I am my ideal

I had a drama professor back in college who was a bit of a rogue, but an outstanding instructor nonetheless. For some reason presumably tied to departmental politics, he was the person who usually got tasked with teaching the foundation courses in Traditions of Western Drama or whatever the prevailing uni-speak is for "reading a shitload of old plays and discussing why they matter."

These were the mandatory courses that every aspiring thespian or playwright had to suffer through before passing onward and upward to the sexier, hands-on parts of the curriculum, but this professor had a knack for making us care about the plays discussed in class. More importantly, instead of conducting the class as a watered-down English Lit course, he approached the material with an accent on technical aspects over critical theory. (Which is how it ought to be for a theater arts class, but in my experience often not the case.)

"Significance" meant less to him than entertainment value, and when the time came to discuss the dreary naturalism of Strindberg, Ibsen, and the like, he came right out and stated "These are historically important plays. They are important works of literature. You should all be familiar with them. That said, I would rather sit through a community theatre Starlight Express than suffer through a Broadway production of Enemy of the People with an all-star cast."

Hardly a divine revelation, but it's one of those moments that has stuck with me over the years even as other, arguably more important parts of my college education have slipped from conscious memory. The idea that a tenured professor of literature with an impressive resume could step outside the ivory tower and make case for entertainment value in and of itself made me realize that I wasn't just gaming the system and wasting my time at college, humoring the unfortunately high number of insular or clueless instructors that viewed appreciation as a gnostic process, removed from the vulgarity of the masses. (Seriously. I had one professor who was shocked, shocked, to discover that fans of romance novels were not a monolithic block of uneducated bon-bon munchers.)

Or I should have taken it as a clear warning that my lateral thinking processes and poor sense of self-discipline were fundamentally at odds with formal academia. Honestly, if I had to do it all over again, I'd have gone to trade school to be an auto mechanic and kept with the autodidactic route when it came to the the study of humanities.

In any case, the complicated relationship between entertainment and art is something I've addressed quite a few times already on Armagideon Time, usually in reference to the medium of comics or music. Despite recurring assertions to the contrary, quality is a relative concept when it comes to something a personal as "art," and while it is possible to establish a hierarchy of aesthetic value on a macro level, the boundaries tend to blur with closer examination. As always, keeping a sense of perspective is the best course of action, and that's something which is most easily achieved by observing the widest possible vista instead of limiting one's experiences to a single strata, be it lofty peaks of "high art" or the vulgar sumps of disposable entertainment.

Which brings us to AIP's series of Beach Party movies, director William (the real-life Mr. Samantha the Witch) Asher's sybaritic counterpart to Roger Corman's stygian Poe cycle of technicolor exploitation fare -- the Eros and Thanatos of early 1960's drive-in theaters.

Pal Dorian has dedicated this week to the antics of Frankie, Dee Dee and the gang, and his analysis of the series hits pretty much covers all the salient points I could possibly make about their enduring appeal.

The jokes are pure corn, the surfing scenes are almost avant-garde in their rear-projected fakery, the original musical numbers are embarrassingly dire, and the hokey bacchanalia of the privileged white "teenage" characters occurs in a world completely isolated from what was going down in America's inner cities or over in Southeast Asia at the time.

As terrible and cheapjack as the Beach Party films are, though, I can't help enjoying them nonetheless, and no summer vacation would be complete without a Sunday afternoon viewing of at least one the movies. (This year it was Muscle Beach Party and Beach Blanket Bingo.) Chalk it up to nostalgia -- nostalgia for a childhood when the films were staples of weekend afternoon UHF programming, for the lame-but-quaint tropes of vintage sitcom-style humor, and most importantly for the reassuring presence of various guest-stars drawn from the stable of character actors (Paul Lynde, Mickey Rooney, Vincent Price, Peter Lorre, et cetera) familiar to every heavy TV-viewing kid of my generation.

I wouldn't make a case that the films occupy a loftier cinematic position than, say, The Godfather, but I do know what I'd rather sit down to watch on a lazy summer weekend. Coppola's epic may masterfully dissect the nature of the American capitalism, but it does it feature lip-synched performances of either of these musical gems?

Stevie Wonder - Happy Street (from The Complete Motown Singles, Vol. 4, 2006) - A swingin' soul celebration, as featured in Muscle Beach Party (1964).

The Kingsmen - Give Her Lovin' (from The Kingsmen, Vol. 2, 1964) - Ginchy garage rock, as featured in How to Stuff a Wild Bikini (1965).

he is legend times two

In honor of the late Charlton Heston, here's what may very be the greatest scene ever committed to film, at least from a purely retrological standpoint.

Heston. Vincent Price. John Derek. Flagellation. A fight to the death. If the actual scripture hewed closer to what Cecil B. DeMille presented in The Ten Commandments, I might not have discarded my faith.

"His...powers...of hammy acting...are greater...than...my own...aarggh!!!!"
Rest in peace, Chuck. Fuck Conor Oberst, you'll always be the one true Bright Eyes in my book.

Jerry Goldsmith - Main Title (from The Planet of the Apes OST, 1968) - The disconcerting minimalism of Goldsmith's score sounds downright avant-garde after decades spent listening to John Williams's signature bombast and Danny Elfman's whimsical gothica.

(See also this post.)

Halloween Countdown: October 19 – to brighten up even your darkest night

In the pantheon of horror movie icons, one man stands head and shoulders above the rest, and that man is Vincent Price.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not dismissing the popcult influence or impact of Chaney pater, Lugosi, Karloff, Cushing, Lee, or Carradine, all genre icons in their own right. But more than anyone else, Price served as unofficial spokesperson for all things spooky for generations of impressionable children, including yours truly, with an unrivaled media presence over the course of several decades. (Boris Karloff came closest, at least in the North American market, but he passed away not long after the wave of 1960's monster mania hit.)

While other actors and actresses worried about being typecast, Price seemed to seize his mid-career shift from suave leading man to the horror genre's to-go guy with gusto in everything from advertisements to films to voiceover work to teaching those damn Brady kids a well-deserved lesson. (Oh, Oliver...) Because of his popcult ubiquity, Price's unmistakable voice, urbane yet menacing -- with just the right hint of wryness -- ranks up there with Paul Lynde's in recognizability for folks in my age bracket.

I'd have a hard time deciding which of Vincent Price's films I enjoy the most. The Raven (co-starring Karloff and Peter Lorre), The Haunted Palace (a solid adaptation of Lovecraft's The Case of Charles Dexter Ward), and Theatre of Blood (with the lovely Diana Rigg) are all high on the list. Witchfinder General is also a favorite, if a bit too grim for casual viewing.

I'm especially fond of the two Dr. Phibes films, with their trippy Art Deco-inspired art direction and dark comedic undertones, but if push came to shove, I'd have to go with Tomb of Ligeia, one of the lesser films in the Vincent Price/Roger Corman "Poe Cycle." It's a flawed film (even by Roger Corman standards) in many respects, but Price looks so damn cool in those anachronistic wraparound sunglasses. (The BoingBoing kids would call them "steampunk," but then they'd also call a pot of geraniums with a copper coil stuck in the dirt "steampunk.") It also features the best two lines of dialogue ever spoken in the history of the dramatic arts:

I tried to kill a stray cat with a cabbage, and all but made love to the Lady Rowena. I succeeded in squashing the cabbage and badly frightening the lady.

I feel your pain, brother. I've been in that same situation more times than I care to count.

Seriously, is there anything in 30 Days of Night that could possibly top that?

Vincent Price & The Muppet Monsters - You've Got a Friend (from The Muppet Show, Episode #1.19; October 19, 1976) - In which the hidden connection between Carole King and the gothic rock scene is finally revealed.

(Special thanks to Mikester for providing the scan of the Shrunken Head ad.)