Groundhog Day

Harold Ramis’ 1993 masterpiece, cataloguing the existential mundanity of Meteorologist Phil Conners (Bill Murray) surrounding his coverage of the pomp and circumstance surrounding the anticipated emergence of Punxsutawney Phil, the February 2 prognosticating groundhog in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania, has ensconced itself as an important and emblematic film. Murray’s character becomes a sort of caricatured avatar for the audience, as his life somehow becomes frozen in this small town and on this specific date, each morning being woken up by “I Got You Babe” by Sonny & Cher, and the day’s events unfold as before; each day becoming more recursive.

The excruciating monotony of the day, as it repeats, becomes a sort of sandbox for grappling with moral dilemma, crushing existential crises, and a general preponderance of man’s purposiveness in this world. The grim grayscale of the Pennsylvania winter, while stuck within the confines of the somewhat obscure town of Punxsutawney provides a droning backdrop to the film’s philosophical themes. Similarly – the chimerical, superstitious, and yet ceremoniously celebrated ritual of prognostication of winter’s length by means of a rodent’s behavior gently calls into question some of society’s unquestioned practices. Practices wrought out of tradition and normality – but ultimately – perhaps, providing a framework of comportment for life. A sort of doctrine, maybe.

The time loop is ultimately thwarted by Phil Conners’ engagement in life, as he learns ice sculpting, French; and provides, rather than a smug improvisation of the report on the Groundhog Day event, a masterful and in-depth presentation of the holiday, and those involved. A report that is captured by other news crews. By exerting and actualizing self, Murray’s character is able to escape the floundering banality surrounding this odd holiday.

Schwab's Pharmacy

“After that, I drove down to headquarters. That’s the way a lot of us think about Schwab’s. Kind of a combination office, coffee klatch and waiting room. Waiting, waiting for the gravy train.”
-William Holden as screenwriter Joe Gillis, upon facing rejection in the major motion picture Sunset Boulevard

When most of us envision a pharmacy, we recall aisles upon aisles of magic weight loss pills and periodicals, a blood pressure machine, cheap plastic toys and lines queued with the elderly. In the 1930’s, 40’s, and 50’s, one particular drug store was the center of Hollywood. Simply, it was headquarters.

Schwab’s Pharmacy was its own monster. Tinsel town legend dictates that gorgeous sweater queen Lana Turner was discovered here. This tale is one in a million. 8024 Sunset Boulevard was a who’s who of industry players, a venue to fill prescriptions, grab an ice cream cone, feast on a light dinner, and solidify blockbuster deals that would lead to cinema gold. On any given night, a trip to pick up aspirin for that nagging headache would yield a glimpse at the likes of Judy Garland, Ronald Reagan, and the Marx Brothers talking shop. Charlie Chaplin was a notorious pinball machine hustler, while future leading lady Ava Gardner poured sodas behind the counter for the entertainment elite. The titanic film “The Wizard of Oz” might have gone down in the annals of motion picture history as an also ran if not for the enigmatic anthem “Somewhere over the Rainbow”-quickly composed on the famous countertops of Schwab’s Pharmacy. F.Scott Fitzgerald suffered a heart attack (fortunately amidst a plethora of meds) inside the pharmacy’s hallowed walls, and Marilyn Monroe fed a grandiose appetite for pills though the pharmacist/chefs of Schwab’s.

The behind the scenes brass, arguably more important than their fresh faced and replaceable talents for hire, brokered some of cinema’s greatest collaborations over Coca Cola floats and cheeseburgers. The magical building was the last of its kind, a convergence of wanna be’s, has been’s, and current stars. It was a place where a misplaced drama club performer from a small town in Iowa could light Mickey Rooney’s Lucky Strike, where James Dean might seek the opinion of a stock boy strategically placing industry rags near the checkout lane.

8024 Sunset has been demolished and rebuilt several times, reborn as a multiplex and a shopping center to name a few. Nothing has lived up to the iconoclast known as Schwab’s Pharmacy, but it is not their fault, as nothing possibly could. Hollywood collectors treasure many things; Dorothy’s ruby red slippers, Rocky Balboa’s American flag inspired trunks, Luke Skywalker’s light saber- magnificent, all, yet none can touch the almost biblical rolodex that once was within the grasp of a teenaged soda jerk at Schwab’s.

E.T.

This year, the Pearl Anniversary (30th) falls upon one of American cinema’s most groundbreaking and poignant contributions. It has been hailed as the standard of a genre it largely created, celebrated as a work of brilliance in storytelling, special effects and such now-common film nuances as branding. There could only be one E.T.

His face was modeled after the poet Carl Sandburg and the genius Albert Einstein. Ever since he found his way into young Elliot’s closet, the heartwarming tale of the wayward alien and a young boy has, like its aesthetic inspirations, always been both poetic and genius. Like every good story, it emanated from the recesses of a creative maestro. That maestro was Steven Spielberg. Upon the divorce of his parents in 1960, Spielberg filled the emotional gap with an imaginary alien sidekick, a “friend who could be the brother I never had and a father that I didn't feel I had anymore." As the director helmed Raiders of the Lost Ark in Tunisia, boredom overtook him, leading way to memories of his childhood friend. Testament to an artist’s torment, the tentatively titled A Boy’s Life simply had to be made.



The entire film was shot from a low camera angle to portray the vantage of young Elliot and his sister Gertie (future Hollywood royalty Drew Barrymore), and instantly became the symbol of “what to do” in terms of creating an all-ages friendly blockbuster. There was the concept of allowing unknown children and the mythical creature to be the true stars (Harrison Ford played the school principal, but his only scene was cut; E.T. was portrayed by a 2’10” actor, his voice partially by actress Debra Winger). Then there was the product placement that turned Reese’s Pieces into an instantly recognizable brand (rumors endure of a bidding war between Reese’s and M&M’s). Lastly, there was the Disney-esque feel (with the exception of Elliot’s mother, no adults appear until much later in the film) while waging themes of adult issues such as war, peace, and the loss of innocence.

E.T. would hold the trophy as the world’s top grossing film of all time until Spielberg would later best himself with Jurassic Park. The film is ranked as the sixth best movie of all time by AFI, and catapulted its director and much of the cast into household names. Much like the Nike Swoosh and McDonald’s Golden Arches, the image of Elliot on his bike, peddling away against the backdrop of the moon as E.T. sits on the handlebars, has become an international symbol that translates to all languages. At the heart of it all, beyond the glitter, E.T., in its thirtieth year, endures as a landmark work of art that transcends generations.

Phone home.

In the Wake of The Blues Brothers: Dixie Square Mall

A monument of American film lore still stands in Harvey, Illinois. The struggling municipality just south of Chicago city limits still attracts movie buffs, abandoned urban explorers, youth impelled by high school or college dares – and even Americans who have some basic familiarity with the film – to the sprawling complex along Dixie Highway between 151st and 154th Streets.

Opened in 1966, and initially anchored by retail powerhouse Montgomery Ward, the mall represented, in many ways, an apex in suburban development. Dixie Square Mall remained viable until late 1978. Since then, many ideas have bandied about as to future use – some leading to false starts, convoluted questions of property ownership, liens, and legal battles – one of which in 2008 devolved into a criminal charge when a property owner, obviously frustrated over this seeming eternal impasse, allegedly threatened a lienholder with brass knuckles and a pistol. Southside Chicago ethos remains undaunted within this crumbling ruin.

Dan Aykroyd, an unabashed car buff (a motorhead, as he has been called by colleagues), hatched the mall scene in painstaking detail in his three hundred plus page first draft of The Blues Brothers script. The already abandoned mall was restocked with perhaps the most elaborate movie property undertaking of the time, using real merchandise provided by and decorated by local vendors (from neighboring malls). Candied glass panes were installed, and a meticulous stunt route was devised. The mall lot was even filled to the brim with new cars hauled in from a bevy of local dealerships.

The scene lives on in movie history, as those two iconoclasts clad in cheap black suits and sunglasses tore through the Dixie Square Mall, followed by an entourage of state troopers, bursting over kiosks, and scattering extras posing as shoppers busily going about their affairs. A perfect swansong to an aging mall. Too bad that was in 1980.

Actress Cyndy Allen

Location, the historic Emery Theatre

Actress Cyndy Allen has been approaching her craft with an inextricable desire to communicate emotion through her characters for over fifteen professional years. Her latest endeavor, Susan on the webseries Girl/Girl Scene, has vaulted her into a rarified level of international exposure. Allen imbues the conflicted Susan with a palpable sense of inner turmoil. As I clunked my ramshackle car into her glazed cobblestone driveway, I was unsure what to expect. Outtake clips of Girl/Girl Scene led me to think Cyndy Allen had morphed into Susan: a libidinous cougar venturing out of the closet in placid suburban Middle America. The trope had become a popular one.

I was greeted in the front yard by Michael, her affable husband of twenty three years. Jokingly, I asked him if I needed a permit to park my car, and he immediately retorted: “It’ll be towed by the time you get out.” He led me in, showing me their hardwood floored gym, and theater style screening room. Cyndy came down, and introduced herself. Their elderly golden retriever, Bailey, splaying a mouthful of a plush toy, followed closely at Cyndy’s heels.

Her demeanor seemed antithetical to what was portrayed by her Girl/Girl Scene character: somewhat shy and reserved. Demure. We sat down in front of the fireplace.

She told me about how she got into the acting business. Her acting career began at the age of six, with a school play, continued through junior high and high school, gravitating toward any drama opportunity. The acting bug, as they say, had her, and she was irrevocably drawn. To this day she remains called to the profession and craft.

Obvious obstacles arise while juggling roles of acting, and those of a wife and mother. The most difficult thing, Cyndy said, is “balancing what is most important. And dedicating time to each of those things, and making sure I don’t neglect one thing over another.” This balancing, Cyndy asserts not only exemplifies independence and strength of a woman, but also reifies her own embodiment of characters. This struggle to reconcile different realms informs roles and character creation.

True to her craft, Cyndy describes that “everything I feel, and everything I do goes into character.” Explaining further, she described the emotional impact had by a particular song heard on the radio, concurrent with hearing news that her father had suffered a stroke. Knowing this indelible emotive attachment to the song, she kept that as a marker for future roles. She told me she does this with everything. Everything becomes an emotive landmark for a future role. An enterprise so emotionally taxing – so draining – few attempt it. Such is the wont of a method actor.

In that vein of method acting, I asked Cyndy if she had any particular objects that she used to call upon as a device for emotional orientation. Her grandmother’s ring came to mind, because she says “there were so many feelings associated with [the ring].” That ring, she says, has been a font of emotion: from grief, to joy, to a profound understanding of her grandmother’s struggle as a woman. This memory approach is indicative of an adherence to Lee Strasberg’s interpretation of the acting method formulated by Constantin Stanislavski. Critics of this memory approach, most notably Stella Adler, question the practice of conjuring old memories for placement in current characters.

Cyndy Allen disagrees. Cyndy’s purpose for acting, she says, is to convey feeling and emotion. A communicative act, she says. The remembered feelings, she claims, are necessary. Combining that definition of the purposiveness of acting, with the fact that fathoms of sometimes excruciating emotion are needed to be dredged, acting becomes simply a selfless endeavor.

Expounding upon the role of Susan, Cyndy describes the inner turmoil of the character’s struggle to come to grips with her child’s sexuality, simultaneously grappling with the façade surrounding her own life, not the least of which being her own closeted desires. That straddling of realms – of worlds – is rife for storytelling. Expounding upon this, she says she tends to look for “grittier, darker roles;” something that can surmise years of history of a character’s personal background in this very brief communication of acting. That raw struggle is what is layered as a character, and provides depth to a story.

Images Ann Van Epps

She loves stage acting, but noted that “there’s not room for subtlety on stage.” Curiously, as if on cue, her dog Bailey nuzzled my knee.

Film, however, is the medium she prefers. Short films, due to length of production, and artistic rawness are what attract her most. When not working, Cyndy keeps her chops up with a close knit group of acting friends, bouncing monologues, and characters off of each other.

Cyndy sees her genuineness and Middle American sensibilities brought to roles as an asset, noting that the denizens of LA and New York are often jaded and desensitized. The Lexington, Kentucky set Girl/Girl Scene continues to be a wellspring for the authenticity of this Midwestern motif. The grit and rawness, and the inherent struggle of Cyndy’s character Susan, is implicit in the show.

The Ricky Nelson Story

Ricky Nelson was the sole inspiration that coined the term “Teen Idol”. In his brief life, he was an influence upon the likes of Bob Dylan, earned a Golden Globe, recorded 20 Top Ten smashes, was the first artist to strike #1 on Billboard’s Hot 100 chart, and was granted enshrinement into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Accolades and shiny awards aside, Ricky Nelson as a brand was the pioneering force behind the now-essential marketing tool that is cross-promotion.

It was iconic father Ozzie Nelson's shrewd grasp of cross-promotion that led Ricky Nelson into the annals of legend, but do not cry nepotism; without the musical chops and smoldering good looks, the entire concept would have flopped. But Ricky did posess these qualities, and the collaboration’s effects have been felt for decades. Nelson became the first teen idol to employ the still novel medium of television to promote hit records, ultimately culminating into a rock and roll music career in 1957. Ozzie’s future world vision was to have Ricky close an Ozzie & Harriet episode by singing his current hit tune. Soon, most episodes of the Ozzie & Harriet television show ended with a musical performance by Ricky, most of the time non-congruent with any plot stoylines; essentially, it was free advertising on an already grossly popular franchise.

The theory was brilliant; the weekly family sitcom attracted millions of viewers, mostly families, and by incorporating Ricky’s music, teenagers would flock to the record shops for Nelson’s latest 45, while simultaneously softening the adult demographic on what was perceived to be a dangerous genre-Rock and Roll. Ozzie Nelson’s crystal ball told him that by winning over the teen audience, the Nelson dynasty would be gaining the approval of the parents as well. And the groundbreaking ventures did not stop there. Thirty years before the notion of Mtv sprouted wings,Ozzie Nelson had the idea to edit footage together to craft what would be some of the first music videos. This unchartered editing is seen in videos Ozzie produced for tracks such as"Travelin' Man", which still draw enormous views on media sharing sites such as YouTube.

During the sitcom's tenure, Ozzie Nelson brilliantly barred his son from appearing on other TV programs that could have enhanced his public profile, such as American Bandstand and The Ed Sullivan Show. The idea was simple; why advertise The Wall Street Journal in Forbes Magazine? By keeping the talented Pop star in-house (and in-family), the Nelson’s found themselves, at the time, morphing into a stand-alone kingdom-entertainment royalty.

The cross-promotion, marketing and brand ingenuity engineered by Ozzie Nelson is not only rampant in today’s competitive game, it is standard. Seemingly every established act has an undiscovered talent on some branch of the family tree, seemingly every actor is a singer, every singer an actor. The Brady kids tried to synthesize what came natural to the Nelson’s; the “show within a show” further exploited with modern hits such as Glee. Even product placement (think recurring character on a sitcom holding a can with the Pepsi logo pefectly visible) owes a gratitude to the genius of Ozzie Nelson.

And perhaps the biggest debt, whether he was talented or not, was owed by Ricky Nelson. The duo would have fit in well with another television giant of its time; Father Knows Best.

Bright Lights, Big City

Jay McInerney's debut novel, Bright Lights, Big City, takes the reader into the tenuous realm of a struggling would be writer caught up in the cocaine fueled materialism of New York in the Big 80's. Oddly, the narrative is entirely written in the second person. This seething "you" becomes the reader, as lines between word and audience are blurred, and with each failing or yearning of the character, so goes the reader. The "you" is a risky endeavor; presuming wholesale acceptance of the position, the "you" as a perspective can have catastrophic shortfalls, not the least of which: the reader closing the book. Placing a napkin, or a toothpick, or an unwanted business card from some poor schlub firmly between a quire of pages, and clasping together the paperback binding. Leveled up on a shelf, with nebulous intentions to "give it another shot, maybe, when I'm bound by the trajectory of my Hoveround." Bright Lights, Big City keeps the reader with book in hand.

Through every gut churning transgression, the "you" becomes the "I" and the reader becomes this "him" in Big 80's New York. The reader feels the malaise of the "you" as parades of material and affectation trundle past, and "your" pining for the unrequited love of "your" estranged model wife. Something happened between "you" and the love of "your" life, and now "you" ramble around in the opulent sheen of Manhattan with a guy named Tad Allagash, whose glad handing, good times actions seem only in line with the smug vapidity that his name suggests.

Michael J. Fox starred in the 1988 film adaptation of the same name, interspersing second person narration with real time interaction. Kiefer Sutherland portrays Tad Allagash, and Phoebe Cates plays estranged wife Amanda. The movie is a great watch. The book remains, however, a gripping experience in the second person.

Ironweed

William Kennedy's Pulitzer Prize winning novel, Ironweed, shows a seedy underbelly of depression and prohibition era alcoholism. Set in Kennedy's hometown of Albany, New York, Ironweed follows Francis Phelan as he cobbles together odd jobs, and "flops" enough to keep him in booze and warmth for the night. Meanwhile, drinking buddies "occupy" vacant lots, and rusted hulls of cars.

Phelan is haunted by apparitions of the dead, and not uncoincidentally, the story begins with children ghouling and goblining around on Halloween, as he returns to Albany after years of absence. Dawn finds Phelan working a job cleaning a grave yard on All Saints Day. The text is a rich tapestry of shoe soles flapping, steel drums splayed with splintered pallets aflame, and a wincing look at homelessness during the Great Depression. Frost slowly grips the scene, as the carefree of autumn dirges mercilessly into winter.

A 1987 film adaptation starred Jack Nicholson as Phelan, Meryl Streep as ladyfriend Helen Archer, Tom Waits as chum Rudy, and even the looming Fred Gwynne as a mystically and recently sober bar tender.

Andy Warhol - The Factory

The Factory with Bob Dylan

The Factory.

It was Andy Warhol’s NYC Mecca, a bastion of the eccentric, the hip cradle for artsy types who would go on to be known as the Warhol superstars. With a blunt audacity that might carry shock value even in this day and age, The Factory was downright outlandish in the early 1960’s. Noted for its groundbreaking parties and revolving door of influential artists, The Factory, at its essence, was a haven for Warhol’s brand of pop art. John Cale, a Factory regular, mused "It wasn't called the Factory for nothing. It was where the assembly line for the silk- screens happened. While one person was making a silkscreen, somebody else would be filming a screen test. Every day, something new."

Rolling Stone Brian Jones & Warhol 1966

As Warhol’s legend grew, he was slaving away nonstop on his paintings. To create his art, Warhol employed silk-screens in order to mass-produce images (as capitalist corporations mass produce consumer goods). To keep the machine running, Warhol assembled his Superstars: drag queens, adult film actors, musicians, drug addicts, free-thinkers and socialites. It was these Superstars who turned the now-demolished, dingy building into an iconic legend.

When not painting inside the all-silver interior (made so with tin foil, paint and balloons), The Factory was an anchor in which to make films, commissions, sculptures and shoes. It also served as a bohemian den of sorts, a joint where celebrities such as Lou Reed, Bob Dylan, Mick Jagger, Salvador Dali and Truman Capote hung their artistic hats. Reed’s "Walk on the Wild Side", his best known song, is about the superstars he hung out with at the Factory. He mentions Holly Woodlawn, Candy Darling, and a few others directly.

Warhol’s now-treasured film library, at the time considered obscene and unlawful, was almost entirely shot at his second home. In an unfortunate attempt at dimming Warhol’s shining light, he was shot himself inside the walls of The Factory. It was the home of the Soup Cans and the Marilyn Monroe prints, and the birthplace of pop art. The Factory was many things to many people, a blurry dynamo that followed no rules and skewed the line. More than a drab dwelling, it was Warhol, it was the Superstars, and in the annals of art, it was reminiscent of the society of the era it forged its name in.

The Factory was, simply, a revolution.

Bogeymen

Bogeymen, looming around the annals of American cinema come out during the Halloween season. The likes of Jason Voorhees, and Michael Myers, and Freddy Krueger speak to cultural notions of “goodness” and “badness” and tightening of belts in the face of opposition. The bogeymen act as impregnable juggernauts of evil, pursue, and kill, people of various moral standing. Strangely, the first to go in horror movies are often those who show transgressions – lapses in ethics and judgment. The fornicating neighbor. The malevolent bully. Somehow the villains of Hollywood cinematic horror become great levelers: exactors of justice. Bringers, perhaps, of karmic comeuppance.

The looming way in which the semi human monsters pursue the innocent, however, speaks to a larger mythos. The unstoppable, insurmountable, and unshakable nature of the bogeyman represents the larger unrelenting trials of life itself. The sheen of a kitchen knife in low light, or the ominous sounds of footfalls from a floor below are dangers more acute, than perhaps, a mortgage payment to be made, or a term paper due. But the bogeyman represents oppression, and all that which induces fear. The face, that philosophical idea of “recognition” with the “other” presented by Emmanuel Levinas is conspicuously garbled and warped as the bogeyman. These faceless or deformed characters lurk in stark denial of that recognition, denying knowing the “other” as “self” as they simultaneously and slowly hunt their prey.