When Joe Franklin threatened my life

Photo by Jim Herrington

Joe Franklin was a NYC TV treasure, an unusual-looking little man who became a local legend by hosting a talk show for 40 years, being a maven of nostalgia in an era ('60s/'70s) when it still mattered and another ('80s/'90s) when it was completely negated, and for being a colorfully eccentric Manhattan character. Check out the obits and a recent New York Times story that centered on nothing but the insane conglomeration of clutter in his office, and you can see the fond feelings that Joe engendered.

But there was another side to Joe, one which found his easy-going, eternally-nonplussed demeanor disappear: this was when anyone attempted to spoof his eminently spoof-able TV show or a joke was made (of any kind) about him. In some cases, he set into motion ridiculous lawsuits claiming slander and libel – the better to gain cheap, quick publicity in the local and even national press. In other cases he simply threatened said reporter/humorist with dire circumstances – equally ridiculous, but simply odd, given that this was friendly, seemingly oblivious talk show host Joe Franklin.

On with the tale: I was amused at college in the mid-Eighties when people from out of state would watch Joe's show and not know what the hell to make of it. A friend of mine had her French boyfriend living with her in her dorm room, and he was set even further adrift by the Joe-show weirdness – what did this show mean, who was this man asking odd questions of the wrong people, why was he having on seemingly random individuals who came from hundreds of different fields, was this meant to be informative, entertaining, funny?

To explain to the reader who never saw the Franklin show: the utter randomness of Joe's talk show was its strength for those seeing it in the late evening hours. You could be stoned or sober but slightly loopy from the late hour and the result was still the same. The Franklin show was a mixture of randomness, fascination, tedium, utter ridiculousness, the odd truly touching moment, and sublime, superb insincerity.

The last-mentioned element always came up when trying to explain Joe to newcomers – did he honestly believe all the superlatives he would sling around? It's possible he did, or he was just being pleasant – one of his favorite adages was “it's nice to be nice,” certainly something to keep in mind when reading the items below.

So I set about writing a “101” introduction to Joe for my college newspaper (the school I attended, Sarah Lawrence College, went through about three different names for the paper in the four years I attended – the best was “The Tribune,” the worst was “Fred”). The article I wrote, entitled “Joe Franklin... my friends!” was me trying to explain the utter lack of linearity of any sort on Joe's show for a lay-audience of young people whom I thought could be enticed into watching the show by emphasizing its oddball, cult aspects and how its host's unusual appearance (tacky-looking suits, a sleepy facial expression, his “ever-changing hair color”) made it the perfect late-night viewing for stoners and insomniacs alike.

So proud was I of the piece that I sent a copy of the article to Joe's office, assuming he'd discern the affection with which the piece was written and find it a good “pitch” to the youth audience. I never heard back from him, but I assumed that Joe was a very busy guy.

Flash forward to the late Eighties. I'm now out of school and am working for a firm called “TV Key” at which I am editing the book Movies on TV and also writing columns for the “TV Key” TV-review column, syndicated by King Features. I figured I would write about Joe, offering a more adult “101” to his show, which by this time had been spoofed on Saturday Night Live in memorable pieces enacted by Billy Crystal, Christopher Guest, Martin Short, et al.

The added layer of legitimacy here was that the “TV Key” column was so well-established that I could interview Joe one-on-one for the piece and question him about some of the more entertaining aspects of his show. I got some good quotes from him, the best centering around his unusual interview style – I asked him how he had developed it, and why he would ask each guest about the other's specialty.

He responded that his guests wanted to talk about things other than their specialty. He cited a specific example: whenever he had Dizzy Gillespie on, he never asked him about jazz or music in general. He would get Dizzy to discuss “women's rights, air pollution, penal reform,” the things (that Joe claimed) Diz really wanted to talk about. This was exactly what made Joe's shows so bizarre, so I was delighted he decided to discuss his “method,” as it were.

As the conversation was ending, I noted in a fanboy bow of deference that I'd of course been watching his show for my whole life. I also added that I'd written about him once before, in the Sarah Lawrence College newspaper. Joe's voice suddenly got grim.

He then quickly said he remembered the article and it wasn't funny (was it the “ever-changing hair color” remark?). He then told me that “the men with the gravelly voices” told him they read my piece (again, in a college newspaper that might or might not have been named “Fred”) and they were disturbed. Joe further informed me that “four people have written articles like yours, and three of them are dead.”

I was flabbergasted – and, yes, oddly amused. I told Joe that the college-paper piece was written in affection, I was doing an introduction to his show for my schoolmates, it was intended in a positive way. Joe then asked me if I was writing “another piece like that one,” and I noted that, no, I was doing a different kind of intro where I would be making him “into a Damon Runyon sort of New Yorker” and be discussing his blankety-blank years on the air (by that point it was over 35 years on the air on a five-day-a-week basis).

He seemed calmed by this reassurance but was still audibly disturbed at me for something he claimed to remember in vivid terms. I myself had to break out the piece and reread it back then to see what I'd said, and I found the “ever-changing hair color” remark to be the only potentially offensive remark – the rest was along the lines of saying how Joe would have a nuclear physicist next to an aerobics instructor on his panel, and proceed to interview each person about the other's specialty. Which he did, on a nightly basis!

The final step in the interview project was getting a picture of Joe from Joe himself (don’t ask me why we didn’t have one on file — perhaps it’s because Joe was a local host and had never been written about before this column). When I came to the office, I was greeted by a grim Joe who, once again, had me swear that I was not writing “that kind of article” again. He then told me how “you could make big money writing about me — there’s a young man doing a book with me now, you can make big money.”

He then asked me to swear on my mother’s life (my mom is still with us, thankfully) that I was not writing “that kind of article.” Joe said again that he did want me to make fun of him — and then he handed me a picture of himself wearing a tuxedo and carrying a cane in Astaire style. (The top hat was off in this shot, one shouldn’t overdo it….).

I have an audio cassette of the phone call wherein I was told that the “men with the gravelly voices” were very dissatisfied with me and would play it for various friends through the years. One suggested that Joe could have me hurt — that he would recruit the Gabor sisters to chase me down Broadway hitting me with their purses.

There are two post-scripts to this story. The first is that I met Joe a few other times in later years and, even though I said my name, he was quite nice to me (I guess I didn’t use the odd trigger-phrase “Sarah Lawrence College newspaper”). In fact the nicest and oddest of these meetings had me asking him if there was any information available about an old singer he kept having as a guest by phone on his WOR late-night radio show.

Joe claimed this man, Beauvais Fox (or was it spelled Bové?), was a MASSIVELY famous singer in the early Thirties, that he outsold Russ Columbo, Vallee, and Crosby. This was hard to believe — and harder still when there is no mention of this man’s name anywhere on the Net (the sole person with that name in show-biz was a theater critic who died in 1955) or in Billboard-style “greatest selling records of all time” reference books. Joe would receive a call from this aged Fox gentleman every week at some ungodly hour (around 4:00 a.m. usually), and he would have this incredibly “famous” singer sing him a song from his apartment, over the phone, while playing piano.

Each of these segments made me wonder where the hell Beauvais lived — unless he resided in a townhouse or a very well-insulated apartment, it’s hard to imagine a person living in central Manhattan who can play piano at 4:00 in the morning and not piss off his neighbors. Thus, I asked Joe if he could play us some of Fox’s best-selling songs on his show (see, we never heard these best-selling records, just the old man singing over the phone), or give us some background on Fox so we could situate him against the crooners of his era.

Joe’s response was to tell Beauvais that night that many people in NYC loved him a lot — “Ed Grant from Media Funhouse loves your singing.” Thus, I never learned a single thing about Fox and probably never will, unless some kind Franklin associate would like to comment on this piece and offer some context as to who this mysterious singer was.

The other post-script to my tale of Joe and his “three out of four” dead men was that I have carried this story around with me for years, thinking that I was oddly special, since the only other people Joe got furious at were sued for big money they didn’t have (all suits lost or dropped).

I then heard from my friend Rich Brown just a few weeks back. It turns out that he called Joe up after he sent him a copy of the NYU humor magazine “The Plague” (Joe was featured on the cover, a standard picture of him smiling superimposed onto a pic of the fjords in the Netherlands) in the mid-Eighties. Joe was not pleased and adopted a low tone to warn Rich that he’d better watch out and be “verrrry careful” about what he said about him.

This of course made me feel not as “special” as a potential Franklin murder-victim, but it did reinforce that Joe’s skin wasn’t just thin, it was transparent.
*****

Now, to those who are familiar with Joe, it is obvious that both Rich and I (and those other wise-ass college writers who found *anything* humorous about Joe’s program) got off easy. Joe had two very famous lawsuits against humorists whom he felt “mocked” him, and he was intent on suing two others.

The first person was Uncle Floyd and the show was (natch) The Uncle Floyd Show, at that time a local program that aired on a UHF station. It had a very large cult audience (that included, no shit, David Bowie, John Lennon, and the Ramones), but it was still a local show.

What Floyd and his colleagues did in their “Joe Frankfurter” sketches was to simply distill the essence of Joe's program and make it seem even kookier than it was, while still keeping the same straight face that Joe always maintained about his bizarrely composed panels of guests.

So Floyd and his cast did a spot-on satire of Joe's show, starting with a spoof of his presentation of old movies he had in his collection, then onto showing some personal memorabilia, and then onto the panel, comprised of people from wildly different fields who were asked to comment on each other's specialties and then queried for their feelings about show-biz figures who were long dead.

Floyd did this long before the Saturday Night Live sketches where Billy Crystal played Joe with an “upscale” group of great comedic actors (Christopher Guest, Martin Short, et al) as the crazy roster of guests.

Joe did not take kindly to the spoof of his show (perhaps it was indeed all too accurate?). He sued Floyd for defamation of character for $35 million dollars. Floyd used to joke about the lawsuit during his act at the long-defunct and much-missed Bottom Line here in Manhattan; he liked to recount how he was served with the subpoena for the lawsuit while performing at a TV telethon for charity.

Joe lost the lawsuit because his case was insubstantial — what Floyd and his cast were doing is called satire (even on a no-budget UHF show in New Jersey), and the 35 million figure was insane for the kind of show Floyd was doing (and the kind of “coverage” he had at the time — I watched him through snow in Queens). In the process, Joe got publicity, which seemed in the end result to be what he had desired all along. In later years he lied and claimed he won the suit, which became a pattern for him.

The second lawsuit is perhaps Joe’s most famous: in Oct. 1984 he sued cartoonist Drew Friedman for a piece he wrote and illustrated called “The Incredible Shrinking Joe Franklin.” Joe asked for $40 million dollars for libel; Friedman was named, along with the magazine the comic appeared in, Heavy Metal, and National Lampoon, Inc., the owners of HM at that time.

Another ridiculous lawsuit, intended presumably to garner publicity and frighten away any other humorists who chose to make fun of him. The interesting thing about this suit is that this was the third piece Friedman had done on Joe; the other two were the incredibly funny (and indubitably nasty) “The Joe Franklin Story” (written by Josh Alan Friedman) and Drew’s great solo “Joe Franklin is a Dream Walking.” The “Shrinking” piece evidently was the straw that broke the camel’s back for Joe.

Joe lost the suit — you can read about the verdict in a New York Times article here. He eventually became friends with both Drew (see pic on right) and Josh Alan as the years went by. But humorists weren’t deterred from spoofing his show. In the ’84-’85 season of Saturday Night Live, the Billy Crystal sketches began appearing.

They were along the same lines, although not as brutally funny as, the Uncle Floyd sketches; the “SNL” sketches also, of course benefited from having a budget big enough to recreate Joe’s set and the ability to get real celebrities to play themselves, as when Liberace appeared as a Franklin guest. Joe had a running gag about the Crystal sketches (which he did grow to love and talk about endlessly, even though there were only a handful in that one season) — he claimed he had told Billy, “I saw your impression, and one of us is lousy!”

It’s thus very interesting to see in a blog entry on the Thunder Child blog about WOR executive Chris Steinbrunner, in which the writer notes that Joe “was furious [about the Crystal sketches], and deeply hurt. He stepped into Steinbrunner’s WOR sanctum, wondering what actions he should take.” Steinbrunner calmed Franklin down by noting that SNL spoofing him “was one of the best things that could have happened to Joe.” I'm willing to bet the combover that Crystal sported was what pissed Joe off the most.

[After I posted this piece, Drew Friedman noted to me on Facebook that Joe speculated on a lawsuit against Crystal on his show: "I clearly remember that during the year Billy Crystal was doing his Joe Franklin segments on SNL, a guest of Joe's brought it up on the show and said how funny it was. Joe reacted (with a smile on his face) by saying " He's very funny. Do you think I should sue him, do you think I should sue him?" Stunning!]

So Joe didn’t sue Lorne Michaels and Billy Crystal and co., but he again threatened to take comedians to court when Sarah Silverman, in her segment in the documentary The Aristocrats (2005), did a version of the titular joke in which she was on the Franklin show with her family doing the obscene act and Joe raped her.

Now that joke was just awful — not because no one should make fun of Joe (read above!), but because Silverman’s stock in trade of saying outlandish things in a deadpan way (made more “shocking” by the fact that she’s an attractive young woman) has gotten pretty tired over the years. It was also a rather “in” reference, because by the time the film came out, Joe was remembered mostly in NYC nostalgia circles.

In any case, Joe was again livid — one of my later meetings with him was in an elevator on the way to the most bizarre/absurd thing he ever did, a no-budget recreation of his talk show in a very West Side loft space (I wish I had photographed and videotaped the event, since it seems to have gone undocumented). In the elevator I asked him about the “news” that he would sue Sarah Silverman. His answer to me was that he was still considering it — and, he assured me, he hadn’t touched her. (I, of course, nodded my assent.)

As he aged, it’s assumed Joe mellowed and gave up suing people. What he did give up was the actual suing, but he didn’t give up the publicity-seeking that went with the earlier suits. He would announce the lawsuit in the press (as happened with the Sarah Silverman deal), then not file the suit, and then, according to Penn Jillette on his podcast (episode 152), claim he won the lawsuit that he never filed. He also rewrote history and claimed he won against Uncle Floyd, but that’s a story for another time….
*****

As for an intro to Joe that was approved by Joe, I advise you to check out the documentary 50,000,000 Joe Franklin Fans Can’t Be Wrong. The film was independently produced, is quite good, and represented Joe’s only prolonged appearance on PBS (it aired on WNET in NYC).

Thanks to John W., Joe D., Anthony V., and other Facebook friends who exhumed and spotlighted materials presented here.

Review: 'The George Kuchar Reader'

George Kuchar was a very funny writer. His movie scripts reflected this, as did his self-penned capsule descriptions of his films and videos. The book he wrote with his twin brother Mike, Reflections from a Cinematic Cesspool (now sadly out of print), is a “sideways” memoir that has some wonderful passages. The newly released book The George Kuchar Reader focuses squarely on his “lurid” writing and is loaded with wonderful diversions. Its last section also provides what may be our only insight into the real George that hid behind his outsized public persona.

Edited by Andrew Lampert and published by Primary Information, the Reader is a cornucopia of writings by George, including letters, diaries, articles, movie program notes, speeches, drawings, comics (from the period where his work was appearing in collections edited by his “Frisco” friend Art Spiegelman), syllabuses and, most importantly, very useful short essays he wrote on making films and videos on an extremely low budget.

The book is a great supplement to George’s film and video work, which is sadly not available at all on DVD — selected shorts can be found “underground” (the Torrents) and above-ground (YouTube) on the Net. When I wrote about George's death, I included a list of indispensable embeds of Kuchar films available at that time — the material goes up and it goes down, so different titles are available at different times.

The only feature film related to the work of George and his twin brother (and one-time collaborator) Mike is Jennifer Kroot’s delightful documentary It Came From Kuchar, which is now legally available on YT:

Back to the Reader: George’s prose style was intentionally torrid, since he clearly loved Hollywood fan magazines and the popular press. He loved describing his films in the most lewd and lurid terms imaginable and putting himself down (usually invoking gas — he was quite possibly the filmmaker most aware of his body functions).

He rhapsodizes in one piece about his “defining filmic moment” seeing Vera Hruba Ralston and David Brian in a terrible B-feature released by Republic. The cheapness of the film inspired him to believe that he could make films in a similar vein:

“Here were truly crazy people worth emulating because it made growing up seem like fun: you can be in your fifties and still play-act, have fake fist fights and tumble on the floor with robust Czechoslovakians. These were my kind of people from an exotic tribe that I wanted to infiltrate… The human imagination imagining the best way to make the worst look good. This became a defining film moment for me.”

As noted, a few of the most valuable pieces find George offering lighting tips for low-budget film- and videomakers. As opposed to, say, Jerry Lewis, whose book The Total Filmmaker tells a fledgling filmmaker how to make a big-budget production with a giant crew and studio backing, George and Mike Kuchar have always spoken in lectures and writings about the importance of bringing extension cords and gaffer tape (or duck tape) to a shoot, finding the right bulbs, the best places to place your lights, and the fact that a regular clamp-lamp found in a hardware store is as good as (and cheaper than) a lamp purchased in a photography store.

George’s tips are of course delivered with a humorous undertone, but you can tell they came from his own past mistakes: “You can also use a sheer, black cloth to soften the image, but be careful when you put it on the lens with a rubber band that the excess portion doesn’t rub against the microphone and create back-ground sounds that would suggest a potential skin chafing outbreak.”

George also wrote what could be called, for lack of a better term, “historical pieces.” One hand-written six-page entry (and may I say that George’s handwriting is totally legible — those nuns did a good job with him!) finds him describing the underground film scene of the Sixties. He of course punctuates the piece with a number of humorous observations, but he also is providing us with a glimpse into a long-gone world that he and Mike were an important part of. At one point he talks about the different kinds of films one could see at underground screenings.

“Long pictures were made with really lengthy, single takes. After a few minutes the audience would catch on to what was in store for them…. and sometime rebel in a violent manner. Other folks would sit back and flow with the experience… the aesthetic of boredom, kindling erotic fantasies involving other members of the audience sitting nearby.”

As put together by Lampert, the book emphasizes George’s opinions about his work, the shooting and editing processes (which he saw as both work and a leisure-time activity), and his reflections on the movies and popular culture. All of this material is incredibly funny, and yet one wonders what George was like when he wasn’t manifesting his George “persona,” as seen in his diary videos and in these writings.

The real George emerges in the final segment of the Reader, a touching sampling of excerpts from his letters and emails to his close friend — and one-time Kuchar brothers screen goddess! — Donna Kerness. This correspondence allows us access to George’s real thoughts and emotions in his final year, as he battled prostate cancer yet continued teaching at the San Francisco Art Institute and compulsively producing his charming and funny video diaries.

Although he loved to put himself down in his public work, these personal emails find George quite proud of his accomplishments as an underground and independent filmmaker (and teacher). He is also revealed here to be an incurable romantic, who pined heavily for a younger man with whom he had a nearly two-decade relationship; the relationship was a purely sexual one for the other man (with a dollop of friendship), while George awaited each call and communication from the gent with bated breath.

He notes at one point that “….I’ve always been in the shadows regarding this aspect of my life while others have openly flaunted and reveled in their couplings. I no longer feel like being this perceived wallflower or backseat passenger on the road to romance.” He prized his position as the man’s “fuck buddie” (as George spells it — Lampert has left his writing as is, so grammar and spelling mistakes aren’t corrected, to keep with the "lurid" flavor of George’s prose style).

At times the emails read just like any personal correspondence. At other times George does indeed ponder his mortality and the films and videos he feverishly made throughout his life: “So much [of the current situation] is trying to extinguish the magic with tricks of the mind and ticks of the clock. Mortality itself is attempting to blow out the blaze. Those are the culprits who have set my teeth chattering with these monologues of doom and gloom…. I don’t want the fire to die. I can die but not the flame. It has to keep dancing to create all those shadows on the wall moving. Those shadows are what my life has left others to view.”

The 65 pages of correspondence to Kerness (49 pages from his final year) serve as the memoir that George never wrote. Those of us who never knew the man personally but loved his films will find the “real George” as endearing (and libidinous!) as his public self. Those of us who have had health, romance, and/or artistic problems similar to the ones that he went through can’t help but think of him as a sort of “patron saint” (especially for ex-Catholics — although I notice his emails indicate that he still prayed nightly).

But of course, most of the Reader is filled not with George’s own deepest emotions, but with his love of cinema, as in this intro to a piece about making a very prone-to-nudity senior “actress,” Linda Martinez, into a “sex symbol” in his student films: “It is all fantasy. A world of illusion conjured up by concubines with cold sores that masquerade as beauty marks…. Pancake makeup replaces the naturally pancake-induced cellulite that ripples on the buttocks of non-actors and these powder-puffed butts that are no longer silent either. They utter digitally enhanced retorts to the dialogue that ricochets around the theatre in Dolby stereo. Technology has amplified the aural components of every vibrating orifice into a Jehovah-like commandment of withering import.

“We are a truly blessed congregation of cinephiles in nature.”

Any artist who called his work “gossamer garbage” surely knew that “high” and “low” culture are very integrally related. This fine book reminds us of how important George truly was, and is, to the film community. Now let’s get some of his films (and Mike’s too) on DVD soon! 

NOTE: Donna Kerness maintains a site for her art. It can be found here.

Sam’s ‘perfect actress’: Deceased Artiste Billie Whitelaw

A bit of unfinished business from 2014: Of all the recent show business deaths, the performer who seems to require special treatment is British actress Billie Whitelaw, who excelled both as a lead and a character person. She also happened to be a muse for one Samuel Beckett for a quarter of a century.

Whitelaw's obits all stressed her working-class background and the fact that her mother encouraged her as a child to pursue acting as a way to get rid of a stutter. The young Billie had several roles on radio (including a regular one as a schoolboy) before she made her debut in theater in 1950 and appeared in her first film in 1953.

Some of the write-ups of her career cited her as “the female Albert Finney.” This could mean a number of things (a working-class heroine, a cranky person, a performer who did not document her life in public the way other performers do), but the comparison immediately brought to mind one of my favorite non-Beckett roles of hers, as the ex-wife in Finney's only theatrical feature as a director, the underrated Charlie Bubbles (1967), which I discussed recently on the Funhouse TV show. (She also played opposite Finney in Gumshoe.)

Whitelaw's character could easily have been depicted as a shrew, but while she keeps a “stern” bearing, she also lends the role a degree of weariness (that is the main thing about her role as a celebrity author's ex-wife, she wears the character's weariness with style). As scripted by Shelagh Delaney (A Taste of Honey) and acted by Whitelaw, Charlie's ex is a woman who has been through a hell of a lot with him but still loves him, although she knows it's best that the two of them now live apart.

She won a BAFTA Award in the Supporting Actress category for her work in the film. Here is her segment from the film:

While American viewers saw her in many films, including Hitchcock's Frenzy, The Krays (as Mama Kray), Quills, and the Simon Pegg-Edgar Wright pic Hot Fuzz, she is best remembered by those with any sense of memory as the villainous nanny in the original The Omen (1976).

Those who dig a bit deeper in cinema and theater – and really top-notch TV – know of her position as one of the foremost interpreters of Beckett's work, to the extent that he wrote plays with her in mind and restaged some of his older works with her in the female lead.

The pair first worked together in 1964 on his Play and thus began an on-and-off collaboration that spanned a quarter-century. Beckett referred to Billie as “the perfect actress” – one assumes he meant for his work, but that accolade can be stretched to include her other immaculate performances in more routinely structured plays and movies.

A New York Times article by Mel Gussow from 1984 discusses the methods that Whitelaw used when working with Beckett on his plays. The odd thing about the work she did for him is that it contained both an incredible degree of stasis and yet was physically demanding because of the repetitions or oddness of posture demanded by the activity in the piece.

She said of playing in a Beckett piece that “Whenever I work with him, I feel as if I’m being blasted off into outer space.” And yet she knew instinctively as they continued to collaborate that what he wanted from her was to be “Flat, no emotion, no color.”

In watching these pieces in a row to write this piece, I was struck by how much musical precision was involved in what she was doing. She also was indeed both lively in her performances while mostly called on to recite singsong dialogue in a hypnotic tone that mesmerizes the viewer (it also, naturally enough, could be seen as either abrasive or boring – two aspects Beckett seemed to have built into his work).

I will list these not in chronological order, but in order of importance. “Eh Joe” is a piece that Beckett wrote for TV in 1965 in which a silent man in an empty room hears a voice, that of his former love reminding him of his life. Whitelaw isn't seen here, she is the voice of memory (and conscience) in this 1988 production:

In “Footfalls,” Billie paces back and forth in a proscribed area onstage (in a spotlight), talking to her aged mother, who is only present as a voice, meant (again) to remind her of the past and provoke her:

The longest piece by Beckett with Whitelaw that we have available on video is a production of Happy Days that he directed in 1979. The play is an odd one, because it seems like it always existed, or had to have existed – if Beckett hadn't written it, another avant-garde playwright would've eventually come up with the metaphor of performers half-buried in sand onstage.

Her performance is fascinating in that, again, she delivers his stylized dialogue with immense care, yet still makes it sound like natural speech. The character she plays is the eternal optimist who refuses to think the worst of any situation, even as she is starting to disappear below the sand.

The one thing that weighs against the piece is its length – the first act is sublime, but the second act seems like the original draft of the play boiled down into a shorter length. It's impossible to say that a Beckett play “drags” (he didn't pace them in any ordinary sense, ever), but Happy Days does seem to reiterate its situation and its lead character's blind optimism one too many times. (That said, Whitelaw is fantastic.)

If I had to pick a favorite of all the pieces I'd gravitate toward Rockaby. The short one-act (running 18 minutes) was part of a longer one-hour 1983 documentary directed by D.A. Pennebaker and Chris Hegedus about the U.S. debut of the play.

The piece is devastating. Whitelaw moves slowly in a rocking chair, looking paralyzed, while her voice is heard offering a singsong recitation of the dialogue. (“Time she stopped/going to and fro…close of a long day…”) She occasionally speaks along with the voiceover and a few times shouts out the most significant word in the play (and possibly in life?), “More!”

I've refrained from trying to analyze the plays as I've written about them here (my focus is on Whitelaw's performances), but this solid little piece is most clearly about aging and death. And, of course, wishing that – no matter how dull life can be – that there was “More!” to be had.

The most singularly amazing thing Whitelaw did was to become a mouth unleashing a torrent of words (and screams) in “Not I,” the 1973 concept piece (shot here for the BBC in '77) that is an astounding thing to behold. It's nearly impossible to describe what occurs in the play without making it sound pedestrian or too simplistically avant-garde. It simply must be seen.

It's incredibly intense and one of the all-time best depictions of insanity (and/or the fast rush of memory, which can be the same damned thing). This BBC airing of the piece brackets it with a very calm Whitelaw talking about the production of the piece, which is kinda weird – to have a “normal” intro and outro to such an extreme piece of raw emotion. It blunts the piece in a way, assuring us, “no, she's all right... she came through it okay...”

When asked about Beckett's death in 1989, Whitelaw remarked, “I’m the canvas who has lost the paintbrush.” A week before she died, the University of Reading purchased her Beckett archive (letters, costumes, scripts) for 35,000 pounds. The performances she gave, it goes without saying, are priceless.

A site devoted to rare foreign and U.S. features

I have avoided spotlighting sites that offer streaming video of copyrighted films and audio. A site appeared earlier this year, however, that is focused on uploading subtitled copies of foreign features that have no U.S. distributor (thus no DVD release) and American oddities from the pre-Code era, as well as titles made during the most fertile time for oddball productions, the Sixties. Rarefilmm is a very ambitious endeavor that may not be around for long, but the moderator's attention to obscurities that have fallen “through the cracks” of cinema history is most appreciated.

The moderator, who goes by the name “Jon Rarefilmm,” has thus far posted links to 644 films that are housed on other sites (first YouTube, then another upload site); he takes requests for film titles on the site's Facebook group, so presumably he himself is posting these films on those sites – I'm not certain whether he's digitizing the films himself, but the number of titles he's made available in just 12 months makes that highly unlikely.

Jon doesn't offer any opinions on the material he's posting, although he has created a side menu linking to films he's uploaded that were made by great foreign filmmakers. Thus I thought I should zero in on the more significant and entertaining features that have shown up on this odd site, especially in light of the fact that Jon has noted he will be putting up a “pay wall” on January 1 (see update below). If foreign and pre-Code film fans are interested in the material, they can check it out for free for the next week.

If I had to chose one title to recommend above all others currently on the site, it would be Resnais' 1997 film On connait la chanson (“Same Old Song” in English). It is perhaps the late New Wave master's most charming picture, a modernist musical dedicated to the memory and genius of TV deity Dennis Potter. The film is currently unavailable in the U.S., because its American distribution was handled by New Yorker Films, which went out of business several years ago and its titles are currently lurking in limbo.

In the Potter tradition, Resnais' characters express their frustrations and ecstasies through popular song, lip-synched to classic old recordings. The screenplay by Jean-Pierre Bacri and Agnes Jaoui is a delight, and Resnais' fragmented approach to Potter's technique is glorious, both for what it says about the characters' inner lives and popular culture's hold on the imagination and emotions. The post for this film is here.

Another truly rare item posted on the RF site is The Devil's Cleavage (1975) by George Kuchar. The film is George's longest-ever feature (running over two hours) – his other long works were composed of shorter “episodes,” or were screenplays directed by other filmmakers, as with the amazing Thundercrack!. 

Cleavage is a fun feature with some great, torridly melodramatic sequences (in the classic Kuchar style), but it's a bit too long for its own good. If you've ever seen George's great short works, try it out for a bit – it includes (for those who want to see underground comix artists undraped) a topless Art Spiegelman in one scene. The film is posted here.

Another must-see is a film that is so insanely egomaniacal that it's hard to describe, Anthony Newley's Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness? (1970). It's a classic Sixties misfire that mimics 8 1/2 but retrofits it to accommodate Newley's lusts (he wants us to know all about his womanizing), his family (including then-wife Joan Collins), and oddball guest stars (Fellini's embodiment of death was a beautiful woman, while Newley's is Georgie Jessel). The post for Heironymus is here.

Another film of note that's been posted by Jon is Alain Corneau's sublime Jim Thompson adaptation – for my money the single best Thompson adaptation ever – Serie Noire (1979).

The film stars Patrick Dewaere (whom we lost way too young, a suicide at age 35). He plays a door to door salesman/con man who concocts a plan with a quiet girl to rip off her rich aunt. The film is wonderfully underplayed and Dewaere beautifully cast as the amoral lead. The post for that film, thus far unavailable in the U.S. on VHS or DVD, is here.

A final spotlight should be thrown on yet another French feature that lurks in distributor limbo, Rivette's Haut Bas Fragile (1995). The film is a joyfully self-conscious affair that is similar to Godard's Une Femme Est Une Femme, offering stars who can only mildly carry a tune acting out the most blissful of movie-musical cliches as they sashay around the set. Like most Rivette titles, it's a long feature, but worth the time spent. The post for the film is here.

Other notable foreign items on the RF site include Scola's The Family, Varda's Kung Fu Master!, Sternberg's Anatahan, Antonioni's La signora senza camelie, Losey's The gypsy and the gentleman, Ophuls' La signora di tutti, Bunuel's Wuthering Heights and The Monk (based on an unproduced script he cowrote), Mizoguchi's Love of the actress Sumako, Oshima's Boy, Rohmer's Les rendezvous de paris, Gillian Armstrong's Starstruck, Maxmilian Schell's End of the Game, and Paul Verhoeven's The Fourth Man.

Arthouse items worth checking out include Robert Frank's Me and My Brother, The Wild Duck with Jean Seberg (her last film), Anna Karina as a non-Godardian hooker in Le Soldatesse, Marcello in Everything's Fine, the caper film Rififi in Tokyo, the only post-Breathless reunion of Belmondo and Seberg in Echappement libre, and the only pairing of Belmondo and Moreau, Moderato cantabile. 

Some vintage Hollywood titles: Clara Bow in Call Her Savage, the wonderfully titled Are Husbands Necessary?, and the Spencer Tracy pic Now I'll Tell, costarring Helen Twelvetrees and Alice Faye (based on the memoirs of Mrs. Arnold Rothstein!). Also, Hawks' Ceiling Zero, Capra's Dirigible, and a later oddity, William Castle's Let's Kill Uncle.

A number of lesser known noirs are up on the RF site, including The Night Has a Thousand Eyes and Hugo Haas' immortal Pickup. You can see Tim Carey do a lovely little dance in Bayou and watch one of Dean Martin's most underrated performances in Career.

Rarities that Jon has posted include Bette at her kitschiest in Beyond the Forest, Otto Preminger's misbegotten Porgy and Bess, the patriotic Song of the Open Road (with a W.C. Fields segment), the Dean Martin comedy Who's Been Sleeping in My Bed?, the rare comedy Funnyman with Peter Bonerz, the trippy Sixties pic TheTouchables, the Patty Duke vehicle Me, Natalie with Al Pacino's screen debut, The Dion Brothers (aka “The Gravy Train”) scripted by Terrence Malick, The Incredible Sarah with Glenda Jackson, Ulu Grosbard's Straight Time with Dustin Hoffman, the female buddy movie Heartaches with Margot Kidder and Annie Potts, and Paul Bartel's farce Scenes from the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills.

Fans of cinematic bombs and oddities will want to check out Mickey Rooney with a talking mule in Francis in a Haunted House, the ridiculously titled Cottonpickin Chickenpickers with the immortal Sonny Tufts, the beatnik oddity Once Upon a Coffee House featuring the movie debut of Joan Rivers, the big giant bomb Che with Omar Sharif as Guevara, the Filippino variant on The Most Dangerous Game called The Woman Hunt (take a guess), the rock fantasy Oz: a Rock and Roll Road Movie, the Doris Dorrrie comedy Me and Him with Griffin Dunne and his talking penis (no kidding), and something that sounds like it will either be very funny or quite awful (but is most likely both), Jesuit Joe.

Feast while ye can, and happy holidays to all! 

Thanks to John W. for pointing the way.

UPDATE: The "download" feature is still working on the film entries, as of 1/3/15. You click the link and then you have a choice of MP4 download "sizes."

New, free (legal!) download of ‘The Dream World of Dion McGregor’

I noted in my last blog entry on the strange phenomenon that was, and is, Dion McGregor that it is surprising (and welcome) to find that there is new material available from the renowned “sleep talker.” Now the friendly folks at Torpor Vigil Records have made the long out-of-print 1964 LP by McGregor, The Dream World of Dion McGregor — yes, the one with the Edward Gorey cover — available as a high-quality, totally remastered, legal download. For free, even!

Many audio and video rereleases use the phrase “remastered,” but in this case the folks at TV went back to the original tapes of McGregor’s monologues made by his roommate Michael Barr back in the Sixties to obtain better-sounding versions of the material on the LP. So this isn’t just a digital rendering of the original record, this is a clearer version of the material (specific notes about the process are available at the download page).

McGregor, for those who are unaware, was a songwriter (now deceased) who has acquired a cult not for any of his music, but for the bizarre and dark monologues he delivered in his sleep. The situations he would craft are disturbing (the best example is the piece about people in a swimming pool that is slowly getting hotter and hotter) but his “concerned observer” narration is what sells the pieces.

I discussed in my last post how I had a problem with the notion that McGregor was fully asleep; arguments to shore up that position, provided by Torpor Vigil founder Steve Venright, are in that blog entry. In the time since, I came across a very interesting NPR discussion about McGregor’s monologues, in which two experts on sleep discussed what state he might have been in — one of the two maintains he was “sleep talking from a sort of atypical REM stage.”

Whatever the hell he was doing, McGregor produced surreal and grimly funny material that was not his forte in the waking world (it’s even more bizarre to consider the fact that he had this stuff locked up inside his mind and never became a humor writer of any kind). The first LP was a distillation of the “best” (at that point) of McGregor’s monologues, replete with the traffic sounds of midtown Manhattan in the background.

Dion in a 1972 de Rome film.

There definitely would seem to be a documentary in all this, and yet there may never be one, due to the fact that most people who knew McGregor have died. The most recent was his roommate before Barr, the pioneering experimental gay porn filmmaker Peter de Rome, who is the subject of the new documentary Peter de Rome: Grandfather of Gay Porn — which I can heartily recommend for those interested in experimental filmmaking, gay porn, portraits of eccentric and endearing artists, and those who love seeing vintage footage of NYC in the Sixties.

In any case, although I don’t think there is a McGregor monologue that directly concerns the Yuletide season, this free, vastly improved digital version is a very nice Xmas gift for the listener who likes strange and dark humor. There is ample information on the download page concerning the other McGregor albums, which are all available on CD. As for explaining what it was that McGregor was doing, nothing beats just sampling the monologues, which can be done directly on the page.

Sweet Dreams!