Just some Flap-crumbs here. Look out, it goes fast and there's much-o changes in tempo. Mostly a sense of confusion and so many things in my head that I can't hear anything anymore. Oh just shut up and start flapdoodling.
Bob and I enjoy a good deep-from-1970's movie, we do. Recently found a gem that everyone else in our NPR-listening-liberal-arts-school-attending pack already knows, no doubt: Five Easy Pieces. I always thought that was some Nicholson film that had tense bar scenes and mild violence that back in the '70s came off as really horrible violence. No. He plays a drop-out member of an elite musical family. Karen Black sports some classic thick mascara in this one. But when has she not, I ask you? We saw this on the new, wonderful, couldn't have gotten through late winter without it Netflix Instant.
Now we cruise the Instant Plays selections all the time, cruising around for the perfect heady mix of feathered hair, high-waisted slacks, thoughtful, yet somehow plodding, direction, and just a general air of quiet melancholy that only a high-'70s film can provide. Yes, I did use the word cruise...and it inspired us to look up what I thought was a H70' movie. We had had our Sunday night Scrabble game with the M-O gang of four and that movie came up. I made everyone laugh when I said I recalled watching it with my Dad. Was that really possible? We did watch some heavy movies together when I was a kid: Papillion, Cool Hand Luke, The Great Escape...but did we really watch Cruising? A film about a serial murderer stalking the gay subculture of heavy leather men? Somehow, I know I have already seen that movie. You'll never see a hankie the same way again. But Bob says he had not. He had no idea what my hankie jokes were all about. Yet.
So we felt like we were going to have another 70's movie night when we saw it offered as a Netflix instant. Our first clue that we would noooooot be having this experience was the release date: 1980. But I blew that off, because we all know the 70's did not end in 1980. Still plenty of loud rugby shirts and clogs to be had. About 25 minutes later we gave up. There was nothing nostalgic, or comforting about this film. Usually it's fun to see big, green dial phones, typewriters on desks, signs in supermarkets that say 29 cents a pound. And they are referring to like, grapes or something.
But no, this one was nuthin' but guys in dark aviator sunglasses, jock straps and black socks. Dancing together in well-lit underground clubs. Until some crazy guy picked them up and they got stabbed. A movie that opens with a decaying severed arm floating in the Hudson is not the balm we are looking for right before we go to sleep. I can't believe it took us 25 minutes to even realize it.
But much later, I start thinking about the premise for this film. Al Pacino's cop character happens to resemble the victims, so he gets pulled off his rinky-dink beat, finds himself having a conversation with some big chief police officer about his prior experiences with homosexuality. He gets told he's going deep undercover into the world of the heavy leather gay lifestyle. He will not have any contact with anyone from his life--his paychecks will be cash, delivered once a month. He's to show up in a village apartment and begin assuming the role, stat. What kind of fantasy film has a police force that decides that in order to catch a serial killer you have to have anonymous sex in Central Park, underground clubs, and random alleys of the Village?
No wonder this film has achieved cult status in the gay world. I could create a stand-up comedy joke about it. Something like:
Al Pacino's undercover character: "Uh, yeah, sorry this case is taking so long. There are a lot of...suspects! I'm going to need to keep the Village apartment for another few months. I've had a lot of leads, though, Captain! I feel like this thing's gonna break wide open soon! Gotta go, it's Rough Rider night at the Ramrod and I've got to pick up my hankies at the corner laundry. I'll check back in a few weeks!"
We tried to flush out the gritty nastiness of that film with a soothing Columbo with Ray Milland as an arrogant orchid raising schemer who double-crosses his nephew in a fake kidnapping. Every other scene was shot on this greenhouse set. I've come to realize that production values on Columbo were really low. I noticed in one scene they didn't have the ability to film a scene with any dialog. Even though this one guy was in a hurry, he gave directions to the driver OUTSIDE the car, then got in and they sped off.
It didn't flush it all out and we are only just recovering. Presently we are watching the soooothing British classic comedy The Good Life. It's perfect. I love how I don't get the period jokes about politicians.
Final note--all humor credits go to bobbles:
Bob's been doing this consulting gig about homes that are tricked out with all kind of gadgets and fantabulous flaptraptions. During a phone call with the team someone asked him what kind of stuff he used. Expecting an answer like: "Uh, my sub-zero fridge is wired to my home alarm system so no one can swipe champagne at all my swank parties." They got, "Uh, sometimes my cat runs out the door before I can shut it and I'm scared a racoon's gonna eat her. "
The flapdoodle has pfffted. Over and out.
