Eh, Julie!: Deceased Artiste Julius La Rosa

Every obit for singer Julius La Rosa, who died last week at 86, led off with the fact that a well-beloved (then) radio and TV host fired him live on-air in 1953 (on a radio show, not on TV). I want to dump that angle summarily and move on to what I valued most about La Rosa, who was affectionately known to friends, fans, and listeners as “Julie.”

I have extremely fond memories of listening to Julie as a deejay back in the Seventies. He was part of a sterling group of “radio personalities” on WNEW-AM, a NYC institution that was sadly killed off in the early Nineties.

The weekday line-up started off with “Klavan in the Morning” (the great character comedian Gene Klavan) from 6-10. The immortal William B. Williams (he who coined the phrase “Chairman of the Board” for a certain Francis Albert) was on-air from 10 to 1 p.m. Julie had the early afternoon slot (1–4) and was followed by the late, great Ted Brown (4-8, “drive time”), who was a rambunctiously entertaining deejay. Jim Lowe (yes, the guy who sang “Behind the Green Door”) hosted from 8 to midnight, presenting interviews with celebrities as well as music. Stan Martin had the late shift as the host of “the Milkman’s Matinee.”

The most interesting thing about WNEW in the Seventies was the fact that the station was fully “adult contemporary” (read: mellow pop) while still playing the “great American songbook” (the phrase “American popular standards” came into heavier use later), mostly on Willie’s B shifts. Thus they were still playing Sinatra, Lady Ella, Nat King Cole, Judy Garland, et al, but were mostly spotlighting softer numbers by the Beatles, bubblegum tunes and one-hit wonders (think: K-Tel comps), and the work of the mellower singer-songwriters. Now that I look back on it, it was a terrific blend that counterpointed the best of songwriting from “the past” (the Thirties through the Fifties) with that of “the present” (the Sixties and Seventies).

Of all the deejays on the station, Julie seemed to have the highest regard for the “MOR” songs that he played. As a singer he clearly had respect for the new breed of singer-songwriters. He also seemed to be “taking notes” for his singing career, which continued on while he was a deejay. He later wound up performing a number of the songs he used to play on WNEW on a regular basis.

Julie on the right, Klavan in the hat, unsure of
the other gents.

So, as a kid, I first heard Carly Simon, James Taylor, Jim Croce, and most importantly, Joni Mitchell (my first concert) on Julie’s show. I was also introduced to the music of the late, great Harry Chapin by Julie, who played Harry’s more radio-friendly (read: shorter) songs when they were new. He seemed very touched by “The Cat’s in the Cradle,” playing it quite often and making complimentary remarks about it and some of the other “new sounds” he was playing.

Julie was clearly fascinated by what different singers could do with the same material. To illustrate this (and, seemingly, to put himself in a state of reverie) , he would play two or three versions of the same songs by different artists, back to back. The NYC free-form legend Vin Scelsa did this in a more conceptual fashion for years after Julie, but Vin was doing it on FM rock stations at odder hours, whereas Julie’s “mixes” were on a very mainstream AM middle-of-the-road outlet in the middle of a weekday afternoon.

The oddest memory I have of Julie’s rapport with his listeners was an incident where he spilled coffee on a turntable (yes, the deejays used to actually be in the same room with the recordings) and his pants. He admitted his mishap, joking about how management was going to love him gumming up the turntable, and then took phone calls on the air, chatting with listeners (mostly women) who gave him advice on how to clean the stain out of his pants.

Before, during, and after his days as a deejay (which apparently began again after his departure from WNEW, in 1998 when he worked at WNSW in Newark), Julie kept up his singing career, playing nightclubs and auditoriums and releasing LPs. (He did occasionally play a record of his on the air.) The only place on television that I would see him as the years went by was on the Jerry Lewis MDA telethon.

Julie’s onstage persona seemed like an extension of his real-life demeanor: easygoing, cheerful, and self-effacing. In a New York Times interview, he admitted, "I know my limitations," he said. "Maybe I'm not an exciting performer, and sometimes I wish I were. But I like to sing a song so people really hear the lyrics, so they listen to the words and have that mean something to them." An interesting statement from a guy who lacked “humility,” according to the TV star who fired him back in ’53.

In the Seventies Jerry aimed some of his ethnic jokes at Julie (getting back at Dean through a surrogate?), but Julie always laughed them off and seemed genuinely happy to be on the telethon.

I found it touching that one year, instead of doing his own hits from the Fifties or standards from the Great American Songbook, he performed “Cat’s in the Cradle.” His version had a nightclub sound, but what it lacked in folksiness it gained in emotion, thanks to Julie’s evident admiration for the song.

I have no idea if he found some echo of one of his own family relationships in Chapin’s lyrics, but what his version of the song did convey was that, even many years later, he remembered the moving (and very well-written) pop hits he had played at WNEW.
*****

And now for the clips available online. I should note that two of the songs I wanted to included here are nowhere to be found: Julie's version of Randy Newman's "I Think It's Going to Rain Today" from his "You're Gonna Hear From Me" LP. Julie's version was the first cover of the song, released in September of '66, before the memorable hit rendition by Judy Collins. Julie does it with a kind of ironic bemusement, an interesting take on Randy's downbeat lyrics.

I also would like to have included "Pieces of Dreams" here. It's on his 1971 LP Words (image above), which featured him covering a number of contemporary "sounds." "Pieces..." was sung by many singers at the time (including Streisand and Mathis), and it was one song for which Julie did an on-air "megamix" (of course he didn't call it that). The song was written by Michel Legrand and Alan and Marilyn Bergman, and Julie did it justice (but you'll have to discover that on your own....)

A sample of Julie on the Arthur Godfrey show (the one and only time I’ll mention the name of the “Old Redhead”):

A somewhat anonymous love song, but one that shows Julie’s voice at its best. One of those it’ll-be-great-when-we’re-married songs from the Fifties:

Julie guest-hosted for Perry Como in Feb. of ’55. He starts out with a memorable upbeat number, “Tweedlee Dee,” at the opening:

Julie only starred in one movie, Let’s Rock (1958), which is misleadingly titled, since he plays a singer much like himself, who was not a rock fan (or performer). The whole film can be found here. This sorta-rock-y number closes out the film (which he mocked in later years). Phyllis Newman costarred as his love interest.

Julie’s biggest-ever hit was “Eh, Cumpari” (loosely translated, “Hey, Buddy”) a novelty number about different musical instruments. It’s catchy as hell, and it seemed to me as a kid that he was singing “Dippity dippity doc” (it’s actually “tipiti tipiti tah,” which appears to be nonsense syllables).

The single BEST clip of Julie being a teen idol (which he was indeed for a few years in the Fifties) doing his boppin’ little hit “Lipstick and Candy and Rubbersole Shoes” back in 1956:

Julie did a lot of appearances on the Jerry Lewis telethon. One of the most unusual is him doing a song adaptation of Rudyard Kipling’s “If” poem. In the long clip below he appears at the 45:00 mark, doing “The Still of the Night” and “Days of Wine and Roses”:

And here he does a duet with Jerry (at around the 11:00 mark) on “Bye Bye Blues.” Old show biz!

He appeared on some of the “oldies” TV programs (the kind you see when PBS stations are in “pledge drive” mode). Here he does a medley on one of them:

Onto the tunes he either picked up at WNEW or would play on the station. First, “The Good Life,” which was an English translation of a 1962 French song. It was the theme for a short-lived 1971 sitcom with Larry Hagman. The best known version is by Tony Bennett:

A jazzy number by George Benson and Al Jarreau:

Stevie Wonder was an artist who was played a lot on WNEW. Here Julie covers his hit “You Are the Sunshine of My Life”:

One of those sad, beautiful songs that Julie played on WNEW, Charles Aznavour’s “Yesterday When I Was Young”:

One of the oddest discoveries: Julie released a single in in 1970 of the song from Hair “Where Do I Go?” He’s backed by the Bob Crewe Generation on this insanely catchy record, and his voice sounds sped up.

In closing, a quartet of special items. First Julie does one of Neil Diamond’s grittier Seventies songs, “Brooklyn Roads”:

An amazing early Fifties home movie of a ladies “card club” visiting NYC to see Ernie Kovacs’ TV show (they were fans of his previous show in Philly). One of the guests the day they saw it was Julie (who is seen in full color at :25 and 2:30):

Two clips of “old man Julie.” First an informal interview from 2011 in which he talks about his past. And then a nice little sliver of him in a very sparse looking dressing room answering the cameraman’s question about how he’s doing:

I’ll close with one of Julie’s odder gigs: singing the theme from the incredibly brilliant and dark-as-hell Mr. Mike’s Mondo Video. The melody is the British instrumental hit “Telstar.” Julie sings the song in English in the opener here, but can be heard singing it in Italian at the end of the show (in an obvious nod to the original “Mondo” movies made by Jacopetti and Prosperi):

Julie, photographed by Weegee.

The “lost” Prince-produced trashy musical “Happy Birthday, Mr. Christian”

The sudden flood of Prince music onto the hub of modern culture (for better or worse) that is YouTube means that we now have the chance to see him performing live at nearly every stage of his recording career, hear his legally released albums in one (non-Tidal) place, watch his music videos, and listen to what seems like several weeks' worth of unreleased songs (all until his estate is cleared up, at which point his executors have to decide if they want to follow his lead of scrubbing everything of his off of that site).

However, one of the most precious nuggets for those of us who like bad movies has been hiding in plain sight on YouTube on-again and off-again since 2007, and for a full year on Vimeo: the wonderfully awful Apollonia 6 “video album,” which was shot in 1984 but never released.

The approximately 20-minute short film was created as a promotional tool for the trio, which was put together by Prince, who also wrote their songs and produced their sole album. The film, which was titled either “Happy Birthday, Mr. Christian” or “Apollonia 6: the Movie,” was shot but never given a final edit – the online version is missing sound effects, bumper music for the shot transitions, and is clearly a rough cut (replete with dirt on the image).

The fact that it's unfinished and crappy-looking makes the movie even stranger and more awful than it would've been had it been polished and put out on the market. The three “guest stars,” the jarringly Eighties production design, the terrible acting, and the brazenly tacky music videos around which the short is built all add up to a fun viewing experience for connoisseurs of trash cinema.

A capsule history of the lead “group”: Apollonia 6 was first Vanity 6, but when Denise “Vanity” Matthews pushed for a higher paycheck as the female lead of Purple Rain, she was fired and Patricia “Apollonia” Kotero was hired to play her part in the film and take over the trio that was, again, a Prince creation – the other two members were his former wardrobe mistress Brenda Bennett and his girlfriend Susan Moonsie.

The ladies’ vocals were beefed up in the production by having the voices of Wendy & Lisa and Jill Jones layered under their vocals. Each of the women was also given a visual “identity”: The lead singer, Apollonia, was a fashion-model-perfect Latina, Brenda was the feisty blonde, and Susan (who had started in Vanity 6 when she was a teenager) played the Lolita figure, replete with a teddy bear.

The most notable thing about the Apollonia 6 album are the songs that Prince earmarked for it, but then pulled. In one case this was for his own benefit (“Take Me With U” wound up on Purple Rain); the other two titles he pulled he then gave to other artists: “Manic Monday” (the Bangles' biggest hit) and “The Beautiful Life” (Sheila E.'s biggest hit).

The only other remnant of the trio is the music-video for their only hit single, “Sex Shooter” (which they also perform in Purple Rain). The video is slick and polished and, well... who cares about that? (Although it is interesting that Prince conceived of women as having the “gun” in this lyric – “c'mon kiss the gun/guaranteed for fun”)

The Apollonia 6 film was directed by Brian Thomson, an Aussie who did the production design for the original productions of The Rocky Horror Show and Jesus Christ Superstar and the very underrated Rocky Horror sequel, Shock Treatment (1981). It was written by Keith Williams, the Welshman who concocted the scenarios for several music-videos, including “Dancin' With Myself,” “Holding Out for a Hero,” “Against All Odds,” “She Works Hard for the Money,” and “Ghostbusters.” (Yes, the terrifying Eighties...)

The “plot” finds our three heroines at a reading of the will of their uncle, who also ran a school for girls. Russ Meyer star (and ex-wife) Edy Williams plays their uncle's assistant, who heads up the meeting. Ricky Nelson plays the uncle, named “Mr. Christian,” in what I firmly believe is a reference to Terry Southern and Mason Hoffenberg's Candy (if Prince loved Barbarella as much as he seemed to, I'm sure he saw the film version of Candy if hadn't read the book).

Christian decided that his nieces need humbling and so he left them nothing. They must go out and get jobs immediately. (Who would've thought we'd hear squeaky-clean TV idol Ricky intone the phrase “tough titty”?)

The girls get their first jobs at a diner, where Susan's teddy bear and his friends wear different outfits (don't ask), and Susan sings what might be one of Prince's worst-ever lyrics (“My name is Susan/and I'm oozin'/with desire/for you”). This is followed by a different visualization of “Sex Shooter” that begins and ends in a supermarket, and finds the always-wonderful Buck Henry (!) lusting after Apollonia in what seems to have been some kind of critique of consumerism. (If you've ever wanted to see Buck lip-synching to a woman's voice singing Prince lyrics, this scene is for you.)

Next there's a set-piece at a garage, featuring what might be the best song in the bunch, “Blue Limousine.” And then it's time for Mr. Christian to show up in the flesh – it seems he wasn't dead, he just wanted his nieces to get jobs. The film ends with the promise of a party scene that was apparently never filmed – the screen goes to black for three minutes as we hear the very “Lolita”-ish song “Happy Birthday, Mr. Christian” and miss out on whatever frivolity the filmmakers had in mind for the party.

This lapse into an image-less screen creates for “high”/“low” fanatics like myself an odd little echo of Godard's conclusion for Le Gai Savoir – which also features an equally black screen for several minutes at its end, albeit without the political subtext (then again, Uncle Jean never did a film about a school for naughty girls).

Different Prince-fan sources supply different reasons why the film was never finished and released. One was that Rick Nelson died shortly after the shooting in a plane crash, so the notion of his character also having died cast a pall over an otherwise fun, light project. It has also been stated that Apollonia wanted to keep her acting career in the forefront and wasn't that interested in being a singing star. Perhaps the most likely reason is that Prince simply lost interest in the group (which should be evident by the fact that he gave away two of the most memorable songs that were initially earmarked for their album).

The Eighties were an incredibly tacky period, and Apollonia 6 (which only had three members – do you get it now?) were just a small blip on the radar. Certainly they could've been thrown into a truly kinky scenario if the film was scripted by Stephen Sayadian (aka “Rinse Dream”) and scripted by Jerry Stahl (scripter of Sayadian's Cafe Flesh).

But this is sleaziness in the cause of selling an album, so it couldn't be as challenging (read: good) as Sayadian's work. Instead we just have this amazing cultural artifact that, while not personally made by Prince, wound up becoming an interesting footnote to his checkered list of proteges and odd side-projects.

Diminishing returns: the cinema of Prince

Prince was a sublime musician and an absolutely awful filmmaker. People of the right age group look back very fondly on Purple Rain, which contains a terrific song score by the Purple One and engages in fun, if insane, pop-rock-funk mythology.

He followed that box-office blockbuster with three films — a concert movie (wish he'd done more of those) and two unbelievably bad fiction films. They have sequences that are “so bad they're good” but also are reflective of a talented musician's ego run amok. Since Prince was so integrally involved in the creation of these pictures, I thought it would be valuable to discuss these grandiose missteps in detail.

Purple Rain (1984)

Firstly, there's the only film people associate with Prince. It benefited from what the show-biz folks like to call a “cross-platform” approach: a soundtrack album filled with unforgettably great songs, music videos for said songs featuring scenes from the movie, and the movie itself, showcasing the numbers.

Director Albert Magnoli was a lauded student filmmaker who made his big-screen debut here and went on to make action pictures (Tango & Cash, American Anthem). He wrote the script with William Blinn and clearly drew on old Hollywood melodramas about egomaniacal singers, from A Star Is Born to Jailhouse Rock (which seems to be a heavy influence on the depiction of the antihero lead). 

Purple Rain is chockablock with corny cliches, but the songs that punctuate the film are so great and the concert interludes so kinetic and exciting that the film ends up being an unintentionally campy delight.

The plot finds “the Kid” (Prince), a popular but moody and arrogant local rock-funk star (the setting is Prince's beloved hometown of Minneapolis) battling his chief rival, another creepy bandleader, Morris Day (playing a character named “Morris Day”; nearly everyone in the film plays a character named after themselves). The Kid's father (Clarence Williams III) beats his mother, his bandmates are pissed off at him for being a creep, and his newfound girlfriend (Apollonia) is wavering between him (“artistic integrity”) and Morris (“fame and fortune,” albeit only in one neighborhood in Minneapolis).

Magnoli wisely structured the picture around the songs and thus helped popularize the “video album” concept of the Eighties. As it stands, the single best moments of Prince on film are here: that crazy, frenzied little dance (see the GIF at the bottom of this piece) where he runs his hands over his hair and torso, a routine that can either be viewed (depending on your feelings for the Purple One) as incredibly sexy or indelibly funny, and the performance of “Darling Nikki,” the “filthy” song that outraged Tipper Gore and the Parents Music Resource Center.

The latter is a killer performance, oozing with sex, sleaziness, and the joy of rock-funk. It's unfortunate that the song is bracketed in the film's ridiculous plotline as being some kind of an onstage rebuke to Apollonia and Morris, so it is intercut with shots of people looking aghast. At this point and others in the film it's impossible not to equate the audience shots seen here and those in Stephen Sayadian's influential cult sci-fi porn feature Cafe Flesh (made as “Rinse Dream” in 1982). The images in Flesh are supposed to be disturbing and funny; the ones here are just funny.

Prince's acting is just as good as it needs to be. He is clearly outclassed by Clarence Williams III (the only “name” in the cast), who has to embody the tormented jazz-pianist dad, and even by Morris Day, who is a really amusing villain (taunting the Kid with a sneering “how's the family?” after Williams' character has just blown his brains out).

In the long run, Purple Rain is still worth watching because of its song score (which won an Oscar for Prince). Magnoli wisely gives up on the plot in the final segment of the film and just has Prince perform onstage, since that is all we wanted to see anyway.

Under the Cherry Moon (1986)

Now we move on to the films that most people are unaware of, or have forgotten, or have consciously tried to erase from their memory. Under the Cherry Moon isn't scripted by Prince (Becky Johnston, later to script The Prince of Tides, did those honors), but it's directed by him and it's clear that he oversaw most aspects of the production.

The bad news is that it's not a musical. The good news is that some sequences are so fuckin' awful that you might want to watch it (with a finger poised on the fast-forward button) when you're looking for a misguided, big star vanity vehicle. (I can't in good conscience tell anyone to watch it in real time — I did that and needed to listen to Prince's music afterward to remind me that, yes, indeed the guy was immensely talented).

It's a stunningly over-baked piece of cine-crap that should have done for Prince's movie acting/directing career what Can Heironymus Merkin Ever Forget Mercy Humppe and Find True Happiness? (1969) did for Anthony Newley's activities in those areas (read: effectively kill them). Instead, Prince made one more fiction film (see below) and wisely then realized he better cut his losses and go back to music full-time.

As Purple Rain was an MTV-era evocation of the old “arrogant-singer learns his/her lesson” melodramas of Hollywood's Golden Age, Cherry Moon is a resurrection of the gigolo/crooked ladies-man comedies that starred charmers like Cary Grant and (later) Tony Curtis (one also thinks of the comedy Bedtime Story with Brando and David Niven, remade as Dirty Rotten Scoundrels).

The film is in black and white, but isn't set in the past. It takes place in the Eighties and features a Prince and the Revolution score. Thus you hear hard-assed rock drumming, synthesizers, and screeching guitar as you watch an old-fashioned (albeit with cursing), light-hearted comedy about love among the wealthy folks of Nice, France. Prince is a gigolo who constantly varies between formal speech and an “urban” African-American voice that constitutes his character. Jerome Benton (of the band The Time) plays his goofy sidekick. (According to various reports, the mostly unfunny comic exchanges between Prince and Benton was scripted by the Purple One himself.)

The lovely young Kristin-Scott Thomas (in her first movie role) is Prince's wealthy object of desire, and among the supporting cast is British character-actor vet Victor Spinetti (the one true link between the aforementioned Newley movie and Cherry Moon). The most impressive names, however, were all behind the camera, including Mary Lambert, the initial director of the film, who is credited as Prince's directorial “consultant” (she had directed Madonna videos, and was later to direct Pet Sematary) and superlative production designer Richard Sylbert (Manchurian Candidate, Chinatown) who crafted the look of the film, a few years after he did Coppola's similarly retro Cotton Club.

The single biggest mind-blower in the credits for fans of great cinema is Michael Ballhaus as the DP (it is indicated in various places online that he was an uncredited co-director). Ballhaus is best known for his superb work with Fassbinder and Scorsese, and is by any measure one of the best cinematographers in the world. He's capable of bravura moments — as here when there's a full 360-degree pan around a cabaret in which Prince is playing piano. The movement isn't inspired by anything in the plot, it's just gorgeously smooth and perfectly executed.

Ballhaus had done similar 360s in Fassbinder's work, most notably a brilliantly overwrought moment in Martha, when the lead characters meet and the camera pivots around them. Prince may not have seen Ballhaus's work with RWF, but he most likely did see his eye-catching camerawork for Scorsese's Color of Money (which, along with Newman's performance, is the backbone of that movie).

In any case, the main problem with Cherry Moon, as already noted, is that Prince chose not to make it a musical and doesn't sing onscreen, except for one interlude in a nightclub (which occurs a long, long 40 minutes into the film). The biggest hit to come from the soundtrack was the incredibly catchy “Kiss” (a hit for both Prince and Tom Jones), which is played during a (much, much) later kissing scene between Scott Thomas and Prince. Arguably his best-ever sad song also appears on the soundtrack of the film and is equally buried — "Sometimes It Snows in April," which has always been a fan favorite but became particularly resonant after his death in April.

Prince definitely wanted to downplay the music in the film — it's there as background and, even though his character is a pianist (and, for some insane reason, Scott Thomas plays the drums in one scene!), the moments that could have been exciting had they been made into musical numbers are instead just more of the goddamned plot, which is doomed from the start.

And, speaking of doomed, Prince gets to have a dramatic death scene at the end of the film. This is no spoiler — his death is mentioned in the film's opening narration. As it stands, though, it's ridiculous, since tragic elements never appeared in the great light romantic comedies, and once Prince is killed, we're left with his sidekick living a happy life with his own French girlfriend (neither of whom have mattered much in the scheme of things).

The Artist Then Known As… did, however, have a heavy Christian belief system, so he adds more plot under the final credits. At that point, for no earthly reason (but you're no longer on Earth — get it?) we see Prince and the Revolution performing a song in Heaven. Scott Thomas is now seen to be happy (she apparently is enjoying the concert in heaven, or something…) and Prince and the boyz (and Wendy and Lisa) are rockin' out as the movie ends in the clouds.

Cherry Moon was indeed a massive bomb at the box office and received awful reviews (I have been pretty kind thus far, given what a startling dud it is). It was Prince's “ultimate” effort to package himself as a movie star and “auteur” (he was indeed loved to pieces in France — but again for his music, not the cinematic qualities of Purple Rain).

It was never brought up after it failed, although you can stream it for three dollars on YouTube (really, truly, though, there are online alternatives that are less or involve no dough at all). It bombed so badly that Prince's next (and last) fiction film was a Purple Rain sequel that was also misguided and ridiculously scripted. But at least it had some music….

Sign o the Times (1987)
After the failure of Cherry Moon, Prince directed a concert film to promote his eponymous double-LP (the title song from which is an absolutely spot-on summation of the Reagan era in a single pop tune). The film is the perfect sort of vehicle for his talents — it would've been great if he'd done a number of these concert pics, since his live performances were legendary for outshining his LPs and music videos (a format he struggled with — he made dozens of them but was quick to shelve them if he disliked them for any reason).

The concert sequences are framed by a sort-of-plot in which singer “Cat” is dropped by her boyfriend as Prince observes and considers “moving in” on the situation. Thankfully that can all be ignored, and you can just concentrate on the performances, which include songs that were catchy hits, including the title song, “U Got the Look,” “If I Was Your Girlfriend,” and “I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man.”

The most impressive thing about the music is that it beautifully reflects Prince’s influences: rock, funk, r&b, jazz, and gospel. The musicianship is terrific and, despite there being a music-video (with Sheila E., for “U Got the Look”) clumsily shoehorned into the film, these are killer versions of the songs that nicely spotlight different members of the band. Qualifying as MVP is Sheila E., who drums, sings, dances, and winds up being the most camera-friendly performer besides Prince himself.

It would be REALLY nice if the film were re-released on DVD with the live performances of his other, older songs that Prince cut out of the movie (which runs a mere 85 minutes, and unlike Cherry Moon, feels somewhat short).

Graffiti Bridge (1990)

The film that did finally convince Prince he'd better stick to scoring films (his soundtrack for the Tim Burton Batman was very well-received) was this one, the utterly crazy sequel to Purple Rain that dispensed with the drama that characterized that film and simply went for more outlandish cliches, this time all tied up with Prince's religious beliefs.

In this case, he was the full auteur (let's use the Jerry Lewis term “Total Filmmaker”), since he wrote the script in addition to starring, directing, scoring, and producing. Thankfully, the film was driven by songs, but they weren't on the level of the unforgettable numbers in Purple Rain. Sadly, there wasn't a single hit in the bunch (it's noted in various places that “Thieves in the Temple” went to No. 6 on the U.S. charts, but I dare you to sing or hum it unless you're a heavy-duty Prince fan).

The picture starts a few years on from the action of Purple Rain. This time Morris Day has somehow become the crooked owner of all the clubs in town (Minneapolis again, but this time a far more stylized, set-bound version of the city). His sidekicks wear coordinated outfits that would make the crooks on the old Batman series gag, and no one in town opposes Morris — except “the Kid.”

The two rivals battle it out for the club and the conscience of their neighborhood — and the hand of an otherworldly girl who appears in their midst (Ingrid Chavez, a Prince discovery who lacked a Top 40 hit, although she did cowrite “Justify My Love” for Madonna).

As a director, Prince seems to have copied both Blade Runner (the Minneapolis seen here has steam in the streets and blocks filled with nothing but neon-lit nightclubs) and Walter Hill's underrated Streets of Fire (1984) — the script betrays many links to that film, including the fact that there don't seem to be any residents in the city who are not directly connected to one of the clubs owned by Day's character.

The film's cast is once again filled with Prince's fellow musicians, and two of his heroes, George Clinton and Mavis Staples (who both get to sing, with Mavis getting a full number). And while the most memorable thing Apollonia had to do in Purple Rain was to doff her leather outfit and jump naked in a lake, Chavez gets the wretched and thankless role of a poetry-writing angel (no shit!) who is trying to influence Morris to be good and Prince to follow his better instincts as an artist and motorcycle-riding Christ surrogate.

This last aspect dominates the end of the film, as Prince wears a Christ-like white outfit and performs a slow, forgettable ballad in the “battle of the bands” that his group (the New Power Generation) is having with Morris Day's The Time. By this time, Prince the screenwriter has forgotten about the Streets of Fire atmosphere and aims for the imagery of Godspell and its ilk by having himself crowd-surf in a crucified pose and generally get all Jesus-y.

The oddest thing about the film is the fact that this heavy-as-lead Christian message is intercut with the sleazy sexuality that was always the earmark of Prince's most memorable and fun work in the Eighties. Here there's a scene out of the blue where Morris's girlfriend does a striptease while doing a sleazy rap, right before the Kid is informed that he can't have Chavez's angel character because she is “His” (Chavez points to the sky to illustrate her point — Jesus has the same taste in sexy chicks as the Kid!).

The Kid gets to live in this film (perhaps there was a dream of a third film, to form a trilogy?), but Graffiti Bridge was such an unmitigated disaster that it convinced Prince to step away from the camera and stick with his instruments and studio tools.

His music will live on for a long while. Under the Cherry Moon and Graffiti Bridge are already pretty much forgotten (and can be forgotten as you're watching them), but are terrific examples of a major talent branching out and falling right into quicksand. I can't say how you will react after you see either, or god forbid both, of these films, but you might want to immediately immerse yourself in Prince's best music right after viewing. Then again, a stiff drink might also do the trick.

The Media Funhouse explores the British “alternative” comedy scene (full episode)

Since late 2009 I’ve been utterly bowled over by the amount of incredibly talented British standups who we’ve never heard of here in the U.S.  The ones I’ve become a big fan of are mostly lumped into a category called “alternative” (which is as dubious in comedy in the 2010s as it was in music back in the Nineties). I’ve been chronicling my fascination with them on this blog and the weekly Funhouse TV show.

YouTube is of course the best starting place to see their work but, obviously, you have to know who they are in the first place. Thus, I can quickly note that three gents in this group have been very good about heavily touting the work of their colleagues (by interviewing them, including them in the TV and live shows they curate, and generally just spreading their names around in their writing). Those three are Richard Herring, Stewart Lee (“I actually love Catholicism, it's my favorite form of clandestine global evil.”), and Robin Ince.

For another barometer of quality in the “alternative” standup world in the UK, one need look no further than the Welsh indie DVD label Go Faster Stripe run by Chris Evans (no, not the Capt. America guy). I’ve been very happy to review their titles on the Funhouse TV show and to talk about them here on the blog — as with my recent piece on Simon Munnery, an insanely talented comedian who has several specialties, including creating humorous aphorisms (you tell me how many comedians are capable of coining aphorisms these days….)

Consider this episode a little “101” about the three acts in question: Tom Binns, a character comic who plays “Ian D. Montfort,” a psychic who doesn’t connect you with people you know, he just finds any old specter willing to talk to him (a brilliant spoof of the live psychic “experience”). The second is Robin Ince, chronicled on these pages before.

The last act is a duo, Barry Cryer and Ronnie Golden (pictured above). Golden is a veteran rocker who co-founded the Fabulous Poodles (of “Mirror Star” fame, for those who remember the “new wave” era). Cryer is a veteran comedy writer/performer (78 years old when the DVD was shot; he's 81 now) who is well-known in the U.K. for his appearances on panel shows, but who deserves endless admiration for his having written for the cream of British comedians (Morecambe and Wise, the Two Ronnies, Spike Milligan, Tommy Cooper, Bruce Forsyth) and even American comedians who visited England and needed some local material (Cryer wrote gags for Jack Benny, George Burns, and Richard Pryor — but not all together….).

Anyway, for the Funhouse viewers who are unable to watch it when it airs late Saturday night in Manhattan (it’s live on the Web at that time, East Coast U.S., at this URL) or who space out on Sundays (the stream of the show currently stays up at that same URL for most if not all of Sunday — just move the playhead "back in time"), here is the first full episode that’s gone up on YT in quite some time. I hope it works for both people who know who these comedians are and those who have never heard of them (although it was clearly done with the latter in mind).

Without further ado, here is one of my latest “consumer guide” episodes, this one concerning the “alternative” acts of Go Faster Stripe:

Josie Long: the Funhouse interview

In the past few months, there have been some Funhouse “projects” I've wanted to get back to. Following the passing of my dad (see below), I also realized that several topics went unheralded here on the blog. One of those was an interview I conducted with British comedian Josie Long while she was performing her show Cara Josephine in NYC late last year.

I plan to air the interview on the Funhouse TV show with applicable clips from Josie's standup and TV appearances. I had, however, posted two really interesting clips on YouTube shortly after our chat, as a preview of the conversation.

Both questions I chose to post have to do with the U.K. comedy scene. The first found me asking her to recommend names of other U.K. comics we may not have heard of over here but certainly have “access” to via YT. She was more than happy to supply a list of her favorites (keep in mind we'd already mentioned Stewart Lee, Richard Herring, Robin Ince, and Simon Munnery, so their names aren't in this list).

The second question was one I know that Josie is not fond of, namely the position of women in the world of standup. I thought it was worth discussing the question itself, though, in light of the fact that in the U.S. the easiest route to mainstream acceptance for female standups is if they are cute and discuss sex in great detail (Sarah Silverman, Whitney Cummings, Amy Schumer, and now Nikki Glaser).

In the U.K., however, Josie and her fellow women standups (Bridget Christie, Isy Suttie, Maeve Higgins) do material about more interesting, esoteric, and socially committed topics. I know there are many American women standups who do not go the “did you ever hear of a Dirty Sanchez?” sex-talk route (I brought up Maria Bamford, who is much worthier of attention than the dirty-talk crowd), but I think it is interesting that the ones who emphasize that sort of material wind up getting the biggest showcases on premium cable (presumably because men will watch *that* kind of women comedian).

Josie's statements on this topic are wonderfully eloquent, and take into consideration not only the standup audience's demands, but those of the premium-cable “taste makers.”

More British humor to come...

Where have you gone, Donut Man?

I've had a few Easter traditions on the Funhouse TV show, for my “Easter blasphemy” episodes. One of the most bizarre (recommended many years ago by friend Bob Fingerman) is “The Donut Repair Club,” an ongoing series of cwazy Kwistian kiddie videos.

Funhouse viewers are well familiar with the concept behind these vids, but for those who are unaware: Rob Evans, “the Donut Man,” tells children that “life without Jesus/is like a donut/'cause there's a hole in the middle of your heart.” Thus, you must fill your donut... er, heart and put Jesus right in there. The “repair club” thus literally “fix” donuts by putting munchkins into the center of the holed pastries; metaphorically they fill kids' hearts by sticking Jesus in there.

A lot of Donut Man clips are now on YT, but years ago I uploaded an “introductory” bit from the very first Donut Repair Club video:

Evans' tapes came out on a regular basis in the Nineties, and a daily TV show was spawned out of the concept. I have wondered every so often when I revisit his tapes on the show: whatever happened to the Donut Dude? Thankfully, the Internet holds the answers to most trivia questions, and thus I am happy to learn that Rob Evans is still convincing children to fill their holes [insert highly inappropriate joke *here*], while he also has a day job as a home builder (presumably a contractor). 

This article gives Evans' back story and explores his attitude towards his music. It's fascinating to know that his journey toward finding Christ began when he was experiencing the “drugs and rock and roll scene of the '60s and '70s.” This is reflected by some of his songs – he has one that duplicates “Maxwell's Silver Hammer,” and another song seems incredibly reminiscent (read: the melody is identical) to Buzzy Linhart's “Friends.”

The interviewer declares Evans' Donut Man to be “an almost Christ-like figure” in comparison to other children's Xtian entertainers. For his part, Rob lets us know that the musicians he played with on his Donut Man recording sessions were noted session men in the mainstream music industry. A bassist who played with him has also worked with Barbra Streisand, Stevie Wonder, and Madonna. The producer for his Donut Man albums later produced a Star Trek soundtrack and the score for Pixar's Up. One of his drummers also worked with Phil Collins.

The Donut Man's biggest step was his conversion to Catholicism. He notes that he did it because he believes that communion “isn't symbolic,” it's really happening. (The cannibalistic, blood-drinking portion of Catholicism always fascinated me when I was back in Catholic school, realizing that there are those who want to “drink the blood” of their deity....)

Evans and his interviewer discuss whether Catholicism is Christian... or even Catholic. (That part puzzled me a little. As much as I escaped the church, fleeing for my sanity, I would readily admit that the Catholic church is indeed very Catholic – with an uppercase “C.”) Says Donut Man: “To the degree that the Catholic Church is idolatrous, it’s not Christian so it’s really not Catholic.”

On that interesting theological point the interview fades away, with Evans noting he does 80 to 100 gigs a year. I found his Facebook page, and yes indeed, the Donut Man does still tour his act and involve local children in loading up them holes. He also is a granddad (he and his wife have been married since he was 20 years old and he's now well over 60).

Perhaps the oddest note on his Facebook “Like” page is that one comment (posted a few weeks back, on March 9) comes from a white-power person (who claims to be a Japanese soldier who fought in WWII) who argues that Evans' act is “a plot by the Jews.” It's an interesting addition to the page, which otherwise is all about brotherhood, love of Christ, and Evans' performances and love of family. Perhaps the people running his page don't realize there is a “delete” command on FB?

In any case, the Donut Man is still with us, still preaching to the youngsters about filling their holes with Jesus. What more can one ask for from a gent who openly admits his character's “costume” was inspired by “Mr. Greenjeans” on Captain Kangaroo?

A few extra clips... The one black girl in the group does a rap number about Christ.

A country-fried tune about the prodigal son.

One of Evans' songs that will NEVER exit your cranium, a ditty urging the listener to “skip and sing and dance and shout Hallelujah, shout Hallelujah!”

The Donut Dude in drag, doing his “Maxwell's Silver Hammer” riff:

And one more bit of exposition, explaining the donut-repair metaphor. Fill those holes, chillun!