Bones (2001)

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In the documentary Horror Noire, legendary cinematographer-turned-director Ernest Dickerson claims that his 2001 film Bones failed at the box office because distributor New Line Cinema insisted on marketing it as “a Black horror film” instead of just “a horror film,” emphasizing its cultural stereotypes instead of what makes it an oddball genre exercise in its own right. Having since caught up with Bones myself, I think that philosophical divide started long before New Line got involved. The film’s two white screenwriters, Adam Simon & Tim Metcalfe, originally pitched Bones as a kind of prototype for Black Dynamite: a 2000s era spoof of 1970s Blaxploitation relics, with a supernatural revenge premise borrowed from J.D.’s Revenge and in-dialogue references to titles like Three the Hard Way (when one character offers the conspiracy theory that fast-food fried chicken batter has been chemically altered to make Black men sterile). The movie got greenlit as soon as they attached Snoop Dogg to star, since he does look remarkably good modeling 70s hustler fashions as a walking-talking homage to classics like SuperFly & The Mack. Watching through the DVD’s bonus-feature interviews, I get the sense that Dickerson’s hiring changed the tenor of the project dramatically. While everyone else gushes about what a dream it was to work with Blaxploitation superstar Pam Grier in a throwback to that genre’s heyday (including a blushing Snoop Dogg, who was shy to kiss her on-camera), Dickerson instead goes on tangents about how excited he was to make a modern version of Mario Bava’s bug-nuts haunted castle movies like The Whip and the Body. The producers were thinking Blacula while the director was thinking Blood and Black Lace, muddling the central conceit beyond easy marketability.

Personally, I think the Bones marketing campaign failed because the title Ghost Dog was already claimed by Jim Jarmusch. The closest the film gets to a clear logline concept is in the earliest stretch when a hell hound with glowing red eyes is seemingly possessed by the undead spirit of a 1970s street hustler named Bones, played by Snoop Dogg in Blaxploitation-tinted flashbacks. It’s an easily digestible conceit that plays right into its star’s rap persona, and you can easily imagine how good it’d look on a poster if the core idea stopped there. Only, it turns out that Bones’s ghost isn’t only piloting the body of a rabid street dog; it’s also haunting an Old Dark House in the middle of the city, anchored there by the literal bones left behind after his murder in the 1970s. When the children of the traitors who stabbed him to death happen to discover this spooky mansion and plot to transform it into a hip nightclub, Bones is resurrected by feeding on their bodies one at a time, via his ghost-dog surrogate. However, even that conceit gets muddled by the time the house’s ghostly presence molests a sleeping teenager the audience knows to be Bones’s daughter. Is this a supernatural act of incest? Or is that heinous act carried out by one of the dozens of souls Bones has trapped in the house with him by adding them to his writhing, Cronenbergian flesh wall? Speaking of which, if he was only betrayed by several close friends, where did all of those extra souls come from to build that wall? And why is the dog still around after he gets his old body back? And what does it mean when that dog pukes a never-ending flood of maggots on the patrons of the underground nightclub that wakes him from his slumber? How does any of this work?

The answer to those questions might have mattered in pitch meetings and marketing strategies, but since Dickerson was pulling most of his inspiration from Bava-era Italo horror, no internal logic is required to propel the picture from scene to scene. Simon & Metcalfe establish a sturdily familiar structure to hang the film’s more impulsive ideas off of, marrying ghostly haunted-house revenge plots to a 70s Blaxploitation trope about the hero hustler who fights to keep hard drugs out of his community (seen both in classic titles like Disco Godfather and contemporary spoofs like Black Dynamite). Bones was murdered because he rejected a corrupt pig’s business pitch to poison his neighborhood with crack cocaine. So, when he gets his revenge from beyond the grave, he’s also fighting for the lost dignity of the community his former partners sold out for personal profit. What I don’t get the sense of here is that Dickerson cared about any of that while making the movie. He treats that familiar genre territory as a open playground where he can just try whatever surrealistic horror image comes to mind. In the earliest stretch, when Bones is still a disembodied spirit, Dickerson portrays him as a Nosferatu-style shadow creeping up the haunted nightclub walls in early-aughts CGI. Later, when he feeds on unsuspecting victims during that nightclub’s disastrous opening night, his body is rebuilt one layer of muscle at a time in grotesque stop-motion animation reminiscent of The Evil Dead. Once fully formed and walking around in his retro pimp gear, Bones starts making groaner quips about how he doesn’t need drugs because he’s enjoying “a natural high . . . a supernatural high.” There’s a uniform flatness to those one-liners’ delivery that again suggests the director was checked out from the written material, but you can also clearly see him having fun with Bones literally collecting heads during his quippy revenge mission, keeping his victims’ disembodied noggins alive & talking until they can be added to the flesh-wall soul collection in his inner sanctum.

There’s a glaring discordance between the playfulness of Bones‘s imagery and the going-through-the-motions drudgery of its dialogue, and that discordance is never more glaring than when we leave the haunted-house antics of the present to revisit the Blaxploitation homage of the past. The screenwriters had exactly one idea: casting Snoop Dogg as a vengeful ghost of a Blaxploitation hustler archetype. Inspired by free-for-all Italo horrors like Black Sunday, Suspiria, Burial Ground, Demons, Cemetery Man, and The Beyond, Dickerson put no limitations on his own ideas, throwing as many visual tricks and for-their-own-sake indulgences at the screen as the budget would allow. As a former cinematographer, you can tell he was having way more fun running around shooting the haunted house set from Bones’s ghost-cam POV than he was listening to anything Bones had to say. The movie would be a by-the-numbers bore without that gonzo anything-goes approach, but it is funny in retrospect to hear him complain that his distributor didn’t know how to market the resulting mess it left behind.

-Brandon Ledet

Dolly (2026) and the New American Grindhouse

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There’s a new low-budget horror film in theaters right now that’s main mission is to recall the vintage grindhouse grime of 70s horror classics like Tobe Hooper’s Texas Chainsaw Massacre. That statement has been more or less constantly true since at least as far back as when Rob Zombie’s House of 1000 Corpses hit theaters two decades ago; there’s always a new horror film in theaters that aims to recall the vintage grindhouse grime of Texas Chainsaw Massacre, as surely as the Sun rises in the East and sets in the West. Even so, the new film Dolly is grimier than most, torturing its audience with the squirmiest discomforts any Texas Chainsaw knockoff has delivered in a long while. Our Leatherface figure in this instance is the titular Dolly, a childlike behemoth who wears a porcelain babydoll mask and collects victims to play house with her in the woods of Tennessee. Like 1973’s The Baby, it toddles across the fine line between shock-value horror and age-regression fetish content, having its towering killer spank, bottle-feed, burp, and diaper her victims in-between her gory kills. It has its contemporaries in that particular mode of discomfort (most notably Zach Cregger’s Barbarian and the straight-to-Tubi stunner Match), but it decides to frame its fucked up found-family horror story within an older grindhouse tradition by shooting on 16mm film, instantly adding a layer of grime on top of its forced-dollification imagery. That choice elevates Dolly‘s sense of mise-en-scène, especially in sequences set outdoors in a woodland babydoll art-instillation piece reminiscent of Georgia’s Doll’s Head Trail. It’s also a somewhat safe, expected choice, though, since it excuses some of its budgetary shortcomings by hiding them behind a faux-vintage appeal instead of fully embracing the modernity of the ABDL horror story it tells.

Dolly‘s distribution rights were purchased by the online streaming service Shudder, so its accompanying theatrical release has been relatively small. In New Orleans, that means it is exclusively playing at the AMC multiplexes of the suburbs, since those venues tend to have more screens to fill than the smaller, choosier independent theaters in the city proper. Specifically, I saw Dolly at the AMC Palace 20 in Elmwood, which regularly offers the city’s widest selection of new-release titles . . . in the shittiest presentation imaginable. Outside its two “premium” (i.e., price-gouging) Dolby & IMAX screens, the other 18 theaters at the Elmwood Palace have been allowed to steadily decline into disrepair. The projector bulbs are all well past end-of-life, so that every movie is blurred behind a dark, purplish bruise hue that your eyes never fully adjust to. The bathroom floors are eternally gummy with piss, and every time you touch a handle with your bare hands it feels like you’re risking a life-threatening skin infection. I’m used to all of this, and I occasionally put up with it because of the unmatched breadth of the venue’s marquee offerings, ranging from woodland slasher throwbacks to niche-interest anime to Indian action epics to the latest Dinesh D’Souza doc about how Hilary Clinton is the antichrist; they have everything. My trip out there to see Dolly hit a new all-time low, though, in pure technical terms. Not only was the projection as darkly bruised as ever, but now the sound was equally muddled. Either the mixing in my theater was way out of balance or multiple sound channels were fully switched off, so that all dialogue was clearly legible but the accompanying music and foley effects were so muffled it sounded as if they were playing in another room. That’s a big deal for a horror film, since the genre relies heavily on music for tension and loud sound-effect stingers for jump scares. It’s a credit to the novelty of Dolly‘s costume & production design that I found anything to enjoy about the experience, since the theater stripped away everything else it had to offer.

Oddly enough, that abysmal theatrical presentation was historically authentic to the retro grindhouse experience modern horrors like Dolly aim to evoke. Grindhouses were a quantity-over-quality business, running exploitation films with shortened runtimes at a breakneck pace with little regard to the building collapsing around the projector. Anyone who’s ever waxed nostalgic about catching some vintage slasher or porno relic at a grindhouse cinema on 42nd Street always includes some anecdote about how the film was interrupted by rats crawling across their feet, or a public blowjob, or a projectionist who nodded off mid-film and had to be woken up to change the reels. The only thing that’s changed is that these used to be decidedly urban experiences, often adjacent to strip clubs & brothels in the center of a morally & physically decaying city. Now, that geographic dynamic has flipped. I get grindhouse-quality projections out in the decaying AMC Palaces of the suburbs, who could not give less of a shit about what they’re screening or how it looks & sounds, as long as they can grind through as many titles as possible. Meanwhile, the urban cinemas of New Orleans proper have been putting much more thoughtful care into their programming & presentation. The same week I saw Dolly in theaters I also attended a repertory screening of Sam Raimi’s 1987 splatstick classic Evil Dead II at The Broad, programmed by ScreamFest NOLA. In some ways, the original Evil Dead movies are the exact kind of high-style, low-budget woodland horrors Dolly attempts to emulate, with the major exception that Sam Raimi moves his camera like no other horror schlockteur before or since. In Evil Dead II, he escalates the cartoonish violence of his calling-card indie debut to a bigger, slicker production scale—beating Hollywood studios to the punch in effectively remaking his own film—but it’s still the kind of low-brow screen filler that used to be left to the drive-ins and grindhouses of old and is now lovingly presented in crisp, clean quality in urban cultural epicenters like The Broad, restored & reclaimed.

Even New Orleans’s dive bars are putting more thought & effort into their movie screenings than the AMCs of the suburbs, even though they’re not technically in the theatrical exhibition business. Siberia is primarily a music venue but has recently experimented with screening vintage genre classics with live music accompaniment. Typically, this means projecting the nu-metal relic Queen of the Damned behind unrelated live performances from local metal bands, but last week it meant presenting Mamoru Oshii’s surreal anime classic Angel’s Egg with an all-new, feature-length live score. Angel’s Egg is already the kind of inscrutable arthouse experience that offers gorgeous, evocative images that its audience can’t fully make sense of but continuously pulls emotional reactions out of us anyway. Rewatching it with live accompaniment from spooky, droning synths helped physicalize that emotional response, vibrating the audience’s bodies with crushing waves of sound while confusing our minds with haunting, post-apocalyptic imagery. The projection itself admittedly did not look especially great, to the point where half the audience were craning their necks at painful angles to read the more legible subtitles off the TV hanging over the bar (despite that dialogue doing very little to clear up what’s actually happening on screen). The sound was phenomenal, though, with a lot of care paid to matching each action onscreen to appropriate musical cues. Those communal screenings of Angel’s Egg and Evil Dead II felt extremely passionate & personal for the people who programmed them. In contrast, the AMC theaters just outside the city offer outright hostile moviegoing experiences, punishing their audiences with headache-inducing ad packages and the shittiest projection quality ever suffered by the human eye. When the AMC Palaces opened here in the 1990s, they put local independent cinemas out of business by crushing them under corporate-sponsored grandeur. They’re now a callous quantity-over-quantity business, the new American grindhouse. I can’t say I’m exactly grateful to have seen Dolly in that modern grindhouse context, but it was at least textually appropriate.

-Brandon Ledet

A Litany for Survival: The Life and Work of Audre Lorde (1995)

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I have never been more creatively or spiritually fulfilled than I was for the few brief years when my biggest weekly priority was an academically rigorous poetry workshop. Still, I gave up the practice as soon as I graduated college, realizing that sticking with it would mean a life-long professional dedication to academia, something I had no interest in pursuing. I was fondly reminded of those days while watching the documentary A Litany for Survival, though, which features several scenes of its subject—activist-poet Audre Lorde—running a poetry workshop at Hunter College in New York City. She’s tough on her students’ work in a productive, fully engaged way that you can see improving their art in real time. Other formidable poets like Adrienne Rich & Sonia Sanchez appear in interviews to reminisce about how Lorde improved their own work through a similar kind of collaborative criticism, pushing them to sharpen their ideas through revision. It’s difficult to write meaningfully without that kind of peer-to-peer friction, which is largely why I gave up on the medium of poetry entirely to work on this silly movie blog instead. And that’s not even taking into account how increasingly niche & insular the world of poetry has continued to become in recent decades. Anyone who’s still out there making a full life out of that kind of work is superheroic, since this 90s-era documentary already feels like a time machine trip back to the last moment it was considered societally Important in any way.

Audre Lorde was tough on everyone: her students, her colleagues, her children, her nation, herself. Which is to say that she continuously fought for a better world the entire time she was alive, applying her skill for ruthless revision to societal structures the same way she applied it to her own poetry, through political activism causes like Civil Rights, Gay Rights, and Feminism. She billed herself as a “Black, lesbian, feminist, socialist, mother, warrior, poet,” rising to prominence in the literary world in the 1960s & 70s, when those identity markers had a real-life chance to either get you killed or change the world. Her writing and her activism were both heavily fixated on Intersectionality, drilling down into the particulars of what made her a distinct social outsider while also seeking commonality among comrades who were fighting similar struggles. By the time documentarians Michelle Parkerson & Ada Gay Griffin told her life story in the 1990s, she had shifted to fighting a very different fight: battling cancer instead of oppression. A Litany for Survival is a very straight-forward, made-for-PBS style production, but it took nearly a decade to complete, so a significant chunk of the footage features Lorde wheezing through her final days while suffering from lung cancer, no longer able to perform her poems with her usual fierceness. Thankfully, they were around for her healthier days too, when she could still provoke & incite with the best of ’em.

In both form & content, the movie Litany most reminded me of was the more recent documentary Going to Mars: The Nikki Giovanni Project. Giovanni occupied such a similar place in American literature that Litany only passingly references her by her first name, “Nikki”, since you presumably already know who she is if you’re watching this profile of her contemporary. Both films exceed their limitations as PBS-style documentary profiles of activist-poets by drifting through different phases of their lives instead of strictly following a linear birth-to-death biography. We meet Lorde in her final years of illness, when she can barely speak. Earlier, more forceful interviews about her life story then mix with audiobook readings of her prose autobiography Zami, live readings of her most iconic poems, and candid domestic scenes shared with loved ones in the final decade of her life. None of these conversations or monologues feel complete in representation; the edit crossfades between them like overlapping waves, illustrating the images evoked by Lorde’s past with still photographs from her personal albums and vintage NYC stock footage. It’s a full life retold in out-of-context snippets, with the only incomplete element being that we never see the world through Lorde’s own handheld camcorder, which she points around her home garden in her final days as a new way to capture images for her art.

A newly restored version of A Litany for Survival recently saw its local premiere at the Patois Film Festival, screening at the Joan Mitchell Center instead of the fest’s usual home at The Broad. That venue choice was . . . suboptimal for appreciating what the new scan might have offered as a pure sensory experience, but it did contribute to my personal nostalgia for college-level poetry workshops. It was projected onto a scuffed-up screen that unrolled from the ceiling; every shifting body in the packed room’s hard-backed chairs could be acutely heard & felt; and the presentation concluded with a panel discussion about how Lorde’s work was an effective form of political activism. It was a perfect simulation of a college classroom environment, like a VR headset experience of what it might be like to have Audre Lorde sit across a workshop table from you, pushing you to do better work and to make a better world. I’m still not convinced that I should quit my desk job and enroll in grad school just because I miss participating in those workshops for real (if not only because the guaranteed outcome would be me getting another desk job after graduating, with only more debt to show for it), but it was a pure pleasure to return to that headspace, and it made for an easy argument that Lorde improved the life & work of everyone she ever collaborated with.

-Brandon Ledet

The Art of the Pre-Show

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Like many New Orleanians, I spent Ash Wednesday hung over at church. For most people, that would mean getting your forehead smeared with ashes at St. Louis Cathedral (often while still wearing tattered remnants of a Mardi Gras costume), but for me it meant taking off work to cool down at The Movies. I made a rare trip out to the AMC Palaces of the suburbs for a discordant double feature of Scarlet & Nirvanna the Band the Show the Movie, easing a mild headache by enjoying junk food & soda in the dark. It was a restorative experience, as always, but it was also a reminder of how much more pleasant & casual of a ritual it is to visit independent theaters like The Prytania & The Broad closer to home. In particular, the AMC pre-show is especially uncomfortable & draining if you’re not used to visiting that chain on a regular basis and forget that it’s custom to deliberately show up late. Before the trailers begin, you’re bombarded with advertisements hosted by Maria Menounos, who only occasionally pops in to reframe the experience as a trivia game instead of a bigger, louder TV ad break. Then, at the announced start time, the actual previews begin, and they’re also bookended with TV-style advertisements for products like Coca-Cola, M&Ms, and luxury cars. That thirty-minute(!) trailer package then concludes with additional advertisements for AMC itself (an experience you’ve already purchased and are seated for), including the infamous Nicole Kidman “We come to this place for magic” commercial which has now been chopped up and streamlined to the point of total incoherence. The entire experience is exhausting and, seemingly, designed to be avoided rather than engaged with. I can’t believe I did it twice in one day. It’s possible my hangover wasn’t even a result of the previous day’s partying; it was at least partly an AMC A-List branded headache.

I had completely forgotten about my Ash Wednesday pre-show woes until my next discordant double feature experience a few weeks later, when I caught two classic movies at two independent theaters in New Orleans proper. I spent a recent Sunday morning watching Sidney Lumet’s 1976 classic Network in The Prytania’s Classic Movies series, then hopped over to Zeitgeist in Arabi for an afternoon screening of Harold Lloyd’s 1923 career-maker Safety Last!, presented with live piano accompaniment. Those two movies have very little to say about each other in their themes or methods, despite both being riotously funny comedies from the American studio system. If they share a common theme, it’s about rat-race Capitalism. Network posits itself as a vicious blow in the great war between cinema & television for mass media supremacy, then openly acknowledges that the distinction between the two mediums ultimately doesn’t matter because it’s all just corporate sludge anyway. The pursuit of profits in its fictional TV broadcast newsrooms quickly leads to manic, lethal decision making that gets people killed — live, on-air, for ratings. For its part, Safety Last! asks “Why climb the corporate ladder when you can just climb the corporation itself?” In an effort to earn enough money to marry his small-town sweetheart, Harold Lloyd climbs the department store that employs him as a sales clerk to drum up publicity for sales, nearly killing himself in the process — for our delight & entertainment. You know what, maybe they aren’t so different after all. They’re both New York City stories about violent publicity stunts, and both of their most iconic moments (Network‘s “I’m mad as Hell, and I’m not going to take it anymore!” monologue and Safety Lasts!‘s death-defying climb up the side of a skyscraper) are decorated with ticking clocks. Not for nothing, they’re also two widely revered classics, so I have less to report about how great they are than I do about how they were presented.

Most of the Prytania Classic Movies I’ve attended recently have been preceded by a classic cartoon. There are no trailers or TV commercials in the pre-roll, just a brief in-person intro from the series’ programmer, followed by classic shorts of Popeye & Bugs Bunny doing bits. It’s wonderful, as it’s just about as close as you’ll ever get to experiencing the pre-show packages of Old Hollywood. Their presentation of Network indulged a slight deviation from the usual format, as they substituted the Looney Tunes short for a different kind of old-system pre-show: the newsreel. Network was preceded by an old MGM short titled “Beautiful Banff and Lake Louise,” produced for the studio’s TravelTalks travelogue series. There’s no apparent reason why that exact TravelTalks short was chosen out of the hundreds that MGM produced from the 1930s through the 1950s, as it transports the viewers in the theater to the Canadian Rockies, thousands of miles away from Network‘s NYC skyscrapers. However, it did serve as sharp contrast against the more contemporary version of news coverage that Network depicts, as well as the more contemporary movie-studio culture that got Network greenlit. The inciting incident of Network is the firing of an alcoholic TV news anchor (Peter Finch), who quickly becomes famous by threatening to kill himself on air and declaring that all TV news is “bullshit.” You won’t find a more exemplary example of vintage news-reporting bullshit than TravelTalks, which is functionally an advertisement for distant vacation resorts while pretending to offer the public documentary footage of Nature. It’s especially jarring to hear the short’s narrator boast about the gorgeous Canadian vistas which had been unseen by “the white race” until recent years, previously guarded from intruders by indigenous “Indian” combatants but now available to serve as a postcard backdrop for your next hotel stay. As a piece of filmmaking, it’s as boring and artless as the AMC pre-show commercials of today, but it was also a useful snapshot of the world Network later attempted to shake up with its more cynical, radical politics.

Zeitgeist’s pre-show selection for Safety Last! was more of a no-brainer. To warm the audience up for Lloyd’s building-scaling antics, in-house pianist David Bradley also live-scored a previous short from the same Criterion disc titled “His Royal Slyness.” Instead of being set in modern NYC, “His Royal Slyness” takes place in the fictional European kingdom of Thermosa, where Lloyd’s vaudevillian antics upset the propriety of a royal court. Much like in Safety Last!, Lloyd woos his love interest by pretending to be above his station — in this case a noble prince instead of a department store bigwig. Antics ensue, but notably it’s the same kind of antics that followed in the feature presentation. Both films depict Lloyd mindlessly plucking at the accoutrement of a fellow bystander when nervous (flower petals in Safety Last!, war metals in “His Royal Slyness”), covering the heads of nuisances he doesn’t want to deal with (with a fabric sample in Safety Last! and a king’s robe in “His Royal Slyness”), and evading the capture of authorities through increasingly elaborate schemes (vengeful cops in Safety Last!, insurrectionist mobs in “His Royal Slyness”). In a better world where movie theaters didn’t have to constantly squeeze more pennies out of every aspect of the moviegoing experience just to keep the lights on, this would be the perfect formula for a pre-show package: a feature-relevant short film that expands the context of the main presentation for audiences who made it to their seats on time but still helpfully delays the show by a few minutes for anyone who happens to be running late. I only mention the running late bit because I caught a passing train and a raised bridge on my drive out to Arabi that afternoon, and it eased my mind knowing that even if I missed the start time, the listed pre-show short would ensure I wouldn’t miss a minute of Safety Last!.

Safety Last! is over a century old now, Network has been around for half that time, and both still kill with modern audiences. Even if you’re already familiar with their most iconic moments—the “Mad as hell!” speech and the clock hanging, respectively—the rest of the runtime around those moments still hits with full, fresh impact. Network was infinitely more heightened & insane that I imagined it would be, since the crazed-news-anchor-holds-a-TV-station-hostage premise I was familiar with only accounts for the first act, and things get exponentially out of control from there, presenting a major-studio escalation of Putney Swope. Safety Last! also has a strikingly modern anti-cop sentiment in its own heightened politics, with the hapless hero of the piece only put in danger because his best bud is being chased by a pig who can’t take a joke. Even without a live piano punctuating the room’s constant laughs & gasps, it would still be an electric communal experience. Some small part of that communality, I think, is attributable to the pre-show. Instead of being held hostage by a corporate ad package that buried us in our seats under a mountain of Coca-Cola slogans, we were all acclimating to the same wavelength with pre-feature mood-setters. Even the pre-show advertisements for concessions were more pleasant at the neighborhood spots, with The Prytania rolling its usual “Let’s all go to the lobby!” jingle and Zeitgeist pausing briefly for a snack-purchasing intermission between short & feature because that just happened to be the mood of the room. The pre-show is ultimately a small, trivial aspect of the movie-going experience, but I wouldn’t say it’s totally inconsequential. It can greatly affect the mood of the room, mostly by signaling the levels of hostility or solidarity theaters hold for their audience.

-Brandon Ledet

Lagniappe Podcast: Cinemania (2002)

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For this lagniappe episode of The Swampflix Podcast, Boomer & Brandon discuss the NYC repertory cinephilia documentary Cinemania (2002).

00:00 Welcome
01:27 Angel’s Egg (1985)
06:42 The Color of Pomegranates (1969)
14:44 Safety Last! (1923)
21:18 Good Luck, Have Fun, Don’t Die (2026)
32:55 “Wuthering Heights” (2026)
48:48 Pillion (2026)
54:48 EPiC – Elvis Presley in Concert (2026)
59:06 Funny Pages (2022)
1:13:17 Dolly (2026)
1:17:28 RRR (2022)
1:29:42 Network (1976)
1:32:50 The Power of the Dog (2021)

1:38:45 Cinemania (2002)

You can stay up to date with our podcast through SoundCloud, Spotify, iTunes, TuneIn, or by following the links on this page.

– The Lagniappe Podcast Crew

Emeralds in the Attic, or Promising Young Petals

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Before I got a chance to see Emerald Fennell’s recent “adaptation” “Wuthering Heights,” I stumbled across this social media post in the wild: 

I had just recently completed my own most recent rewatch of 1987’s Flowers in the Attic, and I became fixated on this idea. I’ve been down the Flowers in the Attic rabbit hole more times than I’d care to remember, but at its core, I’ve always been fascinated by the connection between Emily Brontë’s and V.C. Andrews’s novels. I don’t know if there’s any academic discussion of this out there, but I have no doubt in my mind that Andrews drew inspiration from Wuthering Heights, from naming her protagonist “Cathy” to making the implied, sublimated incest of Heights (I’ve always subscribed to the theory that Heathcliff is Earnshaw’s bastard son, meaning he and Catherine are half-siblings) explicit and pervasive in Flowers in the Attic and its sequels. 

When I did get around to seeing “Wuthering Heights,” my major criticism of it ended up being that it doesn’t need to, and in fact shouldn’t, be Wuthering Heights at all. The most interesting characters in that film are Alison Oliver’s Isabella and Hong Chau’s Nelly, and one could have done a Rosaline style film about the former or even gone full-tilt into the “Nelly is the villain” concept and made a Cruella style picture about the latter, and either one of them would have been infinitely more interesting than watching “Wuthering Heights” bash two sexy Australian Barbie dolls at each other while reenacting a half-remembered SparkNote. In essence, both Flowers in the Attic and “Wuthering Heights” are both unfaithful mutations of the same source material, which means that Fennell might actually be the perfect person to make a Flowers in the Attic adaptation. Right? 

I don’t think so… however, I do think that she would be the ideal person to adapt the first follow-up novel, Petals on the Wind. It would be incorrect to say that Petals is an easier novel to read than Flowers. While it may eschew most of the more taboo elements that made Flowers so salacious, adult Cathy finds herself in just as dire straits in Petals, where she is constantly subject to sexual danger regardless of which of her husbands is exerting force over her. Based on the overall negative reaction to Fennell’s Promising Young Woman (which I didn’t share), I don’t think that she has the sensitivity needed to present Flowers. This is, after all, a director who looked at the same source text that Andrews did and, where Andrews saw both the tenderness and the danger of Heathcliff and Cathy together and the way that it would affect future generations, instead got horned up by imagining them getting off to voyeuristic observation of a couple of servants going at it in a barn. But also, don’t worry, in this version Cathy and Heathcliff definitely aren’t half-siblings, so don’t worry, it’s okay if you get aroused!

For those who are interested, Flowers in the Attic (the novel) doesn’t end in the same way that the ‘87 film does. The latter includes a hastily-shot death scene for Corrine Dollanganger after being confronted by her children during her wedding to Bart Winslow, her late father’s lawyer, as producers felt that the book’s ending, which occurs when the children simply escape the house after learning that their grandfather is dead and Bart and Corrine have been married for over a year. This big confrontation scene seems like it would be right up Fennell’s alley, and the equivalent scene, in which Cathy crashes the Winslow family’s Christmas party at Foxworth Hall to reveal to Corrine that she has (a) seduced Bart and (b) is pregnant by him, is the climax of Petals on the Wind. Of course, this is between her first marriage to an abusive narcissist and her second marriage to the doctor who fostered the children following their escape. Petals also borrows from Brontë, although it’s Charlotte this time, as Paul, the aforementioned doctor, initially pretends that his wife is dead before revealing that she’s actually in an institution, such that his initial overtures toward Cathy when she is of age are much like Rochester’s towards the title character in Jane Eyre. It’s all very, very messy, a true soap opera, and that’s the wheelhouse that Fennell would most bloom in if she took that opportunity. 

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

“Wuthering Heights” (2026)

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Brandon has already written about Emerald Fennell’s “Wuthering Heights,” and although I was forewarned, my own love for the source material meant that, sooner or later, I was going to have to check this hot mess out for myself. And what a mess it is! Not as hot as one would expect, though, given that the director’s stated intention with this adaptation has been to recreate the horniness that she presumes is the universal experience of all first time readers. The thing about ”Wuthering Heights” is that the text I found myself thinking about most often while watching it wasn’t the novel itself or any of the prior adaptations, but Wicked: For Good. In writing about that film, I posited that its greatest flaw is also its greatest weakness: it only exists as a commercial product because of its connection to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and its offshoots, sequels, and adaptations as a brand. The first half of the play (and the earlier film that adapted only that opening half) is allowed to find all sorts of fun things to explore within the “canon” of Oz, since the only thing it carries over is the necessity that, at some point, the Wicked Witch of the West and Glinda the Good Witch must eventually become enemies, in the public eye if not in reality. Everything else is fair game. In the second half of the play, which became For Good, every action exists in service of putting the characters from Wizard of Oz into the positions that they will be when Dorothy meets them upon her arrival in the fairy land, so characters march lock-step toward their places in the canon regardless of whether that works on a narrative, character, or even emotionally meaningful level. “Wuthering Heights” has the same problem. I’m not going to say it’s a bad movie because it’s a bad adaptation of Wuthering Heights, which it most certainly is, but it’s a bad movie because it’s an attempt at adapting Emily Brontë’s novel at all. 

Widower Mr. Earnshaw (Martin Clunes), the tenant of farmhouse Wuthering Heights, returns home from the city with a young boy in tow, whom he “rescued” from a life of being abused by a drunken father so that he can come to the Heights and be abused by a drunken stranger instead. He gives the boy to his daughter, Cathy, who names the child “Heathcliff, after my dead brother,” and the two form a fast friendship. Also present in the household is Nelly, who as the bastard daughter of a lord is not entitled to recognition or shelter, but is welcome to act as the formal companion to Cathy; this relationship is challenged by Cathy’s burgeoning devotion to Heathcliff, who absorbs some of Earnshaw’s parental abuse. Some years later, Cathy (Margot Robbie) and Heathcliff (Jacob Elordi) watch as a procession of carriages deliver their new neighbors, The Lintons, to the manor of Thrushcross Grange. Cathy, who has been raised with no mother and is thus somewhat as wild and unmannered as her lowborn foster brother, sneaks up to spy on Edgar Linton (Shazad Latif) and his “ward” Isabella (Alison Oliver) and ends up injuring her ankle and being hosted at Thrushcross Grange for several weeks to recuperate. She returns to Wuthering Heights “quite the lady” and admits to Nelly (Hong Chau) that she has fallen in love with Linton and will marry him; she says aloud that she cannot marry Heathcliff because of their vast social class gap, and Nelly, knowing that Heathcliff has overheard this, keeps this information to herself. Linton and Catherine marry, Heathcliff leaves, Catherine becomes pregnant, and Heathcliff returns, at which point Catherine learns that Nelly allowed him to believe that Catherine didn’t love him. Heathcliff marries Isabella, but he and Catherine begin a brief, torrid affair that ends in tragedy. 

If you’re familiar with the novel (or any of its more faithful adaptations, although there are surprisingly few), then that synopsis undoubtedly feels strange to you. It’s like Brontë’s in some ways; the character names are the same and some of the larger events from the novel are present. The exclusion of Hindley, Cathy’s brother and Heathcliff’s primary tormentor (and thus also his wife and child), is very jarring, as is the complete absence of Mrs. Earnshaw. Earnshaw family employee Joseph has also been aged down and cast with a handsome actor (Ewan Mitchell), eschewing the novel Joseph’s characterization as a religious zealot and instead giving him the chance to engage in kinky, largely unseen BDSM with one of the housemaids so that Heathcliff and Cathy can observe them surreptitiously in a way that sets both characters’ sexual imaginations ablaze. Most adaptations focus solely on the Cathy/Heathcliff story and leave out the entire plot about the second generation that constitutes the entire second half of Wuthering Heights, so its excision here isn’t surprising, but knowing that it doesn’t need to take that into consideration, “Wuthering Heights” decides to instead have Cathy not only die, but miscarry her child with Linton, since there’s no reason to have a living child if the story isn’t going to continue. I also can’t fault the film for choosing to narratively manifest the “Nelly is the villain” theory. Although I have personally never accepted that in my reading of the text, it has become the prevailing literary lens for the novel’s academic criticism since James Hafley first posited this thesis in 1958. (If you have JSTOR access, his essay can be found here; it’s a good read even if you, like I, remain unconvinced.) 

If you’re not familiar with the novel, none of this may seem like it changes that much about the text, but I can assure you: it does. My distaste for the film could be said to be either (a) entirely predicated on, or (b) have nothing to do with my love of Wuthering Heights, by which I mean that I don’t particularly care that this is a bad adaptation of Wuthering Heights—in fact, the number of faithful adaptations is rare, and I prefer some of the less faithful adaptations over the more detail-oriented ones—I just don’t think this needed to be an adaptation of Wuthering Heights specifically. It almost feels as if Fennell responded to critics’ dismissal of Saltburn as a lesser Talented Mr. Ripley by deciding to take her Wuthering Heights-inspired erotic fiction and—in an inverse of E.L. James filing the serial numbers off of her Twilight fanfiction and publishing it as Fifty Shades of Grey—direct an adaptation of that and call it “Wuthering Heights.” I’m not frustrated with this movie as a fan of Brontë’s; I’m frustrated with it as a movie lover, the part of me that just wants to go to the movies and have a good time. Where this ties into Wicked: For Good is that like that film, “Wuthering Heights” goes awry in having to fall in line with the text that it is branded, meaning that the film is inexorably tied to the text from which it takes its name, when liberating it from that title would have allowed this to go in more interesting directions.

Robbie is very good as Cathy (Elordi is fine), but our two lead characters are so boring. In the film’s second act, we get to see some of the home life of Heathcliff and Isabella, and it’s the best stuff in the movie. Instead of being a victim of Heathcliff’s abuse, Isabella is all-in on his weird degradation play; she gets off on sending letters to Cathy and Nelly lying about how horrid Heathcliff is to her while also clearly enjoying being chained up and treated like a dog. We’ve already gotten a clear look into her bizarre psyche earlier in the film, in which we learn that she has an entire room devoted solely to her hair ribbons, and we get to see her create a fun murder scene in miniature by venting her frustrations at Cathy herself on the doll she made of the woman instead, with a dollhouse tableau that’s as funny as it is disturbing. While sitting in the theater, I couldn’t help but think about how much better a movie “Wuthering Heights” would be if it realized that its most interesting character was Isabella, and the movie had been made about her instead. I fantasized about the film taking a sudden turn into being about Heathcliff realizing that Isabella truly could match his freak and the two of them falling for each other. “Wuthering Heights” could never go in that direction because it’s called “Wuthering Heights,” rather than “[Untitled Emerald Fennell Sexy Gothic Romance starring Jacob Elordi].” The first time that we meet Isabella, she’s sitting in the garden and delivering an excruciatingly detailed recap of Romeo & Juliet to Linton. For a moment, I really was naive enough to think that Fennell was going to do something truly audacious, and that the mention of the play would draw attention to something crucial that Shakespeare’s play and Brontë’s novel share: they are decidedly tragic, non-romantic stories that the general public perceives as romantic. Alas, this was not to be the case, and the director’s much-vaunted “audacity” was once again constrained to the erotic consumption of another person’s bodily fluids (and occasionally egg yolks). Ho-hum.

Where Emerald Fennell does allow herself to get really freaky with things that she adds from outside the text are the moments where the film does actually shine. When she first arrives to live at Thrushcross Grange, Cathy is ushered into a room that Linton has prepared for her by having the place painted “the most beautiful color in the world, the color of [Cathy’s] flesh.” As we enter the room, it looks tasteful enough, but as the camera moves closer we get to see that Linton has had the decorators recreate not only her freckles but the light, almost imperceptible blue veins beneath. It’s delightfully grotesque. The film also occasionally goes for utter camp in a few fine moments, with the standout being the scene in which Mr. Earnshaw dies, surrounded by a physically impossible stack of empty wine and liquor bottles. The film also features very beautiful tableaux; there are several nearly-still chiaroscuro images of characters lit solely by the natural light streaming through a window, calling to mind Rembrandt’s Anna and the Blind Tobit or the Rembrandtian A Man seated reading at a Table in a Lofty Room. Evoking the imagery of Caspar David Friedrich’s Wanderer above the Sea of Fog is an easy go-to for Heathcliff’s return, but it’s also an effective choice. Visually, the film’s depiction of Thrushcross Grange having strong juxtapositions of white and blood-red are striking, even if the choice doesn’t seem to have a deeper meaning other than the most superficial symbolism. Any one of those things would have been a delight to see in [Untitled Emerald Fennell Sexy Gothic Romance starring Jacob Elordi], in which Fennell wouldn’t have felt the need to remain bound to “adapting” Wuthering Heights and instead been able to go full bore into the story she really wanted to tell. Instead, we have this disappointment.

-Mark “Boomer” Redmond

Little Fugitive (1953)

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“Love For Movies Causes Boy, 10, To Lose A Week
SAN LEANARDO, Feb. 10 (U.P.)
Ten-year old Richard Allen was back home here today after a ‘lost week”—most of it spent inside San Francisco motion picture theaters.
His father found him emerging from a theater after he had been missing for seven days. During that time Richard set he had spent $20 on 16 movies, 15 comic books, six games, 150 candy bars and a large number of hot dogs.
‘I guess I just like movies,'”

That 1947 United Press newspaper clipping regularly makes the meme rounds online and for good reason: it’s charming as hell. Even without dwelling on the price of movie tickets and candy bars in 1940s San Francisco, there’s something lovably old-fashioned about Richard Allen’s childhood mischief that feels more like the kind of behavior you’d see in the comic strip section of the newspaper instead of amongst the actual news. Just a few years later, on the opposite US coast, independent filmmakers Morris Engel & Ruth Orkin staged their own version of Richard Allen’s “Lost Week” in 1953’s Little Fugitive, a low-stakes crime caper about a 7-year-old boy who spends two days as an unsupervised runaway at Coney Island. Like the newspaper clipping above, Little Fugitive plays like a Sunday-funnies comic strip rendered in live action. It’s like an “Oops! All Sluggos” edition of Nancy, or The Little Rascals acting out a daytime noir. Personally, I’d rather “lose a week” at a San Francisco movie theater than a Brooklyn amusement park, but it’s the same hot-dog flavor of vintage mischief all the same.

7-year-old Joey Norton (played by one-and-done actor Richie Andrusco) is too small to do anything fun. He gets easily flustered watching his big brother Lennie play with other, older Brooklynites because he can’t throw rocks or hit baseballs half as hard as them, and they’re equally frustrated with having to look after a younger kid who’s effectively still a toddler. In an attempt to scare Joey off so they can play big-boy games without him, the kids prank the little tyke into believing he has shot his brother dead with a rifle, using a bottle of ketchup to simulate a bloody wound. Freaked out that he’s soon to be arrested for “moider,” Joey hides out from the law at the funnest place in the world to become anonymous: Coney Island. While Lennie’s worried sick about where his little brother has run off to, Joey deliberately makes himself sick on cotton candy, Coca-Cola, and “a large number of hot dogs.” Once he gets to the park, the movie drops the need for plot and instead just watches him “lose” two days riding rides and playing games, only occasionally having to duck the attention of cops, who have no idea who he is.

Little Fugitive is most often lauded for its on-the-ground, run-and-gun filmmaking style, serving as a direct precursor to French New Wave gamechangers like Truffaut’s The 400 Blows. Engel’s innovation in that lineage was applying his war-journalist experience to narrative filmmaking, carrying a small, reconfigured movie camera around a real amusement park to document little Joey’s antics without drawing the attention of the hundreds of unpaid extras. The film partly functions as a documentary of what a day spent at Coney Island might’ve looked like in the 1950s, jumping from attraction to attraction with the giddy enthusiasm of a child with no parents around to say no. However, most of Joey’s journey through the park’s carnival attractions is heavily subjective. The camera is held at Joey’s height, returning audiences to a childhood world where everything you experience is eye-level with adults’ butts. Circus clown automatons are shot from low angles, appearing as disconcertingly jolly jump scares. In the brief period when Joey runs out of money and hasn’t yet figured out a scheme to earn his keep collecting glass bottles, he becomes a kind of ghost, totally ignored by everyone else at the park, as if this were more of a meaningful precursor to Carnival of Souls than 400 Blows. It’s documentary, sure, but it’s all distored through a child’s funhouse mirror perspective on the world of adults.

It’s difficult to tell a story through a child’s worldview without becoming overly saccharine, but Engel & Orkin manage just fine. Young Joey’s obsession with horses (inspired by his addiction to cowboy-themed TV shows) starts as a cutesy character detail, but it gets outright pathological by the time he’s collecting armfuls of bottles for another small taste of the 25¢ pony rides. Despite the title, he’s never in any real danger or trouble, and the only threats to his innocence are in having to learn how to make his way in the world. He quickly learns that if he wants to ride the ponies again, he’s going to have to work hard enough to earn the money himself, which in this case entails collecting trash from distracted adults who are making & passing out on the nearby beach. In that way, the film also starts to resemble another much-memed phenomenon from recent years: the Japanese game show Old Enough!, in which young children are tasked to run errands usually handled by their parents, while filmed from a safe distance. Regardless of whether it’s in reality-TV gameshows, vintage newspaper clippings & comic strips, or classic French cinema, it’s fun to watch kids figure out how to navigate the world without adult supervision. The trick is just to keep in mind that they’re people—however small & inexperienced—not adorable, chipper mascots who say the darndest things.

-Brandon Ledet

EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert (2026)

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In an effort to promote Celine Song’s blank-eyed romcom Materialists last summer, A24 listed the director’s “movie syllabus” for similar big-screen romances that would set the mood for the picture, ranging from obvious Jane Austen-inspired connections like Autumn de Wilde’s Emma. to headscratchers like the Robert Altman murder mystery Gosford Park (huh?). This year, Emerald Fennell promoted her “Wuthering Heights” adaptation with a similar syllabus of inspirations compiled for the BFI’s Letterboxd account, with obvious choices like Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo+Juliet clashing against headscratcher inclusions like David Cronenberg’s Crash (huh?). This “movie syllabus” trend is far from the most obnoxious promotional gimmick in an age where filmmakers are pushed to chug hot sauce, take lie detector tests, and play video games to reach audiences through TikTok & YouTube; at least it’s about the movies. Still, there’s a kind of “Show your work” eagerness to the maneuver that feels pre-apologetic, asserting that the filmmakers have done their homework and know their stuff, therefore the movie they’re promoting is Legitimate Cinema. It’s the same feeling I get when biopics conclude with real-life footage of their subjects in the end credits sequence, proving that they were well cast, styled, and researched regardless of whether the final product of all that effort was any good, as the point of making movies was accuracy, not artistry.

In a way, Baz Luhrmann’s new documentary EPiC: Elvis Presley in Concert is a two-hour argument for his 2022 Elvis biopic‘s historical accuracy, extending the “Show your work” credits sequence bragging to feature length. Constructed entirely from the archival footage pulled for reference material while staging the Vegas residency sequence of the Elvis biopic, EPiC hammers home just how accurate Luhrmann’s team was in recreating Vegas-era Elvis’s sets & costumes. The 16mm footage from those Vegas shows, its rehearsals, and the resulting roadshow American tour is cleaned up & restored to the same vivid HD image quality as the narrative feature it inspired, to the point where you can hardly tell the difference between Austin Butler fellating his microphone vs. Elvis doing the same (except that Elvis is slightly goofier about it, and more beautiful). Like with the other “Show your work” maneuvers of its ilk, however, that doesn’t retroactively make Elvis a great movie, just because it’s proven to be a visually accurate one. It is a lot more useful to an audience than an email screenshot, a Letterboxd list, or an end-credits stinger, though, since it stands on its own as a separate work of art. As a concert film, EPiC is equally garish & scatterbrained as the last picture Luhrmann made about Elvis, but it does have a leg up on its bigger, louder predecessor in that it’s anchored by its reverence for the archive, and it isn’t frequently interrupted by Tom Hanks blathering about “snow jobs” under several pounds of prosthetics.

I don’t personally care much for Elvis Presley’s music, especially during his Vegas period, when he had strayed so far from rock-n-roll that he had become a kind of lounge-singer circus act. Luhrmann frequently draws attention to the contrast between Elvis’s 1950s rock-n-roll beginnings to his 1970s stage-musical crooning by juxtaposing early television-broadcast performances of songs like “Hound Dog” with the proggy monstrosities they had become by the time they reached Vegas. It’s a different genre of music entirely, one that prefers broad spectacle over lean aggression, which is exactly what makes Luhrmann such a great fit for the material. Even if you don’t vibe with the music of EPiC, the spectacle of its onstage pageantry is still worth a gawk. Elvis is working in James Brown mode here, conducting every guitar stab and drum fill of his backing band with the suggestive wiggling of his caped & jumpsuited body. He belts, patters, and sweats with the best of ’em, performing more as an athlete than as a musician. In the most deranged sequences, Elvis takes a break from singing to instead run laps around the concert hall, making out with untold dozens of women in the audience one at a time without concern for personal violation or illness. It’s more of a space alien encounter than it is a live concert (the kind where everyone in the audience clearly wants to fuck the alien), making him the perfect subject for a Baz Luhrmann stage show.

On a formal level, there isn’t much Luhrmann is doing here that can’t be found in other recent music docs; he’s mostly just following the modern industry standard. In sequences where Elvis’s stage show is interrupted by rehearsal footage from behind the scenes, EPiC recalls the Beyoncé concert film Homecoming. In the frantic introduction that provides context for Elvis’s pre-Vegas career before the show begins, Chris Smith’s recent DEVO doc comes to mind. The brief sequences of pure restoration recall the Aretha Franklin concert film Amazing Grace, especially in the third act, when Elvis goes Gospel. David Bowie has recently seen both extremes of that treatment, both in the restoration of his concert film Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars and in the post-modern kaleidoscope edit Moonage Daydream. I enjoyed all of those movies to varying degrees, mostly because I enjoy listening to those artists’ music, so it was obviously more of an uphill battle to get on board with a singer whose songs I don’t care about. If the two entries in the Luhrmann-Elvis project have done anything for me musically, it’s in convincing me that “Suspicious Minds” is a pretty good song, one that Luhrmann was smart to make the core theme of his Elvis thesis, both sonically and lyrically (leaning on the “caught in a trap” motif when depicting the Vegas residency as the apex of Colonel Tom Parker’s abusive mismanagement of Elvis’s career). If the project’s done anything for Elvis’s legacy, it’s in posthumously fulfilling the singer’s wish to appear in “better movies,” which he was frequently blocked from doing after returning from WWII (again, through Parker’s mismanagement). Luhrmann should be prouder of that accomplishment than the lesser feat of “showing his work” by restaging the Vegas Elvis lookbook, which is a victory usually celebrated in more by-the-numbers biopics like Rocketman or Bohemian Rhapsody.

-Brandon Ledet

Gums (1976)

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Steven Spielberg’s sharksploitation progenitor Jaws celebrated a 50-year anniversary last year, and the occasion was marked by a wide theatrical re-release, followed by an extensive, interactive exhibition at the Academy Museum in Los Angeles. I assume, then, that its most noteworthy porno parody, 1976’s Gums, will be receiving the same 50-year fanfare later this summer. If one is not already in the works, it’s not too late to slap a theatrical re-release together, thanks to the fine folks at the American Genre Film Archive already having a cleaned-up scan of the curio on-hand, ready to roll. Gums is included as a B-side bonus feature on AGFA’s Blu-ray release for Scarecrow in a Garden of Cucumbers, the only other film of note from director Robert J. Kaplan. In a way, Gums does recall that earlier, mightier title by hiring porno queen Terri Hall to swim through an underwater garden of sea cucumbers (i.e., a coral reef composed of gigantic cocks), but it’s overall too restrained and too straight to match the delirious heights of Kaplan’s hippie-NYC masterwork. It’s a straight-up, few-frills Jaws parody with a one-joke premise: What if, instead of a killer shark, a beach town was terrorized by a killer mermaid who bites off men’s penises mid-fellatio. In 1976, there was enough pot smoke in the air to land that kind of novelty in movie theaters across the country, allowing Gums to contribute to Jaws’s legacy in a way that deserves some official acknowledgement, however small.

In the cold-open kill, a young man skinny-dips fully nude instead of a young woman — the camera zooming in on his flaccid penis before it’s castrated via mermaid. Once detached, it then floats to shore as a disembodied dildo. That dildo is the closest thing you’ll see to an onscreen erection in this film, since Gums opted to stick to a softcore rating in order to swim its way into as many theaters is possible, treated more as a campy midnight-movie novelty than a Porno Chic marital aid. Like the shark in Jaws, Terri Hall’s cock-chomping mermaid is mostly hidden from the audience in the first half of the (mercifully short) runtime, leaving the audience to hang out with her horned-up macho victims for far too long. Spending so much downtime with such beloved Jaws-spoofing characters as Deputy Dick, Dr. Smegma, and Captain Clitoris, I was reminded of Roger Ebert’s “First Law of Funny Names,” which declares that “funny names, in general, are a sign of desperation at the screenplay level.” Gums has no clue what to do with itself when not filming Terri Hall swimming between killer blowjobs underwater, as it cannot fill its runtime with hardcore sex without censoring the action with comic book panels of phrases like “Pork!” and “Slurp!” So, it stages a collection of go-nowhere bits, throwing anything it can think of at the audience to reach feature length: stock footage of real-life beavers, a buzzard puppet with a human hard-on, home movies of mating pet dogs, a Mel Brooks-style Nazi spoof, and whatever else got a chuckle from the crew while passing joints around the set. It’s all obnoxious nonsense, but it’s at least constantly surprising obnoxious nonsense. When the non-mermaid main characters are abruptly replaced by puppets in the final scene, there’s no possible reaction other than “Sure, yeah, whatever.”

The only dialogue exchange in Gums that got a genuine laugh out of me, was when Dr. Smegma (the Hooper stand-in) explains to Deputy Dick (the Brody stand-in) that true mermaids don’t have actual fish tails, that their tails are “psychological.” It’s a hilariously labored, unnecessary excuse for the lack of craft in Terri Hall’s costuming, which essentially amounts to some dramatic drag-queen eye makeup and a coral tiara. It’s also one of many instances in which the script seems to be working out its core gimmick in real-time, sometimes even workshopping what the eventual title will be with alternate options like Deep Jaws (in reference to Deep Throat) and Thar She Blows! (which is repeated at top volume ad nauseum). For all of its failed humor and self-censored sensuality, though, Gums does achieve some semblance of arts-and-crafts beauty in its underwater photography, whenever it drops all of the schtick onshore to instead focus on Hall hunting down her next victim. Maybe there’s not enough substance there for it to earn its own year-long Academy Museum spotlight, but maybe it could be included in the ongoing Jaws celebration as a backroom exhibit, hidden behind a red curtain like the porno rooms at the video rental stores of old. All they’d need to add is a few video arcades showing loops of Terri Hall swimming around pantsless in her underwater sea-cucumber garden to demonstrate the kind of effect Jaws had on the wider culture (beyond inventing the summer blockbuster as we know it). Gums doesn’t deserve much, but it at least deserves that.

-Brandon Ledet