Armand Assante's 120/80: Stressed To Kill (first trailer)

My fringe film career marches on.

Here is the latest trailer and art.

Film stars Bill Oberst Jr. and Armand Assante.

Daddy's Pride and Joy

A father seriously lacking intestinal fortitude has a tough time dealing with his daughter's murderous nature.

Although he finds a solution to his 'problem', the solution, like many solutions, creates many more problems.

I'm going into production on this film towards the end of the year. I'm very excited by the prospect.

Don't Kow-Tow To The Noise

 

 

Two years in the making, my film Pond Scum nears completion.

Truly a collaborative effort, it has grown and morphed and mutated like a living organism into something that is, strangely enough, about the nature of creativity.

 

What I like most about filmmaking is the evolution of each project, and how the subject matter brings the like-minded together.

Frankly, I make films based on what fires me up. I make films with budgets and without budgets. There is always a way. That's what being creative is. Finding a way. Finding your own way. And ignoring the noise of negativity, envy, those projecting their own insecurities onto you, and those kow-towing to convention.

 

I have no illusions about Pond Scum's fate beyond completion.

It is dedicated to cinema's great revolutionary, Koji Wakamatsu, who may spin in his grave when he sees it. Who knows!?

In Deepest Laymon Country

On my way out of Northern California, I took a detour that led me to the door of this extremely troubling house.

I answered its call, and found myself sucked into its musky dark. Not unlike embracing a stranger.

I'm no believer in ghosts, but the house was oppressive, perhaps a once active venue for the horrors of bodily trespass, the murder of the young, and pure exclamations of hate.

Though truly unnerved by the house's rancid history, its bleak repose fascinated me, and made me its consenting prisoner. The light here was arrested at the slanted walls, denied its penetrative power. When I finally departed, several thorned vines tore at my coat and attempted to stop me from driving away.

For a moment, I was part of its residual hurt, and the thing welcomed my morbid fascination.

The images smart now within me like little blows to the head. The pleasure was worth the pain. I can't deny that.

I've driven thousands of miles and haunted lost towns for decades in search of gold like this. Nothing but reckless sexual abandon can come close to the bittersweet beauty of this. Like the whistles of the long dead in sunless woods, these places pierce the psyche, reminding us that time takes it all from us, so use it wisely, because you're dead and banished long time. 

Richard Laymon, the wonderful scribe who knew these places, and traveled these roads often, felt close on this journey.

I thought of Barlow, where The Woods Are Dark is set, as I wet my shoes in the soggy surroundings of this House of Hate. I thought of The Cellar also, and its villain's journey through darkest California where vile, natural deeds trailed him like permanent exhaust.

I'm alive in these places. Alive with the irreverent dead.

Alarma Mother Lode

  

Prior to a journey recently taken, I hit the Alarma (magazine) mother lode, and couldn't be happier about it -- despite the fact that nobody depicted in the magazine itself is particularly happy.

Every now and then, we need to reset the counter, energize, regroup. Call it what you want, but us humans we need a break from the grind, the hussle, the tide of hypocrisy, and that day finally arrived for me. I'd been as busy as a one-armed juggler editing a doco I'm very fond of, writing a screenplay, and finishing a novel. So, with some business pending in LA, I planned my culture hunt (that would make it c-unt for short), and left the house with an important address given to me by a friend. He knew of my penchant for all things Mexican and bizarre, and felt inclined to steer me in a fresh direction.

My idea of recreation (solo recreation, anyway) is usually movies and bookshops, so I'm constantly tracking the global release patterns and whereabouts of various movies. I never stop looking for the wild and wonderful books and magazines that aren't so easy to find, and my natural curiosity is rarely dampened. Gems like Alarma can't be found on-line or at a traditional newsstand. Unless you're living in Mexico, you've got to click into predator mode to track down these totally unique and audacious weekly magazines, you've got to be hungry, you've got to kick down doors, spill some blood, and venture into neighborhoods where nobody knows your name (not in English, anyway!)

After a visit to the wonderful Luis De Jesus bookshop on Hollywood Boulevard where I picked up a book on creepy dolls and a Bukowski bio, I headed for East LA with the fresh address. There, in LA's answer to darkest Tijuana, I stumbled upon the Alarma mother lode.

At first, I thought the Alarmas in the foggy plastic bag, placed high on a shelf to avoid the eyes of kiddies,  were copies of the same issue. Fortunately, I was dead wrong. When I presented the protective bag to the cashier, she tore it open and asked me if I wanted everything in the bag or just one issue?  I replied "Just one issue," but when six more fanned out across the counter like a lucky hand in a game of cards, my pulse quickened and I blurted: "I'll take 'em all. Gracias!"  I then added a cheerful  "Buenos noces!" as I departed with my brown paper bag of crime scene goodness. I had such a spring in my step, I could have leapt tall buildings with Superman.

I drove home in a state of excitement while listening to the Drive soundtrack and a podcast on, you guessed it!, obscure soundtracks (Mr. One-Track-Mind Rides Again!) Now and then, I'd pull an Alarma out of the bag and leaf through it impatiently under the dim interior light.

I'm sure my idea of a great day is several miles south of yours, but I'm certainly happiest when I'm following my own sun.

Enjoy these treats.