In Defense of B Movies

I post on the message boards at IMDb, of course, because I love movies very much and like to discuss them. And I post frequently on the boards of bad B movies, because I am especially fond of those.
A couple of years ago I posted about Coleman Francis’ epic Red Zone Cuba that I wish they would release it on DVD. Francis only ever made three films, the oddly magnificent Beast of Yucca Flats, the slow-moving and ugly Skydivers (should have earned an Oscar for most ludicrously over-the-top use of stock footage), and this meaningless mess of a film. I wondered why they didn’t just release the three as a box set for bad movie fans everywhere.
Yesterday someone posted on my thread there, and I reprint their post and my reply here:

Jellyfish19: Why exactly do you buy crappy movies? Don't know where to spend your money? I don't understand people like you...

OgreVI: It isn’t all bad movies. Transformers, for example, I have no interest in. When someone has the money and the skilled crew and everything he needs to make a good movie and doesn’t, then that bothers me.
But these movies I’m talking about are different. They were made by people who had no money, no name, and (in some cases) no talent. There are and have been many filmmakers who weren’t part of the system for whatever reason, who had no resources. They just loved movies, and they had something to say, an idea that they wanted to share, and they struggled and connived and worked their fingers to the bone to get their visions put on film. In the case of someone like George Romero or Hal Hartley the final product can be magnificent. In the case of someone like Coleman Francis the final product turns out to be pretty lousy. But it’s entertaining in its ineptness, and also it is possible to respect the work and the desire that went into making it, even if they were poorly aimed, isn’t it?
So, when I talk about this movie, or Francis’ Beast of Yucca Flats, which in its way is a kind of bizarre triumph, or others like the mighty Plan 9 or Manos, I don’t think I’m really talking about the worst movies ever. I call them that ‘cause it makes sense to do so, but any of them is far superior to, say, Catwoman or Epic Movie, or even to many good big-budget studio films, because they are testaments to human will and determination, and because they were labors of love.

And that’s it, in case anyone was wondering.

This all went down on my permanent record

I just had my first real walk since January 24th. It is 65 and sunny today, far too beautiful to waste time driving, and I had to go to the library to get a new library card, so I hoofed it. The library is on Franklin and covers the whole block between First and Second Streets. For Huntingtonians, that distance is roughly equivalent to walking from Towers West to the Kroger’s on First Street & Seventh Avenue (although, you may say, "If I was at Towers West I would walk to the Kroger’s on Fifth Avenue instead, because it’s closer," to which I reply "Shut up."). Not a huge walk, but a decent one, enough to get the blood flowing.
I discovered upon arriving at the library that I owed a very old fine. That was not a surprise, though the amount ($23.40) was a bit high, but lower than the $40 or so I had feared. And, since they’d been waiting for that money since 1996, I didn't complain.
It was interesting to look at my old record. The address they had on file for me was 2127 W. Main Street, and to the best of my recollection (which I admit is not that good) I’ve never lived on Main Street at all. Upon reflection, though, Kenny and Andrea had an apartment right around there, and though I don’t remember their address it could be that one. At the time I was more or less homeless, so it would make sense that I would give them an address where any letters would ultimately reach me.
The fines were for Camus and Dorothy Parker, a good combination, and reflected my failure to ever actually return The Fall, one of the most important formative books of my consciousness. And I did finally discover that they had a record of my last real address in town, at 206 N. Lombardy.
The whole thing was sort of a time capsule. I should have asked for a copy; it would be interesting to see if they had the place at Harrison and Floyd, or Grace and Ryland, or Kimmy’s place on Monument or any of the other places I slept at but didn’t actually live, listed for me. It would be like an old directory of my dearest friendships. I always think of these things too late.
I paid my fine, which I can’t really afford and which took forever because there aren’t many 15-year-old fines that get paid and nobody was sure of the procedure. Still, I really wanted a couple of books and so I put up with the time and expense. In particular I wanted (and checked out) Umberto Eco’s The Name of the Rose, which I’ve been meaning to read for twenty years and now seems like a good time for it. I also got three mysteries: a Nero Wolfe, a Brother Cadfael, and the second Rumpole Omnibus. I should be happily entertained for several days. And I learned that for this particular walk I should in future allow about 90 minutes, assuming I have a reasonably clear idea of what books I’m after before I leave the house.
So, I find myself this afternoon with a sense of accomplishment and slight nostalgia. I hope everyone is having a good day. I myself am about to leave for work, after I drink my belated Breakfast Beer and get started on the Eco. Love to all.

Ode to absent-mindedness

I have figured out what the next thing I buy for the new place should be: one of those boards. You know, those boards, with a name that I do not know. They’re white, and they hang on the wall or whatever, and you can write on ‘em with a marker that’s attached to it by a string, and then wipe it off with a paper towel and start over. What do they call those things?
Anyway, yes. Parking is even more difficult at the new place than I expected it to be. Last night I had to park in the Lowe’s lot on the other side of Broad (apparently they are used to this and don’t even bother to put up “Customers Only” signs or to tow anyone). This afternoon I had to park two blocks away, though at least I’m on my own street. Being powerfully absent-minded, I am sure that someday I’ll park the truck and then overnight forget where I’ve parked and be unable to go to work. So, I figure, if I have one of those boards hanging on the door I can write, for example, “Grace Street, eastbound side, between Meadow and Allison” as soon as I get home. Clever, yeah?
Also (more from the front lines of absent-mindedness), I must get keys made. Both my apartment door and the outside door lock automatically when they’re shut, and for someone like me that is a disaster waiting to happen. I prob’ly don’t have many more trips out of the house before I lock myself out, so I think I’m going to make a half-dozen copies of both keys and hide them all over the property, plus giving copies to basically everyone I know who lives within walking distance. I have already decided on a couple of decent hiding places, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t publish them on the Internet.
I went in to work at one today as scheduled, only to find that they’d changed the schedule without notifying me so that I work five to close tonight. Aggravating. If they want me not to quit they are not going about it the right way. So I came home, read, had an excellent sammich, and now it’s time to go back. Late night tonight, but at least I am well-fed and rested. Love to all.

The Ballad of 1644, Verse One

Well, I’m in the new place. I’ve got internet access on my own computer, which is amazing (it spent more than an hour this morning updating and backlogging all the podcast subscriptions I’ve missed).
The move did not go smoothly. We got the truck with all my stuff in it from New Kent and drove into town, and only when we got here did I realize that I had not brought the keys to the place. We had to go back out to New Kent to get them, and the delay cost us one of our workers, a big healthy fella who was offered a football scholarship at Texas A&M and who prob’ly could have unloaded the truck by himself in twenty minutes. Mama had to come back into town with us and sit in the van while we unloaded, and we were at it ‘til after eleven last night. Then we returned the truck. I was dead tired but determined to unpack at least enough to make the place a home before I went to sleep, so I was up ‘til three or four.
I got the place in pretty good shape, though. All the furniture is tentatively arranged, and I got the kitchen stuff in place and my clothes hung up or folded and put away. I tried to hang a few posters, but couldn’t. It turns out that the walls in here are too hard for thumbtacks. Thumbtacks just break on these walls. After much work I managed to get the top of one poster (the Audrey Hepburn I’ve written about before, which I wanted to be the first thing I saw when I woke up) fastened, but not the bottom, so it was still curled up. Fortunately, it’s on expensive, heavy paper, and so it unrolled under its own weight while I slept, and this morning had fallen enough that her eyes were peeking out at me. Better than nothing.
I went to Lowe’s, right across the street, and got heavy brass tacks and a tack hammer today and set to work hanging posters. About a third of those broke, too, but I got most of the posters up after much hard work. There are a few left; I’ll get those tomorrow while my neighbors are at work so I don’t drive everyone crazy. It’s amazing, by the way, how little wall space all my posters take up. I will enjoy collecting more things to cover the walls with (and a stepladder so they can go right up to the ceiling).
There are only a half-dozen or so boxes left to unpack, and then all that’s left is to go to Goodwill in search of bedroom furniture and stock the pantry. I have already had my first company; my friend Stephanie came by and we ate Chinese takeout and talked for two hours or so. I introduced her to Aron Ra (hard to believe that, as a science teacher, she hadn’t heard of him), and showed her around the apartment. She pointed out that my front closet is so big (and has the same high ceilings as the rest of the apartment) that I could put up my Christmas tree in there next year.
That’s one of the cool little things I’m discovering about the place now that I have leisure to really explore it. Like, for instance, I have a back door with a patio and steps leading down into our fenced-in yard. Someone at some point in the past built a wood-plank walkway along the outside of the building to the steps from the bathroom window. It is not strong enough to hold a person, but is a perfect walkway for a cat. So I’ll be able, once it gets warm, to leave that window open and Jeannie will be able to come and go as she pleases without me having to let her in and out. In fact, I can leave it open for her even while I’m not here, since no human can get to it (and anyway there are bars on it). Isn’t that excellent?
In short, all is well here. The place is as beautiful as I remembered, a little chilly, but roomy and lovely. I am settled and comfortable, and regret only that sooner or later I will have to leave it long enough to go to work. I even discovered a new wine that I like, a California cabernet sauvignon called “Bohemian Highway” (if you wanted to pick two random words to make me interested in your product, those two would be good choices) which is inexpensive and tasty. My day has been a source of spiritual fulfillment, in short, and I hope the same is true of each of you. Love to all.