Seated alongside The Residents as long time bay area agent provocateurs, the San Francisco based avant-gardists Negativland consistently defy description. Sonic poets, defenders of free speech, and flaunters of the Fair Use Doctrine, the magnificent mash-up artists have been taking on corporate consumer speak and unrealistic copyright laws since their founding at the end of the ‘70s. Though the core of the collective has changed little since their first high school meeting (Mark Hosler and Richard Lyons have remained friends since), the actual band has always been a loose amalgamation of like minded artists, skilled filmmakers, animation activists and similarly styled pop culture rebels. And with targets as imposing as Disney, Coke, Pepsi, and those all powerful mainstream music icons U2, they’ve never been at a loss for material. Toss in a little swearing Casey Kasem, a phony axe killer connection, and various affronts to so-called conservative society, and you’ve got a series of lawsuits just waiting to happen.

To understand the DVD compilation Our Favorite Things, one has to comprehend the basic tenets of Negativland’s philosophy. Thematically, the band appears to follow the William Burroughs’ method of cut and paste creativity. The notorious beat author, responsible for the incomprehensibly brilliant Naked Lunch, used to write long passages, tear out the typed page, cut the sentences into soundbite snippets, and reconfigure the prose into new, unexpected phraseology. Much of the music Negativland makes is standard rock and electronica stomps. There’s even a peppering of pop and pleasant valley sundriness to it. But the lyrics, when there are any, follow a more free flowing, stream of subconsciousness pattern. And the inclusive of samples, sound oddments, various narratives, and other found material fall right into Burroughs’ beliefs. As a result, the group is more of an experience than a straight ahead act. On the plus side, this gives their overall message more room to blossom and grow.

Collected together by celebrated DVD outsiders Other Cinema, Our Favorite Things offers 18 mindbending examples of the band’s creative collage collaborations with experimental and no wave filmmakers. Multifaceted, layered, and brimming with solid subversion, it’s clear why the group has been seated at the center of controversy. Anyone who would challenge the House of Mouse by having Little Mermaid Arial voice the foul mouthed rant of a corporate scumbag attorney is asking for trouble. But Negativland’s targets are typically much bigger than the keepers of Walt Disney’s dying legacy. Hot button subjects like religion, marketing, greed, and government propagandizing make the issues of an angry animation company seem small. Yet the power in these shorts cannot be underestimated. In fact, most of Our Favorite Things plays like brainwashing purposefully created for the already converted. Indeed, by using similar subliminal techniques as those who are doing the preaching, it’s hoped that the faithful truly see the light.

It all begins with something called “Learning to Communicate”. A combination of anti-technology stances and pro-Luddite tweaks, it starts the disc off on a very surreal note. Once we get to “No Business”, the real purpose behind Negativland can be seen. Taking the classic number from Gypsy, the short examines the concept of stealing – in this case, not the extra bow, but music from the Internet. As classic downloading bars fill the screen, Ethel Merman’s bombastic voice extols the joys in robbing artists of their work. Without changing anything except the order of the sung lyrics, this amazing montage is a borderline masterpiece. So is “Gimme the Mermaid”. As a violent voice chides someone on copyright and ownership, a familiar Disney heroine provides the visualized façade. In a very simplistic, uncomplicated manner, this short makes the point regarding the unreasonable nature of indignant ownership.

Next up is the special edit radio mix of “U2: I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For”. As the familiar strains of that alt-rock revivalism screed scurry along the background (in perfectly modulated Casio keyboard crappiness), we hear the familiar voice of Shaggy and America’s Top 40, one Casey Kasem, using language that would make the typical tweeny-bopper blush (with recognition, probably). It’s simply stunning. Then we have a weird exchange between another radio personality – a call-in talk show host – and a listener who doesn’t know the number of “Time Zones” there are in the old Soviet Union (the answer is 11). It’s good, but not as wonderful as the next track – the flawlessly executed “Freedom Waiting”. Initially, we think the scattered and stuttering narration is talking about our inherent right to liberty. Then we start to see all the TV commercials, and the soft shill pitch becomes painfully obvious. Similarly, “The Bottom Line” uses a home shopping style lampoon to sell America’s policy regarding prisoners and torture. Both movies are masterful.

At this point, Out Favorite Things wanders over a bit into the bleeding obvious. It doesn’t dissuade from the message or the manner in which it is being presented, but when an anti-gun feature (called “Guns”) mixes classic kiddie TV ads from the ‘60s with shots of Vietnam and Buddy Dwyer’s on-camera suicide, the level of approach seems rather simplistic. Much better is the No Nukes nonsense “Yellow, Black, and Rectangular” which uses the Civil Defense symbol as a means of illustrating public disinterest in the arms race. Finally, a small child sings “Over the Rainbow” as hiccups occasionally ruin her take. The stop motion animation features a somber stick figure rabbit that finally gives in to its fatalistic urges. It’s funny and effective, but just not as good as what has come before – and what is about to arrive.

One of the best deconstructions of how popular culture cannibalizes its symbols, the “Mashing of the Christ” takes clips from dozens of Hollywood Bible pics (Gibson’s Passion, numerous versions of The King of Kings, and The Greatest Story Ever Told) and cobbles them together in a perfect compare and contrast arrangement. In the background, an evangelist endlessly repeats a meaningless Marxist chide – “Christianity is stupid. Communism is good.” The combination of blood, belief, and bullshit is just superb. And the crackpot KPIX News story on the fake connection the band created between this anti-religious rant and a horrible family killing in the Midwest is nothing more than typical myopic media icing on an already melting communications cake. It proves one of Negativland’s most frequently voiced adages – people are too dumb to realize when a lie stares them square in the face. The next two films illustrate this flawlessly.

“Truth in Advertising” pits another talk show host against a caller who wants clarity between the salesmanship of commercials and the actual validity of a product’s purpose or content. The edited banter, in combination with the repetitive backdrop of noted advertisements, keeps the concerns – and the lack of clear cut answers – in focus. The next seven films take on one of the band’s favorite targets: the pointless soft drink wars between Coke and Pepsi, and the unnecessary onslaught of overhyped, celebrity driven, selling. “One World Advertising” proposes a solution, while “Why Is This Commercial?” and “The Greatest Taste Around” continue the pointed dissection. “Taste in Mind” and Humanitarian Effort” comments on the worldwide influence of such corporate carping, while “Drink It Up” and “Aluminum or Glass” offers two hilarious songs that mock both the health and habit forming flaws in the sodas. Throughout, clips from a ‘40s era Coke industrial film deifies the soft drink. The DVD ends with a glorious reconfiguration of the Sound of Music song that comprises the title of this release.

There will be those who find this leftist liberal leaning lunacy one giant act of unimportant no-name rock band hubris. Instead, Negativland: Our Favorite Things, is like listening to the skeleton of one of those horrid celebrity vanity project albums. This is Bruce Willis bellowing offkey as ‘Bruno’, it’s Phillip Michael Thomas endlessly living the book of his life. It’s Warhol, washed out and worm-ridden, MTV melted down to its business model whoring. Once witnessed, the mind instantly focuses on other noxious issues the collective could tackle. In a world where the current President has condemned the US to decades as the world’s laughing stock, a Negativland take on such an onerous official would be oh so super sweet. Until then, we have this amazing collection of short films to hold us over. Like the best that cinema has to offer, many here will stand the test of time – and so will their meaning.

—Bill Gibron

It remains the single most significant debate in the series’ otherwise stable history. While many consider it to be a minor, or even moot point, messageboards and fan sites still sizzle with its personality based paradox. On the one hand there are fervent admirers of stand-up legend and show creator Joel Hodgson. His sleepy eyed sense of whimsy matched by a non-threatening satiric irony made him the perfect post-modern kiddie show host. But when he finally left Mystery Science Theater 3000, the movie mocking comedy cavalcade that he had shepparded through growing pains and cable channel cultdom, he was replaced by the soon to be celebrated Mike Nelson. Longtime collaborator and head writer, the Midwestern mook took his confused Everyman shtick and launched it into the stratosphere. Before long, he was the most recognizable face the show ever had, far more mainstream than the previous personality.

Thus, the ultimate standoff was established. On one side are the faithful, the ones who believe Joel represents everything MST3K stands for. He’s the cornerstone of the classic, the reason the show exists and why it still resonates some two decades later. And yet those who support Mike argue that his substitution actually saved the series. He sat at the center of Mystery Science’s commercial renaissance, the shift from unknown quantity to noted example of the medium’s multifaceted excellence. Oh course, the question boils down to this – who is better? Is Hodgson’s culturally astute ramblings, laced with enough pop life references to strangle a steer, the true tenet of MST, or does Nelson’s nice guy numbskullery, the buffoonish set within a pure distillation of homespun humor, best exemplify the show’s entertainment essence?

While a definitive consensus may never be reached, Rhino’s latest volume of forgotten funny business, the Mystery Science Theater 3000 Collection Volume 12, sets up an interesting dichotomy. Featuring Joel circa Season 4 (The Rebel Set) and toward the end of his run (Season 5’s Secret Agent Super Dragon) vs. Mike during his introductory phase (Season 6’s The Starfighters) and his Season 8 Sci-Fi Channel finery (the classic Parts: The Clonus Horror), this brilliant box set creates the conflict perfectly. How you respond to and revere each episode traces your wit proclivity to its point of personal origin. By the end of the unquestionably hilarious six hour slog through some of the worst movies ever made, you’ll have a better handle on your cow town puppet show preferences.

Unless you’ve been living under a rock, or with the human equivalent of same, Mystery Science Theater 3000 offers a rather surrealistic premise. Hodgson plays a former worker for the fictional Deep 13 Laboratories shot into space by disgruntled mad scientist Dr. Clayton Forrester. With the help of henchman TV’s Frank, the fey super villain subjects his orbital guinea pig to the lousiest, lamest films ever conceived. He then monitors Hodgson’s mind to see how the ‘experiment’ affects him. Of course, our hero combats the sniveling psycho by creating a collection of robot friends. Gypsy runs the higher functions on the spaceship. Crow and Tom Servo act as buffers to the bad movie mania, sitting in the Satellite of Love’s screening room and riffing away to combat the crap. When Joel escaped his fate during the mid-section of Season 5, Nelson simply replaced him as the newest test case.

With 1959’s The Rebel Set, we have one of the best examples of this premise in play. The staid little heist flick substitutes stupidity for suspense, and offers the most unlikely set of criminals this side of an episode of Dragnet. Working angles both unbelievable (a struggling actor agreeing to a between trains snatch) and beatnik (the ‘oh so uncool’ coffeehouse setting gives poets an even worse rep) it’s a stagnant, unstoppable mess. Naturally, it makes for flawless MST fodder. One of the show’s signatures remains its host segment/sketch material. Instead of quipping throughout the entire film, the picture occasionally pauses so that Joel, his tormentors, and his automaton pals can comment on what they’ve seen and extend the comedy beyond the actual meaning of the movie. Here, we get suggestions for what someone could do on a four hour layover in Chicago, how to hone one’s acting chops the “Scott Baio” way, and a discussion of unknown character actor Merritt Stone. Throw in a sensational short subject (the Canadian National Exhibition exercise, Johnny at the Fair) and you’ve got a pristine illustration of Joel-era bemusement.

For exemplary Mike, on the other hand, it’s hard to beat the diabolically dull Starfighters. Clearly crafted as a recruitment tool for the US Air Force, we watch as new pilot recruits (including one rather spineless daddy’s boy) take their multimillion dollar fighting machines up, up, and away. Endless footage of mid-air refueling commences. Deconstructing such blatant propaganda is not hard for the gang – especially when the last act revolves around something called a “poopie” suit – but the lack of anything remotely amusing or engaging does give the jokesters a run for their riffing. Again, the midpoint material is sensational, Crow and Tom taking the notion of a ‘de-briefing’ to sensational slapstick heights, while the United Servo Men’s Choir provides an acappela medley of flight-oriented catchphrases. Any film featuring future former Congressman Bob Dornan as a wussified jet trainee has its own unique entertainment inertness. But Mike proves that all facets of humor, from commercial parodies (a BBQ sauce setpiece) to old school tech tweaks (Crow tries, unsuccessfully, to merge onto the information superhighway) are ripe for rediscovery.

Of course, the movies themselves manufacture much of the mirth – especially when they play like an inadvertent spoof of the genre they’re shameless imitating. Joel’s second offering, the espionage ipecac Secret Agent Super Dragon is verifiable evidence of such poorly planned production misfires. This ersatz Bond, bumbling around like Matt Helm and Derek Flint’s bastard offspring, is about as intriguing as a bureaucratic seminar in triplicate. This typical Italian rip-off starts out sloppy, and only gets more inexplicable along the way. Centering on an international dealer smuggling drugs via auctioned artworks, there’s plenty of ripe ridicule material present. And Joel’s jesters make the most of it. Even better, we get another sensational sketch segment where Crow writes a politically correct script for his own take on the misogynistic, chauvinistic spy thriller. One of the best amalgamations of type with treatment the series ever established, it’s sad to think that there were only eight more episodes featuring Hodgson after this.

Luckily, Nelson was able to carry the comic mantle expertly. Even after cancellation, renewal, and constant fretting over the Sci-Fi Channel mandates regarding content (this is a network that now considers professional wrestling as acceptable genre subject matter), MST3K still managed to deliver undeniable comic genius. Nowhere is this truer than in the now classic take on the clone organ harvesting extravaganza Parts: The Clonus Horror. Remember Michael Bay’s The Island from a couple of years back. Same plagiarized story. Dopey duplicates kept in a utopian resort learn they are actually body part banks for influential individuals. One rebellious replicant decides to fight the system. Boredom ensues. Unlike the other three installments of the series offered herein, Parts has problems that have very little to do with the quality of what’s going on and everything to do with unclear context and continuity. Unless you followed the show from Season 7 on, you’ll have no idea who Pearl Forrester, Professor Bobo, or Brain Guy actually are. You’ll hear Crow’s new voice and wonder why the switch was made. Granted, the PBS pledge drive segments are wonderful, but the lack of perspective and place may confuse the uninitiated.

In fact, the only fault found in any of the Mystery Science Theater 3000 material is the latter versions need to maintain season-long story arcs. Sci-Fi’s suits must have slipped a substantial gasket requiring a show built around a different movie every week to develop some manner of character/narrative continuity. It’s unnecessary, and makes future syndication seem scattered – or impossible. In any case, these delightful DVDs give us an opportunity to revisit the series without having to worry about messy torrents, Nth generation bootlegs, or DVD-R scams. They look amazing, and Rhino fleshes out the films with trailers, interviews (Rebel Set star Don Sullivan) and another installment of the MST3K Video Jukebox. Many forget just how many amazing songs and music based skits the comedians created, and this third go round collects some of the best.

Yet none of this really addresses the opening concern – who, indeed, was a better show host? Joel was a jolly if slightly cynical sort who let his razor sharp observations slowly stumble and creep up on you. He wasn’t the hit you over the head type that Mike masterfully manipulated. Hodgson often played as if he knew this was all a joke, retrofitting a lifetime exposed to WGN family fare as a means of making a grander, neo-nostalgic point. Nelson gave the premise all he could, frequently letting the robots redesign his reputation into slacker, stooge, cheesehead, and chump. You could call it a perfect example of humor yin and yang, the intellectual and the inbred blissfully blundering away together – and frankly, you’d be right. One of the main reasons Mystery Science Theater 3000 remains a TV classic is this combination of heart and head, the brainiac and the balderdash. It suggests no one is better and both are best. Indeed, to argue between Joel Hodgson and Mike Nelson is rather pointless. When something as brilliant as the episodes included in Volume 12 stands as validation, there’s no need to choose sides.

—Bill Gibron

Since it first became popular in the early ‘80s (at least to previously uninformed Western eyes), anime has functioned as a reminder of how imaginative 2D cartooning can be – and how derivative. Thanks to the influence of the Internet, the ease of access via new technology, and an absolute glut of product, what once seemed odd and special has been slightly marginalized due to overexposure. Even worse, purists have complained about the influence of CG elements sneaking into the process, the use of bitmaps and other shortcuts to create what used to take dedicated artisans months to accomplish. For them, and everyone who feels the genre has reached an aesthetic breaking point, there is the brilliant Paprika. Part mindf**k, part homage heavy hallucination, it’s everything devotees champion – and everything the traditionalists despise.

When an experimental device known as the DC Mini goes missing from a secret psychological research lab, the scientists in charge panic. The small machine is capable of recording, influencing, and even controlling an individual’s dreams. If it fell into the wrong hands, the untested tool can be linked to any mental monitoring system, resulting in a blur between reality and the subconscious. Doctors Chiba and Shima decide to employ “Paprika”, a digital alter ego that easily maneuvers through the nonsensical dangers of the dream realm. In fact, it’s been working with a dejected policeman who has been unable to catch an elusive murderer. His shame, along with the ambitions of others in the think tank, collide to create a carnival of corrupt, frequently horrifying delusions. As the real world and fantasy continue to merge, it will take the influence and imagination of everyone involved to stop the hideous evil that wants to save dreams by destroying reality.

While it will probably look amazing once Sony gets around to releasing a Blu-ray version of the title (due on 27 November), the standard DVD release of director Satoshi Kon’s epic Paprika is still a stunner. As the force behind such well loved efforts as Millennium Actress and Tokyo Godfathers, the animation maverick once again proves his undeniable gifts. Appropriating a classic 1993 novel by avant-garde author Yasutaka Tsutsui and twisting the premise on its head, Kon forges a reference laden tribute to the magic of movies. The narrative crashes into noir, musicals, fantasy, and sci-fi, with lush, unrelenting visuals like a compendium of Asian cultural iconography come to life. In fact, Paprika is one of the more Eastern oriented efforts in anime. Everything about it, from the allusions to the artwork, is reminiscent of the very fabric of Japan.

Thematically, the battle between modernity and myth, the customary attacking technology for supremacy, sits at the center of the tale. It’s a brilliant metaphor for contemporary existence and one that Kon employs optically to instill a sense of wonder mixed with danger. The central image in the film - the mad parade of religious and recreational symbols - suggests a wealth of history and heritage rallying against the sterile social framework. Whenever it arrives onscreen, its emblematic power is undeniable. Even more intriguing is the juxtaposition of syrupy J-Pop anthems with horrific, almost evil vistas. Kon constantly tweaks the horror film facets of the story, using the policeman’s nightmares as a means of creating suspense and dread. This mixing of styles, along with the reliance of pen and ink poetry will be the movie’s main force.

There will be some who don’t understand the motives or the meaning of the narrative. Paprika‘s elusiveness is obvious and is centered in a desire to keep questions unanswered and thoughts incomplete. We never really get a full handle on the DC Mini and how it will help psychotherapy. One just has to assume that, because it uncovers the subconscious, Freudians locked into interpreting such visions would find it viable. But then our villain argues over the purity of dreams, as if infiltrating their ethereal space is a crime against nature. The confusion collects, but luckily never adds up to very much. Thanks to Kon’s novel way with the artform, we excuse the occasional cloudiness.

And then there will be the art-oriented arguments. Many pedants may recoil at the dependence on the computer and other technical tweaks to deliver the traditional hand drawn style. Luckily, Kon never lets it overpower the everpresent human touch. Others will scoff at the script, wondering if the screenwriters were drunk or just reverting to juvenile ramblings for the sense of subconscious surrealism. Yet even with all the questions and concerns Paprika paints a nearly flawless model of sound married to vision. Providing a wealth of continuing pleasures that only expand upon additional viewings, it represents the highest order of the frequently overdone genre. It’s a movie that’s as impressive in its little moments as when it’s exploiting spectacle for the sake of nonstop action.

As for the digital presentation, the technical specifications are near reference quality. Sony Pictures Classic provides a wonderful 1.85:1 anamorphic widescreen image, colors cascading off the detail-rich transfer with terrific clarity. Sonically, there is a stellar Japanese Dolby Digital 5.1 mix and an equally effective English version. Anything beyond the original language track is rather pointless. And when it comes to extras, much of the material feels ported over from an original Japanese release (much of it has the appearance of made for TV EPKs). One of the best featurettes focuses on a conversation between Kon and author Tsutsui. Discussing the differences in approach between the novel and the film, it’s a fascinating look at the interpretation process. Equally compelling is a full length audio commentary in which the director (with the help of two other crew members) outlines the pitfalls and problems they had in realizing this unusual vision.

In contrast to the typical American animation, where anthropomorphized animals trade lame pop culture references within a message-heavy happenstance, Paprika is like 2001 without Kubrick’s obsessive ambiguity. It’s a big picture premise folded into a dozen personal tales, harvesting significant from the strange and wonderment from the well-honed. As he has done before, Kon continues to impress with his desire to bend the rules in order to fashion a whole new animated language. By introducing concepts that confuse as well as endear, that construct as much internal angst as they fuel entertainment bliss, he produces a kind of multidimensional drug. Like the DC Mini at the center of the story, Paprika doesn’t fully explain its purpose or potential. It leaves it up to us, the viewers, to figure it all out. And that’s half the fun of this fabulous film. The rest is what anime does best – amaze.

—Bill Gibron

Damn but the late Doris Wishman was a cinematic saint. She can entertain with a random shot of feet, or whisk us away on clouds of craziness with just a moment of badly processed post-production dubbing. In a motion-picture oeuvre that contained such breathless exploitation classics as Bad Girls Go to Hell, Another Day, Another Man, Gentleman Prefer Nature Girls, Blaze Starr Goes Nudist, Nude on the Moon, Double Agent 73, and Deadly Weapons, she never once established a single shred of celluloid logic. Her efforts frequently felt like fever dreams produced by too many Rob Roys, an excess of butt steaks, and untold hours sniffing sweat-accented Jean Nate. With stories centering around taboos and their imminent busting together with copious amounts of carnality, Wishman forged a name for herself in a realm where gals were typically given nothing more than a chauvinistic smack on the can. Later on, she would explore the outer reaches of the risqué, dominating the violence-tinged “Roughie” before heading into full-blown hardcore porno mode. But there was always an innocence in what this grindhouse pioneer proposed, a subtext that suggested that, no matter the circumstances, our heroines were genuinely good girls corrupted by the pasty, paternalistic forces of the male-dominated universe. In many ways, Wishman wasn’t just the first feminist—she was Bella Abzug with a Bolex.

It’s a typical sunny day in a pre-’60s Miami. Duke, a dastardly criminal with robbery on his mind, cons his less than felonious brother Steve into holding up a local banking institution. They argue about it a lot while on the way. The heist goes off without a hitch, but their planned rendezvous to retrieve another getaway car ends in engine trouble. Desperate, they carjack dishy dame Dorothy. Duke wants a ride to somewhere safe while he works out travel arrangement to Cuba with a bewildered boat captain. Steve is more interested in something soft and sensual. When they arrive at Dorothy’s Country Club, it turns out to be a nudist colony. The thugs are initially horrified. Crime is one thing, but bare bodies??? While Duke stays in the room and frets like a ferret, Steve is invited to become one of the many sun-worshippers enjoying the clean living and healthy lifestyle. As numerous naked people frolic and gad about, our potential paramours become much, much closer. Of course, big brother just wants his trip to pre-Castro country, and is brandishing a gun to get it. But when love blooms, especially in a place where wholesomeness and natural beauty thrive, evil cannot win. This is one Hideout in the Sun that may end one goon’s larcenous career - and save another one’s soul.

Hideout in the Sun, the director’s first-ever film (and in color at that), is definitely a throwback to her goody-two-shoes days. Lacking anything remotely randy and giving equal time to both the actual nudists and the professional models hired to play topless, this is early raincoat-crowd fodder at its most tame and blameless. With the Supreme Court ruling that the inherent medical nature of the lifestyle lifted the otherwise solid smut tag, Hideout plays like baby steps into the brazen. It was Wishman’s debut, and yet the recognizable mise-en-mess that would symbolize her cinema is firmly in place. We get shots of shoes, dialogue delivered by individuals off-screen, carefully placed towels and beach balls, as well as numerous sequences of unclothed honeys sitting around, posing. Hideout amplifies some of these soon-to-be clichés as Wishman places lead Dolores Carlos in a fountain setting and lets delightfully dancing waters give her figure a noticeable dowsing. Of course, where there are nudists, there’s volleyball and swimming, and the obvious lack of athleticism is laughable. The guys cavort like girls, and the girls resemble infants just learning to lift their heads. It’s all part of the genre’s ditzy dynamic, and it’s a certifiable scream.

The lawless on the lam narrative, however, is less than successful. Duke is so highly and tightly wound he gives off metaphysical five o’clock shadow sparks. Steve, on the other hand, is like a rump roast reanimated with Brylcream. Even in a watery setting, his slicked-back barber hair is an Exxon Valdez waiting to happen. When actor Earl Bauer turns on his heartlight, however, he’s about as suave as a kidney stone. He should be playing a strip-club owner, not a wussed-out armed robbery wannabe with a penchant to acquiesce to his brother’s every wish. The laughable Cuban subplot, featuring non-Hispanic actors in full Jose Jimenez mode, will prickle your PC penchants, and the general lack of looks among the performers and local color will have you wondering what granddad saw in such shoddy sexuality. Of course, it’s important to remember the role exploitation played in cinema’s coming of age. Without films like Hideout in the Sun, movies made to challenge the status quo when it came to potential subject matter, we wouldn’t have had the ‘70s post-modern explosion in film. They took the lumps while Hollywood and its independent cousins reaped the lax rules rewards. Doris Wishman was doubly important in that she proved a woman’s commercial viability among a very male-eccentric marketplace. While Hideout in the Sun may seem docile by today’s standard, it was positively shocking in 1960, for reasons both in front of and behind the camera.

Oddly enough, this title is not released by longtime Wishman supporters, Something Weird Video. Instead, Retro Seduction Cinema, apart of Pop Cinema, is handling the release, and they do a damn fine job. Offered up in a two disc Deluxe edition, we get two different versions of the film (1.33:1 full screen - the proper OAR - and a newly cropped 1.85:1 anamorphic widescreen edition), and it looks very good, even if there are abundant age defects and edit issues. One has to remember that a limited number of prints were struck of these demographically specific movies, and to find one in pristine shape is next to impossible. After traveling around the country for years, suffering the snips and clips of various community standards, that a copy exists÷period - is pretty amazing. Thanks to a digital revamp, the colors are bright, the details deliberate, and the skin tones nice and pasty. It definitely recalls flesh peddling of the early exploitation era.

Sadly, the sonic situation is the same as well. The Dolby Digital Mono is maintained expertly, the title song a hilarious mishmash of jerkwad jazz and lounge lizarding. As for bonus features, we get a commentary with Wishman biographer Michael Bowen (good, if a tad to centered on the man himself), an audio-only interview with the director herself (classic!) and a talk with grindhouse producer extraordinaire David F. Friedman (too short, but sensational nonetheless). Along with postcards from a nudist colony, a 1960 newsreel, a Retro-Seduction Cinema trailer vault, and a wonderful booklet containing articles and Q&A, this is an excellent digital package.

One day, Doris Wishman will be celebrated as the evocative, experimental, avant-garde directorial diva she clearly was. Until then, those of us already in the know can settle in with a selection of her notorious No Wave classics. Thanks to DVD, we can now add Hideout in the Sun to her legacy’s list. It’s a solid sunbathing enchantment.

—Bill Gibron

1965 was a transitional year for international icons The Beatles. It would see the release of their artistic “breakthrough” album, the pot-inspired mostly acoustic gem Rubber Soul. It marked their turn from pop music phenoms into actual artists, dispensing with the cover songs and collective cutesy routine that made up the majority of their marketability. In its place was a growing sense of self, a realization that the mania began on their little British Isle was spreading, unabated, across every aspect of popular culture. And it was the year they reluctantly starred in their second feature film, Help! Hoping to capitalize on the success of A Hard Day’s Night, director Richard Lester kept the eccentric English humor intact. Gone, however, was the carefree innocence that seemed to spark their first foray into film. In its place was a workmanship and ethic that, while winning, provided portents of careering things to come.

After receiving a ring from an adoring fan, Beatles drummer Ringo finds himself locked in a life or death struggle with the notorious Kaili worshipping cult. Seems the piece of jewelry is one of their sacred ornaments, and whoever wears it will end up a human sacrifice to their god. Trying to avoid the murderous motives of High Priest Clang and his henchman, the boys seek help from a jeweler, the employees of an Indian Restaurant, and a crazed scientist named Foot and his bumbling assistant Algernon. Unfortunately, the only person able to help is fellow cult member Ahme. She seems sweet on Paul, and wants to return the ring to its rightful owner. With the help of Scotland Yard, the band records under heavy military guard, travels to Switzerland to avoid the thugs, and winds up confronting the perplexingly persistent fanatics on the shores of the Bahamas.

Help! is actually a hard movie to hate. The Beatles may be a tad dispirited here, less hyper and more humbled by what was rapidly becoming a cultural cocoon trapping them within their own fame (the next year—1966—would mark their decision to stop touring and concentrate on writing and recording only), but they make a perfect proto-punk Marx Brothers. While Ringo is the supposed star, perhaps because of the glowing notices he received from Night, it’s actually the entire foursome that truly shines. The reconfigured screenplay gives every member a standout sequence, from Paul’s amazing adventure ‘on the floor’ to John’s constant taunting of every authority figure in the film. The main narrative still centers on the emblematic drummer with the tendency toward ostentaceous jewelry and a large neb, but the other three turn in delightfully deadpan performances as well. It helps sell the rather clumsy, crackpot concept.

Equally endearing is the superb supporting cast. Made up of many then UK luminaries, Leo McKern and Eleanor Brom are excellent as opposing sides of the killer cult. Handling the pigeon English elements of his role with class and creativity, the future Rumpole of the Bailey never registers a single false note. Brom, on the other hand, is a strange choice for a romantic lead. Dark, imposing and very focused, she is a million miles from the hippy dippy flower children that were coming to mark the midpoint of the ‘60s. Returning to the Beatles camp for a second cinematic go round, Victor Spinetti is the perfect nonsense spewing mad scientist. Along with soon to be inseparable sidekick Roy Kinnear (the two became synonymous because of their brilliant chemistry here) they literally light up the screen. The sequence where they put Ringo into a metal expanding machine is a classic of screwball science shtick. In fact, there is a wonderful balance between physical and intellectual comedy here, something that definitely differentiates Help! from Night’s more normative approach.

And then there’s the music. While different entities love to claim the title of “Originator of the Music Video”, the Beatles will always remain the format’s grandest champions. Unlike Night, which used a performance based paradigm almost exclusively to showcase the songs, Help! creates little mini musical montages that form the foundation for everything MTV would do two decades later. While the title track purposely recalls the previous film, the next number, the fabulous pop tone “You’re Gonna Lose That Girl” sets the new standard for such presentations. Playing in a dimly lit studio, their silhouettes barely visible through the fog of cigarette (?) smoke, the boys bang out one of Lennon’s best, a catchy little number with a tantalizingly tough lyrical line. Indeed, most of the songs in Help! would avoid the June/Moon/Spoon musings of their Tin Pan Alley take on rock and roll to enter into realms that are dark, confrontational, and dismissive.

With titles like “You’ve Got to Hide Your Love Away” (a nice nod to new buddy Bob Dylan), “The Night Before” and “Another Girl”, The Beatles were proving that they’d matured, and indeed, one of the main reasons some fans don’t like this glorified goofball lark is that it posits grown men, ready to explore the mysteries both inside and outside their insular world as juvenile jokesters. Many of the gags are aimed at the lowest levels of wit, and even some of the smarter material is offset by a clear cut cartoonish ideal. Still, there are incredibly clever moments (the opening sequence where we see the boys’ fictional living quarters, the police inspector’s spot-on Ringo impression) when the group’s inherent intelligence shines through. In fact, aside from the standard action film finish which finds the gang involved in car chases and foot races, the verbal humor is on par with anything Night had to offer.

As part of the long awaited DVD presentation from Capital Records and Apple Corps, we learn about the difficulty director Richard Lester had in coming up with another Beatles project. Popularity was demanding the boys’ return to the big screen, but since another mock documentary about their career was out of the question, something slightly more surreal had to be created. On the second disc of added content (sadly, sans current input of the remaining band members) we hear stories about the infamous amount of ganja on set, the description of a disastrous sequence that didn’t make the final cut, and confirm what many at the time were already quite aware of—the Beatles were chaffing at their continued closed-off existence. It was almost impossible for them to travel anywhere—even on set—without crowds of screaming fans isolating them. It’s clear that what seemed exciting in A Hard Day’s Night was becoming more and more unbearable by Help!

This is perhaps why the film feels strained to some. The madcap mop tops who captured everyone’s hearts a year before had become slightly dampened slaves to their incalculable success. The notion that they were now international trend setters, mocked and mimicked by every group looking to ride the cresting British Invasion must have manifested itself in ways that, subconsciously, snuck onto the celluloid. It is clear that the fun loving blokes we see cascading down the Alps to the glorious sounds of John Lennon’s classic “Ticket To Ride” would soon become introspective—and independent—parts of an unique whole. They would go on to make albums that transcended the medium, offering timeless examples of composition as art. But Help! remains a wonderful testament to a time when being a Beatle was still satisfying—at least, on the cinematic surface. 

—Bill Gibron

So Jesus was a seagull. Or in deference to all devout Christians out there, a bird can be a messianic figure once it has a Trial of Billy Jack-like spiritual reawakening. Guess all those sacrosanct sightings in bagels, Danishes, and pizza slices aren’t so silly after all. For anyone old enough to recall the whole Godspell/Superstar revivalism of the early ‘70s (as clear a mea culpa for the preceding ‘60s as any culture can create), Jonathan Livingston Seagull was a plain-speak Bible combined with The Unexpurgated Guide to Water Fowl. It was, to paraphrase Woody Allen, EST with Feathers. Today it would be dismissed as New Age heresy—or perhaps, a literal fine-feathered soup for the easily enlightened soul—but back when flares were fashionable and people were feeling powerless against a corrupt government machine, this was Deepak Chopra with wings.

Joseph Campbell would be proud of the mythos manufactured here. Constantly taking off on his own, Jonathan Livingston Seagull is one disgruntled bird. He wants to fly faster, travel farther, and ignore the outdated laws of The Flock’s dictatorial elders. He’s a rebel, and he’ll never ever be anything but undeniably good. Instead of picking at garbage for sustenance, he’d rather try out new dangerous wing patterns and partake of internal monologues. As a result, he soon finds himself outcast from his feathered family. On his own for the first time, he drinks in the initial freedom. He travels across an unnamed nation, experiencing the vastness of the far off horizons.

But as the realities of a life alone start to sink in, Jonathan stumbles. Soon, he finds himself in a surreal world where lives are measured in centuries, not years, and where reincarnation allows his kind to transcend their body and teleport through space. After learning more about his special spiritual powers, Jonathan returns to The Flock. He wants to spread the Word about the world outside their landfill living conditions. He even takes another non-conformist seagull under his wing. Tragedy tests both of their mantles. It’s all part of being one with the cosmos and discovering your inner self.

Author Richard Bach, writer of this unquestionable cultural phenomenon that drove many a stunned student directly to the water pipe, was lambasted for cookie-cutter literary sloppiness and a far-too-liberal interpretation of man’s secular status in the cosmic hierarchy - but that didn’t hurt his bank account any. Every matriculating freshman found this best-selling bird book smack dab in the middle of the required-reading list, while older generations, desperate for some post-sexual revolution respite, tucked into the novel’s altruistic excess like highballs at an open bar. As with most fads, it quickly faded, but just to put a cap on the craze, writer/director Hal Bartlett brought the fable to the big screen.

If you can tolerate the touchy-feely foundation of Bach’s backwards belief system, and then Zen hit maker Neil Diamond’s sonic take on same, Jonathan Livingston Seagull is a stunning artistic experience. It is, without a doubt, one of the more visually magnificent movies ever made. Oscar-nominated for its outstanding cinematography (by Disney True-Life Adventures photographer Jack Couffer) and editing (vast sweeping vistas courtesy of Jack P. Keller and James Galloway), it is a sumptuous optical wonder, a nature-based work of cinematic art. You can stuff your CGI – this is scope sans unnecessary visual tweaks. 

When we first meet the title character, he is soaring majestically through cotton soft clouds and over hyper-realistic seashore settings. It’s the Garden of Eden as clear California dreamin’. As slow motion waves crash against abandoned beaches, our hero hovers and dives, sun setting slowing to produce a perfect orange glow. It’s just incredible. Jonathan Livingston Seagull actually plans on using this image-based bravado for the vast majority of its storytelling—and we’re willing to buy it, up to a point. Indeed, the minute Mr. “Song Sung Blue” opens his pipes to pitch operatic, we start to shrink from the conceit. There is technically nothing wrong with Diamond’s score. It’s never pop songy, but it does get mighty saccharine and silly at times.

When the birds begin to speak, however, all bets are off. Since the book allowed the interaction between the avian characters to be semi-subjective in nature, it was an easier premise to buy. But when given the voice of a slightly irritating nebbish, Mr. Seagull becomes spoiled. There are several times throughout the course of this film when you wish a parent or down-covered pal would walk up to our hero and smack him upside the beak. If you’re going to anthropomorphize a creature, why make him so gosh-darned whiny and borderline insufferable?

You can almost hear actor James Franciscus balk during the voice-over. He can’t believe some of the lumbering lines he’s given. Luckily, everyone else is much less grating. Richard Crenna, Juliet Mills, Hal Holbrook, and Dorothy McGuire all do a bang-up job of making us believe these motionless entities are actually conversing (this is 1973, remember—a tad too soon for F/X moving mouths). While it may have been possible to make this film without all of Bach’s TM-laden psychobabble, it does help deliver the movie’s main point. Without it, we’d have 100 minutes of lovely landscapes and little else.

Thematically, Jonathan Livingston Seagull is stuck in supporting something best described as ‘nice guy non-conformity’. Our amiable albatross wants desperately to teach The Flock what he knows—about flying, about living, about avoiding eating your meals out of a massive rubbish heap. But according to our mighty author, people…sorry, gulls are the winged version of sheep—easily led and dumb as dirt. Jonathan must have a near-death epiphany, followed by a full-blown psychedelic freak-out, before he learns the power of one…bird. The sudden shift into New Testament territory begins when our hero delivers his sermon on the mount…of garbage. Then he resurrects a fellow gull who flew too close to a hazard, Icarus style, and cracked his plumed coconut. Sadly, there is no Passion like scourging. This was 1972 after all.

During the final fifteen minutes, we keep waiting for the cast of Disney’s Tropical Tiki Room Revue to step up and start singing “Could We Start Again Please.” It all gets very heavy handed and meta-metaphysical, trying to be every dogma to all mankind. Yet buried inside all the self-reflection and actualization is a kindly missive about being yourself and avoiding the corrosion of conventionality. So if you simply give the story its dated wacky packaging and enjoy the sights, you’ll get a great deal out of this preachy pictorial. Jonathan Livingston Seagull may argue for unrealistic altruism, individual sacrifice and the quest for freedom, but he remains—at least in film form—a pretty inconsistent pigeon to carry such a heavy handed communication.

For those of us fond of our formative years, reflecting with a new sense of personal perspective on everything and everyone that made those glorified days important, a few instrumental entities are bound to fail the significance test. Mood rings, space food sticks, and George McGovern do indeed become less momentous in the light of a three decade space time update. Jonathan Livingston Seagull is another such artifact. As a film, it has a visual power that’s destined to endure. As a philosophy, it gives the Reverend Moon and his group marrying followers a real run for their money.

—Bill Gibron