THE FILMS:
Do you wake and bake Do you giggle whenever your friends mention “weed” or “herb” in non-recreational pharmaceutical terms Is your life just one big black light poster – better yet, do you know what said device is and does If so, you are probably a pot head. A dope fiend. A friend of Mary Jane and a bong huffing half-wit just wasting away in your parent’s basement wondering why the microwave takes so long with your damned Hot Pocket. Either that, or you’re Bill Maher. Actually, marijuana is rapidly becoming the gay marriage of current social issues. Many see it’s legalization, either for medical purposes or without restriction at all, as the next great debate. Let’s just hope no one on the opposition pulls out the horrible educational films featured on the latest release from Apprehensive Films, The 420 Triple Feature Volume 2: Contact High. Together, they make a slam dunk case for having chronic as part of any table’s well balanced mood alterers.
The three movies here are all examples of alarmism tainted by a true lack of legitimacy. In other words, they’re like your clueless parents yelling at you that masturbation will turn your palms hairy, cause you to go blind, or worse, insane! The agendas here are obvious – don’t do drugs since they are illegal and bad for you. Today, we still play by many of these lame, illegitimate rules. Instead of trying to tie them all together, here is a brief synopsis and quickie review of each individual effort:
The Terrible Truth (1951) – **1/2
Judge William McKesson opens up his case files and illustrates how just a little puff of wacky tobaccy can turn one’s life into a living Hell.
Having never seen this before, The Terrible Truth turns out to be a hoot. It takes itself so seriously that it’s impossible not to laugh at its balderdash desire to play Puritanical God! In one instance, a “good girl” smokes weed, gets high, hallucinates, needs a bigger “kick” to get off, and ends up marrying her dealer and shooting smack. Naturally, we see the evils of heroin addiction (wait, I thought this was a movie about marijuana) and the whole “gateway” drug ideal is defined. In the end, Judge McKesson makes it very clear that pot is the byproduct of the Commies and want to turn our kids onto Socialism via sensimilla. While some of the movie is too trite to be bothered with, our heroine’s descent into despair and drug-fuelled failure is a trip…and watch out for the actress’s turn as a junkie going through withdrawal.
The Devil’s Harvest (1942) – ***
Kay likes to dance, but when she starts seeing the effects of marijuana on her friends, she stops hoofing and starts helping out the police…as a narc!
Trying to take the subject from the concerned kid’s point of view, this film offers up a young lady who believes her wholesome good times are being marred by the influence of joke smoke into her social set. So Kay heads out to date the pusher, only to push him aside for a job in a mob nightclub to take down the local Kingpin. She even makes a pit stop at the hot dog vender’s, who turns out to be a devious drug middle man! Yikes! Considering that this all begins because of some hop heads mixing it up and accidentally killing some girl (their fight is hilarious since their stunt punches fail to come close to landing), the movie makes very little sense narratively. At least we get a big musical number before the police crash the party.
The Devil’s Weed (1949) – **1/2
Anne is working hard as a dancer – no, not that kind – to help put her brother through school. When a perverted pusher decides he wants to corrupt her, one funny cigarette is all it takes.
Ah…drugs and the deceived virgin. Sounds like a sketch from some other world parallel universe version of Love, American Style. Kindly Anne is caught between a rock and a reefer place. She inadvertently takes a puff of the notoriously addictive herbage and watches as her already troubled life sinks further down the commode. Longer, and boasting a more professional cast (was that Jack Elam as a young ruffian), Weed is also less impressive, if only because of the likeable lead at the center. We don’t really want to see Anne suffer. Sadly, once she takes a toke, that’s all she seems to do.
As with many of these educational films, the message is mired in a deep suspiciousness that claims no human being is capable of either common sense or wholly rational thought. Instead of explaining that drugs can be a dead end street leading to lots of pain and suffering (not just for you but for your family and friends as well), they use a sloppy sledgehammer laced with self-proclaimed good intentions to tip the balance in their favor. Of the three, Harvest is the best if only because it shies away from the “evil weed” ideal and focuses, instead, on our undercover adolescent and her quest for justice. Weed is second if only because it gets too dour and dark, while Truth is indeed “terrible” but fun. The makers clearly want to go for the “Just Say No!” gold. They wind up winning nothing.
THE DVD:
When you consider how old these movies are, how long they’ve been part of the public domain, and how horrible N-th generation prints typically are, the tech specs for the 420 Triple Feature are surprisingly good. All three films presented offer their flawed full screen transfers in better than expected images. Sure, some of the color is faded and there are scratches and flaws in abundance, but overall, the 1.33:1 presentation is pretty decent, again considering. Equally acceptable is the Dolby Digital Mono mix. Sure, the music occasionally overmodulates and the scores can drown out dialogue, but the hollow, tinny qualities of most old movies are softened a bit here. Maybe it’s the actual prints the DVD distributor was working with. Sadly, there are no bonus features offered here. Apparently, the people over at Apprehensive Films believes 108 minutes of goof/cheese ball entertainment is reward enough.
FINAL THOUGHTS:
As someone who, in their youth, was known to pack a bong bowl or two (or three…or four…or five…), the 420 Triple Feature, Volume 2: Contact High is reminiscent of that time when, under the influence of some rather potent H.R. Pufnstuf, I sat through a Student Union showing of Reefer Madness. Not only are the efforts at scaring kids straight remarkably off putting – like said example of exploitative nonsense – these titles made me want to get back on the pot pony and ride…ride…ride. Now to see if my old connection is still around. What It’s only been thirty-five years. I wonder what $5 will get me Recommended (with some home rolled help).
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“Man, let’s skate this thing for real.”
Grimy, relentlessly downbeat actioner/drama, far better than its rep indicates, with Raquel’s first really accomplished performance. Warner Bros’ Archive Collection of hard-to-find library and cult titles has gone back to the WB’s out-of-print vault and re-released Kansas City Bomber, the 1972 roller derby epic from Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, starring Raquel Welch, Kevin McCarthy, Helena Kallianiotes, Norman Alden, Jeanne Cooper, and Mary Kay Pass. A relative flop with the public and critics at the time of its release, Kansas City Bomber hasn’t developed even minor cult status since then, registering only brief (and usually derisive) recognition of merely its title, subject matter, and star with the viewers familiar with that era of moviemaking. Too bad, that…because it’s an effective, evocative little melodrama, anchored by an excellent turn from “the hottest thing on wheels,” Raquel Welch. Nothing’s changed here from WB’s 2005 DVD release (just an original trailer included as a bonus), so no need to double-dip if you already own that disc. A sharp anamorphic transfer is welcome here.
Statuesque single mother Diane “K.C.” Carr (Raquel Welch) is the queen of the
Kansas City Bombers roller game team, but she isn’t long for the plains of Missouri. After “losing” () a winner-take-all grudge match with teammate Big Bertha Bogliani (Patti “Moo Moo” Cavin), K.C. is traded to the
Portland Loggers, owned by smooth operator Burt Henry (Kevin McCarthy). McCarthy has been watching Diane for months now with the notion of grooming her as the lead bomber in his soon-to-be launched roller franchise in Chicago. Making no bones about wanting to date her, an offer the perpetually dazed, exhausted K.C. accepts without complaint, Henry tells K.C. that after her build-up in Portland, she’s going to be a big star once they move to Chicago, what with a national television deal in the works, as well. He also promises that she can bring along her estranged kids, Walt (Stephen Manley) and Rita (Jodie Foster), who live with her disappointed mother (Martine Barlett). Prior to Burt’s attentions, K.C.’s arrival at the
Loggers‘s locker room wasn’t nearly as welcoming; the rest of the girls already thought she had an “in” with Burt, while boozy, depressive, violent team captain (six years and running out) Jackie Burdette (Helena Kallianiotes), views the beautiful, younger K.C. with contempt…like she does everyone else. Only kindly Lovey (Mary Kay Pass) makes friends with K.C., even offering her a berth at her houseboat. However, when Lovey is unceremoniously traded by Henry, K.C. begins to wonder just what kind of deal she’s gotten into by dating Henry, with all her personal and professional tensions culminating in a final do-or-die death match with Jackie.
As a kid, I clearly remember the promo blitz that was pushed out there for
Kansas City Bomber, with pictures of Raquel in her iconic blue roller derby outfit, center zipper bursting at the seams, frequently popping up (and out!) in magazines and on television (I think my brothers, roller derby fans like myself and every other kid in the early 70s, may even have had a poster of “K.C.” up on their bedroom wall). The fact that that campaign didn’t translate into boffo box office isn’t too surprising today when you realize how many elements were working against the movie’s success. Despite the popularity of roller derby on television, roller derby
at the arenas, at the local level, was dying out fast by 1972; just a year after
Kansas City Bomber premiered, Jerry Seltzer, the son of
Roller Derby‘s founder, Leo, folded up the entire enterprise due to a variety of negative economic factors (click
here to read my review of that great roller derby DVD set,
The Roller Derby Chronicles, which gives a more thorough run-down on that sport/company’s history and demise). As well, why whould the quickly dwindling fans of roller derby shell out good dough at the movie theater to see what they could already get for free on TV Unfortunately, at this point in her movie career, Raquel Welch headlining a movie wasn’t a guarantee of “asses in the seats.” The hits she had at the box office came with bigger co-stars attached, while her efforts to “carry” a picture–
Fathom,
Flareup,
Hannie Caulder, and the disastrous
Myra Breckinridge–were unsuccessful (and frankly, the PG-rating here didn’t exactly help at the drive-ins, either, with the promo build-up and grungy subject matter promising much more than discreet Welch would ever show on screen–just check out her frustratingly tame shower scene here). Add to that the almost oppressively downbeat feel to
Kansas City Bomber, giving roller derby fans–probably the only ones who were going to show up to this, anyway–a decidedly negative take on the sport, and you didn’t need the already sniffing, sneering critics (“Raquel
Welch in a
roller derby movie”) to depress the box office take.
It’s a pity, then, that the entertaining, well-made
Kansas City Bomber hasn’t received much of a fair shake since then, being largely M.I.A. from repeat showings on TV screens since the mid-70s, and having no official video release (that I can remember) until 2005’s disc. Whether it’s the scruffy subject matter or its tiny budget or the unglamorous way it was filmed,
Kansas City Bomber has this undeserved rep as some kind of no-talent, shabby little drive-in flick that came out of nowhere and somehow sneaked into theaters. However, the movie’s behind-the-scenes talent was far from low-rent: Martin Elfand (
Dog Day Afternoon) produced it; Thomas Rickman (
The Laughing Policeman,
Coal Miner’s Daughter,
Everybody’s All-American) and Calvin Clements, Sr. (lots of solid episodic TV from the 50s and 60s,
Firecreek) scripted it, from a story by Barry Sandler (
The Duchess and the Dirtwater Fox,
Crimes of Passion); cinematographer Fred J. Koenekamp (
Patton,
Billy Jack,
Papillion,
The Towering Inferno) lensed it; and editor David Berlatsky (
The Last Movie,
Hickey & Boggs,
Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid cut it. Only frequent TV director Jerrold Freedman’s name probably doesn’t ring a bell, but his work here is quite good, giving
Kansas City Bomber a coarse, contemplative, mordant tone that’s quite unexpected from anything promised on that sexy exploitation one-sheet poster. I’ve often thought that if the exact same movie had been delivered by a foreign director, the easily-impressed critics would have magically taken
Kansas City Bomber into their arms as an “outsider’s trenchant view of a slice of America’s crumbling society.” (others movie makers clearly found
Kansas City Bomber valuable, prior to making their better-known sports movies: in the similar-feeling
Slap Shot, George Roy Hill ripped-off
exactly Freedman’s tracking shot of the skaters listening to the national anthem, while
Rollerball‘s Norman Jewison lifted that remarkable opening shot of Welch’s skates, isolated in darkness, rolling out into the arena…as well as
Bomber‘s exciting finale).
That dichotomy of expectation and execution, along with Welch’s unexpectedly skilled performance, is
Kansas City Bomber‘s most intriguing element. If you’ve ever seen that excellent
cinema verite doc,
Derby, then you’ll recognize how close
Kansas City Bomber comes to capturing the dirty, sweaty, smelly, loud, coarse, physically
painful world of roller derby. Everything here is deglamorized, from the ugly sets (cheap paneling and cinder block and murky and/or garish lighting), to the screaming fans (true to reality at the time, a meager number of fans populate the stands), to the brutal game play (the scenarios were mostly pre-determined, but the bruises for the skaters were real), to the tension-filled life of a local “celebrity” roller derby skater (will I get traded Will I get bashed in the brains Where’s the money When’s the day coming when I’m too old to play). In all the reviews I’ve read about
Kansas City Bomber, the most common thread running throughout is a complaint that the movie doesn’t explain how the game is played…as if
that’s what the movie is really about: roller derby. However, at the very start of the movie, legendary color commentator Richard Lane gives a quick run-down of the rules, so that so-called confusion shouldn’t be a factor…if you’re listening.
As to the other frequent complaint about
Kansas City Bomber from reviewers who weren’t sure if and when the skaters were actually fighting or playing along with pre-determined scenarios…I rather like that fuzziness of perception that’s created here–it perfectly matches the rabid fans’ own schizo take on this entertainment/”sport”:
is it real…or not Many of these writers take it as some kind of post-production screw-up that director Freedman doesn’t spell it all out on what’s reality and what isn’t here…and maybe that’s true. You have to remember at the time that micro-managiong M-G-M prez James Aubrey was personally cutting everything that went out with Leo the Lion’s logo, much to the fury and disgust of moviemakers like Sam Peckinpah and Brian G. Hutton and Herbert B. Leonard and Blake Edwards and Bruce Geller, who all were quoted stating “the smiling Cobra” eviscerated their movies into incomprehension. I’d like to think, though, that there are enough clues in
Kansas City Bomber to indicate Freedman and his scripters were well aware of the hazy reality they were creating. When Welch gets her ass beat by Patti “Moo Moo” Cavin in the movie’s opening, does she already know she’s being traded Probably, since she’s shown at the end of the movie being clued-in by McCarthy that she’s to win the final grudge match with Jackie. However…McCarthy is ambivalent about whether or not Jackie
definitely knows that fact…so maybe Raquel
didn’t know what the outcome would be of her first fight with “Moo Moo.” Hard-as-nails Jeanne Cooper gives shit to Raquel when she “showboats” an improvised bit with a mop and backward teammate, “Horrible Hog” Hank Hopkins (Norman Alden), indicating that
Cooper scripts or at least okays all the fight scenarios…and yet Cooper has no idea what Welch and Kallianiotes are up to when they really start bashing each other with abandon later on, on the rink. Alden’s final flip-out at the hands of rowdy fans screaming “Soo-eeee!” and throwing garbage at him, is completely up for grabs as to whether its “color” play to satisfy owner McCarthy, or real psychosis (the other team beats him up for real when Alden viciously attacks one of their own…only to have Alden croak to Raquel, his face bloodied, “I guess they [the fans] got their money’s worth tonight.”). Bad editing or deliberate obfuscation, that pleasingly off-putting effect wakes you up time and again in ways you don’t expect from a movie like
Kansas City Bomber.
0As to that finale, and everyone’s problem with its supposedly frustrating, inconclusive, “open ending,” I’m not sure what they were watching…because it’s perfectly clear what the moviemakers are going for here. Throughout the movie, Welch’s character is set-up to be merely a stooge who
reacts to whatever life/job situation is presented to her. Reflecting her actions on the rink, her personal life is a series of “jams” that batter her far more brutally than anything that happens during game time: divorced, with the father of her children completely absent; abandoned kids who don’t even know her (her daughter calls her “K.C.,” not “Mom,” while her silent, distant son literally runs away from her); a mother who openly ridicules her lifestyle; no prospects back home (her mother badgers K.C. to marry her rich ex-boss, as if that’s the answer to K.C.’s problems); no prospects for the future once she’s too old to skate; violent fans that want to rape her; co-workers that hate her; a manipulative boss she “pleases” for lack of any other prospects; her best friend traded because she’s “in the way” with her controlling boss; her misguided efforts to befriend Horrible Hank, which lead to his downfall; and her continually rebuffed efforts to reach out to determinedly unresponsive Jackie. Pretty grim, and through it all, Welch pulls out a performance that’s both tough and remarkably exposed. She’s flat-out hilarious when she
perfectly imitates the phony trash-talk that was
de rigueur for those wonderfully broad, comical derby skaters’ TV interviews. Watch Welch’s concentration as she impatiently snaps that gum while the anthem plays–Jimmy Caan would do the same thing in
Rollerball three years later–and crack up when she headlocks her interviewer; she’s clearly having a lot of fun doing these scenes, and she pulls them off without a hitch. Just as adeptly, she’s wonderfully vulnerable when she stumbles through most of the movie as if she’s both physically and emotionally
spent, creating a portrait of an enervated, neurasthenic single woman/mom that deserves attention from critics on the look-out for feminist roots in cinema. This wasn’t a “Raquel” anyone was used to seeing in 1972.
1 2So when K.C. finally figures it out that Burt really has no intention of being the kind of lover she needs (he’s pretty smooth about backtracking on his promise to bring her kids along to Chicago–the last straw that convinces K.C. he’s only in this relationship for himself), the final grudge match between K.C. and Jackie becomes a show of force to reassert determination of her own life–on
her terms. All through
Kansas City Bomber, we identify and feel for K.C., and hope that something,
anything, will lead her out of this squalid derby life. So when Burt offers the final grudge match for the fans’ pleasure, and as a ticket to the “good life” for K.C., we’re pretty sure K.C. will take it–even though Burt openly acknowledges everyone is “used” in life for something–because of the promise of more money, more fame, and more Burt, in swank Chicago. However, after seeing a cold Burt kick and brutalize a defenseless, out-of-control Hank, and listening to his suggestion that she leave her kids behind for awhile as he manufactures her new image in Chicago, she finally realizes nothing much is going to be different for her in Chicago with yet another manipulative man controlling her life (earlier, a numb K.C. stares off into space and laments of unfeeling, dismissive Burt, “You have’t heard anything I’ve said,”).
SPOILER ALERTS! Burt’s scenario calls for K.C. to lose the match, and leave Portland forever, but K.C. fights back and wins the match (uncompromising, too, in that she finally gives up helping Jackie and just kicks her ass), screwing Burt over the only way she can, while reasserting her power over her life the only way she can: on the rink (the look of cold resignation on McCarthy’s face as he leaves the auditorium says it all). What’s “open-ended” and “unsatisfying” and “inconclusive” about
that Had Freedman included some kind of lame wrap-up with K.C. and Burt or with her kids, it would have been an unnecessary, anticlimactic tie-up for the sake of spelling out what we already know from those final images of K.C. triumphantly skating around the track, with the finish line ribbon in her hands: for one moment at least, she’s the best, and
she’s in control of her life, and herself. Nobody else.
The DVD:
The Video:
Presented in an anamorphically enhanced, 1.85:1 widescreen transfer, Kansas City Bomber looks about right, with a sharpish image, murky, dull color (the movie’s original look), some grain (also originally there), and fairly good contrast. Nice.
The Audio:
The Dolby Digital English mono audio track is fine, with a healthy re-recording level, and little hiss. English, French, and Spanish subtitles are available.
The Extras:
And original trailer is included here.
Final Thoughts:
Not the “hottest thing on wheels,” but “the singularly most depressing thing on wheels”…until that perfectly realized ending. Woefully neglected (and mostly misunderstood, then and now), Kansas City Bomber is a real find: a grimy little actioner that’s both incisive and intriguingly hazy, perfectly documenting a long-lost, sordid milieu, while giving Raquel Welch a chance to show just how good she could be with the right material. I’m highly, highly recommending Kansas City Bomber.
Paul Mavis is an internationally published movie and television historian, a member of the Online Film Critics Society, and the author of The Espionage Filmography.
THE SHOW:
It’s a strange feeling sitting down to watch a show with the knowledge that it has already been canceled. Almost subconsciously, I look for the little tell-tale signs that may explain its truncated existence. In the case of Wedding Band, which aired on TBS in late 2012, the signs aren’t really all that subtle. The reason is obvious: the show’s format simply doesn’t work to its advantage.
Although the first (and only) season only has 10 episodes, each installment is an hour long, presenting a mix of comedy and drama that puts Wedding Crashers, Sex and the City (for dudes) and Glee in a blender and hits frappé. The results are occasionally effective but a vast majority of the time sitcom scenarios are stretched past their natural half-hour limits so that unnecessary tangents can be grafted on, watering down the laughs in the process. With that said, there is actually a lot to like here (especially the cast) and my attempt at Monday morning quarterbacking isn’t meant to deter you from giving the series a fair shake.
The show revolves around a wedding band called Mother of the Bride. The band members include eternal bachelor Tommy (Brian Austin Green) on lead vocals, family man Eddie (Peter Cambor) on guitar, schlubby Jack Black wannabe Barry (Derek Miller) on drums and new guy Stevie (Harold Perrineau) who is tired of being a session musician for other bands and simply wants to belong somewhere. When they aren’t busy playing a variety of events, the guys contend with the feisty and demanding event planner Roxie Rutherford (Melora Hardin) and her sweet-natured assistant Rachel (Jenny Wade). Eddie’s wife Ingrid (Kathryn Fiore), a police detective, also frequently pops in to lay down the law, especially when Eddie and the guys are trying to pull a fast one.
Earlier I mentioned the show being a blend of a number of obvious influences so let’s just take a look at how effectively they are integrated into Wedding Band’s formula. First and foremost, this is a show with a decidedly masculine bent. Although there are plenty of elements present to draw in female viewers (like a predictable will they or won’t they friendship between Tommy and Rachel), there is a distinct boys will be boys vibe that pervades the entire enterprise. This isn’t necessarily a bad thing but it sets up certain expectations that the show tries to pay off with mixed results.
There is a smattering of raunch like in the pilot episode which sees Tommy deflating an ex-girlfriend’s breast implant with a poorly aimed champagne cork or the one where Stevie can’t get over the vigorous hand-job administered by his girlfriend. It’s understandable that the show wouldn’t want to play it safe but I kept getting the feeling that it was trying a little too hard to be edgy and cool. The same feeling of excess pops up when practically every episode contrives a way to get Tommy into bed with someone. Occasionally this serves the story but most of the time these scenes exist merely to remind us that Tommy is a ladies man (a fact we’ve already digested and accepted).
The show isn’t just about guy talk and parading Tommy’s conquests. It also finds time to grow a heart and have feelings and stuff. Besides the Tommy-Rachel relationship (complicated by her living, breathing fiancée), the show gets considerable mileage out of the conflicted ball of snarky energy that is Roxie Rutherford. Melora Hardin plays her with sass and cutting confidence but reveals her vulnerability in key moments that remind us this isn’t a laugh-a-minute sitcom. Rachel also gains three dimensionality thanks to Jenny Wade’s performance. On paper, Rachel is fairly flat but Wade imbues her with such sweetness that we start to look past just how underwritten her character is. After Reaper, The Good Guys and this, I can’t wait for Wade to get a real break.
Everything I said for Wade is also true of the guys in the band. Barry is given the least to do but Derek Miller gives him a shaggy charm that works. Peter Cambor is similarly effective as Eddie although his mumbly delivery in a few scenes undercut a few gags. Harold Perrineau is a bit of a wild card here. He is the newest member of the band but also the most experienced overall (being a session musician). Perrineau captures Stevie’s restrained professionalism and the way he starts to loosen up as he becomes part of the gang. This brings us to Brian Austin Green who plays the lead singer with good reason. He possesses a ton of leading-man charisma which the show milks as much as it can. Make no mistake, these are all stock characters. That doesn’t change the fact that the cast members have wonderful chemistry and make the best of what they are given.
I got derailed there but getting back to the formula. The final piece is the musical component. Every episode features at least three songs being performed by the band. In many ways, these sequences are the best part of the show. The selection of songs contains old and new hits with every cover taking on an interesting twist (including a countrified I Will Survive and a version of Party Rock Anthem that goes heavy on the Sitar). Add to this the fact that the actors are actually singing and playing instruments (remember Brian Austin Green’s rap career) and you can see how the writing has to be really sharp to match up with the sheer exuberance of the musical scenes. Unfortunately this isn’t always the case. There are a few late episodes that properly utilize the extended run time but far too often the padding becomes obvious as inertia sets in.
So there you have it. Wedding Band = Raunch + Sweetness + Music. It’s not a bad formula and frankly it might have worked in a half-hour format. Some aggressive editing and tightening of focus could have made the laughs land just as hard as the entertaining musical sequences. As it stands, the show is a worthwhile diversion thanks to its capable cast and a judiciously selected group of guest stars (Ken Marino, Molly Sims, Megan Fox and others). Besides, where else are you going to find Brian Austin Green belting out Hollaback Girl
THE DVD:
Video:
The show is presented in a 1.78:1 aspect ratio with anamorphic enhancement. Other than a few instances of grain this is a pretty clean presentation. Skin tones are even, colors vivid and balanced and black levels more than acceptable. I never saw the show during its original run but I can’t imagine it looking much better than this.
Audio:
The audio is presented in an English 5.1 Dolby Digital mix with optional English SDH, Spanish and French subtitles. Much like the image, there isn’t anything to really complain about here. Dialogue is presented with clarity for the most part. The performance scenes also find capable support as Brian Austin Green’s vocals come through loud and clear with the band rocking out behind him. The rear channels aren’t heavily utilized throughout the show but that’s to be expected for an entry in this genre.
Extras:
The show is offered up on 3 discs. Each disc provides a Wedding Band Jukebox which really just give you the option to select and view individual musical performances from each episode. Next up we have two featurettes. Finding the Rhythm: Music and Comedy (7:08) gives us interviews with the entire cast and the creators of the show. We learn about the innate musical talents of the central cast that enabled them to pull off the performance pieces so convincingly. Wedding Themes (3:27) touches upon the show’s penchant for reinventing popular songs to fit the wedding scenes of specific episodes along with the challenge of balancing new hits with old classics while making them all sound fresh.
FINAL THOUGHTS:
Wedding Band is an odd mix. The cast is uniformly excellent but they are all saddled with characters that are fairly two-dimensional. The musical sequences are presented with real polish and verve but the storylines surrounding them often dip into a grab bag of sitcom clichés to pad out the laughs. It is one of those shows that I found enjoyable enough in the moment (the cast really is great, especially Brian Austin Green, Melora Hardin and Jenny Wade) but forgot all about as soon as it was over. You may very well fall for its shaggy, loose-limbed charm but I suggest that you Rent It first.
Well…I think he was a little weirder than this…. 20th Century-Fox’s Cinema Archives collection of hard-to-find library and cult titles has released The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe, the 1942 Fox biopic starring gorgeous Linda Darnell (I’m feeling faint…), John Shepperd (later better known as Shepperd Strudwick–explain that one to me), Virginia Gilmore, Jane Darwell, Mary Howard, Frank Conroy, and Henry Morgan (annoying as hell here). One of Brian Foy’s typically lush-looking-but-actually-quite-cheap B-programmers, and only running a scant 68 minutes, The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe could easily pass as one of those “historical interest” short subjects that the majors churned out during this period: stock biopic conventions with good sets and costumes, filled in with standard romantic complications and speedy montages to sweep away the years, and topped off with as little regard for the truth as possible. As history, forget it (and why should you expect fidelity in a Hollywood biopic in the first place). As entertainment, though…forget it. No extras for this okay-looking black-and-white transfer.
According to Hollywood “historians” Samuel Hoffenstein (Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, The Phantom of the Opera, Laura), Tom Reed (Murders in the Rue Morgue, The Spoilers), and Arthur Caesar (Three Faces East, Manhattan Melodrama), in 1811, little orphaned Edgar Poe (Skippy Wanders) is taken in–but not adopted–by kindly, rich Frances Allan (Mary Howard), a beautiful Richmond, Virginia matron who had befriended Edgar’s penniless actress mother. Frances’ husband, the stern, forbidding John Allan (Frank Conroy), is skeptical of adopting a disreputable “child of actors,” a distinct feeling of dislike he imparts to the boy that intensifies as increasingly defiant Edgar (Freddie Mercer) grows up. At war with his jealous father, who resents his wife’s all-consuming affection for the boy, 18-year-old Edgar (John Shepperd, glacially boring, and comically miscast as a tortured artist) now prepares himself for college at The University of Virginia. Sustained by his love for Elmira Royster (Virginia Gilmore), Edgar lives hand-to-mouth at school, due to his father’s refusal to send enough money, a policy that encourages Edgar to gamble beyond his meager means. Returning home to obtain more money, with kindly advice from University founder, Thomas Jefferson (Gilbert Emery), Edgar discovers not only that his father won’t give him any more funds unless he returns home to study law, but also that Elmira, who never answered any of his college letters, is marrying someone else. Defiant, Edgar leaves home to become a writer, and discovers exactly how much money writers made back then (and now): nothing (amen to that, Eddie). Having deliberately failed at West Point when military life doesn’t suit him (I’ll bet the post-Pearl Harbor audiences loved that one), Edgar has no other place to go but back to his home town of Richmond, where he looks up an aunt on his birth mother’s side: Mariah Clemm (Jane Darwell). Welcomed there with ready affection, Edgar discovers his sultry first cousin Virginia is all grown up (I’ll say), and quickly marries her (stunning, ill-fated Linda Darnell, thrown unwillingly into another “B” as payback from horny, hard-up Darryl F. Zanuck). And that love affair is the last happy thing to happen in poor Edgar Allan Poe’s short, troubled life….
I’m certainly no authority or expert on Poe or his works, but even a cursory look at his biography will readily point out the liberties taken with his history in The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe: his brother and sister are nowhere to be found here; no demonstration of martinet John Allan’s initial kindness and even spoiling of his foster child Edgar is shown; no mention of Poe’s highly successful stint in the military prior to his ill-fated West Point appointment is made (the timeline of which they subsequently alter here); the two-year timeline between the publication of The Raven and his wife’s death is compressed into one night, and perhaps most glaringly (and not at all surprising), not a peep is made of his first cousin being only 13 years old when he married her. Mile markers of Poe’s biography are on display here, often in jumbled order, with just the tiniest hints of the true context of their situations hovering around the edges; however, the bulk of his life and work is polished down to a dull sheen that glosses over anything potentially interesting. In short, I wouldn’t recommend anyone using The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe for research on a term paper.
But then again…who would be dumb enough to do that As I’ve written many times before when reviewing Hollywood biopics, I couldn’t care less if they play fast and loose with the facts. The only thing a classical Hollywood biopic needs to do for me, is entertain me. If I happen to be up on the subject matter, I can acknowledge that it’s useless as history, but that doesn’t mean my pleasure is diminished if it’s a diverting piece of fiction (and if I don’t already know the subject’s true history…I’ll still assume most of the movie is made-up). Of course, if the moviemaker has a nefarious agenda to their fiction, then those inventions create stickier wickets for the viewer (you know who I mean…). No one involved with The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe, though, seems to be involved in some kind of dastardly mission to whitewash the author for personal or political reasons. All cuts and ameliorations and simplifications here come at the behest of a studio system that eliminated complexity in such low-budget endeavors to more easily satisfy, to the studio’s mind, an undemanding audience, and to more easily facilitate the factory-like manufacture of the product itself. No, the only true historical crime committed in The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe is the moviemakers taking a fascinating and compelling personality and artist such as Poe, and turning him into a generic eunuch, a figure largely devoid of any interest.
By all biographical accounts, Poe led a life filled with severe emotional conflict, tribulations involving self-identification (the loss of his mother and his subsequent foster status), crippling grief (the deaths of both his mothers and his young wife), professional strife (little remuneration for his work, and his many battles with other literary figures), and personal weakness (his alcoholism), that no doubt enhanced (or reflected) his dreamy, nightmarish prose and poetry. Where, then, is any of that in the numbingly prosaic The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe Aside from the standard boilerplate conflicts involving his unloving foster father, his lost love with Elmira, and his found love with Virginia, where’s the drama that’s unique to this historical figure We never get a sense here of what it took to become the Poe that wrote The Raven and The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. We never get a sense of his greatness as an artist, what made him special, or what distinguished his works. Nothing. The Poe of The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe could just as well be the world’s greatest greeting card writer from all that we can gather from this tepid little movie.
Anxious to avoid the many unseemly elements to his personality and biography, the moviemakers instead treat us to cliched childhood melodrama that’s more Dickens than Poe, and cliched romantic melodrama that was standard issue for seemingly every Hollywood biopic made from this era. If we can’t know why he writes, and if we can’t even get a sense of what he writes, can’t we at least see the excesses One or two very mild drunk scenes don’t explain why he drank; instead, precious screen time is wasted on quite a few scenes where he laments international copyright law–granted, an important element of his actual biography…but hardly the stuff of scintillating cinema (if I may be so bold as to emulate his frequent alliteration). We don’t even get to hear one of his pieces unbroken; in the poorly-designed finale, when Poe is attempting a midnight sale of The Raven in order to buy food and medicine for his dying wife (an utter fabrication, by the way), Poe reads The Raven to some unimpressed printers, while the movie’s editor cuts back and forth to Darnell dying by inches, in the process breaking up the poem’s recitation. In the one final moment where this piddling little exercise might have briefly shined by at least the reflected glory of Poe’s words, The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe can’t even respect the very thing that qualifies its subject worthy of movie biography. And that leaves, in the end, nothing much to recommend it.
The DVD:
The Video:
The fullscreen, 1.37:1 transfer for The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe looks okay, with decent-enough blacks, only a few instances of blown-out contrast, and a reasonably sharp image. Some scratches
The Audio:
The Dolby Digital English mono audio track is as expected: relatively clean, with minor hiss. No subtitles or closed-captions available.
The Extras:
No extras for The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe.
Final Thoughts:
Bad history is fine…but boring “history” is unacceptable. Who cares if The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe is hardly faithful to its subject: when was Hollywood ever accurate in their classical biopics What does matter is that the fiction created here is dull, failing to evoke anything that might suggest the tragic context of Poe’s life, or the strange, phantasmagorical aspects of his art. Skip The Loves of Edgar Allan Poe.
Paul Mavis is an internationally published movie and television historian, a member of the Online Film Critics Society, and the author of The Espionage Filmography.