Romy Schneider in Uniform, on the Trail to Bandit Country

Romy Schneider in Western garb, 1952.

While writing a comedy dedicated to Luis Buñuel last summer I initially refrained from watching anything other than his films, so as to accustom my imagination with both Buñuel’s timing and framing; I also gave myself the excuse to catch up on a few from his Mexican period, which I had been saving (such as Illusion Travels by Streetcar). But eventually I began making exceptions. You see, when I’m writing fiction I tend to use real people as models, in order to help me visualize the characters and scenes. And since three of the leading characters in my comedy were physically inspired by actors Alain Delon, Romy Schneider, and Michel Piccoli, I carefully selected and viewed films in which they starred but that I had not yet seen. Three of these with Piccoli allowed me to feel comfortable with taking a break from Buñuel—without the fear of losing my inspiration—and introduced me to the films of Marco Ferreri (with La Grande Bouffe, Dillinger is Dead, and Don’t Touch The White Woman!). Other memorable films I watched during those months, with Alain Delon, were Purple Noon, Borsalino (co-starring Jean-Paul Belmondo, who had also inspired another one of my characters), and The Swimming Pool (with Romy Schneider).

The project was a spur of the moment reaction I had undertaken after reading the original film treatment it was based on, which was to have been presented with my blog’s third post. But this blog itself was prompted by the desire to share my movie finds and writing hobby while organizing my first screenplay and second Western.

The first images that gave birth to Bandit Country, which I am very happy to be pursuing again, were conceived of only a couple of days into February of 2011, after having had a repeated viewing of Dirty Little Billy (before its DVD release) and upon concluding my exploration of director Paul Morrissey’s feature films of the ‘70s and ‘80s. While I had known and loved Morrissey’s Blood for Dracula for many years, I hadn’t felt inclined to sample his other work, besides Flesh for Frankenstein. But that changed in late January, after stumbling upon Mixed Blood thru my online rental provider. Upon noting the consistency in humor of the latter crime film and those earlier horror-satires, I simply had to catch up with what else I had been missing out on. And within a couple of days I had managed to track down and watch all but one title (L’Amour).

The laughs and fun I got out of those Morrissey’s (especially two starring Holly Woodlawn: Trash and Women in Revolt) combined with my interest in the Billy the Kid origin story (Dirty Little Billy), as well as impressions left over in my subconscious from an Argentinian intersex drama I had seen months earlier (XXY with Inés Efron) must explain what the hell it was I had swimming around inside my head when I got the funny idea involving Morrissey regular Joe Dallesandro and Fellini Satyricon’s Gitone (Max Born), which left me itching to write a story to accompany what I’m still chuckling about. Incidentally, it’s when I went searching to find out what became of actor Max Born that I found the excerpt from Ciao, Federico! (click on his name) in which he sings a Bob Dylan classic that lead me to find this version of it. And it was the playful mood in that cover of Don’t Think Twice (performed by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons) that allowed me to imagine my two leading characters’ train ride out West and the unveiling of Bandit Country’s story. No, neither of those ‘kids’ is the one that’s Dallesandro-inspired. They meet up with that brute later.

To pick up additional ideas and inspiration for the benefit of one my leading protagonists, I’ve spent the following months, on and off, carefully selecting and viewing films with an LGBT theme. (It’s worth noting that before I began my research I had just watched a great Mexican Western featuring gay outlaws, recommended by director Alex Cox: Alberto Mariscal’s Los Marcados.)

I began with Querelle, which not only introduced me to the works of Rainer Werner Fassbinder but also helped me resolve the only scene I had left to figure out before completing my comedy (it was the presence of Jeanne Moreau that inspired Ardie’s Redheaded Woman). Besides the visually stunning Querelle, other titles which have impressed me most so far have been Toshio Matsumoto’s Funeral Parade of Roses (apparently influential on Stanley Kubrick’s A Clockwork Orange), Fassbinder’s In A Year With 13 Moons, Luchino Visconti’s Death in Venice, fashion designer Tom Ford’s A Single Man, Nagisa Ôshima’s Taboo, Gregg Araki’s Mysterious Skin, and the 1958 remake of Mädchen in Uniform starring Romy Schneider. I immediately knew upon my initial viewing of the latter film that I wanted to comment on it here, and thought it best to save for when I returned to work on Bandit Country. But when Todd Liebenow of Forgotten Films recently invited me to contribute to a guest blogger series in which the author had to review a title which featured a celebrity he or she had a crush on, the timing and opportunity felt just right.

Back in late 1996, when I got myself a Laserdisc player after a close friend gave me a new appreciation for movie making, I wanted to read about and learn from the film giants. And the first two books I picked up were The Complete Films of Orson Welles by James Howard and Scorsese on Scorsese edited by David Thompson and Ian Christie (the October 1996 edition). Among the titles I jotted down to seek out, I was powerfully drawn to Howard’s section on Welles’ The Trial, which included two photos (click here and here) with a lovely young actress that had just as much to do with my interest in finding that film as the appealing sound of Welles adapting Franz Kafka. Fortunately I shortly found and purchased two VHS/EP copies, and for many years I’d tell everyone that The Trial was my favorite movie, as I related to the story at the time and loved its sense of humor; I later purchased and still own the Roan Group’s Laserdisc release of it, and was thrilled to have seen it on the big screen at Bill Cosford Cinema with a receptive group of appreciative friends.

Portrait of Romy Schneider in Chanel, 1963.

While favorites have changed throughout the years, Romy Schneider remains in that special place in my heart that I can’t say any other actress has ever dug themselves into, and there have certainly been others whose charms I’ve fallen for. Both beautiful and immensely talented, there’s something about Schneider’s face that pulls a protective big brother-like love out of me nearly every time I see her in a film, sort of like what she does to Servais Mont (Fabio Testi) in L’important C’est D’aimer. It disturbs me whenever I see her sad or even nude on film. (I laugh at myself now for wishing horrors on director Claude Chabrol, along with a couple of the actors, for her character’s abuse and humiliation in Innocents with Dirty Hands.) Schneider actually had more than her share of tragedy in her personal life, including the accidental death of her 14-year-old son.

Reviewed here for Forgotten Films, Mädchen in Uniform was one of my ten favorite older movie discoveries in 2011, and remains among a handful of titles starring Romy Schneider which I simply adore and will continue to revisit for both entertainment and for inspiration as a writer. It’s no coincidence that my muse resembles Schneider a bit.

More details on Bandit Country and its other inhabitants to follow, along with two more posts; one focusing on ‘cooking up a better villain’. I’ve been watching a lot of older Westerns lately (including treasures like Monte Walsh, Buffalo Rider, and The Wonderful Country), so there just might be another Western film review too.

Links:

• Mädchen in Uniform - my Forgotten Films guest review.
• RomyPhotos.canalblog.com – a Romy Schneider image gallery, which includes a page on Mädchen in Uniform.
• Excerpt from Ciao, Federico! with Max Born singing Bob Dylan’s Don’t Think Twice.
• Don’t Think Twice performed by Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. While this cover of Dylan’s song helped pull Bandit Country’s story out of me, those first images I mentioned always had another tune behind them. And Buddy Holly’s Everyday deserves some credit for holding my interest before I began developing the story.
• Additional screen caps I made for my review at Forgotten Films, which do not accompany it.

“Bad” Movies I Love (for Brian Saur)

Straight to Hell (1987): Norwood (Sy Richardson, center) confesses to his pals Simms (Joe Strummer, left) and Willy (Dick Rude, right) that he loves them.

My last post in December was inspired by and dedicated to Mark Johnston of the now defunct Shocking Videos. Shortly afterward I cut together a video to celebrate the twentieth anniversary reissuing of John Zorn’s Elegy, and then began writing a review of Microcinema’s DVD release of Highway Patrolman (1991). But I couldn’t concentrate when it came time to working on the latter. I suddenly became overwhelmed with new ideas for a screenplay I’ve been developing for quite a few years now, and so I just decided to resume working on it. Almost immediately, I was provided by a mutual friend with a talented new artist to handle the illustrations and storyboards, and the project quickly got bigger and better than ever.

What went wrong? Frankly, the story got too big. There are so many scenes and characters which seem to belong to different kinds of movies that I have yet to find a satisfactory way to sew it all together, without having to reconstruct it as a mini-series. Perhaps it needs to be, although I’m still not convinced of that yet.

So, upon having been inspired by the music in a video directed by Aki Kaurismäki back in November, along with discovering that cartoonist Vaughn Bodé performed his most famous character’s voice in a fashion similar to W.C. Fields’ (as does a leading character in a Western I cooked up early last year), and being recently offered the opportunity to contribute to a series of posts on a favorite film-related website, I’ve decided, despite months of reluctance, to shelve The Superkiller for a third time and do something both fun and which could be quickly done.

I first stumbled across Brian Saur’s Rupert Pupkin Speaks (named after Robert De Niro’s character in The King of Comedy) a few years ago while searching for a movie poster. I clearly remember being instantly taken by his series of lists consisting of an expansive appreciation for different grades of film—an eclectic mix which I also enjoy—and so I quickly saved it to my Favorites folder and have been going back there ever since. Brian may be the online maestro of compiling film lists consisting of both classic and cult titles; some widely respected, others less so. What I’ve always found particularly interesting about some of those less popular works is that even when they suffer from a lack of quality or simply just fail to be appreciated with the general public, there are so many of them with good ideas beneath the surface. And Brian’s website is a fellow film enthusiast’s resourceful guide (as were the books and Psychotronic Video magazine edited by Michael J. Weldon before him), which leads toward obtaining more unique film experiences than even by those to be found written by the more popular film critics; which isn’t a call for completely dismissing them.

Since June 12th, Rupert Pupkin Speaks began a series of posts written by special guests titled “Bad” Movies We Love. As the title suggests with the quotation marks, the author’s task is to list and comment on any reasonable amount of movie titles that are either poorly crafted or heavily  flawed and/or generally frowned upon, but which he or she finds entertainment value in. (The first one was appropriately written by Brian.)

I’ve had the great pleasure this year of briefly communicating with Brian, along with many other interesting cinephiles and bloggers on Twitter. And during one of these brief exchanges he offered me the chance to contribute to the series, which resulted in my becoming obnoxiously happy amongst friends and family, as my head swam with images of one movie I’ve been saving commenting on here.

“Strangers, Frank.” From left to right. Spider Stacy, Fox Harris (in the background), Shane MacGowan, Sue Kiel, Biff Yeager, and Elvis Costello.

What is it I love about Straight To Hell so much that made me hang it on my muse’s wall? I’m delighted to say that you’ll find my thoughts on that film, and three others I chose to talk about, at Rupert Pupkin Speaks. But I’d like to add here that now that Brian has prompted me to discuss this 1987 movie months before I planned to do so, I’ve decided it’s time to dive into the Western screenplay I outlined early last year before my first post on My Kind of Story; and which I honestly thought was going to be the first writing project I was going to tackle then.

Named after the Mexican restaurant in my last story, Bandit Country is to be an homage to Straight to Hell, as well as to cartoonist Vaughn Bodé. Having said that, the actual idea for this humorous adventure came to me after my first viewings of Dirty Little Billy (1972) and Mixed Blood (1985), which is why I’ve written about them.

One of my favorite plots in film history can be found in director Terry Gilliam’s Time Bandits (1984). If there’s one story I wish I could have written, it’s that one. I love a story that can be both fun and inspiring with a treasure chest full of ideas to play with. (I should note that the title for my own project actually came from a line by actor Walter Huston in The Treasure of the Sierra Madre.) While Bandit Country may not be as urgent or as epic in scope as The Superkiller, it’s got the themes I’m most interested in that I’ve yet to see explored.

I’ll be back soon for a few more commentaries. After that, Bandit Country “is where [I'll] be going”. Hope you enjoy my post on Brian’s website, as well as the links provided below. Glad to be back.

Links:

• My “Bad” Movies We Love Guest Post
• “Bad” Movies We Love – Wrap Up (August 29th) – includes guest post directory
  
• For the Love of (Bad) Movies by Matt Singer, for Criticwire
• These Boots by the Leningrad Cowboys – music video directed by Aki Kaurismäki
• Download: My “Bad” Movies We Love Guest Post as a .PDF file.

Vampire for the Massacre (for Mark Johnston)

Klaus Kinski in Crawlspace (1986).

It was August of ’01. My closest friend, whom I regard as my film teacher, and I were waiting to be seated upstairs at the original Alamo Drafthouse Cinema in Austin for QT5, where he struck up a conversation with then-regular patron and later programmer Lars Nilsen. It didn’t take more than a minute to realize that Lars was the most knowledgeable person in line with us. So, before the conversation ended, I asked him if there were any rare video outlets he’d recommend checking out. And shortly upon arriving back in Miami, I received a mail-order catalog from (the now defunct) Shocking Videos. As I browsed through the categories, I found myself either smiling or laughing aloud while reading owner Mark Johnston’s title descriptions and summaries. It was a hundred-page booklet packed with entertaining entries, some even good enough to read twice. And it remains one of my favorite reference guides to obscure cinema that still tickles my imagination.

While Shocking Videos hadn’t been the only name Lars had provided us with, Mark Johnston’s collection of hard-to-find titles was the most extensive and the best advertised. He had movies from all over the world, ranging from “trash” and exploitation to some truly nasty-sounding smut. And a few of the really good ones have only recently begun seeing the light of day, thanks to an expansion of boutique labels and studio vault on-demand titles. Although, with a larger degree of exposure given to the ones licensed by the bigger companies, a lot of the sometimes better or equally valuable films fail to gain awareness (you may wish to visit the Criterion Dungeon to browse through several online catalogs). But besides Shocking Videos’ enormous library, it had something else going for it that I’ve yet to find the likes of, even amongst the most popular and resourceful film and DVD websites (such as Gary Tooze’s DVDBeaver). Shocking Videos had Mark. In fact, Shocking Videos was Mark. And Mark was well known and held in high esteem amongst collectors for both his selection and fine prints, and rightfully so. But for me, in addition to these things, his knowledge of movies combined with his unapologetic sense of humor and the way he sold them to you, set him apart from everyone else. Even his email newsletters and special offers would crack me up.

In 2005, upon having successfully cranked out a screen treatment based upon a few daydreams I had had with two supporting characters from an old project, I thought about doing a few short exercises to jolt my imagination, and shake it clear of that one story I had been chasing for years. I wanted to just do something fun. So having used a formula where I envisioned myself writing for a particular actor and director (Alain Delon and Luis Buñuel) to help me visualize an appealing scenario in a timely manner, I decided to try it three more times. And I turned to Mark’s catalog for inspiration.

Shocking Videos' website.

The first two that came to mind pretty much wrote themselves, when I thought about the circumstances of how I came to discover Shocking Videos. I had flown to Texas hearing about Italian crime director Fernando Di Leo by my friend, who had grown up watching his movies, and was being assured that he’d show me some of his favorites when we got back. Unbeknownst to us before flying out there, Quentin Tarantino wound up playing three Fernando Di Leo movies at his ten-day festival: The Italian Connection (1972), Slaughter Hotel (1971), and Loaded Guns (1975). And while the first title we saw was far and away the best of them, the second one, which featured Klaus Kinski, is partly to thank for getting the little mouse to start spinning round in my head, as I remembered listening to Di Leo express his disappointment with the film (his first giallo thriller) on Media Blasters’ DVD shortly after its initial release, in 2004. It was his dissatisfaction that led me to imagine what I would have enjoyed seeing him do on a second try with the genre.

So, I borrowed the two earliest sensationalist titles from my youth (Bruce Lee Superdragon (1975) and Summertime Killer (1973), imagined him combining his mastery of the gangster picture with the murder-mystery subgenre, and from this arose what was to become the first incarnation of The Superkiller (details on my first illustrated screenplay should be surfacing soon).

My second miniature was inspired by the title of Fernando Di Leo’s 1980 thriller: Vacation for a Massacre. And once I placed Klaus Kinski as my model for the leading character in Vampire for the Massacre, one director immediately sprung to mind. And it was the combination of the two of them working together—how they would have treated one another is anyone’s guess—that lead to what I believe is the one that captured the spirit of a Shocking Videos review better than its predecessor and the third that followed.

Here’s to you, Mark.

Titles marked “(C)” in Shocking Videos’ catalog indicated the option of paying a little extra for full color box art.

I recall being in a Hialeah movie theater as a kid, when I saw the trailer for Knights of the City (1986). And while it was not the first time I had seen dramatically-lit, steam-billowing city streets in a movie, it created a lasting impression. (Just recently did I find out its title, having only remembered the ambiance and a few of the images.) So when I began to study films, in my early-twenties, I sought out titles with similar moods and tones. And this led me inevitably to the Italian genre filmmakers of the 60s, 70s and 80s.

While I eventually developed an appreciation for The Beyond (1981), which was my first exposure to director Lucio Fulci’s filmography, Don’t Torture a Duckling (1972), Zombie (1979), and New York Ripper (1982) immediately became and remain some of my favorites of the genre (I also love Dario Argento’s Inferno (1980). Fulci (and Dardano Sacchetti) knew a thing or two about creating a nightmarish atmosphere, especially when it involved buckets of blood which a story with a title like Vampire for the Massacre would benefit from containing. And while Fulci’s later and gorier pictures involved more and more dream logic, I don’t think this idea would be such a bad thing to inject into Vampire’s presentation if thought out thoroughly enough.

But I’ve decided not to develop this story any further. Instead I thought it would be fun to offer the idea to anyone who writes, paints, or makes films in exchange for the simple pleasure of seeing it. And I plan to offer more of these scenarios in the immediate future—I’ve already got three in mind. I’m going to be tied up for at least the next three years with three other projects, presently on my itinerary, as well as a fourth project and screenplay, which is based upon my third Shocking Videos-inspired miniature (it’s a little something for the director of Shock Corridor (1963).

I believe that the horror genre still has great potential for conveying ideas and stimulating socially-relevant conversations, which doesn’t necessarily call for preachy or unexciting storytelling. Wicked or evil deeds sometimes assist in measuring the value of what is good, due to what can be lost, which may otherwise be taken for granted. And like the best that art has to offer, a good story, regardless of genre, also has the capacity to provoke the imagination towards the taking of actions which may never have been considered.

As technically faulty or as vulgar and silly as many of these genre pictures can be, I’ve always been fascinated by the attempts to do something extraordinary. You’d be surprised how many times someone had a great idea, yet didn’t fully realize it, only to then grow into something of value much later in someone’s else hands.

From left to right. Brigitte Lahaie (in Les Petites Écolières), Alida Valli (in Suspiria), and Pier Luigi Conti, a.k.a. Al Cliver (in Devil Hunter).

Below are a few elements, for mood and atmosphere, which I hope can stimulate all interested parties.

• Character fashion designs. Because of its early-1980s setting, you may find revisiting or discovering the works of artist Patrick Nagel to be useful.
• Take a look at the colors, shadows, and makeup use in the music video to Don’t You Want Me by The Human League.
• Obsession by Animotion was the song I felt the strongest connection with when I was contemplating fleshing the story out, for myself. (I’ve always associated it with being at the county fair at nighttime while moving backwards on the Polar Express.)
• Yoshiaki Kawajiri’s Wicked City (1987) continues to completely satisfy me as a viewer, for its combination of much what I’ve discussed here. Talk about entertaining, amusing, disturbing, nightmarish, and gorgeous to look at.
• Chase by Giorgio Moroder and Pobre Diablo (Poor Devil) by Emmanuel were other songs I was listening to for ideas in shifts in mood.

Find and go with what works best for you. And take the idea wherever you would like it to go. But above all else, have fun with it. Good luck, and don’t forget to share.

Illustration by Enio Acosta.

Klaus Kinski’s Paganini and Mya’s DVD

It is highly unlikely that any cinephile or demanding moviegoer would not eventually come across the works of director Werner Herzog, especially his five collaborations with actor Klaus Kinski. My first encounter with Kinski was in my early teens when I spotted Vestron Video’s VHS release of Jess Franco’s Jack the Ripper (1976) at my local rental shop; and I would argue that once you see him, you never forget him. His magnetism, intensity (when the character permits), and sharp features are simply that impressive, even when the film is not. The next time I saw him in a leading role (in the late ’90s) I knew who he was, and Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972) remains the Herzog/Kinski I revisit most (albeit, I often get a craving to watch scenes from Cobra Verde (1987).

Upon nearly wearing out the images found in the Herzog and Kinski titles, due to repeated viewings, my film teacher and old friend turned me onto several other lesser-known Kinski performances (at least, in the U.S.). Amongst those, the two which continue to stand out the most to my liking have both been recently made accessible to American audiences; these are Andrzej Zulawski’s L’important C’est D’aimer (The Important Thing is to Love) (1975) and Klaus Kinski’s directorial debut Paganini (1989), a.k.a. Kinski Paganini. While it is tragic that the latter turned out to be his last film, Kinski bowed out in a manner befitting his self-portrait to the public: unchained in his performance and obsessions, and personally edited by the man himself in a print provided by Kinski’s estate, which accompanies the producers’ truncated theatrical version on Mya Communication’s two-disc DVD set.

Niccolò Paganini (1782-1840) was a tall, dark and sickly Italian composer and showman that may have been the greatest violinist who ever lived. Other musicians and artists, along with the public, would swarm with great interest to his concerts and try to figure out his tricks; one of which was to break a string, or sometimes three, in the middle of the composition and continue making incredible music. His techniques would invoke many superstitious listeners to believe that the Devil had granted him such skills, and knowing such nonsense would draw more curiosity and audiences, he did nothing to dispel their notions. Consequently, this, along with his socially unaccepted lifestyle of womanizing and gambling, would later delay permission by the Roman Catholic Church to grant him a proper burial for up to four years after his death.

While Klaus Kinski’s sensationalized and embellished autobiography would make it seem that he had much in common with his subject matter’s adult life, and which lead him to write in a lot of himself into the part, the book remains an unreliable source for fact-finding; and a definitive biography in the English language is long overdue (even if it’s a translation of one of the currently available in the German language). Nevertheless, when Kinski failed to convince Werner Herzog to direct the biopic for him, he decided to do it himself. And being familiar with Herzog’s stylized direction, I, for one, am glad that Kinski had the experience of standing behind the camera and realizing his own vision; as both versions of the film unquestionably contain sights, sounds, and an energy that could only have been conceived by its creator.

Kinski as Paganini (voice-over): I am neither young nor handsome. I’m sick and ugly. But when women hear the voice of my violin, they do not hesitate to betray their husbands with me.

Kinski’s writing and directorial credits on both the theatrical version (left) and his “versione originale” (right). Note the absence of an editor’s credit on the theatrical cut.

The images found on both versions of Paganini—although, much more so in Kinski’s cut—are discharged  in a stream-of-consciousness style, consisting of the violinist’s music, memories, desires, fears, and sexual escapades braided with multi-narrative moments and voice-overs belonging to both admirers and condemners. It moves refreshingly unlike the popular standard biographical film; or non-biographical film, for that matter. However there are discrepancies between the two available cuts, now provided by Mya, and each has its own advantage.

Kinski’s preferred cut, which he himself described as “versione originale“, consists of fourteen additional minutes, which includes condemnation and (often justified) allegations by religious leaders, gratuitous and excessive episodes (some bordering pornography), and an eight and a half-minute opening, principally consisting of a priest (Bernard Blier as Pater Caffarelli) sent to visit Paganini to convince him to repent for his sinful life while on his sickbed; it’s a scene grossly condensed and misappropriately placed later on (just over one hour) into the story told in the theatrical version.

Following this scene is where the diffused and sometimes clunky theatrical cut abruptly begins; namely, in an opera house, during one of Paganini’s performances. The venue is packed with adoring fans, especially young women. And here we meet and are granted access to the thoughts of one of his female admirers, who travels alone to attend his concerts. Although she refers to him physically in unflattering terms, he highly arouses her—along with most of the other ladies in his audience—because of what he makes; and she remains lusting for him, along the journey back home.

Like Kinski’s autobiography, his self-edited version is more raw, vulgar, and exploitative, as well as more meditative; there are moments that give the impression of riding a near death experience. Regardless of whether it suits its audience tastes, Kinski’s cut of Paganini is filled to the brim with passion. Having said that, what the producers’ tamer theatrical version offers, which Kinski’s, in its present state, sadly cannot, is a higher quality in sound and picture.

Actress Dalila Di Lazzaro as Paganini admirer Helene von Feuerbach. Besides the drastic difference in clarity and brightness on the theatrical print (left), notice the cropping on both the top and right-hand side of the director’s cut (right).

And with Director of Photography Pier Luigi Santi’s beautiful use of natural lighting, the interior scenes suffer the most in Kinski’s original.

Here is a further example of what is lost when viewing some of the interior sequences on the director’s cut (right).

Despite his love for his wife, Antonia Bianchi (performed by his real-life spouse, Deborah Caprioglio) and his loving and affectionate relationship with his son, Achille (played by Kinski’s only son, Nikolai Kinski), there is no getting around the discomforting theme of Paganini’s obsession with young, sometimes adolescent women. And whatever Kinski doesn’t show or have Paganini act upon, he clearly insinuates.

While none of the actresses which Kinski (as Paganini) lays with are really minors, their characters range from thirteen and up. One of them is based upon Paganini’s sixteen-year-old mistress, Charlotte Watson; in the film, she is a not-very-convincing thirteen-year-old named Carol (performed by Beba Balteano). Another historical figure is Napoleon Bonaparte’s sister, Elisa Bonaparte (Eva Grimaldi).

In the director’s cut, some of the sexual content gets so unnecessarily graphic that the scenes, which are interwoven with religious heads speaking ill of him, become (perhaps) intentionally comical.

Here, Paganini seduces the young Angiolina Cavanna (actress Tosca D’Aquino, left) and toys with the viewer, as to her playmates’ interests in him. These stills are taken from the theatrical print.

But the film is not limited to Paganini’s (nor Kinski’s) vices nor weaknesses, which contribute more laughs to the film than mere titillation. The bond between father and son is strong, as it was in real life. As portrayed by both Klaus and Nikolai, Achille was the centre of Niccolò’s world. And Paganini came to be more dependent upon his son, as he became more physically weak (he suffered from various illness throughout his life).

Other documented moments showcasing Paganini’s goodwill and humanity include his finding a poor, young boy playing a violin on the streets of Vienna. Touched by the sad-looking youngster, he quietly takes his violin and plays it, which immediately draws a crowd. Afterward, Paganini collects alms with his hat and gives it to the boy, then wishes them all a good evening. The real Paganini would often give benefit concerts for the poor, and was very generous with aspiring musicians and to those who wished to hear him. In Kinski’s Paganini, information about his own financial worries (and bad diet) are relayed partially through the voice-overs, which streams along with the music (provided by the great Salvatore Accardo).

From the theatrical print: Paganini strolls through Venice (left), where he is spotted by his wife Antonia Bianchi (Deborah Caprioglio as Debora Kinski, right).

Despite the director’s intended cut’s faults—some of the poor dubbing distracts while at other times it appears to blend in with the music and passing voices—its redeemable features include a cinematic biographical journey unlike any other, due to a visually arresting Klaus Kinski, operating in front of, as well as behind the camera.

Although I’m glad to have replaced my VHS copy of the film, I can’t help but feel disappointed with Mya’s release. One can’t fault them for the deteriorated copy of Kinski’s cut. But the lack of subtitles, especially on over fifty minutes worth of priceless behind-the-scenes footage, as well as on the brief Cannes Press Conference, shows a lack of consideration to its customers. Therefore, it is difficult to recommend purchasing this edition anywhere near its present retail price. However, the film itself definitely has its rewards for the adventurous moviegoer.

Now, what I’d really like to see from Kinski’s filmography is a good, subtitled copy of Frank Cassenti’s La Chanson de Roland (The Song of Roland) (1978), along with Augusto Caminito’s Il Grandi Cacciatori (1988), a.k.a. White Hunter.

Achille (Nikolai Kinski, left) watches his father give his final performance (right).

DVD Specifications (Disc 1):

Theatrical Version Runtime: 1:23:53 / Audio: English (stereo), French (stereo), Italian (stereo) / Subtitles: None / Aspect Ratio: 1.33:1 (4:3) / Chapters: 12

Disc 1 Extra Features

• Backstage
  Runtime: 50:45 / Audio: Italian, French, German, English / Subtitles: None
• Cannes Press Conference
  Runtime: 5:04  / Audio: French / Subtitles: None

“What? No subtitles? Shhh…”

Behind the scenes, you can hear how loud that old Arriflex camera can get.

“My hubby’s so bad,” I can only imagine her saying.

The “vampire with a violin” changes his threads to take the wife out for a bite.

DVD Specifications (Disc 2):

Director’s Cut Runtime: 1:38:13 / Audio: English (stereo) / Subtitles: None / Aspect Ratio (listed as): 1.33:1 (4:3) / Chapters: 12

Disc 2 Extra Features

• Deleted and Extended Scenes
  Runtime: 50:45 / Audio: Music only / Chapters: 7
• Photo Gallery
  Runtime: 8:29
• Original Trailer
  Runtime: 2:01 / Audio: English

Additional Links:

• Du dumme Sau! - a very enjoyable Kinski blog.
• Jesus Christus Erlöser (Jesus Christ Savior) (2008) – a 1971 theatrical performance reconstructed by Kinski biographer Peter Geyer (with English subtitles). It’s available to view in either nine parts (in 480p) or in one (in 360p). 85 minutes.
• Kinski in Italy (2010) – a three-part Italian documentary (with English subtitles). Unfortunately, the last third is presently unavailable. 30 minutes.
• Kinski-Paganini.de contains passages from the film’s 1989 press book, as well as an impressive photo gallery.
• Nosferatu in Venice (1988) – a theatrical trailer. Kinski directed a few scenes of this picture. It was his second-to-last film appearance. 2 minutes.
• Please Kill Mr. Kinski (1999) by David Schmoeller (director of Crawlspace (1986). Over 8½ minutes.

Biographical References:

• David Dubal, The Essential Canon of Classical Music, North Point Press, 2001.
• Harold C. Schonberg, The Lives of the Great Composers, W. W. Norton & Company, 1970 (Third Edition, 1997).
• Stephen Samuel Stratton, Nicolo Paganini: His Life and Work, “The Strad” Office, 1907.
• Alan Walker, Franz Liszt: The Virtuoso Years, 1811-1847, Cornell University Press, 1983 (Revised Edition 1987).

I Am a Rock (for Luis Buñuel, John Zorn, and Alejandro Jodorowsky)

Chastity “Titty” Garfield and Freddy Burtis at a Halloween party. Illustration by Enio Acosta.

When my muse and her boyfriend saw the maroon walls and lively Caribbean theme which my brother had applied to his first bachelor pad, they skedaddled out of the South American setting I had placed them in, years earlier, and emulated it as part of their permanent residence back in the states.

The final drafts of Exit the Sand—the story in which they first appeared—carry the title, but hardly bear any resemblance to the original narrative. Chastity “Titty” Garfield and Freddy Burtis (then named Leyaní Garcia and Alfredo Muni) began avoiding phone calls from the once-leading character and became interested on venturing out only for costume parties and fine dining. For the most part, they stayed home. Freddy would cook, together they’d clean, then both would cuddle in bed and snicker over some pretty bizarre movies—some of my own invention.

The only other character I brought about occasionally was a cousin of Titty’s named Ardie, who was slightly younger than her and whom she treated affectionately, like a kid brother. Not long afterwards, I noticed that the manner in which Ardie felt towards Titty was similar to how I had looked up to my older, first cousin, who had passed away years earlier (Alex had been the Peter Pan of my childhood, and was admired by many for his courage, his sense of humor, and his adventurous spirit).

In 2005, when the opportunity arose to devise a scenario for a possible indie feature, I grabbed scenes and ideas I wanted to see most on screen, and polished them up before even considering what the story was going to be about. But the targeted budget and location restrictions became enormously resourceful towards reacting efficiently, as well as creatively. Greatly inspired by Luis Buñuel at the time, I tried to pace my images as he had done with his French films of the 1960s and 70s. (More on those events can be read about here.)

Nearly six years later, my homage to Buñuel stood to benefit from a new draft. This time, my imagination had a blank check and 100% freedom to explore many ideas I’ve longed to see and feel inspired by in a story.

I Am A Rock is a surreal coming of age comedy dedicated to filmmaker Luis Buñuel, musician and composer John Zorn, and filmmaker and author Alejandro Jodorowsky. What began as a 4,200 word count film treatment grew into a 27,000-plus worded scenario / screenplay hybrid for both film and graphic novel—the latter of which I intend to pursue in the near future. It was, without a shadow of doubt, the most enjoyable writing experience I have ever had. Besides its mostly taking place in South Florida, where Titty flies in to visit Ardie and her aunt (Naomi), the less specifics provided the better; although, you’ll find a little bit more info below.

Luis Buñuel

There has never been quite another film director which has inspired my hobby of writing more than Luis Buñuel. And I believe I can specify the reasons for my strong feelings for his work, especially of his last ten features (from 1961′s Viridiana to 1977′s That Obscure Object of Desire). His use of contradictions and surrealism—which was for some artists a movement “that sought to release the creative potential of the unconscious mind; for example by the irrational juxtaposition of images”—blended with his unmistakable rhythm and sense of humor, continue to push my overactive imagination off the cliff and demands it to fly. (While I revisited many of my favorite Buñuel films over the summer, I would have to say that The Milky Way (1969) was the one which inspired me most.)

Whenever I needed another door to open for me, upon my return visit to the world of I Am a Rock, I turned to the versatile works of John Zorn (Naked City, Masada), who had long ago inspired my transition from poetry to narrative fiction, with Exit the Sand; Elegy had been the primary driving album for that story, along with Vangelis’s El Greco. This time around, Xaphan (Book of Angels: Volume 9), which is performed by Secret Chiefs 3, is largely to thank for guiding me; and Trey Spruance deserves a lot of credit for his arrangements. Four other writing companion Zorn albums worth mentioning were Painkiller: 50^th Birthday Celebration (Volume 12), Ipos (Book of Angels: Volume 14), In Search of the Miraculous, and The Satyr’s Play/Cerberus.

As one who agrees that “if art is not a medicine for the society, it’s a poison”, I must say that Alejandro Jodorowsky’s optimism and love for humanity has been quite an influence in my life, ever since I heard his DVD commentary tracks for El Topo (1970) and The Holy Mountain (1973). (Incidentally, it has become nearly impossible for me to revisit either of those two titles without selecting the aforementioned audio, which I find much more rewarding and complimentary to his choice of images.) But it wasn’t his films that inspired my own project; rather, it was his contributions to the comic book medium (with masterpieces such as The Incal, The Metabarons, Madwoman of the Sacred Heart, and Son of the Gun. Watch the restored trailer for the uncompleted animation adaptation of The Incal here.) My own introduction to this body of work began with The Technopriests, which I must confess was swimming around in my mind the entire time while writing.

I Am a Rock’s story has changed a great deal since that 2005 film treatment. The role of Naomi’s boyfriend, whom I had turned to French leading man Alain Delon as a model, has been given a different name and a much more suitable personality. Having been the only actor-model I had used with which to sculpt a character, this time I gathered others from the last decade in which Buñuel worked, in order to invigorate everyone else within my imagination.

The part of Ardie’s mother (Naomi) is dedicated to Romy Schneider. Few actresses have ever moved me so. Delon and Schneider make a handsome pair, and had actually been engaged from 1959 until 1963.

From left to right. Alain Delon (in Un Flic), Romy Schneider (in L’important C’est D’aimer), Michel Piccoli (in La Grande Bouffe).

Reexamining what had to be done with the Delon-inspired character (Caesar), I next turned to Buñuel regulars Michel Piccoli—one of my all-time favorite actors and an enormous inspiration to this story—for Caesar’s business associate (Tony), and Julien Bertheau for the head of Tony’s investment firm (the Cuban Jew, Emmanuel). Also, Macha Méril, who had starred in Buñuel’s Belle de Jour (1967), became my model for Titty’s mother (Fawn, a.k.a. Bambi).

Last but not least, I came to the conclusion that I had overlooked a curiously unmentioned and absent character. As I wondered what had ever happened to Ardie’s father, the answer came with the face of French New Wave icon Jean Paul Belmondo (as Sylvester).

From left to right. Julien Bertheau (in The Phantom of Liberty), Macha Méril (in Chinese Roulette), and Jean Paul Belmondo (in Le Magnifique).

While the reader is naturally free to imagine whomever they choose to see as the characters in this story, I think there might be some—including the aforementioned actors still with us—who might get an extra kick out of it, the way that I do. Hope you have a good time playing with it in your head. And please excuse the foul language. I can’t always control what you-know-who says.

For the free PDF file of I Am a Rock, you’ll have to enter through Bandit Country by clicking the image below. If Bedoya makes you feel uneasy, you can also read it at scribd.com.

I Am a Rock is brought to you by Bandit Country. “Carnes y Disparos Desde 2005.” Home of the world’s best Mexican pizza! Illustration by Enio Acosta.

Several artists directly inspired I Am a Rock, all of whom are listed at the end of the story. I wish to extend my thanks to Kenneth Anger, Ralph Bakshi, the Beastie Boys, the Boredoms, Trevor Brown, Jean-Claude Carrière, Conjunto Impacto, Alex Cox, the Dead Milkmen, Álex de la Iglesia, Divine, Michael Fassbender, Bill Frisell, Jaime Hernandez, Jonathan Hobin, Ho Chung Tao & Johnny Pate, Masakazu Katsura, Pierre Maguelon, Lyle Mays & Pat Metheny, Jeanne Moreau, Muni, Arch Oboler, Andrea Spinks, Los Panchos, Mike Patton & Dan the Automator, Silvia Pinal, Dick Rude, Eddie Santiago, Milena Vukotic, and, of course, Paul Simon.

One Year Later (Bonus Material):

• Unused Art by Enio Acosta – this was the only illustration that didn’t make it into the book, as the scene was removed.
• My Imaginary Soundtrack – links for every song that appears in the story, accompanied by a brief scene description and the page number.

Mixed Blood and the Music of Paul Morrissey’s Gangsters

The only movie images displayed in Rodney Harvey’s tragic E! True Hollywood Story I never forgot—when I saw it in 1999—belonged to Mixed Blood (1985), his film debut. I wasn’t familiar with anything from his filmography at the time, although I had seen Salsa (1988) as a kid. And it wasn’t until early January of this year that I finally got around to realizing the quality of his work.

I must have seen Paul Morrissey’s Blood for Dracula (1974) not long after watching that documentary, because about that time was when I got myself a Laserdisc player. (It was also the first Laserdisc that I bought for a friend.) Blood for Dracula (1974) is one of my favorite black comedies, which I tend to revisit year after year. It’s the only tale of the Count where he has to drink virgin blood in order to survive—which he has a hard time trying to find—and where his adversary is a communist. Actors Udo Kier and Joe Dallesandro are unforgettable in their roles, as is Arno Juerging as Anton (Dracula’s servant). But it’s writer/director Morrissey’s dialogue and style that gives it its unique flavor.

Flesh for Frankenstein (1973) was to be the only other Morrissey flick I would see until years later, when I spotted Mixed Blood available for instant streaming through my rental provider. And it wasn’t until that moment that I became aware that the one memorable Rodney Harvey film I had seen clips of long ago was directed by the same talent behind Blood for Dracula.

Four minutes into it, when all of a sudden I heard Willie Colón’s Che Che Cole kick in with a tracking shot of Rita La Punta (played brilliantly by Marília Pêra) leading her Maceteros into their rival gang’s turf, I had a smile on my face that stayed there predominantly throughout the picture.

According to Morrissey, the impetus for the film—which discloses its setting—came from a New York Times article, which regarded the drug trade going on in vacant buildings in New York’s Lower East Side. Having the opportunity to work with his “favorite actress of all time” (Marília Pêra), Morrissey next had to decide upon how best to use her. Drawing inspiration from Pépé Le Moko (1937), he chose to tell the story of a Brazilian woman (La Punta, or “the Spike”) who runs a gang of underage kids that hustles drugs and tries to drive off her competition (the Master Dancers).

Were it not for the perfectly hand-picked, relatively unknowns Morrissey discovered (with a little help from his casting agent), the film might have been completely overbalanced by Marília Pêra of Brazil’s 1981 masterpiece Pixote. She’s a powerhouse of an actress.

Rita La Punta: Get on clothes. And put on some clean underwear. Suppose they took you to prison with this dirty underwear.

Had it not been for the backing out of a Brazilian soccer player, who was to play her son, the character rewritten especially for the irreplaceable Cuban Mariel refugee Richard Ulacia (Thiago) would not have given the film what it needed to make it whole. Morrissey loves people with accents in his films, and Richard’s is priceless. He was a good sport for putting up with having his character rewritten and treated as mentally challenged, because of his manner of speech. Rodney Harvey plays Jose, his right-hand man.

After a meeting between a corrupt police official and a local crime boss (Hector), along with an outsider German supplying drugs to both the Master Dancers and the Macateros, a decision is made to intervene into their troublemaking, potential war.

The German’s female companion (Carol), upon meeting Thiago, stirs the pot even more by posing a threat to La Punta’s grasp on her son, as well as arousing his interest in leaving his confined environment. Even though, she’s just having teen-like fun with him.

Thiago: You like Thiago?

Carol: Thiago, I think your mother has the wrong idea about us.

Thiago: You stay with me. You belong to the chief.

Carol: You mean like in the jungle?

Thiago: Don’t make fun of me. I don’t like it.

If things aren’t messy enough, a mid-teen (Comanche) has come to town seeking revenge against Thiago for crippling his brother. He manages to sneak his way into the Maceteros gang as a spy for the Dancers, despite Thiago’s strong distrust of him.

I tend to dislike it when a film uses the same song(s) more than once, but the use of Mixed Blood’s outstanding soundtrack is exceptional (links provided below). The Hector Lavoe tracks are outstanding, and Jose Gallardo’s Amanecer is particularly beautiful. But when I heard Wilfredo Vargas’ El Africano during a family party, just before a major shootout occurs, I was texting my brother and a couple of friends about the film, eager to share the experience.

Having grown up in my mom’s record shop, and having had the enormous pleasure of working in the record distribution industry, I received a great deal of exposure to a large variety of music; many things I might not have ever gone on to appreciate on my own. Including the music of New York-based Fania Records, where many of these recording artists rose to stardom. Although I was born and raised in South Florida, I tended to overlook my Hispanic heritage and culture throughout my youth. Once I began to take advantage of my second language, I discovered a gateway to enjoying other cultures which would allow anyone to broaden their perspective on life and the many roads of experience there are to travel. This film reminded me of those feelings, by mixing different groups on one turf and allowing us to laugh along with all of our petty human dramas and small-minded greediness. It’s a memorable period piece, with plenty to offer in entertainment, as well as for those of us studying storytelling techniques.

Richard Ulacia as Thiago, Marília Pêra as Rita La Punta, and Rodney Harvey as Jose.

Sountrack Listing:

• Amanecer composed by Jose Gallardo, performed by Mongo Santamaria.
• Che Che Cole composed by Willie Colón, sung by Hector Lavoe.
• Noche De Farra composed by Armando M. Dwalff, performed by Hector Lavoe.
• Songoro Consongo composed by E. Grenet and N. Guillen, performed by Hector Lavoe.
• El Africano composed by Calixto Ochoa, performed by Wilfredo Vargas. (My favorite.)
• Tico-Tico music by Z. Abreu, words by A. Oliveira, performed by Marília Pêra.

Geraldine Smith as Toni (left), a prostitute working for La Punta. Thiago (right), captured by the Dancers.

Linda Kerridge as Carol (left), and Pedro Sanchez as Comanche (right).

Ulrich Berr as “The German” (left), and Marcelino Rivera as Hector (right).

Angel David as “Juan the Bullet” (seated), leader of the Master Dancers.

Photograph References:

• All of the images posted above and more can be found on Image Entertainment’s DVD Special Features: Production Gallery with Commentary by Director Paul Morrissey.

Why We Became You (Adventures in New Mythologies): Part 1

Concept art for a mythological adventure. Illustration by Ruben Alejandro Santos.

After completing Pick Up the Gun, My Son in 2008, I was left with the desire to continue creating something just as personally meaningful. The nonfiction style narrative, which I had used, told the story of a mid-20th century Appalachian woman and victim of child molestation, who wrote stories for print and film as a therapy for her own psychological recovery. The idea of getting to know a character by what they create in their minds and/or materialize had been something I had unconsciously tinkered with years earlier, on a couple of other stories.

Months after Pick Up’s completion, a viewing of The Mindscape of Alan Moore (2003), followed by listening to Alex Grey’s intentions in CoSM: The Movie (2006), a new idea was ignited. One that led me back to revisiting comparative mythologies.

The first truly encouraging read was Joseph Campbell’s Myths of Light: Eastern Metaphors of the Eternal, which included a creation myth taken from the beginning of the Brihadaranyaka Upanishad (found on page 9) that inspired further research.

The initial picture that launched the enormous in scope, yet small in word count project, actually came to me by way of the DVD commentary tracks (added to the images) on The Films of Kenneth Anger. Thinking objectively—having heard the story many times before—I toyed with the idea: “Why would a deity need a bringer of light, unless it was in the dark?” (See Sufi poet Mansur al-Hallaj, author of the Kitab al Tawasin, for his interpretation on the story of Iblis.)

And so, my mythological adventure project started rolling. It’s a story completely devoid of any attachment to other myths and religious stories. In fact, once the idea for the image illustrated above came to me, I decided to leave my research into mythology behind in exchange for other subjects and new sources of inspiration.

After watching Walt Disney’s Our Friend the Atom (1957), the very first book I read was The Manga Guide to Molecular Biology by Masaharu Takemura and Sakura. Since then I’ve developed a new appreciation for mathematics, which I never had before, and have fallen in love with astronomy, physics, and especially particle physics. (I’ve just been so darn busy lately that I’ve got a handful of books still waiting to be read.)

The purpose for my having started up My Kind of Story was to get organized, and get things done—in particularly, for this project. Why We Became You will continue to be previewed as long as I have a collaborator to deliver its visual half. The complete accompanying text will go up, once the last picture is completed and compiled with the rest. This one is quite a ride.

Special thanks to Anger, and to The Vogues for singing Jimmy Duncan’s My Special Angel.

AUG-27/OCT-21 update: I’m currently keeping my eyes peeled for a new artist, so the project has been placed on hold. In the meantime, I’ve playfully revealed a few more details in I Am a Rock’s penultimate scene.