Down with the Sickness

An Article by Rhonda Baughman

I am so sick.
Sick, sick, sick.
A sick, sick woman.
I know, Dear Reader, you’re probably thinking yeah, Rhonda – we know you’re sick. Damn sick and just plain wrong.
Well, this is true – but also in terms of ill – not feeling well – under the weather – slightly off my game, so to speak. And I hate being sick. I hate it.
Until now …
I actually have a job that pays me to stay home and be sick, as opposed to coming to work, infecting everyone, and demonstrating sub-par performance. And now that I have learned how to relax, I can say home, be sick, and watch movies. So – it’s like I’m being paid to sneeze, cough, and watch movies.
Score.
This time – I decided to seek solace in films … if I have to be sick, I may as well try to find some comfort somewhere. (Usually books, music, traveling, working out, and food are my keys to happiness these days, but being ill, those elements are just plain exhausting for several reasons: I want to be involved, but only if I can lie there quietly and be involved. Sometimes this is how I prefer sex, too. But that’s another article.
In terms of seeking solace – I seem to be doing that in broad, vague terms these days, too – almost as if U2 is following me around, singing I still haven’t found what I’m looking for … and just as I turn my head to strike, Bono disappears. Smart guy. In all seriousness, it’s a cloying, perturbing existential dilemma I am just too old for: looking for something, but I’m not sure what it is, but I keep looking all the same. There are hundreds of funny metaphors I could apply, but truthfully, I’d rather have an answer than another metaphor.
And for your troubles … a few mini-reviews.
Upon falling ill, I grabbed what was close: Disturbing Behavior .
Not a great film by any stretch of the imagination, but it did star a totally adorable Katie Holmes. I remember how cute she once upon a time – and a kicky soundtrack made this 90’s cool fest a film to remember. Then again, it also stars a grumpy William Sadler; I always thought he was hot, too – and his props have been due since his Demon Knight days.
My roommate scored the Prom Night remake from Netflix. She left within 20 minutes, leaving me wrestle with my OCD alone: once you begin a film, you must finish it, no matter how bad. My god and it was bad. Beyond bad. Hottie John Schaech wasn’t even saving this upchuck. The film was so poorly executed I was almost able to overcome my OCD. Oh, but not quite, as my need to see the worst overcame any rationalization and I sat through the film until the bitter, bitter end.
And speaking of bitter, once the nausea of a night at the prom subsided, I popped in Bitter Harvest, a classic little gem no one remembers but me, I’m sure - starring Stephen Baldwin, Patsy Kensit, and Jennifer Rubin. I have fond memories of insomnia during my teen years and I caught this movie in the early am – and it seemed so much cooler back then. While there will always be a soft spot for this film in my heart (the first chapbook I would ever write had the subtitle A Bitter Harvest, for pete’s sake), it’s just silly and even the easiest mark could see the set-up Kensit and Rubin try to orchestrate. Even so, the film does maintain its realistic stroke in the fact … who cares? Who cares what the set-up is, what the third party rip-off might be? Rubin is stunning and the entire film is worth the wait to hear Kensit utter, at the end: “Now where’s the fun in that?”
Next time I will just fast forward to that scene.
Keeping in theme with the art of the segue, so on the subject of fast forwarding – I couldn’t even tell you what Future-Kill was about. I only picked it up because Marilyn Burns and Ed O’Neal starred, but for a supposedly apocalyptic film, the set looked similar to a dusty Midwestern town where the shit-kickers gathered in the town square to discuss the May Day parade. I thought perhaps my illness was preventing me from understanding the dialogue, but after a few friends tried to watch it (making it no more than 30 minutes … and some of that - blank tape, previews, FBI warnings, and credits), I understood it wasn’t just me. They must have sprung up to go to the bathroom, get popcorn, and blow a nose seven times apiece. I will say it has a cool box cover, but I can’t think of much else to report. More fast-forwarding would ensue with Jaws II and III – two films also unable to withstand the test of time and again, way cooler in retrospect.
And now that I think of it – Cooler in Retrospect is either a band name or a top ten list waiting to happen. Curse of the Puppet Master , while certainly not up for any awards, did offer some incredibly silly, fun, and thoroughly enjoyable previews - chief among them: Kraa! I laughed for a good ten minutes, the most since I became ill – and the feeling was incredible. The amount of kraa/cry word play endeavors is limitless: “don’t you kraa-aa-aa tonight”, “kraa, the beloved country”, and “kraa-aa-aa-aa’n over you” were all I could get out before the laughter drove me to begin coughing. But it was worth it.
While slow-blinking, my roommate suggested I watch The Wraith - the epitome of cheesy, in-crowd, boy-gets-girl supernatural films. I just wanted to sleep, so I figured I would hate the film, but alas, I could not. While I am far removed from my Sherilyn Fenn, Charlie Sheen crush days – they were cute when they were younger, and quite frankly, I could watch star Nick Cassavetes do anything. It could have been a silent film, but had Cassavetes been a part of it, I would have watched with intense focus and known his dialogue would include: I love you, Rhonda. For the record, he was one of the highlights of Assault of the Killer Bimbos . And I just bet he knew it.
We took a chance as I began to feel less like a snotball, and slightly more human, so I went to Family Video once or twice and picked out a few of my own gems: Jack Messitt’s Midnight Movie and the adaptation of Clive Barker’s short story The Midnight Meat Train , although vastly dissimilar, they both gave me the tingly-giddy feeling I had while watching Rest Stop and No Man's Land: The Rise of Reeker … both silly, but harvesting the theme I most adore: is this even happening? Or are we just fucking with the viewer? It goes along with my recent “lens” obsession. If you can just think of the hundreds of ways we use lenses and reflections, and all the possible metaphors inherent and waiting to be expounded upon, perhaps you will begin to understand my little fixation.
Did you get that?
My little fixation?
Lenses do just that … they fixate. Like me.
So - moving on. For now.
Bottom line: go rent them.
And John Carpenter’s Cigarette Burns – the reflection of a negative, literally and figuratively.
One you can avoid renting, sadly, as I had such high hopes: Frank Darabont’s adaptation of Stephen King's The Mist . I was privy to the audio book at a way too young and tender age, around 4th grade. And I loved it. I didn’t have to read the book, I only had to pop in a tape and listen to visual the scary shit living in the mist, come to terrorize humans, and in the end leave us hanging as to the actual why. The best movies sometimes do, however in this case a major faux pas overrides the lack of why: the beat-me-over-my-aching-head-with-a-deep-deep-message faux pas. I’m just tired of it. And you interpret it any way you want, perhaps that the over-messaging is the message, even – I still don’t care. The entire film was a slow waltz in futility, emphasizing the holistic futility of suicide, hope, man, military, and message, nothing and no one is able to avoid the idea of ineffectuality. I get it; when the world ends, you will be alone; you come in alone, you will go out alone. You can be surrounded by loved ones, filled with the holy fuckin’ spirit, or even start shooting anything in your path to take down beside you. Doesn’t matter. The end game equals you on a lonely, lonely voyage, so get use to it, as no one will be traveling with you, and remember to pack light; you won’t need much where you’re going.
Before you go, however, and if you’re smart, you’ll know to …
Let The Right One In …
This was the film I was waiting for, sick or well, and not surprisingly it came to my hometown for one night, one night only, and flew away on wings of futility.
Or so I thought, until a burned disc mysteriously arrived in the mail.
Someone knows me well – I must have let the right one in somewhere, and you can do what you want with that imagery, damned if I mind. I was just extremely grateful since we can’t get good movies to stick around, but I’m positive that godforsaken Friday the Bay 13th remake/update/turdfest is still playing somewhere. Figures. But it was well worth the wait for Let the Right One In – just when I thought vampire films had succumbed only to mediocre Lost Boys sequels and Twilight teeny-bopper googly-eyes. Thank god, or a lack of god when talking about vampires, because this tiny little film from nowhere, of course based upon a book, came out swinging to resuscitate the vampire genre. (Now if only I could find a film to the same about zombies. I’m patient. I’ll wait.) The film was everything I wanted and more, and correctly assessed the gore, pacing, editing, characterization, and end scene aspects of the film. You know … the important stuff. Unlike American films which only ask: what can we exploit? Who can we get to scream on the soundtrack? What can we blow up?
Ahhhh … not so with Let the Right One In.
The film strangely reminded me of the best scene in the classic gang extravaganza The Warriors . I can dig it, can you? The scene on the subway where Michael Beck stops Deborah Van Foofenburg from fixing her tangled locks when she spies the perfectly coiffed, giggly and pristine prom couples. It’s a small gesture, but huge at the same time – romantic and strangely sexy. Just … like … this … film ….
This is mildy disturbing when you consider the leads are basically children. Or playing children. But goddamn they are great actors – honestly, what Dakota Fanning should aspire to, instead of stumbling around in a Twilight sequel.
As the audience, we can root for the underdog, sigh in relief when the couple makes it … and you know, generally play the voyeur we all are, but rarely admit to. And the fact it feels so wrong, makes it all the more exciting.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to revel in feeling dirty and research the next film I can bow and kneel before, kissing the reels and declaring my allegiance. And I’m still a little under the weather and have to locate more tissues with lotion. And yes, it has to be the kind with lotion. My obsessions know few bounds.