Tuesday, December 17, 2013

The Inner Loneliness

It was so real... so tangible. She could feel the cool air on her face, the bitter breezes that blew through the woods mussed her hair, the sweat in her armpits, the pinch of the calluses on her feet. Tall, skeletal trees lined the straight path she walked like a church's nave. The the long, decrepit figures reaching-up to the amber sky like vertical pillars of ink.

No squirrels scurried, no birds sang, no stray cat searched-out a meal in the trash bin. She took slow, labored steps, looking to the ground and the shimmer of light on her boots. She hoped for someone, anyone to walk her way, to cross her path, to acknowledge her presence.

She yearned for the one she watched across a room, who she waited for in darkened corridors, who she saw in thoughts before the darkness of night embraced her. If only a friend, at least a friend. At least somebody to talk to, to share moments of living time with.

Nobody appeared, in those darkened halls or in the lonely cathedral of the forest. And so she continued-on, waiting and laboring every step.

Sunday, September 15, 2013

Late Laments

It's another of those long, lonely nights. They tick-on, one after another. The epilogues of the steady succession of wasted, lonely days. The days haven't been the same since then - since the skies darkened and black, moonlit water rose.

They haven't been the same since then. They were never happy, but at least they could hold a good mood for a while... say a day. Since then, every day has been a struggle. A trudge through shit, blood and garbage. A long, lonely march through an empty land. The sun pops-out and then disappears as quickly as it broke through... usually quicker. There's not much left to say about the state of things; whether in this life or another. It's usually easier to say nothing.

Why do what you're not content to do? Why toil at a labor of pain and not at a labor of love? How can you relate to people when you simply cannot understand them? How do you tune-in when your frequency is different? How does a fox live in a lion's den? How do you face a world that you're petrified of? How do you get guided into something so against your nature... how do you get out?

Saturday, September 14, 2013

Tom G Reviews: Dawn of the Dead

In 1968, George A. Romero, a film student from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, made a low budget horror film about a group of people stranded after escaping a horde of zombies. Made on an ad hoc budget with the help of friends and neighbors (including a butcher), "Night of the Living Dead" was an unsettling, stark and darkly humorous commentary on the goings-on of the late 1960's. The darkly relevant film became an instant classic, an iconic horror film and THE iconic zombie picture. With "Night of the Living Dead", the Steel City film student with something to say single-handedly started a movie genre; the zombie movie.

Ten-years-later, Romero returned to the genre he created with another dark, violent and saucy look at the state of American society with "Dawn of the Dead" (1978). Although still an independent film, Romero had a larger budget to work with, the talents of special effects virtuoso Tom Savini, and the Monroeville Mall outside of Pittsburgh to use at night. The result was another landmark zombie picture loaded and wet with thrills, dark humor, action, commentary and some of the most glorious gore of the 1970's.

The plot is fairly straight forward. As the world devolves into a zombie-infested bedlam devoid of law or order, Philadelphia television studio employee Francine (Gaylen Ross) and her boyfriend, TV helicopter pilot Stephen (David Emge) steal the station's helicopter in an attempt to escape the doomed city. Philly SWAT team members Peter and Roger (Ken Foree and Scott Reiniger) meet after a brutal and chaotic raid on a zombie-infested Housing Project. Armed and disillusioned, they, like Fran and Stephen, decide to make a run for it. The two pairs meet and decide to team-up, finding strength in numbers and SWAT guns. After crossing Pennsylvania, they end-up finding refuge in a huge, powered, watered, and well stocked shopping mall. After clearing the mall of its plethora of zombies (former shoppers as one would conclude) and losing a teammate, the group do what anybody would do if they were locked in the mall alone and without law... they loot it. Eventually the elation of raw and unadulterated taking and amassing wears-off, and another round of disillusion sets in. Before the survivors can move on, the mall is discovered by a marauding horde of bikers led by a machete-wielding leader (played by Tom Savini) who crash the tranquil cloister of this shopper's paradise. The film ends with a final battle between the survivors, the bikers, and the zombies.



"Dawn of the Dead" is not a "shock horror" movie. There are no surprises around the corner, no jump scares, and the zombies themselves are by no means scary or intimidating. If anything, Romero's zombies are stupid and even comical. No, "Dawn of the Dead" is more along the lines of "action horror". It's packed with all the gunmanship, running, looting, blood, guts, and dark comedy that a zombie movie fan's heart can desire. It's fun, just a lot of fun to watch. Not to mention, dates well for a 1970's zombie picture.

"Dawn of the Dead" is one of the best scored movies I've ever seen, personally. Even the incidental music is just a delight to the ear that creates the right mood; weather it's funny, sad, horrific, chaotic, and so on. The soundtrack was provided, in part, by the Italian Prog-Rock band, Goblin (who have also done scores for Dario Argento, whose work was influenced by Romero's).

The real sales-point of "Dawn of the Dead" is its gore effects provided by Tom Savini. What can you say about Tom Savini? He is a virtuoso in his field, perhaps THE virtuoso of practical special effects. While Dick Smith is the master who made special effects an art form, Tom Savini is the virtuoso who can make even the most stomach-churning gore a thing of pure and earthly beauty. "Dawn of the Dead" is the movie that ushered  in the gore movie. Every slasher flick, every gore-crazy Italian horror movie you've ever seen post-1978 owes itself to Tom Savini's work on "Dawn of the Dead".

If George Romero proves one thing with any of his pictures, it's that he's right where it's at. "Dawn of the Dead" carries on the tradition of "Night of the Living Dead" in that it's more than just a zombie movie. It's more than just blood and guts. "Dawn of the Dead" is commentary. Why do the zombies come to the mall? Because it's where they came when they were living. The store is where everything comes from. Creatures of habit go where the food is, no? The zombies in "Dawn of the Dead" are not only stupid; they're clumsy, habitual, like sheep. They follow the other zombies, even to certain death, because it's all they know. Romero's zombies are a mirror on modern man. The only difference: they can't use a gun.

No, the guns are used by the "living". They use them to kill zombies, to survive. When the living break though, they loot, and they loot, and they loot some more. It's all for the taking, so why not take it. The living even use their guns to defend their loot. It's theirs, and entirely theirs because they found it.

The chaos, consumerism, and human madness that "Dawn of the Dead" portrays is as relevant as ever. If "Night of the Living Dead" reflected the changing society of 1960's, then "Dawn of the Dead" reflects the "fuck you" society of the 1970's. The violent, reactionary racism of the SWAT raid. The "every man for himself" chaos of the TV studio. The hicks hunting zombies, once their friends and loved ones, for sport. The material paradise of the mall. And finally, the crazed and callous bikers throwing pies and looting even the most arbitrary goods. "Dawn of the Dead" reflects a nation ever more extreme, ever more contentious, ever more materialistic, ever more exhausting, and ever emptier. A society deprived, depraved, diseased and dissolute. Romero is looking through his lens at modern America.

"Dawn of the Dead" is a must see for any horror fan and any cinephile. It is the consummate zombie movie. It's gore effects, audio, visuals, and relevancy were game changers. Every zombie movie since owes its existence to this picture. At least that's my opinion.








 of people

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Old Snow

He was standing on his stoop, looking-out over his street. The air was low and frigid, the sky began to turn pink as the sun set. Winter in the Northeast is bitterly cold and mercilessly wet. It's a nice day when the sun shines... even if it is thirty-one degrees. The moist cold cut through his trench coat and into every part of him. But he was fine, more-or-less, so long as he had a cigarette and the sky was pretty. Standing there, on his stoop, having a smoke after a long day, he began to acquiesce to his thoughts.

So many winters had come and gone. Every year it grew cold, again and again. The years were beginning to pile-up. Like forsaken junk in the yard. Rusted odds and ends. Here today, gone tomorrow. Where were the years going? He lost a little more every year... then a little more... then a little more. Year-after-year, he lost a little more but fell into something else. A little youth for age. A few dreams for wisdom. Some faith for knowledge. Passion for comfort. Was the trade worth it? He didn't know, but he mulled-over a response.

Years ago, winter was a positive thing, or... at least... not so complicated. A good snowfall was a blessing, not a challenge. Snow was great when it was nice, wet and heavy. Good for making snow balls. Nice hard ones, too. The kind that make a "thud" when they hit. A kid could take a beating after it snowed. Especially down here, where the snow was always wet and the kids were particularly vicious. It was training... it tempered them against the world. Hard, brutal, good ol' American violence. It was fun... of course... especially to pitiless children who knew enough, even at that young age, to focus on the smallest and the weakest. Then somebody would get hurt and everyone would just go home or find another battle. Little mercenaries, damn the consequences, just find another one to get your kicks off. It was a "fuck-you" attitude that was common in these parts. It was something for adults who didn't even own their own homes to pass-down to their kids.

At the end of the day, he would be alone, still sore and certainly tired, but still young and thick-blooded enough to not freeze. The sunset seemed magical. The soft, warm pastel sky fading into the smog over the horizon. The ambient roar of the highway filled the wet, bitter air, the tire tracks froze into dazzling patterns in the muddy slush.

The world seemed smaller now, and his blood with thinner now, and the insulation of childhood was gone now. He needed a coat not to freeze, a cigarette to quell his nerves and a cup of coffee to get his motor running. The sunset had dipped into a cold, dark blue as grimy street lights popped-on. His cigarette was long done and he was growing colder and colder. Time to go in, time to rest.

Saturday, August 3, 2013

Tom G Reviews: Mean Streets

Over the years, I've seen a lot of movies... A LOT of movies. Some have been decent, most terrible, and a few good. But a handful have been truly thought provoking, mentally stimulating works of art. Martin Scorsese's 1973 feature, "Mean Streets" is one of those. Aside from being one of my favorite films, "Mean Streets" is a confluence of talents, style, writing, and production that serve as a benchmark in the medium.

Originally titled "Season of the Witch", Mean Streets was written over the course of several years by Martin Scorsese and Mardik Martin. Like its precursor film, "Who's that Knocking at My Door", Mean Streets is somewhat a documentary about a young Scorsese, the Lower Manhattan neighborhood he grew-up in, and ultimately working-class neighborhoods in general.

After making his first budget-film, "Boxcar Bertha" (1971) for B-Movie producer, Roger Corman, Scorsese was encouraged to do a project close to his heart... a labor of love. Corman initially offered to finance the film, but only on the condition that the entire cast be black. At a time when films like "Super Fly" and "Coffey" were major box-office earners, the King of Exploitation's offer was not as outlandish at it might seem, nor was the fact the Scorsese considered it. Ultimately, Scorsese turned-down the offer and "Mean Streets" was made on a budget of roughly $500,000, a paltry sum for a film, even in the early 1970's.

"Mean Streets" revolves around Charlie Cappa (played brilliantly by Harvey Keitel), a Little Italy local and protege of his Mafia Capo uncle, Giovanni (played by Cesare Danova). His life consists of collecting debts for his uncle, hanging-out at "Volpe's" a gin mill owned by his friend, Tony (played by David Proval), keeping his friend "Johnny Boy" Civello (played by Robert DeNiro) out of trouble, obsessing over a black stripper (Jeannie Bell), and carrying-on a clandestine affair with Johnny Boy's cousin, Teresa (Amy Robinson).

The conflict in the story is within Charlie himself. A devoutly Roman Catholic, Charlie fears the hell he knows surely awaits him, even to the point of masochistic self-inflicted pain. As a collector for his uncle, Charlie is promised ownership of a restaurant. The only problem, Charlie's gain will come at the cost of another man's debt to Giovanni. Charlie's Catholic guilt creates a compulsion in him to "save" others. One of those Charlie dedicates himself to "saving" is the volatile and possibly unhinged Johnny Boy who owes money all around, but most importantly to the wolfish and stone-like loan shark, Michael (played by Richard Romanus). Along with his taboo love affair with the epileptic Teresa, Charlie finds himself torn between loyalty to his friend, his lover, his career and his faith.

"Mean Streets" is not a simple story; it is reflective, gritty, uncompromising, dark, humorous, touching and heartbreaking. From the beginning, the audience is immersed in this story, these characters, this time, this place and its emotion. Martin Scorsese, showing the colors of an early master, introduces us to the time, place and characters using quick vignettes and by rolling fake Super 8 home movies over the opening credits. It looks authentic, it sounds authentic, it feels authentic. Scorsese creates a reality for us to invest in.

Scorsese's mobsters may be dressed nice, and even a bit of fun, but they are fundamentally petty, volatile and bleak. They are everything that movie mobsters aren't supposed to be... they're real. Scorsese's New York City isn't the romantic wonderland of "Manhattan" or the shining Oz of many films. The New York City Mean Streets inhabits is the NYC of the 1970's, the real deal. Grimy, graffitied, garish and garbage-strewn. Sex in Mean Streets is not romantic or lofty; it's funky, awkward and beautifully human. Violence in Mean Streets is not dramatic or epic; it's split-second and unsettling. War veterans are on edge, squeegee men wait at traffic lights, raucous parties rage in tenement apartments. No Sinatra, this is Rolling Stones territory. Mean Streets is the reaction to the Godfather.

Somehow, in all this sleaze and violence and urban disorder, Scorsese makes the audience feel right at home. It seems normal enough, even mundane. From the chaos of the San Gennaro Feast, to the crimson-soaked Saturday night at the bar, to the Italian eateries, the tenement apartments, building air shafts, the sub-level pool hall, the dark streets of the Lower East Side, the Churchyard, even the the rooftops; none of it feels like a movie. The dialogue is so real, so fast, so hard and so natural that it's hard to believe that any of it was ever scripted. The characters so natural, so unbalanced and so organic that the viewer gets fooled into believing that they're real people. The conflict and the tension is so palpable and relatable that the viewer finds him or her self becoming emotionally invested at times. The brawls, the arguments, the profanity-laced conversations are all a given. They fail to shock an audience that develops a normalcy and relationship with the story and its players.


The film, like virtually all of Martin Scorsese's pictures, is scored wall-to-wall with contemporary music. From pop to rock to Italian folk songs, one gets the impression that Scorsese designed the film's soundtrack from his own record collection. A fact that he has admitted it in several interviews. Now, scoring a film with popular music is tricky. In fact, in most films, one can argue that it doesn't generally work well. The tone of a song may match that of a scene, but the meaning of the song may not. Or, conversely, the lyrics may relate to the film, but the tone of the song itself can kill the mood of a scene. More often-than-not, however, it just comes-off as hackneyed and lazy. In Mean Streets, the music created the mood. It worked. Without fail.


The costumes of Mean Streets are too often overlooked. Though not truly "costumes", the clothes worn by our cast of low-brow Bowery boys are defined by the characters wearing them. Conflicted Charlie, is clad in the double-breasted, pin-striped suits of an Italian gangster when placating his uncle. Yet, he wears neutral-tones of beige and green when trying to defend Johnny Boy or soul searching with Teresa. Johnny Boy is the image of chaos in his leather jacket and mismatched get-ups. Tony, entirely in red, matches the sleazy danger of his saloon. Micheal in black, grey and white. Like stone, ice cold. Richard Romanus seems almost born to play that role, his face looks almost carved from granite; threatening even when splattered with cake.

Mean Streets is very much a film of its time. It reflects the 1970's. Its mood, its style, its subject matter. Martin Scorsese was of that generation inspired by the "New Wave" of European cinema in the previous decades. And that naturalism and cinematography certainly shows in Mean Streets. But Scorsese was also highly influenced by the gangster films of his youth. And that too shows, even in Charlie's pinstriped suits. In a way Mean Streets is very much an heir to the Pre-Code gangster pictures of Cagney and Muni. Mean Streets is as much "Little Caesar" as it is "Le Mepris".

Now, to be fair, which I will, Mean Streets did have some problems. As good as its plot was, Mean Streets seems to take side trips that, although well executed, lead nowhere. Scorsese introduces characters or seems to begin exploring ideas in the film that never get expanded-on or tied-up. Almost like random happenings in the movie's world. They just seem to happen for no real reason and in the end, Charlie has learned nothing from them, and neither have we. Just padding. These foibles, however, do not detract from the overall picture and are certainly not regrettable.

Mean Streets launched multiple careers and indeed changed the way films were conceptualized and executed. A product of an artistically open time, when being different was prized and being subversive was exulted, Mean Streets defined one generation and inspired another. It certainly inspires moi. For anyone who fancies themselves as a cinemaphile, Seeing "Mean Streets" isn't just recommended, it's required.