The Loves of Andy Milligan

Jimmy McDonough's book on exploitation filmmaker Andy Milligan, The Ghastly One, is one of the best books I've ever read on filmmaking and forging a life true to your nature. The two somehow go hand-in-hand.

I'm reading the book slowly, and savoring every word like Belgian chocolate, because I don't want it to end. I know it will end, of course, but I'm putting the inevitable off. I'm delaying a miserable future without this book's magnificent revelations and life lessons. If nothing else, Milligan understood human beings very well. He wasn't terribly impressed with them, but he sure had a handle on what makes them tick, lick, trick, and fick.

He had great taste in movies, too. Tony Richardson's Mademoiselle ('66) was a glittering favorite of his, and it's not hard to see why. Aside from being a stunning piece of subversive cinema, it reflects Milligan's cynical and deliciously lurid world view.

Jeanne Moreau plays a young woman, a school teacher, who is occupied with the destruction of a small, country town while pining for a handsome Italian wood chopper. The Italian is being blamed for Moreau's acts by the racist locals, but he soliders on regardless, handicapped by his weakness for the (not-so) fair sex. Hefty complications ensue.

The film, written by Marguerite Duras, and based on a story by the inimitable Jean Genet, is an unforgettable essay on evil, racism, and deep repression. Moreau, as usual, is a revelation, and proves once again that she was and still is an original without peer. What she does with a stare or the subtlest of gestures transforms every moment of her screen time into a work of complex artistry.

Ettore Manni plays 'Manou', the object of Moreau's affections and the town's simmering hatred. In one scene, he enjoys a siesta beside a fallen log in the forest. His partner berates him for being lazy, but he clearly benefits from this act of renewal. What makes this scene particularly fascinating is that the film's late and great cinematographer, David Watkin, was renowned for snoozing on the set of his movies. On imdb, he is quoted as saying that sleeping is "... the one thing you can do on a movie set that doesn't make you more tired!"

I'm curious now about the source of this scene in the film. Did Mr. Watkin's presence inspire it, or did it inspire Mr. Watkin?

The film's cinematography is ravishing. I mean truly ravishing. Orgasmic ravishing. I stared at it with breathless anxiety, marveling at Watkin's use of single source light and shadows. I shoot a great deal myself and favor the natural over the artificial. As a passionate cinematographer, the work on this movie filled me with enough inspiration to power another dozen movies. I urge you to buy the DVD and submit to its power. Please permit yourself to be sucked into the emotional and visual maelstrom of its fevered wonder.

Beyond highly recommended!

***

A review of Jimmy McDonough's The Ghastly One will be
posted when I'm ready to bid adieu to it (sometime this year or next)

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.