Friday, June 27, 1986
Page 6
Daily Nebraskan
Arts
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Film Festival revives 'crud'
By Dave Meile
Staff Reporter
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'This is KTTV..... if anyone can
hear us please send help. We're
being attacked by the Slime Peo
ple!" Robert Mutton in ''The Slime Peo
ple" (1963)
When I first heard about this new
weekly series of bad flicks, the "Canned
Film Festival," 1 almost fell outta my
Lazy Boy. Now all the years my pals and
I festered in front of the "Plug in drug"
watching trash will not have been in
vain. For years we've suffered, now it's
everyone else's turn.
Every Saturday night at midnight,
KOLN-KGIN Channels 1011 will broad
cast cinematic bilge: "Santa Claus
Conquers the Martians, "Robot Mons
ter," "Las Vegas Hillbillies," "Bride of
the Monster," and so on. For those who
want a jump on everyone else, KETV
Channel 7 is showing the "Canned
Film" fest on Thursdays at 11:30 p.m.
Either way, us bad film fans are much
maligned and it's about time we were
recognized even if it took (gulp) corpo
rate America, the Dr. Pepper folks, to
have the guts to do it.
The bad film craze can be traced to
1977, with the publishing of "The 50
Worst Films of All-Time" by Harry and
Michael Medved. The brothers followed
with "The Golden Turkey Awards,"
"The Hollywood Hall of Shame," and
"The Son of Golden Turkey Awards."
Haughty intellectual film critic types
all pounced on these works, dubbing
them "ignorant" and "juvenile" a
great reason to read them.
For those with arty pretensions, bad
film fandom simply reeks of anti-intel-lectualism.
We loathe heavy analysis,
because, let's face it fellow Robot
Monsters, a film like the "Slime Peo
ple" doesn't leave much room to intel
lectualize. The accent of these films is
"camp" and our standard phrase can
be credited to writer Susan Sontag who
said: "It's good because it's awful."
These are reels of celluloid which
start with good and bad intentions, and
fail miserably. They all have a charming
naivete. These filmmakers didn't know
they were making crud.
There is a glorious mood of senti
mentality that accompanies bad film
fanatics. One of my pals relishes the
memory of when he was twelve-years-old,
devouring a box of Screaming Yel
low Zonkers and watching the caveman
opus "Eegah" (1962). I recall, with
tears in my eyes, the night 15 of us
crammed into a small room, munched
corn dogs, and guffawed through "Zon
tar, The Thing From Venus."
For the most part the "Canned Film
Festival" has done well in choosing
hilarious stinkers. This is the whole
point. Without ludicrous ideas, poor
direction, and a healthy dose of histri
onics, bad films fall prey to the most
horrifying fate of all: boring badness.
These films have something for eve
ryone: wrestling, gorillas in space hel
na or
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mets, future T.V. stars, the midget
cowboy, the "has-been," and the "ne-ver-was."
Sure there could've been choices
from other genres (bikers, rock n' roll)
but who's complaining? These might
not even be the worst films ever made,
but it's up to you, the extremely
patient viewer, to decide for yourself.
Just don't be too surprised if fellow
patrons skulk to the dungeon of living
adjectives and hurl out "ludicrous,"
"awkward," "banal," and, last but most
importantly, "entertaining."
June 28th - midnight - "Doctor
of Doom" (1962-Mexico)
A bad, Mexican, mad-doctor, femi
nist film.
Professor Wright, when he's not doing
bad Ronald Coleman impressions, cre
ates a Charles Bronson lookalike ape
guy who eats raw spare ribs. Soon Glo
ria Venus and the Golden Ruby, the
hero wrestlers, show up and defeat
Gomar (the ape guy) and evil Doctor of
Doom.
Watch for the great bad dubbing and
the most militantly feminist scene: a
big male wrestler enters the women
wrestler's gym; he demands their bar
bell. After an exchange of put-downs,
ten women wrestlers kick him in the
Speedo and smother him in a massive
pile-on.
"The Slime People" (1963)
Director-star-has-been Robert Hutton
arrives in L.A. only to find that goopy
baggy costumed slime people have
built a wall of fog around the city, and
the fog has hardened!
He hides out with Professor Gal
braith and his bad-acting daughters.
When the professor gets really scien
tific he says stuff like "Sodium Chlo
ride." I hate it when films get so
technical!
Eventually Hutton and a young Mar
ine engage in some vicious "hand to
slime" combat complete with pole
vaults and flying slime kicks. Fog per
meates the whole film so be prepared
to squint a lot. Incidentally, the word
"slime" is said twenty times.
"They Saved Hitler's Brain"
(1963)
This is a bare-faced lie, they don't
save his brain, they save his head, and
they thoughtfully put it in an old,
empty water cooler where it occasion
ally gripes at other Nazis.
Look for the poorly constructed swas
tika and the Nazis who slide down the
hall like grade schoolers. This film was
originally released as "Madmen of Man
doras" (1963), then parts were filmed
later in '66 or so and it was sold to
television as "They Saved Hitler's
Brain."
In the early days of Lincoln Cablevi
sion Channel 9, they showed it every
day for a week!
In one scene, after the hero Phil Day
has heard how they've saved the afore
mentioned head he says "It's like a bad
joke!" Need I say more?
On
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The Beat Farmers "Van Go"
MCA
The latest fad among the local
terminally trendy, artsy-fartsy set is
to bite their pink, manicured thumbs,
and flip their frilly little hankies in
a great big collective pooh-pooh at
cowpunk.
It's easy to see how cowpunk
might offend the more delicate sen
sibilities. This mutant, bastard child
of the two absolute lowest of musi
cal forms: Punk mates with hick,
Sid Vicious ravishes Loretta Lynn.
Now mutant bastards ain't pretty,
they ain't charming, and they don't
smell sweet, but one thing for sure,
they're tough. All you synthesized
sissies, ambient spaceheads, paisley-brained
pseudo-hippies, and
especially the feeble, ancient and
inbred aristrocracy of the rock
mainstream, better hide your pitiful
heads on the day that cowpunk
decides it's time to leave the cave it
was spawned in and come to town.
And that day may be now, because
The Beat Farmers' "Van Go" wants
nothing more than to stride right
down the center aisle of the First
Commercial Church of the Holy
Trend during Sunday morning meet
ing, throw off its rags, and holler out
in Country Dick Montana's stento
rian bass "I am not an animal, I am a
human being!"
This is my first Beat Farmers'
record. My friends tell me that their
older stuff is a lot rougher and
wilder. That's OK, though, because
"Van Go" is intended to be a revolu
tion, not a riot. The Farmers are out
to kick some mainstream butt, but
they don't want break any furniture
because they expect to be moving in
themselves pretty soon.
This is a no frills rock 'n' roll
outfit devoid of gimmicks, cuteness,
and that missionary attitude that
makes so many otherwise excellent
roots rock bands so tedious in the
final analysis.
The Beat Farmers' down-home
attitude is real, not faked, but that
doesn't mean they're dumb hicks.
These boys are plenty bright, and
they've got a nice and nasty sense of
humor that brightens up track after
track.
For instance, drummer and spe
cial missions vocalist Country Dick
laments having a truck drivm' wo
man on "Big Ugly Wheels," the best
truck driving song since "Phantom
309":
"She wants me to be true to
her, She somes home once a
month, Her mustache caked
with vomit, And teeth marks
on her butt "
Or when Jerry Raney, the Farmers'
usual vocalist describes the newest
thing in Christian family entertainment:
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"Well we'll ask the Lord to
forgive us for all our sins
And we'll look at the latest in
gold-plated firing pins. Well
my two main men are Jesus
and old John Birch, So we're
goin ' on down to the gun sale
at the church. "
Now you know the facts, what's it
gonna be? Do you call yourself a
revolutionary? Well, you can listen
to some freak mumble about a
proletarian, paisley, pot smoke
shrouded revolution that nobody
even cares aboutt much less believes
in any more, or you can have the
glorious cowpunk honest-to-God rock
'n' roll revolution right on your turn
table. Trendies or Beat Farmers, the
choice is yours.
Chris McCubbin
Killdozer, "Snake Boy"
This is ugly. Mindlessly, horribly
ugly. From the blood splattered
cover to the ugly title. Inside is a
cover of Neil Young's "Cinnamon
Girl" that strips the epidermis off
the original with an acetyline torch.
Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Ideal for slam danc
ing in Bhopal or some other ugly
place. Not music you like but music
you put on to show your friends you
can take it.
"Sure, I listen to this stuff all the
time."
"Wow, man, all the time?"
"Sure, and uglier stuff, too."
"Wow."
Charles Lieurance
"Evol" by Sonic Youth (SST)
Another god-worthy offering by
the Sonic quartet. Music of pure raw
emotion out of tune, out of synch
guitar noise produced by unorthodox
finger positions and drumsticks used
as instruments of musical distor
tion. A celebration of freedom at its
most frenzied and violent pitch,
Sonic Youth's musical intensity
parallels the poetic contortions of
their lyrics.
The music has progressed from
an expression of emotion through
the violence done to the musical
instruments to an expression of
emotion by the violence of the
music itself.
"Evol" is not as rough as the ear
lier "Confusion is Sex" EP, but it's
just as caustic. The music, though
still somewhat disjointed has grown
into a much more calculated dis
quiet. The lyrics have always con
centrated on the same major theme,
namely, breaking through sexual
and emotional repression. And the
synthesis of the two elements
music and lyrics draws one into a
Sonic world by laying bare the
unsightly and painful that has been
hidden by societal complacency.
But this is the world of the individ-
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Brian MaryDaily Nebraskan
ual. In "the Shadow of a Doubt" the
turmoil, disquiet and guilt caused
by an encounter with a stranger is
relived and absolution is sought. In
the final song from the album,
"Expressway to yr. Skull," a melody
finds itself in the middle of a nasty
musical convulsion showcased by
acerbic lyrics, and the piece de
resistance is a calculated skip
strategically placed at the end of
the song to make sure it never
ends.
Convert now.
Bernadette Barnard
The Art of Noise, "In Visible
Silence." Chrysalis Records.
Shotgun surrealism is a tech
nique artists like Dali have used to
shock the masses for one reason
only . . .shock value. In the art
world, shotgun surrealism refers to
any aesthetic work that uses ridicu
lously bizarre images which convey
no worthwhile meaning or purpose.
Such folly seems to be imbued in
the latest effort by The Art of Noise,
a group of three British studio
musicians who create what their
name implies: noise, noise, noise!
But what beautiful noise they
make.
The group soared to the top of the
dance charts two years ago with
"Close to the Edit," a grating,
dance-oriented oddity that featured
creepy chanting patterns and stac
cato drum machine programs. Club
hopping kids in London and New
York loved its throbbing beat and
quirky aura, but critics and high
brow musicians shrugged it off as
over-produced, pretentious dance
drivel. And The Noise had another,
more serious strike against them
they didn't sing or write lyrics.
"Invisible Silence," their second
release, is as meaningless and empty
as their debut, but that's all it
wants to be. The Noise has pack
aged another LP rife with electronically-produced
beats, funky into
nation patterns and strident sound
effects.
Tracks like "Paranoimia," "Back
beat," and "Eye of the Needle" are
merely high-tech musical acid trips
that you can dance to or use as
background noise. A remake of Henry
Mancini's campy 1960 "Peter Gunn"
theme is a jaunty, outer spaced-out
slab of retro-kitsch that will thrill
B-52 fans.
"In Visible Silence" is mindless
yet engaging. The group seems to
concentrate more on sound effects
than substance. Evidently, however,
that's exactly what they are trying
to do.
Scott Harrah
