IMITATION OF LIFE (1959) at the Film Forum

Lobby card from the film's original release, featuring Susan Kohner as the troubled Sarah Jane Johnson.

Just got back from the Film Forum's screening of IMITATION OF LIFE (1959), a film that has fascinated me since I first encountered it in the great Esther Newton's infamous "American Society On Film" class during my SUNY at Purchase college days. It's a re-imagining of a 1934 chick flick/"weepie" about two mothers, one black and one white, and their daughters, who all come together under one roof as a blended family and contend with issues of class, race, and family dysfunction, and the 1959 version is one of the all-time classic examples of a textbook emotionally-manipulative Hollywood soaper. Its examination of how American society of its era made true equality/harmony between blacks and whites in general unlikely at best and hauls out the longstanding tropes of the martyred, saintly older black woman who's the emotional backbone and real strength of the family (to both black and white factions), and the so-called tragic mulatto whose case of self-loathing is invariably more compelling than the upper-class travails of the white protagonists.

Sarah Jane (Susan Kohner), surrounded by white masks. Subtle it is not...

I won't spoil the plot's details but the 1959 IMITATION OF LIFE's portrait of Sarah Jane (Susan Kohner), the angry, self-loathing light-skinned daughter of a black father who's described as "almost white," is far more compelling than the rote rags-to-riches showbiz rise of its white main character (Lana Turner) and how her success leads her to unintentionally neglect her blossoming 16-year-old (Sandra Dee). The actress's storyline is not bad by any means, but it was something that was already seen numerous times prior to the film's release, however it's essential to the overall narrative by providing the perfect background against which to contrast the entwined lives of Sarah Jane and her mother (Juanita Moore) who works as the actress's live-in maid and bosom companion whose support and caring for the actress's daughter frees the actress to pursue stage gigs. Sarah Jane's rejection of her dusky heritage and her shattering desire to pass for white from an early age form the true emotional core of the story and Susan Kohner's Oscar-nominated performance renders the character's arc as nothing less than painful and heartbreaking. In short, if you have not seen this film, seek it out for Kohner's arc.

Which brings me to last night's Screening at the Film Forum, where I met the one and only Susan Kohner. Kohner's spectacular portrayal of the deeply troubled, self-loathing Sarah Jane Johnson struck a very strong chord with my mother's side of the family, especially with a certain aunt who basically was the character in real life. (Though Sarah Jane never ran into the same kinds of issues with the law that the aunt in question did, but the less said of that the better...) Following the film, Kohner sat for an interview with a film professor  — whose questions/expoundings were of little or no weight and who clearly missed the entire point of the movie he was allegedly such an authority upon; that assessment was shared by a friend of mine who was also in attendance and is a highly-knowledgeable film scholar and director of films herself — and later answered questions from members of the audience. Since the opportunity was afforded, I took the mic and told Kohner of how much her character and performance meant to my family and especially my aunt. Following that, she was also kind enough to pose for a shot with her that I will send to the interested parties in my family, especially the aforementioned aunt.

 Yer Bunche, with the one and only Susan Kohner.

OH, HAPPY DAY: MEETING HENRY WINKLER, THE #1 AMERICAN '70'S ICON OF COOL

I was in a lousy mood when I awoke this morning, but I nonetheless rallied myself to haul ass to the New York Comic Book Marketplace at Manhattan's Pennsylvania Hotel. It's a good small-scale, old school show with tons of stuff to buy and artists and celebrities to meet, but my main motivation in going today was to meet Henry Winkler, known to all Americans of my age as Arthur Fonzarelli, aka "the Fonz," the breakout star of TV's (HAPPY DAYS 1974-1984).

HAPPY DAYS — and more importantly to American pop culture, Winkler's character — was an indelible part of the '70's growing-up experience for kids of my age and the Fonz became an icon of the era, despite his origins being based in the early-'70's wave of nostalgia for the 1950's. It may be hard for those born after the fact to quite grasp it, but the Fonz (or "Fonzie" as some called him) was abso-fucking-lutely everywhere during the height of the show's popularity and the merchandising avalanche revolving around him was titanic.

From the height of the Fonz's popularity. If Henry Winkler had actually run for president during the 1976 campaign — and the voting age were lowered to 10 — he would have won by a landslide.

It was especially amusing to witness the character's progression from something of a thug in his initial appearances to an unlikely role model who balanced his epitomizing of the concept of "cool" with leading by example when it came to stuff like brushing one's teeth or making sure to "eat your veggies." It was shortly after that point in the character's development when the Fonz jumped over a shark while on water skis, thus providing the popular lexicon with the basis of the term "jump the shark" in reference to pinpointing the exact moment when something irreversibly goes off the rails and immediately nosedives into outright shit. Near the end, the Fonz could actually be considered something of a superhero, especially when he fought beside the very strange martial arts warrior woman, Katmandu, and it was around that point when I bid HAPPY DAYS and the Fonz, both once unmissable parts of my weekly ritual as a kid, farewell. That said, I did return for the show's final episode, which aired during my sophomore year of college, and I watched it with a suite full of girls who got rather weepy over it since it was the end of a pop culture era that we'd all seen take root and flourish during our formative years.

Anyway, today I met Henry Winkler, the Fonz himself, a pop culture deity from my childhood, and he was a total sweetheart who was very engaged with his fans. "Poverty be damned," I said to myself, and I shelled out for a couple of autographed pictures and a photo op. (I also couldn't resist a personalized copy of his fly fishing memoir, because how could I not have a fly fishing memoir written by Henry Winkler on my bookshelf?)

Yer Bunche meets the Fonz. If only I could send this shot back to my classmates at Hillspoint Elementary School in 1976...

Classic Fonz.

I love that Winkler has a totally aware sense of humor that allows him to show up with ready-to-autograph shots of himself as the Fonz moments before he quite literally jumped the shark. I intended to get only one photo, but there was no way I could pass this one up.

And while searching Google some images with which to punctuate this post, I came across this:

I have no idea what the hell it's supposed to mean but I can only imagine the reaction if Winkler had shown up with a stack of these for autographing. Sadly, I would have bought one, thus ensuring myself a one-way ticket to the 8th level of Dante's Hell, the "Malebolge."

AN UNEXPECTED TREAT

From my friend Heather's thirty-fifth birthday party at the Odessa diner, a real surprise and a huge treat for me: one of Heather's guests turned out to be Creighton, one of the hosts of the best show on NY public access TV, GHOUL A GO-GO. I met him a few years back at what turned out to be the final Cramps show in NYC, and he remembered me because I was the only person who recognized him and his co-host, Vlad. Creighton and Vlad keep the old school horror host tradition alive, and for that I will always respect and love them. Horror is very important to us as a people, especially for kids, so what they are doing is truly a major act of selfless altruism. For more on GHOUL A GO-GO, head here.


One of my favorite moments from GHOUL A GO-GO, featuring the Neanderthals and the world-famous Pontani Sisters.

9/4/2006-Me with the GHOUL A GO-GO boys, Vlad (L) and Creighton (R), at what turned out to be (I believe) the last Cramps show in New York City before the untimely death of their frontman, the awesome Lux Interior. It was an excellent show, one of the best I ever saw the band give, and meeting these two was the icing o that cake of awesomeness.

IN THE PRESENCE OF A MASTER

I just got back from meeting George A. Romero, one of the gods of horror cinema, and I am giddy with happiness. I'll write more on this at length later, but meeting him was not only an honor, the guy was as warm and genuine as you'd expect Santa Claus to be.

Life is good.

AN INTERESTING MEETING, O MY BROTHERS

Among other things I did this sweltering weekend, I covered the latest Big Apple Convention for the Beat (article to be finished and posted by tomorrow) and had the distinct pleasure of finally meeting my favorite actor for the past thirty years, namely Malcolm McDowell. I love the man's work for the intensity and edgy sense of danger he imbues his often unlikable characters with, perhaps most indelibly in two of the most controversial films ever unleashed across the big screen, A CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1971) and CALIGULA (1979) . His charming and sensitive portrayer of a time-traveling H.G. Wells is TIME AFTER TIME (1979) is also terrific and very well-loved by many, but in my opinion McDowell plays a fine and truly sinister villain when given the opportunity, and I have never been disappointed by him even when he appears in otherwise crappy films (the live action FIST OF THE NORTH STAR, anyone?).

Anyway, knowing McDowell was appearing at the con, I got there early in order to get a head start on what would inevitably be a long line for his autograph, and I was surprised to find that I was early enough to avoid the line altogether save for one ultra-flaming black fan, but more on him in a moment. I picked up four shots of him in the famous publicity shot for A CLOCKWORK ORANGE

— one for me and three for friends who are also Malcolm freaks — as well as a shot of McDowell in full imperial regalia as Caligula, and waited my turn as the way-over-the-top fan ahead of me shrieked excitedly and asked, "What was Helen Mirren like?!!?" McDowell looked somewhat startled by the fan's manic demeanor, but he kept it together and politely answered, after which I approached him and told him how I'd admired his work for decades. I avoided discuss of either A CLOCKWORK ORANGE or CALIGULA since I'd heard lots of anecdotes on both of those films from film critics/historians, the filmmakers, and McDowell himself, so I instead asked him about the making of ROYAL FLASH (1975), the only film based on the lauded series of humorous historical novels by George MacDonald Frasier. McDowell told me there was discussion of a sequel but the film pretty much flopped, so so much fir the series. We discussed our mutual love of the Flashman series and McDowell expressed interest in seeing another attempt at the series, perhaps with Jude law in the role of towering asshole Harry Flashman (I bit my tongue at that one because, though I like Law, he'd have been just as physically miscast as McDowell since the character is described as being relatively strapping, a physically imposing counterpoint to his outright cowardice). He also revealed a couple of major spoiler for the upcoming run of HEROES, but I won't tell you about them in case you're a regular watcher (hint: there's a development with Nathan Petrelli, and the resurrection of...no, that would be telling). After that I bid him farewell and let the man get back to the business of signing, then went my merry way with an autographed shot of Caligula himself in my elated fanboyish hands.

And though deeply mired in the between-paychecks/just-paid-the-rent semi-poverty that happens all too frequently, I returned the next day and shelled out the cash to be photographed with the Malc. I figured why the hell not? How often would I have the opportunity to have my picture taken with my favorite actor? I never had the chance to meet Toshiro Mifune, much less get my picture taken with him, so there was no fucking way I'd miss out on this moment. And while waiting on line to get the photo taken, I managed snap a shot of a fun moment of unexpected geekery, seen below.

Just before the photo-op, Chase Masterson, known to us Trek goons as Leeta the dabo girl on STAR TREK: DEEP SPACE NINE, sauntered up to McDowell and, clearly fahrklempt, identified herself as being from STAR TREK as well as a huge fan of his work. McDowell expressed his thanks for her kind words, but really came to life when she told him she played the girlfriend of a cast member who knew him, specifically Siddig El-Fadil (later changed to Alexander Siddig), aka Dr. Julian Bashir, the space station's resident physician. "Sid!!!," exclaimed McDowell, "He's my nephew!" After that it was a total love-fest. Quite sweet, actually. And not that you can tell from this hastily-taken shot, but Miss Masterson has an utterly stunning and downright biteable ass; the badonkadonk as she walked off caused many a head to turn, and my thoughts rocketed straight into the gutter.

And then I got my photo taken with the king of the droogs.

So thanks, Malcom, for all the great performances and demonstrating that not all actors are douchebags. May you continue to rule for a very, very long time, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

BRUSHES WITH GREATNESS

No matter who you are and in whatever circles you may travel, at some point you're probably going to come face-to-face with a celebrity. It may be Lindsay Lohan removing the hair from her naughty bits with a blowtorch behind the local Shoprite, or perhaps Oprah Winfrey sucking on a bag of pork rinds in order to get that last bit of deep-fried pork fat, and maybe even Bruce Willis trying on a purple Afro wig in some drag queen supply store on Santa Monica Boulevard. Anything can and usually does happen in this wacky world, so you'd damned well better have your camera at the ready. What follows is my own gallery of my brushes with greatness, most of which I was not expecting but happily have recorded for posterity through the medium of photography, so away we go! 

Here's my friend Dawn and myself with Stan Lee at a Marvel Comics Christmas party, somewhere around 1993. Note the cracker crumbs around Stan's mouth. 

And speaking of Marvel Comics luminaries, here's John Romita Sr. — considered by many to be the definitive Spider-Man artist — and his wife (and my one-time boss) Virginia. John's probably the only guy in the entire comics biz that no one has a single unkind word for, and I can tell you as gospel truth that he's one of the most talented and kind people I've ever met or worked with. The very definition of a professional. And the cool dude with the pompadour and shades in the background is none other than Jim Steranko, he of NICK FURY, AGENT OF S.H.I.E.L.D. fame, another alright Joe. 

Here's my pals Eddie and Hughes on the night when we met Clarence Reid, the master of filthy musical parody better known as Blowfly, perhaps the only recording artist on par with John Valby for sheer raunchiness. The guy's a fucking genius, and came up with the immortal line "Now I want to fuck you from dusk 'til early morn/'cause I love pussy like a hog loves corn." (From the timeless classic "Show Me A Man Who Don't Want To Fuck You (And I'll Show You A Faggot") 

And a shot of just yours truly with Blowfly. Believe it or not, this human facory of utter vileness is a staunch Born-Again Christian! 

In the late 1990's I had the opportunity to try on a couple of the actual onstage outfits worn by members of the comedy metal band Gwar. Here's me in the armor of Beefcake the Mighty, 

as well as having my features obscured by the head of Balsac, the Jaws of Death, while the lovely Jewish Warrior Princess lends (im)moral support. 

This nasty old man is the great S. Clay Wilson, the legendary underground cartoonist whose work introduced me to the concept of "felching," a vile act which I'm simulating on him in this shot. 

Here's former Skid Row frontman Sebastian Bach. I would like to officially go on record and declare Bach to be the single nicest celebrity ever to visit the Marvel Bullpen. A total sweetheart who doesn't get half the respect he deserves. 

The wooly-headed leviathan standing next to me in this one was probably the celebrity I least expected to meet. He's Danny Lilker, bass player for the seminal thrash-metal band Stormtroopers of Death, and he just happened to be among the attendees at a friend's birthday party when I worked at the barbecue joint. Another total sweetheart. 

Pretty much unknown to recent generations, this is Geoffrey Holder, a famous Trinidadian choreographer, dancer, and actor who kids my age knew for his string of 7-Up ads ("The Cola Nut...and the Un-Cola NUt!") and for his memorable turn as Baron Samedi in Roger Moore's first outing as 007, LIVE AND LET DIE (1973). I just happened to run into him at a gallery show back in 2001. 

Pro-Wrestler Hulk Hogan has to report to Marvel Comics each year to renew his licence on use of the name "Hulk," and here he is with me and my Bullpen brothers Ed Lazellari (front) and Dave Sharpe (the tall fuck in the back). As you can see, the reports of Hogan's height are somewhat exaggerated for TV, considering that I'm barely six feet tall. 

And what better moment to end this stroll down celebrity lane with than the time I got my picture taken with the Pope of Trash himself, John (PINK FLAMINGOS) Waters? It wasn't the first time I met him, but it's nice to have a visual record of being in his questionable presence. 

A BRUSH WITH GREATNESS: THE DAY I MET GG ALLIN

No, that isn't a Skittle. It's his dick.

Some called him a visionary rebel, out to save rock 'n' roll from the pussified product that it has become, a righteous firebrand who sought to restore danger to the form. Then there are those of us who thought he was a sociopathic idiot whose beyond-offensive musical stylings and on-and-offstage antics were downright hilarious. Yes, I am talking about the late, "great" GG Allin. And who the fuck, you may ask, was GG Allin? His story is too bizarre and involved to go into here, so I refer you to Allmusic for a very much to the point bio on the guy. I mean, you're pretty much doomed to be a fucking freak when your religious fanatic dad actually names you Jesus Christ Allin...

I first came across GG's recordings in the summer of 1987 during a trip to New Haven, Connecticut's Rhymes Records, a now defunct establishment that housed one of the best vinyl selections on the East Coast. Ever on a quest for the most offensive music I can find, I stumbled upon a "greatest hits" collection entitled "Dirty Love Songs," and was simply gobsmacked by the content; the album opened with "I Wanna Fuck Myself" (a heartfelt ode to jacking off) and continued to astonish with such anti-hits as "I Wanna Rape You" — a very strong contender for the "honor" of being the most offensive song of all time — , "I Wanna Piss On You," "Needle Up My Cock" — a cautionary ditty about the dangers of venereal disease — , "I Fuck the Dead," and many, many others. And on top of all that filth, the album opened up into a big poster of Allin onstage, shouting into a microphone while apparently attempting to rip off his own peanut-sized dick. How could I not add such a treasure to my collection?

In short order I went on to collect pretty much the entirety of the guy's output — a staggering waste of money or a bargain, depending on your point of view — and found other music deviants who enjoyed Allin's work for the same reasons I did (huge shout-outs to Smokey and Tanya!!!), while simultaneously nauseating many of my friends in the process. As the years passed I followed Allin's "career," marveling at his idiotic boasts of how he would one day kill himself onstage as a sacrifice to rock 'n' roll, taking as many of his fans with him as possible, and wondering what would become of him after he was released from a prison term for torturing one of the aforementioned worshippers.

Then, in 1993 filmmaker Todd Phillips released HATED, a must-see (or not) documentary on GG Allin. Several of my friends and I decided to attend the Manhattan premiere of the film at the Lower East Side's Anthology Film Works, and girded ourselves for the event with several rounds at our oft-frequented haunt, Nightbirds. As we drank, only my friend Smokey and I were flat-out determined to go to the film, the rest of our crew opting to hang out at the bar instead, so he and I sauntered over to the movie house where both of us were shocked as a motherfucker to find that GG himself was there, greeting his fans in the lobby.

The site of my brush with the artiste.

GG's notorious lack of any kind of personal hygiene was immediately self-evident because the guy smelled like a piss factory, but I was surprised to find that despite his unpredictable, animalistic nature the guy was really friendly. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he was clearly out of his mind on God knows what? I dunno...

Anyway, I asked GG to autograph my sketchbook. He cheerfully took it from me, and as he wastedly scrawled all over the page he announced, "This is how it was in the past. Here's how it is in the present, and here's how it's gonna be IN THE FUTURE!!!" With that he thrust the sketchbook and pen back to me, and shakily wobbled into the auditorium to watch his own chronicle unspool on the pitiful screen. The documentary was a lot of fun, and I highly recommend it to those brave enough to witness its myriad horrors.

Afterward, Smokey and I raced back to Nightbirds and told our friends what they had missed. Needless to say, they were kicking themselves for the rest of the evening.

Then, a little over a month later on the day after my twenty-eight birthday, GG Allin, the man who would supposedly off himself in the name of rock, died from a heroin overdose following a performance the night before. Say what you want about the guy, but the irony of his demise being that of the common, garden variety rock star douchebag was pretty fucking pathetic, and perhaps the only appropriate coda for rock 'n' roll's most outrageous professional, literally shit-eating asshole.