Roger Ebert, RIP

Bloody hell, the good guys are going down like tenpins lately: Herbert, Hautala, Franco, and now Ebert?

Even poor old Iain Banks (The Wasp Factory) is dying of cancer. What the fuck kind of filthy demon has crawled into the guts of 2013's maiden quarter?

I'll miss Ebert a helluva lot. I've followed him for thirty years. I have his books, I read his reviews religiously every Friday, and I visit his site Wednesdays in case he's posted something early (which he often did).

I first encountered him in '81 when I touched down in Detroit to begin a new life and 'Sneak Previews' came on the TV. The boys reviewed SCANNERS and gave SAVAGE WEEKEND a Dog of the Week award. After that, I was hooked, and I always hankered for those Dogs. The Dogs were made for my kind. Our kind, if you're reading this.

Having friends who agree with you on everything is not the point of friends. Sharing differences and engaging with those is the point. That's why I considered Ebert a twice removed "friend". Yes, Ebert hated most slashers, though not as much as Siskel (both admired HALLOWEEN, remember!), and he did champion a few films not worth a damn, but he was a bloody decent writer, and he made a convincing case every time.

I'll never forget his FREEWAY (Mathew Bright) review where he pointed out that it's not WHAT the film is about, it's HOW it's about. Sounds a little cryptic at first glance, but makes total sense when you let the words cool. It's the unique angle a filmmaker brings to the work that makes the work great or deserving of steaming turd status. Ebert articulated that in every review.

To the painful end, Ebert soldiered on, sharing the load recently with Roeper and a few others, and reviewing stuff he was passionate about. He was a potent writer, a man who drew you into a literary conversation, not a monologue. I admired his conversational style, his easy-to-digest sentences that sprung from his heart and belly. He hungered for cinema. Like we all do.

He had a kinky side, too, and embraced some good old-fashioned depravity when he teamed up with Russ Meyer and his cinema of the massive mammary.

I don't trust a man who denies his depravities, and Ebert didn't. He was a man of truth. That's why he endured.

I'll really, really miss his intelligence, wit, and passion. He's one of the very few critics who went mainstream but retained his brain. And you never got the sense that he saw you sitting down there while he was up on high tossing you his crumbs.

RIP, Mr. Ebert. You really were one of us.

Does Piranha Deliver The Sausage?

Exploitation films are notoriously guilty of selling the sizzle and failing to deliver the sausage. Us cinephiles carry histories of bitter cinematic disappointment, a disappointment that occasionally kills the passion. Of course, the passion, like a craving for a drug, doesn't stay dead long.

Long rhymes with schlong, doesn't it?, and there's a bonza visual gag featuring one in Alexandre Aja's fantastic remake of Joe Dante's Piranha. Thanks to Aja and his team of enlightened collaborators, this 3-D monster movie delivers the above-mentioned sausage, the sausage beneath the sizzle, and every exploitation element a true exploitation fan could dream about.

Bottom line -- See it!

The story is simple and logical , a skeleton on which to hang set pieces. An earthquake causes the rock shelf between two lakes to split. Prehistoric piranhas from one lake are released into the other. The other lake is currently playing host to a bunch of inebriated Spring Breakers. The inevitable result is bloodshed, suspense, and nudity on a grand scale.

Thanks to ace cinematographer John R. Leonetti, this exploitation masterpiece looks positively amazing; it's directed (by Aja) with precision, care, great invention, and enormous craft; and is graced with some of the bloodiest set pieces this side of Saving Private Ryan. For the gore-hound, it is a smorgasbord of human dismemberment.

Thanks to the supreme efforts of FX maestros Howard Burger and Greg Nicotero, we get Fulci*-level violence in a Jaws-like scenario. Faces are pulled from skulls, breasts are chewed to the rib cage, and a penis is torn from the body of a sleazy porno producer. And if that isn't enough (of course it isn't! Ed.), we get an angry little fishy eating its way out of a co-ed's face. It's all in the name of fun, of course, and the pacing, thank Christ, never lets up.

There's nothing to really dislike in Piranha -- unless you went in expecting a serious marine documentary or a film populated with real people (nobody here is real, and the teen love story is appallingly written). Script depth notwithstanding, this hits all the right notes, and it's a sausage that wears its aesthetically rich skin proudly. The mayhem is directed with relish and passion, and the non-stop boobage on parade may give the late Russ Meyer a reason to jerk off in his grave.

Unfortunately, the film was not as passionately embraced by the public as distributor Dimension would have hoped. The redundant but enjoyably brutal Stallone action pic, The Expendables, outgunned Piranha (3-D***), and may have prevented it from swimming into the public's periphery, which is a shame. Hopefully, this exploitation gem, which truly delivers because the makers truly cared (about everything but decent characterization*), will be rediscovered elsewhere.


* Fulci (Lucio) directed watershed gore classics such as Zombie, The Beyond, City of the Living Dead, and The House By The Cemetery in the late 70's and 80's, and became notorious for the extremity of his work (admittedly, the stuff between the gore in Fulci's films was often dull)

** Worth noting that the original Piranha was written by a real writer, John Sayles, and though the film had a much lower budget, it possessed several more "dimensions" than this

*** I continue to detest 3-D, and this didn't alter my view of the process. During the more frantic sequences, the blurring and strange, uncertain focusing made my eyes and brain ache

How To Launch A Coffin Boner

Are the dead horny? Do they lie in their coffins thinking about sex? Do they masturbate with skeletal fists, and shoot dust instead of semen?

In the darkness of a coffin, inspiration is scarce. A bug tapping on your casket from above is unlikely to generate wood. A worm crawling into your eyeball is not comparable to a Hustler Scratch-'N'Sniff centerfold.

So what do dead perverts do for kicks when nights are cold and mumbled obscenities are met with silence?

My thoughts turn to Russ Meyer today. I read his biography, Big Bosoms and Square Jaws (by Jimmy McDonough) a couple of months ago. It's a splendid portrait of the man, a true original, a magnificent filmmaker, and, in his final years, a victim of greedy, ignorant fuckers who exploited his deteriorating mental state and wealth.

Now, having spent almost six years lying face-up in a coffin in Stockton, California, Russ deserves some inspiration, a gift, a carnal trinket that will ease the pain of subterranean imprisonment, and restore the old urges that charged 27 terrific features.

That gift is the Dark Sky dvd of John Peyser's The Centerfold Girls, a classic chunk of exploitation that serves up an entree of violence and sleaze with a literal dessert of tits.

This '74 effort from producer Arthur (The Candy Snatchers) Marks stars the scary Andrew Prine as a knife wielding sicko who is erasing "dirty girls" who dare to parade their nude bodies in lewd magazines. Like a classical nutjob, Prine (as 'Clement Dunne') tracks down a bunch of centerfold cuties from a particular magazine, Bachelor, kills them, then returns home to cut out their faces from the magazine.

The film's structure is interesting in that there are three distinct stories focusing on the stalking and butchering of various women. The common thread in these stories is Clement Dunne. It's not entirely believable that he manages to locate each girl, but since logic is not this film's strong suit, such concerns are quickly swept to the side.

Of all the American exploitation pieces of I have seen from this period, this comes closest to the feel of a Japanese pink film. Much of it reminded me of Yasuharu Hasebe flicks such as Assault Jack The Ripper. It's certainly not as powerful or competent as that film, but the carefree use of nudity and relentless focus on deviant sexuality felt very Japanese.

Now to why this film could possibly launch a coffin boner for Russ, RIP.

Director Peyser and producer Marks take every opportunity to get their actresses topless. Breasts burst like rabbits from every frame and tops are flung off with riot-like frenzy by the lovely female thespians (and lespians). In one scene, a girl removes her top twice, dresses twice, then removes it again. Why? Because audiences demand it! No woman escapes here without flashing her proverbial assets.
Down in his common law coffin, hand on boner, Russ Meyer would be in his element with this flick. Although the breasts on display are not Russ-approved in terms of size, the master breastmeister would surely approve of the gleeful surrendering to upper body exposure these fine ladies embrace.

As a sleazy thriller, the flick has style and spirit. Mostly mean spirit. Some of the women are really roughed up, and the harsh words bellowed at them by the killer are not suitable for children -- not even most adult children.

Serial killer flicks were not commonplace in '74, so The Centerfold Girls stands as a pioneer in this genre.

Sex, violence, obscene language, more sex, and serial breast exposure -- these are a few of my favorite things... and they're the makings of a raging coffin boner.

A Giant Thank You To Everybody

This morning, the 109th Follower of this blog appeared. Less than twelve months ago, the blog didn't exist.

I started Phantom of Pulp because I've always had a strong desire to share my passions. I did it when I was a six year old, and I'm doing it forty years later. I'm the guy who's always driving to someone's house -- with my multi-system DVD player -- to show them an obscure movie or expose them to a bizarre book. With the internet and blogging, I figured it was time to share what electrifies me with many like-minded individuals (relatively like-minded, anyway).

I've always been attracted to the stuff you'll find on this blog. It feeds my hunger for brain food. It excites me. It fulfills me. It strokes my insatiable curiosity for everything. It makes life worth living and encourages exploration.

I didn't intend to create a horror blog or a movie blog or a book blog, and I know this doesn't fall into any of those categories. That's why I called it Phantom of Pulp. Pulp, top me, is the product of fertile, unfettered minds.

I post stuff that gets lots of feedback and no feedback at all. Reviews of current releases get quick responses. Reviews of older flicks attract comments, too.

Porno-themed posts run hot and cold, if comments are anything to go by. Porno paperbacks seem to hit the spot for a select few, while my pieces on extreme pornography assume orphan status; either nobody wants them, or nobody wants to be seen to want them. Who knows?

I'll keep posting because extreme pornography, to me, says so much about human nature and our extraordinary diversity as a species. Posts on illustrators such as Toshio Saeki (a favorite) are generally well received by a consistent few, as are posts on current and not-so-current horror books.

The 109 of you who officially "follow" this blog are, no doubt, as different from each other in some ways as we are similar in other ways. Those differences keep the feedback hopping.

Personally, I'm a creature of extreme contrasts. On a weekend, I can eat breakfast while reading Toshio Saeki, then spend the rest of the morning watching Fly Away Home before screening In A Glass Cage for a friend in the afternoon. Before I fall asleep, I will probably crack open an Enid Blyton picture book that has just arrived from England.

I am fascinated by everything. EVERYTHING! My intellectual curiosity is unlimited. Hopefully, this blog reflects that.

The words weird, disgusting, and shocking rarely enter my internal lexicon. I find some material confronting, but, almost immediately, it becomes fascinating to me and worthy of further investigation. New obsessions are as regular as sunrises for me. The richness of our world is something to celebrate. Those who push again the tide of mediocrity need to be honored, embraced, and encouraged. I honor them here.

I want to thank and honor my 109 official Followers and those who Follow this blog discreetly for allowing me to share my passions with you and for contributing to the enrichment of my psyche.

If you folks were running the planet, I wouldn't need this blog.

As filmmaking duty calls (THE CLOTH DAGGER, my new film, is in production), I wish you all a Merry Xmas and Happy New Year!

See you in 2010.

Plague of the Ad Mats

More ad mats from my personal archive.

The Beware of the Brethren ('72) art seems to be channeling Squirm, but don't let that fool you.

The mighty Russ comes to Melbourne's Roma cinema, Village's dedicated flesh palace.

"A Real Blazing Bosoms" still confounds me.

Supervixens was, unfortunately, cut by the Australian censors. Charles Napier's violent stomping scene hit the cutting room floor.

This ad mat is pretty terrible; the film, I'm sure many will agree, is amazing.

If you haven't seen it, may God pity you.

Summer Night Fever ('78), though an adequate teen sex romp, was easily bested in every category by Alfred Sole's '76 masterpiece of Catholic terror, Alice Sweet Alice (aka Communion aka Holy Terror).

Paula Sheppard, who played Alice, later appeared in the bizarre Liquid Sky ('82) from director Slava Tsukerman. It was her final film role.

Brooke Shields played Karen, Alice's sister.

The Corgi Books novelization of the film, Communion ('77) by Frank Lauria, is a good read, and is just 179 pages long.

My father took me to see this. He fell asleep after the first ten minutes. That was fine by me. It meant I didn't have to listen to comments like "How ridiculous!" and "It's hard to believe that grown men are making these films."

A Peckinpah classic at the drive-in.

In order to see this R-rated movie, I tried telling my mother that it was a religious film about a cross of iron. She didn't buy it. Even she knew who Sam Peckinpah was.

Ransom ('75) is a plodding actioner, but Revenge of the Cheerleaders ('76) is a fun, campy softcore comedy that stars, amongst other luminaries, the late Rainbeaux Smith, who had previously starred in Lemora - A Child's Tale of the Supernatural ('73), a Lovecraftian film that I adore.