The Power of Travolta is a Terrifying Thing

You know that story of the guy in Scotland or Ireland or wherever, who went to the local pub to watch a football match, announcing to his fellow patrons that if such-and-such a team doesn't win, he'll cut his balls off?  And then they lose and the guy marched home, literally CUT OFF HIS BALLS and carried them back to the pub for all to see?  And, upon hearing this, after dry-heaving a couple of times, you think to yourself, How can anyone care about sports that much? And you're pretty sure it's the strangest, most disturbing anecdote of passionate obsession you've ever heard?  Well, I'm willing to bet Tony Manero is stranger.  And more disturbing. And it involves this man:

The film takes place in Chile around the time of Saturday Night Fever's theatrical release, in the midst of Pinochet's dictatorship.  Raul is the unspoken leader of a pathetic, little dance troupe that performs once a week at a ramshackle restaurant on the outskirts of town.  He, the troupe's three members - his girlfriend, her daughter and her daughter's gay friend - all live in a small apartment above the restaurant with the restaurant owner, a matriarch of sorts.  In these weekly performances, Raul unleashes his passion and admiration for Fever, performing only choreography lifted directly from the film, set only to music from its soundtrack.  When a popular television program announces a Tony Manero Look-Alike Contest, his homages grow increasingly elaborate and his obsession escalates, causing him to commit a series of brutal crimes, some even against his roommates, already vulnerable under investigation by the regime's secret police.  

Raul's eerily quiet demeanor makes the shift from creepy fan to vicious psychopath entirely indecipherable and profoundly disquieting.  Nothing is beneath him, including snuffing out a close friend to steal high-density glass for his light-up disco floor, defecating on his loved ones' prized possessions, and murdering the elderly.  He would go on a raping spree, too, but 52-year old Raul is entirely impotent and most sexual experiences take a real toll on his self-esteem.  Though such stories of escapism gone awry in dismal circumstances are fairly common, I don't know another quite like this one.  There are only faint traces of Pinochet's ominous presence; the subplot of Raul's roommates' involvement in counter-regime activities is nearly unconscious in the world of the film.  In fact, what we see of Raul's life isn't terribly terrible.  He's got a roof over his head, two women who love him, a job he seems to relish.  What's your damage, Raul?  It seems to me, many of his Chilean contemporaries had it a whole lot worse.  Perhaps this is why his actions are so staggeringly unforgivable, and why the film is so nauseating: we're made to identify with a heinous individual, who is, apparently, heinous for no just cause.

Shag: Perverted Title, Squeaky Clean Campfest of a Movie

It was my obviously misguided understanding as I added this flick to my Netflix queue that I would be watching a cheeky, sexy, 60's B-movie.  Instead, I got Phoebe Cates and Bridget Fonda with teased hair going on a road trip to Myrtle Beach, which would surely be insert cliché as long as their Christian characters avoided vague, hackneyed innuendo.  Ironically, the one thing these uptight twats do manage to deem an acceptable activity upon their arrival in the drunken, horny piss pot that is Myrtle Beach in the 60's is something called a Shag Contest. Um, what in Evangelical off the wagon hell kind of movie is this?  As it turns out, "shagging" is dancing.  Wao, wao, waoooo.

Despite the ridiculous set up, there is eventually some real shagging, followed, of course, by, "You went all the way?" and a stream of squeals that could shatter the ear drum of a small squirrel.  And I have to say, it's a sweet, playful, well-structured story with that 60's, campy, pastel vibe that I lurve.  Moreover, it ultimately strips the Evangelicals of their pretty, little pictures of what life is supposed to look like and forces them to actually live for a change.  It reminded me very much of my beloved Hairspray  - John Waters' 1988 version - namely in that they both use dancing as an obvious, borderline literal metaphor for sexual liberation.  

In a way, my first instinct kind of hit the nail on the head.  Jesus, even that sounds perverted now.

You Think Your Family's Crazy? Stick Around.

There is nothing I love more than an alcoholic, drug-addled, obscenity-slurring, tells-it-like-it-is, brazen, old slag except for an alcoholic, drug-addled, obscenity-slurring, tells-it-like-it-is, brazen, old slag on Broadway.  Not only does August: Osage County feature two such characters, it also has your basic pot-smoking, squeaky-voiced jailbait, a horny, old pervert with a cellphone literally attached to his hip, an aging though totally deluded about it Southern Belle, a reclusive, balding manchild, a sexually ambiguous schoolteacher, a horny and desperate 30-something woman, and, of course, your token Native American custodian.  Even though it's over three hours long and the seats at the Music Box Theatre were clearly made for pigmies, I thought I had died and gone to heaven.

This play is the contemporary equivalent of Eugene O'Neill's A Long Day's Journey Into Night: painful, hilarious, heartbreaking, breathtaking.  It's a vibrant and brave illustration of the disturbing dance between time and the individual, how so much of what becomes of us has to do with things left behind and put off.  Sometimes, it's useful to be totally numb from the neck down like those glorious alcoholic, drug-addled, old slags - it's the only way you don't feel the nag of time reminding you of something you let yourself forget.

Click HERE for tickets before it goes away, like everything else great in this world.

Wear Black in Memphis, Get the Death Penalty

I recently read that one of those jazzy Dixie Chicks ran her mouth on stage about the bogus trial of the West Memphis 3 - a group of kids convicted of brutally murdering three, 8 year old boys back in 1993 - and got booed off the stage by their cousin-kissin' fan base.  Pretty sure those Dixie Chicks oughta start making music open-minded American citizens with IQ's above the 100 buck mark can relate to, or shut their goddamn holes.  But after reading about their blunder, I realized I happened to have the HBO documentary on the trial at home from Netflix. Naturally curious, I took a gander and - holy Hulk Hogan in a car wreck! - no wonder that Dixie Chick couldn't hold it together!

For those of you who aren't familiar with the case, three little boys were found mutilated, sexually abused and murdered in the woods of Robin Hood Hills, Tennessee.   Evidence suggests that the murders occurred the evening of May 6, 1993 - and that's the only conclusive piece of information authorities were able to obtain about the case.  There was no physical evidence on the site, which lead them to believe that the atrocities performed on the little boys were inflicted under water, in a nearby stream, but many of the wounds were intricate and far too difficult to perform in the dark, much less under water.  There were a couple fibers on the boys' shirts but fiber evidence was not conclusive, particularly given that everyone in West Memphis buys their garments at Wall Mart, and they could match the fibers they found to any number of townsfolk's sweet duds.

Basically, the cops were fucked.  

Damien Echols (pictured above) was a peculiar student at the nearby high school - he was unusually intelligent for a dumb hick, dressed in black, listened to Metallica and studied the occult in his spare time.  He was also trailed by two supremely stupid lackeys, Jason Baldwin and Jesse Misskelley.  The police arrested all three boys, claiming that their "Satanism" played a hand in the murders due to several hackneyed tropes such as the repetition of the number three - three little boys, three killers, 1993 - and the importance of pure blood in human sacrificial rituals.

After being held in custody for some time, the dopey, barely literate Misskelley confessed to participating in the murders.  But his confession was inconsistent with the crimes and suggested leading.  It sounded something like this:

COP: Tell us what happened on May 6, 1993.

JESSE: Um, well, myself, Damien and Jason, we went that morning into the woods ...

COP: In the morning?  It would have had to be later than that, right?

JESSE: I guess it could've been around noon.  So we saw the boys, I chased one and held him down -

COP: Let me stop you there, Jesse - these crimes happened at night, didn't they?

JESSE: Okay, yes, it was night.  So I held one down while Damien ...

Despite numerous experts attesting to the fact that this "confession" was not credible, Jesse was convicted of triple homicide based on the confession alone and faces upwards of 70 years in prison.  Several months later, when Jason and Damien went on trial, the prosecution tried to cut a deal with Misskelley, offering to reduce his sentence by half if he agreed to testify against Jason and Damien, and he refused, leaving the prosecution with only a knife buried a short distance from Jason's home, which was not only clean, but recovered 6 months after the murders occurred, one female witness who claimed that she overheard Damien talking about murdering little boys but could not remember anything specific about the conversation, one witness from Juvenile detention who was later deemed incredible due to mental illness, and a couple of fibers that matched some tee shirts found in their closets.  Oh, and that they read Stephen King books - what sickos!

The plot thickens: the stepfather of one of the little boys who was murdered, a kooky presence in the HBO documentary, reciting scripture and revisiting the murder site in flamboyant costumes, gave the filmmakers a thank you gift towards the end of shooting - a knife.  That knife contained blood in the hinges, which matched his blood type and his stepson's.  He claimed he had never used the knife before, until they found the blood, and he said he may have "nicked his finger."  Blood does not get into the hinges of a knife by nicking a freaking finger. But the Jury didn't seem to think anything was peculiar about this and convicted both defendants on all counts anyway.

Wait, there's more:

After 14 years of prison, DNA evidence determined in 2007 that none of the DNA found on the bodies matched any of the defendants.  Most of it matched the victims, some of it matched neither the victims nor the defendants, but none matched the defendants.  And they're still rotting away in the big house.  

Yuka Put a Spell on Me

Yuka Honda, musician/composer/producer extraordinaire, played a show at Joe's Pub in honor of her birthday this past weekend that was so scrumptious it cured my chronic nausea. It reminded me of the way scientist, Michio Kaku, describes humans in relation to other dimensions like fish in a pond who can't see the surface of the water above them. Hearing Yuka's performance was like looking up and seeing the surface of the water for the very first time - spectacular and weird and joyful all at once. Here's Yuka, her band, Helenka, and Cyro Baptista on Saturday night covering "I Put a Spell on You":

When Jerk-Offs Procreate

I understand the impulse to christen your pride and joy with a name that makes a statement, that isn't worn out by every other Dick and Jane in preschool.  But naming your kid after a borough you've never set foot in and a politically incorrect Disney character is not an act of originality, but one of such acute, rampaging stupidity I'm embarrassed to even address it. Bronx Mowgli Simpson-Wentz sounds like a cat hacking something up, not the adorable, little buggar this moronic couple undoubtedly produced. I'm all for unique, unisex names - as long as they mean something to you that's important enough to withstand the endless scrutiny and ridicule that will surely follow.  Otherwise, why not name the kid Shithead?

Play Muppet God

I wouldn't typically shamelessly peddle cheap pieces of crap, but I felt somehow compelled, what with the holidays around the corner and a sharp whiff of capitalism in the air.  I also happen to be a sucker for the Muppets and their perverse, snarky, little shenanigans.  I mean, Fozzie and Rowlf are clearly homosexuals of the "Bear" variety, Miss Piggy is a borderline personality and nymphomaniac and Kermit obviously has a "mean mommy" Oedipal complex.  I won't even go into Gonzo and his ménage à trois with those two chickens who can't even speak English.  At least if they were parrots, I might give him the benefit of the doubt.  But I digress...

FAO Schwartz has a new kiosk this Christmas where you can make your own muppet for a measly 130 bones.  It's the type of thing that's so irresistible, you're immediately compelled to drop a grand, then scatter about the store collecting props and presents for your new muppet family, and before you know it, you're one of those "adult toy collectors" who's 43 and still a virgin working at a video store and living in his grandma's attic. Isn't that what the American consumer is all about?  Accumulating embarrassing amounts of cool shit to disguise your pathetic existence?  Yes we can!  Here's Peter Sellers and Kermitt in a twisted sketch from The Muppet Show: