Hi, Mom!

Hi, Mom! (Brian De Palma, 1970) Second full-length film (although it seems more a comedy pastiche in final form, like the Zucker Brothers were making at the time) that De  Palma and his producing buddy Charles Hirsch cooked up, seemingly as a sequel of sorts to Greetings (retaining Robert De Niro and his "character" John Rubin), while having absolutely nothing to do with that first film.  

Ostensibly about a young film-maker who wants to make "peep-show art" out of filming the real lives of his neighbors in the co-op across the street—shades (opened, naturally) of Rear Window—it meanders into Rubin's plotting a relationship with one of his subjects (Jennifer Salt), while at the same time becoming involved in an experimental theater group, staging a radical audience participation vehicle called "Be Black, Baby!"

That last segment may actually be one of the first "mockumentaries."

Mean-spirited (but in a smart way), with that stagey kind of improv quality to it that only works 40% of the time, it feels like De Palma taking off the gloves, cracking his knuckles and using his camera like a fist against complacency. It also has that bi-partisan cynicism to it that's very refreshing—for instance, "Be Black, Baby!" is shown being presented (in grainy black and white on a rounded edge square screen) over a parody of NET,* now called NIT—National Intellectual Television. It's a chortling, vicious piece of satire done in multi-parts (with the Rubin segments interrupting and becoming more and more inconsequential, the "peep-art-show" concept having long been abandoned**), starting with citizens being accosted on the street about their failure to know what it means "to be black in America," then more segments that are less cinema verité, but have a good improv feel, and then the actual presentation of the play in which privileged whites are challenged, force-fed "soul" food, beaten, robbed and arrested (with one attempted rape thrown in for good measure), before being released to the outside world again—"Hope you enjoyed the show!"—at which point, they're interviewed about their experience (the best line in the whole thing is "Clive Barnes was right!"). In one swell foop, art, pretentiousness, and "touchy-feely" moccassin-walking are given the mau-mau, and come up wanting.

It's "bad-kid movie-making" with a smart-alecky breeziness ("Hi, Mom!") that beats any number of elaborately formal set-pieces that De Palma has subsequently staged. One misses this "turk" De Palma***—the one that would do things that upset audiences, and sit back, cigar in his teeth, saying "Wait'll you see the next one!" Maybe it's not De Palma's fault. Maybe we've just become insensitive enough that nothing he can produce shocks us anymore.

If that's true, imagine how miserable Hitchcock would be.

* The percursor to PBS.

** The best segment in the Rubin sandwiching sequences is one where he meticulously plans a seduction of Betty Shaefer—Salt's character—in order for him to film it—yes, a sick idea, but quaint in these days of "sex-tapes".  But, things go awry when he arrives at the apartment and she tries to pull him into bed immediately, while he does his best to keep anything from happening, a lovely little turn on sexual roles, expectations, and how much power a director "actually" has. De Niro does his best work here, hemming and hawing and making excuses, constantly glancing at his watch and re-buttoning every shirt-button she's unbuttoned,  and trying to use any of his by-now useless preparations in order to delay, delay, delay (you might say "the worst laid plans")

*** And he might, too.  In an interview, the director has said that the "Be Black, Baby" segments of Hi, Mom! are the best thing he's ever done.  Sad to think that, after all his successes, the elder De Palma looks back and sees this edgy, slap-dash sequence as the epitome of his career. But...if one is dissatisfied with one is doing, with all the compromises and concessions to getting a picture made and marketed, it's easy to look back on the brash days and say "That's when I had the freedom to do anything I wanted!" After the bludgeoning De Palma's films of The Bonfire of the Vanities and Redacted took, one can see that a bit more clearly.  He could make that kind of film today. But, the market...and the critical elite...will bash it down.

Olde Review: Private Parts

Well, it's a week before Hallowe'en, so I can't ignore it any longer. The Horror genre is not my favorite, but like anything, if something good comes along, no matter its origins, no matter its budget, it should be celebrated. We won't be doing that. We'll be looking at a bunch of horror movies from the past few years that I haven't been able to recycle into this blog—for whatever reason—but mostly for the fact that they aren't any good. They are horror films that merely accentuate the fact that I don't like the genre much, even though it has always inspired new techniques in film-making, rules-breaking in scope and subject matter, and been the moldy place from which some talented film-makers emerged...while others just fell back into the bog. 

This was part of a series of reviews of the ASUW Film series back in the '70's. Except for some punctuation, I haven't changed anything from the way it was presented, giving the kid I was back in the '70's a bit of a break. Any stray thoughts and updates I've included with the inevitable asterisked post-scripts.

Private Parts (Paul Bartel, 1972) * You thought Rocky Horror was tacky? Leave before Private Parts.** Not that it's bad. It's just...trashy. Rather well-made trash at that. It was directed by Paul Bartel, before he went on to make Death Race 2000, which was also trash. Bartel has talent, he really does. His shots are well-composed, the color composition is great--right now it's a little hard to tell whether he'll go legit and become another Brian DePalma, or will continue with filming lousy stories well and become another Russ Meyer.

Private Parts has a badly-acted beginning and a cruddy ending (complete with a Tennessee Williams-style capper). But in between those you keep watching this film (so help me) just to see what the hell will come up next. What trashy, weird, kinky thing will come up next.

Sweet young thing Cheryl (Ayn Ruyman), kicked out of her apartment, takes up with her weird (not that "weird") Aunt Martha (Lucille Benson) at the King Edward Hotel, which seems to have a monopoly on odd tennants. There's this weird (note that "weird") photographer named George (John Ventantonio) who, believe it or not, is even sleazier than Oliver Reed is. Cheryl is into poking into other people's business. George is into all sorts of fetishes and things, and, let's face it, they're made for each other. Just like the sweet young couple in "Rocky Horror...," Cheryl is forever changed by the King Edward.

This movie may not be your cup of tea. It's kind of strong, content-wise, and there are a couple of acts of ultra-violence in which Bartel rubs our collective noses.

But one thing: See it, so that when you see Brian DePalma's weird but intelligently made Sisters, you may look upon it as Citizen Kane compared to Private Parts.

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You know? I don't remember a single FRAME from this film. Must have purged it from my memory banks. That happens ("Seen any movies? What's a good one you've seen lately?" "..........uhhh...."). I was surprised that Amazon streams it, and that there was enough of a presence on the Internet (even discounting Howard Stern) that I could put up pictures. And I seem to remember the lead actress, Ayn Ruymen, but the memory is of seeing her in commercials.  Oh, well. Also, strange to see I had such a fixation on Brian DePalma in those days (this was years before The Bonfire of the Vanities.)

*Not the Howard Stern Private Parts, but Paul Bartel's (Eating Raoul, Death Race 2000) first film.

** That's The Rocky Horror Picture Show—the format of these movie evenings in college was an ancient tradition in movies called "The Double Bill." (Look it up, kids). "The Double Bill" was a tradition where, to make less money apparently, the theater would show two movies in an evening—first, a lesser-known film, then the main attraction, and then, finally, the lesser known film for those missed the earlier showing. These University showings were of old films—certainly not first run—with a pair of films that might have similar themes, be of a similar genre—whatever, they were similar in some way. You won't see The Rocky Horror Picture Show in this collection of 2017 Hallowe'en reviews, because...well, I liked it...thought it was kind of clever. I don't SEE it every Friday night like a lunatic, but I liked it.