the notion that he’s an actor. Hill argued that, as a professional, he can be both humorous and dramatic without having to rely on body issues as a basis. For him, it’s never been about being the jolly fat guy. However, many outside the studio system (and those who have, for the most part, continued to type cast him), might disagree with that assessment.

All porn actors long to be legitimate, even if they really don’t care about the Tinseltown acknowledgement. Whether it’s to be taken seriously as a sex artist, or to simply branch out and be part of some silly Skinemax B-movie malarkey, they know that society looks down on them for their carnal career choice. As a bunch of puritanical prudes, so uptight our mainsprings are freakishly frozen, community standards demand censure. So even without a starring role in one of those cable-TV Bikini movies, your average XXX star just wants to be taken seriously - or left alone. For Tommy Pistol, one time alt-genre stalwart, a life in service of smut was less than profitable. So his mainstream alter ego, Aramis Sartorio, decided to “kill him off.” The result is the riotous The Gruesome Death of Tommy Pistol, a film that becomes even more meaningful when you realize its autobiographical/real life subtext.

Tommy Pistol (Sartorio) is at his wits end. Unable to land a less than lucrative gig as a day playing extra, his wife (Karen Sartorio) has laid down an ultimatum: give up the pipe dream of being an actor and get a real job, or lose his family. Twelve months later and our hapless hero is alone in his grungy apartment, pleasing himself to porn and microwaving yet another suspect convenience store hot dog. As his mind drifts in and out of sleep, we see a subconscious projection of Tommy’s potential problematic career path. First, he’s a hapless newbie working for an insane snuff film producer (Caleb Emerson). Then, he becomes an angry mainstream production assistant/assassin, his sights set on a megalomaniacal Arnold Schwarzenegger. Finally, Tommy is a seedy XXX filmmaker, stuck with a star (Daisy Sparks) sporting a nasty supernatural staph infection…and he still has two important scenes left to shoot.

In the realm of outsider cinema, there are those who want to make a statement…and then those who simply want to make it in mainstream Hollywood. Even with their outrageous ideas, lo-fi motivations, and unusual approaches, the vast majority simply want a chance at a place setting near the normative Tinseltown table. Few focus on vision, originality, creativity, or following their own particular muse. Instead, they try to mix their own aesthetic with an eye on their professional future. The most original movie artists, however, don’t cotton to such crass overtures. Instead, directors like Giuseppe Andrews and Damon Packard march to their own unique drummer, even if said percussionist is banging out a beat that’s arrhythmic and capable of raising the dead.

And then there’s Caleb Emerson. A editor behind the scenes by day, an unmistakable motion picture agent provocateur by night (and on his off hours), his limited oeuvre belies one of the most brilliant auteurs ever making films with a bunch of his friends. His first feature, Die You Zombie Bastards, was a masterful deconstruction of the horror comedy, combining outlandish ideas with genre standards to fashion a solid seminal serio-spoof. Now, with his latest effort, a surreal splicing of Lewis Carroll, David Lynch, and Richard Linklater’s Slacker, he proves his penchant for strikingly unhinged entertainment. Many will be confused by the masterful Frankie in Blunderland. The right people will praise it like the amazing motion picture messiah it is.