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What makes a midnight movie? In their terrific book Midnight Movies, J. Hoberman and Jonathan Rosenbaum pinpoint the political and cultural implications that fueled the cult appeal of such '70s staples as El Topo, Pink Flamingos and Eraserhead, but, to me, midnight movies have always had the basic lure of juveline tribalism behind them. People go, I think, to be with others who are like them, like what they like, laugh at what they laugh. In that kind of atmosphere, lit from within and cut off from the rest of the world, the movie itself feels almost like an afterthought. If that were the sole appeal of midnight movies, however, the Star Wars or The Lord of the Rings films would have been small cult hits rather than established blockbusters. The movies must also have a naughty edge -- whether intentional or not -- that gets giddy midnight viewers the notion that they're getting their money's worth. Of course, the built-in raciness of the midnight movie circuit must be crowd-pleasing, usually stopping short of genuine subversive daring. The Midnight Movie Madness program is, for the most part, predictably vanilla, a very slick rehash of '70s cornerstones (Harold and Maude), cozy, knowing campiness (The Princess Bride), and faddish flash (Trainspotting). A much more interesting festival, true to its daredevil, cage-rattling roots, wouldn't blush from including titles by Pier Paolo Pasolini and Dusan Makavejev, whose taboo-shattering works delighted in making audiences squirm, and even assorted porn titles, where a starlet such as Gen Padova can, in the literally stickiest of situations, radiate the kind of freshness and emotional delicacy that could make Renée Zellweger sit up and take notes. But enough about what the festival is not. Let us take a look at what it is. Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981): Anthropology made fun by the febrile minds of two move-mad nerdy kids, Steven Spielberg and George Lucas. Anyone who grew up with Harrison Ford as the intrepid Indiana Jones will not forget the den full of snakes, the melting Nazis, or Indy blithely shooting a sword-swinging Arab (always a sour gag, and today particularly uncomfortable). For all the fond riffs of 1940s Buster Krabbe serials and joyously choreographed mayhem, however, the picture is much closer to Lucas' brand of pinball machine thrills than to Spielberg's feel for emotional transcendence -- it's a postmodern funhouse where gags and set-pieces are resurrected breathlessly, but with very little awareness of their implications. Audiences, the filmmakers figured, wouldn't have it any other way. (Oct. 3-4) Reservoir Dogs (1992): A bunch of criminals hole up in an abandoned warehouse after a heist gone gorily awry to figure out who among them has ratted them out. Quentin Tarantino's dazzling film debut is a brutal, stylish and astonishingly assured look at honor among lowlifes, myths of masculinity and the mechanics of the heist film genre. The ear-slicing scene is, a decade later, still as potent as ever. Maybe as a nod to the strong Elvis undercurrent that runs throughout Tarantino's work, the film is billed with Bubba Ho-tep (2002), where the elderly King teams up with a fellow nursing home resident to battle monsters. I haven't seen this one yet, but it sounds like it was made deliberately to become a cult movie. Not a good sign. (Does anybody remember The Dark Backward? About Shakes the Clown? Anybody?) (Oct. 10-11) Pulp Fiction (1994): More Tarantino, this time his grand Royale. Love it or loath it, the Cannes Palm d'Or winner was the epoch-making American movie of the '90s -- certainly the most discussed, and the most imitated. The plot is a symphonically woven mosaic of crime chestnuts, where hit men and gun molls, boxers and gimps, death and redemption stand next to each other. More than in Reservoir Dogs, Tarantino uses cinematic tropes (and he gives equal importance to European art-house and American grindhouse) to examine, question and enhance a unique vision of the world. Magnificent. With career-peaks by John Travolta, Samuel L. Jackson, and Bruce Willis, among others. (Oct. 17-18) Ghostbusters (1984) & Scary Movie 3 (2003): Another double bill, this one could almost be seen as the "before" and "after" of the gross-out humor revolution. Seen now, Ghostbusters is pleasing, innocuous fluff, sort of a yellowing National Lampoon edition buoyed by a couple of moments of surprising visual ingenuity and, of course, the great Bill Murray. For a mid-'80s hit, it's still fairly bouncy. To go from it to the relentless crudity of the Scary Movie series is to witness the death of innocence in American comedy. Not that innocence should be mourned that much anyway, but I would happily trade a few dozen sperm and vomit gags for one of Murray's line readings. (Oct. 24-25) Dead Alive (1992): Before hitting pay dirt with the Lord of the Rings series, New Zealand director Peter Jackson was known for such truly cultish fare as the Muppets-on-acid opus Meet the Feebles. Dead Alive may very well be the goriest movie ever made -- limbs are chopped off, machetes dig into foreheads, and fluids splatter all over the screen. And that's just before the opening credits. The plot is something about a rabid monkey and a battalion of drooling zombies, but that's really just a clothesline where Jackson pins frenetic, did-I-just-see-that comedy, as gooey innards fill in for custard. Certainly worth a look, but be warned that laughter and vomit will gurgle in equal portions. (Oct. 31-Nov. 1) Pretty in Pink (1986): After Not Another Teen Movie, can anybody still avoid derision when looking back upon the Brat Pack hits of the '80s? Or is a midnight screening necessary to bring together those who are too ashamed to admit that they get a warm feeling when girl-from-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks Molly Ringwald tells off snooty Andrew McCarthy? Either way, here they are, in all their dubious glory, the staples of '80s teen comedy: cheesy comic relief, pseudo-punk, musical montages, and Matthew Broderick-substitute Jon Cryer. Dated, of course, but I'm not ashamed of my fond memories of it, even though I'm supposed to hate any movie with a character named Duckie. Oh where have you gone, John Hughes? (Nov. 7-8)
Fight Club (1999): Brad Pitt and Edward Norton pounding the crap out of each other while deconstructing society,
one punch at a time. That's the premise behind the would-be revolutionary picture of 1999, upon which director David
Fincher loads enough lingering nose-crunching, homoerotic tension and stylistic hysteria for three or for cult movies.
Despite my own hatred for it, however, it is one of the few pictures in the program (Tarantino's are the others) to disturb the
established notions of audiences looking for easy thrills. The critique of a consumerist world is shallow, but done with
such visceral creative intensity that a massive frontal attack whips up anyway. Controversy is guaranteed, no matter
where you stand on it. (Nov. 15-16)
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