Someone should really pay me to go through the trash can that is Tubi’s film archive, but alas, I’m in it for the love of the game.
Now it’s hard to maintain quality throughout a film. Most movies start off great, then peter out. Others you have stick with until the very end.
This is especially true for B movies. In fact, I’m starting to think that it’s harder to make a good B movie than it is to make a decent GREAT film.
Here’s a couple of examples:
Out of the Dark (1988)
Some heavy hitters were involved in this. Karen Black acts her ass off, and there’s even an appearance from the legendary Divine.
Now you’d think that it would be impossible to screw up a movie about a psycho clown and phone sex workers. In fact, it has a strong opening: some dude playing with his nipples…with a knife…while having phone sex.
Production quality is not that bad here. Despite a few good laughs, not much gets done with this banger of a concept.
The Prowler (1981)
This had the exact opposite problem as Out of the Dark. The concept is kinda meh, but boy does it end on a high note (courtesy of makeup artist Tom Savini)!
What I love about these kinds of movies is determining what was intentional from the filmmakers. There was one scene that was more intentionally funny than it had any business being. And the ending, despite being bizarre, was quite effective.
I don’t know. Maybe I need to stop assuming that these filmmakers are completely inept.
Blades (1989)
People ask me all the time: “why do you watch this shit?”
Because I’m looking for a diamond in the rough. This time the diamond is Blades, a parody of Jaws.
It’s about a lawnmower that hunts and kills people on a golf course. Only the golf pros and a former groundskeeper stand in its way.
I’m sure people thought that this film was completely fucking stupid in 1989. But some things get better with age.
Now I’m not saying that this one is up there with such classics as Blood Diner or Toxic Avenger. But if you’re high enough, it COULD be.
It’s funnier than Caddyshack. That’s a hill I will die on.
My tastes have become so narrowed that I really have to wring out the internet to find something I want to read and watch. Thankfully I came across Joseph D. Newcomer’s book Diminishing Return last year and I’ve been a fan ever since.
I finished reading the anthology From the Dead, which features the work of many other wonderful writers, and the Darkest Day over the weekend. It was just what the doctor ordered.
“So what are these stories about?” You might ask.
Not sure. don’t know how to read 🤷♂️
So you’ll have to check them out yourself.
But to give you a taste: you know, like, how your mind starts to wonder on a long car ride so you start coming up with strange scenarios: what if I get mindfucked by a drier monster? Or, what if Elon Musk manufactured another 9/11? And now imagine if these outrageous scenarios became full fledged stories, much like that delightful episode of Black Mirror where the Prime Minister fucks a pig on live TV.
That’s the work of Joseph D. Newcomer. That’s Dead Star Press.
You can find these works and other merchandise here at Dead Star Press.
So I dreamt that David Spade walked up to me to start some shit. Then I punched him in the stomach and said “you ain’t so tough without Chris Farley.”
Anyways
Director/Screenwriter Paul Schrader, on his infamous Facebook account, reposted an article of Elizabeth Olson defending the Marvel films (I dunno, didn’t read it). This predictably started a shitstorm in the comments.
Listen, I don’t know what “art” is. It’s “expression”, I guess. That’s all I can say. The Marvel movies aren’t my cup of tea. At least not yet. Whether or not they are art is not up to me.
But would I consider Death Wish III, Robocop 2, and loads of other schlock as “art”?
Yes.
So actually, under my criteria, the Marvel films easily hurdle the “art” threshold. But the bigger question is: will people remember and still be discussing these films 20 years from now?
The “disaster craze” of the 1970s… the Towering Inferno, the Airport films, Earthquake, etc, with their big budgets and all-Star casts…were all financially successful but hardly anyone remembers them. Someone compared the Marvel movies to Westerns of way back when, but I think they’re much more similar disaster films of nearly 50 years ago.
Someone once said that the Academy Awards shouldn’t be decided until at least 10 years after a film’s release. This gives it time to resonate with the people instead of simply handing out accolades because it felt good in the moment.
Look, I’m trying to get to the good stuff (all the nasty sex). But I’m trying to get there organically, alright? Give me a break.
At the campfire, Geoff was playing Nearer, My God, To Thee on his acoustic guitar.
“Maybe you should put that away,” Alyssa told him.
Nine church goers were attending the camping trip in total. Brother Ted walked back to the camp after reliving himself in the river. “Woo! That water’s cold!” he declared.
He sat down at the edge of the fire and took out his Bible. “Being in nature reminds me of the awesome power of God,” Ted said. “But 1 John tells us to hate the world and everything in it. All of it will be destroyed in the Second Coming. None of this matters.” He then grabbed a trash bag and dumped its contents on the ground.
Alyssa tried to get close to John, but it appeared that she had competition. Sister Becky was close to Alyssa’s age. She was the touchy-feely type, laughed at every joke…even when a joke wasn’t being told. Most men responded to her flirty nature, but John was different. Alyssa tried to eavesdrop on their conversation.
“When I returned from Iraq, I successfully underwent conversion therapy,” John told Becky, “I haven’t had those kinds of feelings in nearly 2 years.”
“You’re such a brave man,” Becky responded as she gently touched his arm. Alyssa typically wasn’t the jealous type, but Becky was really trying her.
Everyone began roasting marshmallows and hotdogs but John took out a pork shoulder. He could have easily pulled back the plastic film covering it but used his Bowie knife instead.
“Shouldn’t you cook that before you eat it?” Brother Ted asked. “Nonsense,” John replied as he tore into the meat with his teeth, “God gave our bodies everything we need to digest raw pork.”
***
Alyssa woke up in the middle of the night to relieve herself. She walked a few yards from the camp and squatted behind a tree. While peeing, she heard painful grunts coming a few feet away.
“Who’s there?” she whispered into the dark. But All she heard was more grunting.
When she finished, Alyssa stood up and began wondering towards the direction of the sound. Behind another tree was John, pants around his ankles, squatting in agonizing pain.
“Are you okay?!” she asked him.
“I feel like my guts exploded!” John replied. He was blasting out one fart after another.
“I’ll go get help!”
“No!” John exclaimed, “I can’t let them see me like this! You gotta help me!”
“What can I do?”
“Just stay here with me.”
Alyssa knelt down beside John and held his hand. He started expelling an ungodly amount of diarrhea out of his anus. The stench was almost unbearable. When he finished, he looked up to her with his bloodshot, watery eyes.
“Thank you,” John said. Alyssa gave him a smile.
Afterwards, he stood up and washed his fecal-covered buttcrack in the river. When he finished, he walked back to Alyssa. As he took her by the hand, he said to her, “You can’t tell anyone about this.”
She nodded in return.
The two went back to their tents. As Alyssa climbed into her sleeping bag, she thought about John and thanked God for giving her such an intimate moment with him.
The next morning, groups were pairing up for the canoe trip. Becky approached John to row down river with her. He paused and scratched his forehead. “Uhh, actually I was planning to go with Alyssa,” he told her.
Becky stood up straight. “Alyssa? Really? But I assure you that I’m a much better rower than her,” she said.
“Good! That’s why you should go with Geoff.”
As Geoff was putting on his life jacket, John grabbed him and paired him with Becky. “Good luck!” he told him, and paddled off with his sister.
“Geoff’s not gonna like that,” Alyssa said, “he’s the jealous type.”
“Sorry, but I figured that I owe you an explanation for last night,” John replied.
“None’s necessary, John. You see, I get the bubble guts too.”
“I don’t think you understand,” he said. “I have IBS…Irritable Bowel Syndrome. So you understand why I hope we can keep this a secret.”
“But why John? Why?”
“Because…,” he gave a long pause, “I was laughed at as a child. Everyone called me Mr.Poopypants. I couldn’t walk 10 feet without poop running down the back of my legs. I had to tape up the bottom of my jeans to prevent turds from slipping out and everyday my pants would fill up with poopoo.”
Tears began to well up in John’s eyes. “Everyone thinks that I’m some kind of hero,” he continued, “but in my own mind, I’m always gonna be Mr. Poopypants.”
With his back against her, Alyssa wrapped her arms around John’s body and placed her head just below his neck. “You’re not Mr. Poopypants to me, John. Your secret is safe. But maybe you should stop eating raw pork.”
John placed his left hand top of Alyssa’s that was resting on his chest. “I’m glad I’ve finally met someone like you,” he said.
“Art thrives on limitations,” Nicholas Meyer once said.
Well this next story will put that theory to the test thanks to the limitations of its author: me.
Obviously I’ve been struggling with writer’s block for the past month. But the discovery of “Christian erotica” has awoken me from my creative slumber.
I have never written a romance story. I’ve never read one either. It’s not my thing, ya know? Plus, as a closet asexual, I don’t know what it’s like to have sex.
“But don’t you have children?” you might ask.
Sure. But I only have sex for procreation. I have never once enjoyed coming. After an orgasm, I express gratitude to my partner and we shake hands. So I’m going into this subject cold. Additionally, this will be a “Christian” story intended for a “Christian” audience.
“Why?” you might be asking. Well like I said: art thrives on limitations. But there’s another question I want to answer: can a Christian story…intended for a Christian audience…be good as opposed to absolute dogshit like most religious entertainment?
The Passion of the Christ was a decent movie from what I recall. But Mel Gibson is insane. Depictions of graphic violence is kinda his art. But like Mel Gibson, I am also insane and you have to be a little off your rocker to achieve a degree of artistic genius. I’m not saying that I’m a genius, of course. I’m just saying that I’m a clinically insane person and that’s why I’m doing this.
From my understanding, “Christian erotica” typically requires the story to revolve around a married couple. But that’s gross. So I’m gonna try to push the boundaries a little by centering it on a single woman and her desire for premarital sex with a particular man.
And that’s as far as I’ve gotten with the story. I’ll be winging it from there.
Now, some of you might have noticed that my last few stories have been somewhat “Christian”-based: According to Simon and whatever I called that one sci-fi story. But I assure you, I only pretend to be a Jehovah’s Witness online (I actually converted to Mormonism yesterday). So no worries 😉
I’ll have the opening chapter of the story posted the next time I take a shit at work.
There are few scenes in the history of film that hit me harder than the Super 8 sequence in Paris, Texas.
Rarely do films like this get made. Especially now. Not without a dose of heavy handed social commentary and violence.
That’s not the case with Paris, Texas. It’s subject is simple: one man’s inability to face his problems. All of this juxtaposed against the vast American landscape that’s both empty and crowded…dead and alive. Wim Wenders’ vision of America is embodied by the character Travis, played by the enigmatic Harry Dean Stanton.
The first time I watched this, it was almost like a religious experience. I was 10 or 11 years old and stayed up late while watching cable to see some tities. Fortunately, nothing was on Cinemax so I switched over to HBO. Paris, Texas was playing.
I don’t know why I kept watching it (probably because you see some Aurore Clement side boob), but next thing I know, I was fully engrossed in the story. It was the first movie where, when it ended, I didn’t know what hit me.
It was probably at that moment when it occurred to me: THIS is why people love movies.
Some people hate Paris, Texas. Some say it’s too slow. Some don’t like Travis because he abandoned his family.
I personally like movies that take their time. And if you don’t like Travis’ decisions, it’s not like the movie presents him as mensch.
In fact, Travis…along with his wife Jane…are presented as two VERY troubled people. From the perspective of Travis, he had to leave at the end because he was utterly broken. I would go as far as to say that Travis’ entire existence consists of (unintentionally) ruining people’s lives.
This film is not only about Travis trying to reunite his wife and child (Hunter), but it’s also about ruining the lives of his brother Walt and his wife Anne who took custody of Hunter during his disappearance.
Another heartbreaking scene is when Anne fails to convince Travis and Hunter to return home, and she goes to lie down in Hunter’s bed. Even though Hunter wasn’t her actual son, she was still attached to him. And that’s the last scene Anne is in, never to be mentioned again.
But Wenders’ direction mixes realism with a childlike perspective (which resembles Travis’ emotional state) quite well. So, I think, that permits me to have a pessimistic interpretation of the ending: there was no way that Jane would maintain custody of Hunter, and Hunter would return to Walt and Anne with a better sense of his “real” family, which would likely cause further damage to everyone involved. Meanwhile, Travis, once again, ran away from it all.
Is my interpretation correct? I dunno. But that’s how art works.
So do yourself a favor: stay up late one night and watch Paris, Texas.
I’ve had this story in my head for awhile and just now acted on it.
I originally wrote an introduction but then said fuck it. All you need to know is that this is historical fiction, perhaps my least favorite genre, but this blog is all about challenging myself as a writer. So I’m giving this a go.
Just imagine if you were some nobody that got caught up in an incident that you believed had little significance, but it was actually the most important event in all of Western Civilization. I want to explore how reality turns to myth. I guess that’s the impetus behind this story.
I dunno, we’ll see how this goes…
Ain’t promising nothing.
***
Jerusalem, Circa 30 CE
Roman Judea is under the governorship of Pontius Pilate. Yeshua from Galilee has amassed a small yet devoted number of followers as messianic fervor sweeps the region. After causing a ruckus at the Jerusalem Temple during Passover, Yeshua is tried and sentenced to death by crucifixion.
With their leader dead, the followers of Yeshua await their fates…
…one such follower, and childhood friend of Yeshua, is Simon, the fisherman of Bethesda…
Joseph (of Arimathea) knocked me on my ass. He continued to berate me as I laid out on the ground.
“Do you know how hard it was for me to not turn you over to the Romans?!” he screamed. “All of these young ones,” Joseph then pointed to Thomas, John, Andrew, Levi, Jacob, and Mary, “…you and that idiot friend of yours could have gotten them KILLED!”
I leaned up and wiped the blood from my lip. I couldn’t feel a thing. I was too drunk. “Don’t worry Joseph,” I said, “you’ll never see my face again.”
“You’re damn right I’ll never see your face again! You have until sun up to get out of Jerusalem. If you’re not gone by then, so help me God YOU’LL be crucified next!”
Jude spoke up. “What about Yeshua’s body? Surely you didn’t leave him at Golgotha. It’s the Passover.”
“Do you know what I had to do Jude?” Joseph asked. “I had to talk to Pilate. Yeah! Face to fucking face! Luckily for all of you, he barely remembered this morning’s fiasco so I was permitted to take him off the cross. As for the Sanhedrin…they’re PISSED and will probably be looking for you guys. Which is why you better get the fuck outta here!”
“Just tell me where he’s buried,” Jude replied.
“I’m not telling you!” Joseph said.
Levi spoke up. “Just tell him father.”
Joseph took a deep breath to cool himself. “Because my idiot son here was an admirer of Yeshua,” he said, “his body has been placed in my family tomb TEMPORARILY, at least until all of this shit blows over. Then I will remove his remains. Now: please leave the city.”
Joseph departed the tavern and took Levi with him. The rest of the group stood around aimlessly. Jacob helped me off the ground. “Do we go back to Galilee?” he asked.
“I sure as hell am!” I replied.
“But…what about…”
“What about what?!”
“The Kingdom of God?”
“The Kingdom of God? Jacob, your brother is DEAD! He’s not coming back! If you know what’s good for you, you will return to Galilee and kiss your mother and tell her how sorry you are for your older brother’s death.”
Jacob began to weep and I instantly regretted my words.
He was only a kid.
“I’m sorry,” I said, “this was all my fault. I shouldn’t have agreed to come to Jerusalem. All of this could have been avoided.”
“I can’t go back,” Jacob said. “I can’t face her.”
He told me that he was staying in Jerusalem. I didn’t know what else to say to him. So I patted him on the back and he departed the Cyrean’s tavern. I thought I’d ever see him again.
“I’m going to Damascus,” Jude said, “I’ve got some connections there. Maybe now just wasn’t the time. I….”
“Let it go Jude,” I interrupted.
“But Simon, maybe this was just the beginning of something big…perhaps the end for the Romans.”
I laughed. “Are we experiencing the same reality? We just got our asses handed to us. Do you really think we can bring down the Romans?”
“Why are you here?! Did you not see all of those followers in Capernaum? In Cana? In Caesarea?!”
“I was his friend, Jude. I knew all of this was getting to his head, but I said nothing. I let the rest of you talk him into coming to Jerusalem. I said nothing. I let him go to the temple. I knew what he was going to do. But I said nothing. Well now I’m telling YOU something: go back to Damascus or wherever you’re from, and forget all of this happened. And I will go back to Bethesda where I will regret for the rest of my life that I was never able to bring Yeshua’s body to his mother.”
“And what of the Romans? What will you do if they ever find out what you did here?”
I laughed again as I drank another cup of wine. “They don’t care enough about me,” I said, “but if they did ever find me, I will tell them to send me to Rome so that I can tell the Caesar to kiss my ass.”
Jude shook his head. “Goodbye Simon.”
“So long Jude!”
As I was filling the wine skins, Thomas approached me. “Should I go to Egypt?” he asked.
“The world is your oyster, Thomas,” I said, “I’m going home.”
The two of us embraced for the last time. I thanked the Cyrean for sheltering us then my brother Andrew and I left the tavern. Maybe it was the wine, but as we were leaving Jerusalem, I was seeing Yeshua’s face everywhere. The guilt was unbearable.
Andrew wasn’t at all affected by the day’s events. As we traveled the road back to Galilee under the cover of night, he was cackling. “Boy, Joseph licked you good,” he said.
Andrew was a simple man.
“That’s because he’s a member of the Sanhedrin,” I replied, “if they ever found out he provided aid and cover to us, they’ll stone him for sure.”
As we stopped along a creek bank for the night, I laid out my bed. As I walking away towards the tree line, Andrew asked where I was going.
“Gotta take a shit,” I said.
As I got out of earshot of him, I kneeled down behind a tree and vomited. I closed my eyes for a few moments. All I could envision was Yeshua’s smiling face. Then I wept uncontrollably.
Finally I stood up and walked back to the camp where I found Andrew picking his nose. “Boy I can’t wait get back to fishin,” he said.
I laid down on my bed, looking up to the sky. “We’re not going back to Bethesda,” I said. “We’re going back to Jerusalem.”
Hate to toot my own horn but 2051: A Space Monstrosity turned out much better than I thought it would. I also wrote a lot more than I intended.
It’s not perfect. Far from it. And I blatantly ripped off lines from various Star Trek productions, almost verbatim, because I’m a shameless hack.
But I’m getting closer to being able to tell stories the way I want to: where I create a plot on the fly by establishing a rhythm and hitting the story beats. If you do a few setups and meet the payoffs in any ridiculous way you can, BAM…you have yourself a story.
Maybe not a GOOD story, but a story nonetheless.
My method is akin to Bill Walsh’s “West Coast Offense” in football: where players lack in athletic ability (or, in my case, artistic genius), you can make up for in precision and timing.
This runs entirely contrary to the way my high school teacher tried to teach me. It was his belief that that the secret to writing was in rewriting.
The problem I found with this practice is that my interest always waned and the magic was gone. Editing and proofreading is necessary of course, but frankly it’s boring and if I spend too much time on it, I end up hating everything about the piece itself.
It is my belief that art works best when it exists in the moment….when the artist can, however briefly, be completely honest with themselves.
So I’ve written a lot to get the practice in. And most of the stories are in fragmented pieces. Therefore I created a separate page to compile all these short stories.
…that is, once when I figure out how to get the page up on the website. Right now it looks like shit. I dunno 🤷♂️
The Internet Ruined Everything 