When Will Hollywood Rediscover the Great B-Movie Action Flick?

The great B-Movie director Roger Corman has died. As a kind of tribute, I’m reposting an essay I wrote some years ago on my old blog. Enjoy!

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Ever since I turned forty, I find myself going to see fewer and fewer movies.  It’s only natural, I suppose.  The less time you have left, the less time you want to spend in a darkened theater, lost in flights of fancy.  And so, what little I know of recent film releases comes to me second-hand, either through friends or online reviews or through the film trailers that I see when I do occasionally go to a movie.  Even from this limited perspective, I can glean a few obvious facts about movies these days:  1.) they are all rated PG-13 and 2.) they are all about the end-of-the-world and 3.) they all rely heavily on digital effects.

These three qualities go together, of course, for reasons that are based more in economics than anything else.  The digital effects are required to attract a modern audience raised on video games and violent TV.  And because these CGI effects tend to be horrifically expensive, the movies must be rated PG-13 in order to gather as large are a customer base as possible.  Finally, the reliance on end-of-the-world plots come naturally, mainly because the plot-lines that justify these breathtaking explosions, airships, monsters, and laser guns usually involve some kind Biblical-style, science-fiction-themed catastrophe.

Unfortunately, as io9 pointed out recently in a nice post, the combination of blockbuster effects, epic plotlines, and adolescent drama can ultimately have a deadening effect on our experience of film.  I’ve been musing over this idea for some time, especially when I think back to some of my favorite movies from my youth, low-budget actioners like Escape from New York, The Road Warrior, Smokey and the Bandit, and even Damnation Alley.

Then, with untimely death of the great stunt man and director Hal Needham last month, the following question came into my head:  When will Hollywood rediscover the great B-movie action flick?

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Escape from New York

Needham’s passing made me think of this because it was he, along with other great B-directors like John Carpenter and George Miller, who defined the kind of aesthetic I am speaking of.  Cars.  Guns.  Swords.  Muscles.  And stunts.  Lots of stunts.  Real, bone-breaking, edge-of-your-seat stunts that left you thinking: how the f*** did they do that?

Don’t get me wrong:  CGI effects can be great.  When done well, they are just as thrilling and convincing as any old-style gag (and often more so).  Avatar is an amazing example, obviously, of what CGI effects can do to enhance the performances of human actors.

But let’s face it—there is something cold and numbing about most CGI effects these days.  Maybe it’s just the endless repetition, but I find myself unmoved by the sight of yet another hero sailing across a green-screen into a digitally created maelstrom of death.

Ho…hum….

Great B-movies, on the other hand, had an undeniably gritty, naturalistic, human quality to them.  This was mainly due to their miniscule budgets, which required feats of genuine physical daring from low-paid stunt men (and, as often as not, from the so-called “leading” men, too, who got paid slightly more). These were guys who got half their pay in cash and the other half in cocaine (or painkillers).  But they took genuine risks, and their performances were often more entertaining than those you would see in an A-list movie.

That’s the paradox.  Special effects, for all their dazzling ability to mimic reality, are often less convincing than a guy hanging on the hood of a 1978 Chevy Nova with his fingernails while blasting a shotgun at another guy in a rubber monster suit.   Go figure.

Of course, I’m not the first person to feel this way.  Modern auteur directors like Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez have been trying to re-capture this vibe for years with movies like Pulp Fiction, Grindhouse, and From Dusk Till Dawn, with limited success.  My theory is that in order to make a good, low-budget, story-driven action film, you have to be a good, low-budget, story-driven director.  Emphasis on low-budget.  Desperation is the best motivation for a director.  It’s also the essential ingredient of a great B-movie.

I mentioned Needham above because he was perhaps the only example of a stuntman who became a successful director, creating movies that I loved as a kid.  Smokey and the Bandit.  Hooper.  Even the classic howler Megaforce was great if you were a fourteen-year-old kid with nothing better to watch.  But, for my money, the greatest B-movie director of all time is John Carpenter.  He had an early success with a micro-budget, blood-splattered hit called Assault on Precinct 13, and then went on to make such classics as Halloween and Escape from New York.   Even today, thirty years later, I find these movies much more engrossing than the typical sci-fi bomb that craters its way into the local cineplex every summer.  Despite their cheesy effects and less-than-stellar cast, great B-movies feel more real to me.

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The Terminator

So I ask the question again:  When will Hollywood rediscover the B-movie action flick?

The answer, of course, is that it won’t.

For one thing, the current economic model of film studios does not allow the making of such low-budget fare.  Even stories that have the potential to be great low-budget flicks like The Fast and Furious soon become bloated, over-the-top blockbusters.  And even a fine, grungy little horror flick like Pitch Black (which is maybe the closest thing to a genuine B-movie I have seen in the past decade or so) can quickly get co-opted into the dreadful CGI-overloaded Riddick.  That’s the pattern.

But there’s another reason Hollywood can’t rediscover great B-action movies:  it never discovered them.  Even in the 1970s and 80s, most of the really great B-movies came from small, independent studios or from overseas (Australia and Hong Kong being the primary centers for schlock brilliance).  It was only when a nominally A-list actor would attach himself to a lower-budget production that the major studios were willing to back a B-movie, with Smokey and the Bandit and The Terminator being prime examples.  For the most part, great B-movies came from great B-movie producers and directors, playing with their own money, taking their own (very personal) risks.

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Mad Max II: The Road Warrior

Even so, here is my suggestion to Hollywood:  instead of funding three big movies a year at 100 million dollars each, try making one big movie for 100 million and twenty smaller ones for 10 million each.  You’ve got a better shot, this way, of getting a genuine hit.  (How many multiples of its original budget did The Road Warrior rake in during that long-ago summer?)

This is how you make a good B-movie action flick, in four easy steps…

1.) Find some decent, young actors and actresses.  They don’t necessarily have to sport bulging biceps or bodacious boobs (although it doesn’t hurt).

2.) Find some hungry, talented, unknown directors with a penchant for cars, guns, and dynamite (think James Cameron in his Piranha II days).

3.) Get some good, nerdy writers to pen the script, preferably from a great B action novel like something Stephen King or Roger Zelazny would have written, back in the day.

4.) Get some great stuntmen.  Fire some squibs.  Wreck some cars. Basically, have some fun.  I’m just sayin’…

Classic Sci-Fi Book Cover: “Snow Crash”

It’s hard to believe that 32 years have passed since Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash was published. Not only is it one of the best books of the 1990s, it’s also one of the definitive novels of the cyberpunk genre. In retrospect, one of the most surprising things about Snow Crash is that it’s not really a dystopian novel. It’s more like a satire, a spoof of corporate America’s relentless pursuit of wealth and power in the 21st Century. Its hero (deftly named Hiro) is a Ninja-level hacker by night and a pizza-delivery guy by day. The pizza company he works for is run by the mafia (which has become legal), and if he fails to deliver a pizza in thirty minutes or less, Hiro faces summary execution.

Yeah, it’s that kind of book. It also has some really kick-ass fight scenes.

I love this cover by Bruce Jensen because it’s photorealistic and immediately suggests a narrative, which is perfect for this kind of sci-fi, quasi-adventure novel. More importantly, it captures the crazy melange of elements that Stephenson squeezes into the novel. you’ve got a hero with his samurai sword walking towards a clearly futuristic, cyberpunk city. Paradoxically, he’s passing through an ancient stone doorway that might be a relic from Bronze Age Persia. 

It’s an enigmatic cover but also thrilling and stimulating to the imagination. Which is exactly what one expects from a great sci-fi book cover. 

Classic Sci-Fi Book Cover

Most of the art I’ve included in my on-going Classic Sci-Fi Book Covers series has been from the 1970s and 1980s. Two golden ages of sci-fi, surely, which, more importantly, marked my golden age of sci-fi—my middle- and high-school years when I devoured all kinds of science fiction novels from the previous decades. 

And so it is with some surprise that I submit this episode’s sci-fi cover, which is only from 1998. But it’s still a classic. An instant classic, actually, and not just because it was done for one of the most influential sci-fi novels of all time, Philip K. Dick’s Do Androids Believe in Electric Sheep. Calling PKD a science fiction writer makes a bit more sense that calling Kurt Vonnegut a science fiction writer, or Franz Kafka a science fiction writer, but not much. Like Vonnegut and Kafka, Dick wrote surreal, even psychedelic novels that deal with issues of compassion, violence, identity, sanity. Most of all, they describe the problem of discerning reality from the fake. (The “ersatz,” as Dick likes to call it in his typical Germanophilic style). 

Do Androids Believe in Electric Sheep is Dick’s most famous book, in part because it inspired Blade Runner but also because it’s just a fine, complex, and vivid novel. Rick Deckert, the protagonist, is a bounty hunter who finds and kills runaway androids (called replicants in the film, these are flesh-based artificial people who look and act like human beings, only crueler.) 

The book was published in 1968 and has gone through dozens of editions and covers. But this cover, created by commercial artist Bruce Jensen, is my favorite. It depicts a male figure who might be a Greek statue, or a wax dummy (or an android), and yet whose expression conveys a sense of pathos that the viewer can’t quite look away from. This sense of pathos is amplified by the fact that lying between the viewer and the figure is a grid of what seems to be hog-wire, evoking a plot point in the book. Deckert, like many people in his dystopian future, keeps a farm animal as a pet—in his case, a sheep. But the wire also has echoes of the Holocaust, which is especially interesting since Dick’s inspiration for the book came after reading the diary of an S.S. Officer guarding a concentration camp. The figure is, we sense, a prisoner, although we don’t know what of. (Spoiler: it’s modern civilization.)

And then there is the sheep itself, rendered in a hallucinogenic little box over the male figure’s left eye. The only point of color in the work, the sheep draws the viewer’s attention the same way Deckert’s sheep draws out his latent humanity—it represents nature, vitality, warmth. Most importantly, it serves as something to love. 

Love, as it turns out, is the last human quality that the androids learn (and most never do). It is also, Dick strongly suggests, the defining aspect of living things.

What I’m (Re-)Reading: “Devil in a Blue Dress”

Like a lot of people, my first exposure to Walter Mosely was when I saw the 1995 film adaptation of his novel, Devil in a Blue Dress, starring Denzel Washington. It’s a good movie, with fine performances by Washington and Don Cheadle, but it didn’t inspire me to seek out Mosely’s fiction. As far as I knew, he was just another solid mystery writer, one of many whom I hadn’t read.

Sometime later, I bought a copy of The Best American Short Stories and I was surprised to see a story by Mosely among that year’s selections. The story is called “Pet Fly” and it’s a deceptively simple tale of an office grunt (who happens to be black) trying to keep his integrity while working in modern corporate America. I was knocked-out by it. Later still, I stumbled upon an actual novel by Mosely, a science fiction work called The Wave, which turned out to be one of the best novels (sci-fi or otherwise) that I had read in years.

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Classic Sci-Fi Book Cover

One of the first books I ever checked out by myself from the library was Ray Bradbury’s The Illustrated Man. I was a tween-aged sci-fi nerd at the time (as opposed to a middle-aged sci-fi nerd now), and this book started my life-long love affair with Bradbury’s fiction. More magical realism than actual sci-fi, his work always evokes a sense of the wonder I first felt when reading great science fiction. 

Like Bradbury’s other masterpiece, The Martian Chronicles, this book is actually a “fix-up”—a collection of previously published short stories that are grouped together by a framing device. In this case, the “frame” is an unnamed drifter and former carnival worker who has tattoos all over his body (except for one crucial, bare spot on his upper back; you’ll have to read it to find out why). If you stare at any of the tattoos long enough, it comes to life and shows you a story—which leads directly into the short story in question.

It’s a very clever idea, and hauntingly rendered. Some of the more famous stories in the collection are “The Veldt,” “Zero Hour,” and (my favorite) “The Long Rain.”

The cover for the book’s first edition, by artist Dean Ellis, is still the best, and is also the one on the edition I checked out from the library, lo those many years ago. A work of trippy surrealism, the man in the painting does not look like the character in the book (who is flabby and middle-aged and has hair) but it captures brilliantly the sense of intellectual lyricism and magic, of which Bradbury was a master. 

What I’m Reading: “`Salem’s Lot”

I love Stephen King. I watch his interviews and lectures on YouTube, and I re-read his book, On Writing, once or twice a year, finding it one of the best meditations on the craft around,  not to mention a very fine memoir. I follow him on Twitter (er…X), and you should, too (he’s @StephenKing, if you’re interested).

And yet, in one of the stranger ironies of my adult life, I went over twenty years without reading a King novel. Sure, I once devoured books like The Stand and Firestarter in high school, but then I became an English major and, for a multitude of reasons, I stopped.

Continue reading “What I’m Reading: “`Salem’s Lot””

Sherlock Holmes was a Fixer

ScandalBohemia

With all the innumerable recent scandals that have erupted over the last decade or so, I find myself wondering when, exactly, did the term “fixer” enter the national lexicon?

Recently, Donald Trump’s personal lawyer, Michael Cohen, was referred to as a “fixer” by the national press. Similarly, the popular TV show Ray Donovan is about a “fixer”. As far as I can tell, the term “fixer” denotes any ostensibly legitimate person—usually a lawyer but sometimes a private investigator—who can be called upon to act a kind of bridge between the underworld and the legitimate world. His mission is (usually) to stifle some impending scandal or P.R. disaster. (In Cohen’s case, it was arranging the payment of hush-money to women who had had affairs with Donald Trump.)

Of course, there is nothing new about this concept of a “fixer”; only the name is new. In fact, any student of classic literature will recognize that on at least one occasion the great fictional detective Sherlock Holmes played exactly the same role as Michael Cohen (albeit with a just a bit more intelligence and wit).

Continue reading “Sherlock Holmes was a Fixer”