notes from an ex-movie fan
by Burt Prelutsky
I used to love movies. In fact, for about fourteen years, between the UCLA Daily Bruin and Los Angeles magazine, I was a movie reviewer. By the time I called it quits, I was no longer a fan. Understand, I could still enjoy the movies of the 30s and 40s, and, to a lesser degree, even those of the 50s. But a person can only sit through so many really lame comedies starring either Jerry Lewis or Peter Sellers before waving a white flag and negotiating terms of surrender.
The 60s, the decade during which I did most of my reviewing, was notable for very young, very untalented, essentially illiterate directors who gave new meaning to self-indulgence.
As if the movies weren’t bad enough, as plot and character gave way to annoying camera angles and improvised dialogue, the movies kept getting longer and longer. The explanation at the time was that because TV was providing people with the equivalent of B-movies for free, the day of the double feature was over. So, in order for the audience to feel it was getting its money’s worth, running lengths had to be expanded. That almost sounded believable, but it was really a lot of hooey. The reason that movies kept getting longer was because of the inflated egos of the directors and the stars. With the passing of the studio moguls, it was they who filled the power vacuum. Their attitude was that if they deigned to make a movie, it automatically became a major theatrical event – and nothing speaks importance quite so much as an epic running time.
For all his various shortcomings as a moviemaker, Woody Allen is the only star or director who consistently turns out short movies. For that reason alone, I can even forgive him “Small Time Crooks,” “Manhattan Murder Mystery” and “The Curse of the Jade Scorpion.” Well, almost.
Back when I was reviewing, I decided one December, after sitting through the usual year end glut of Oscar hopefuls that I would write a rave about the next movie I saw just so long as it ran less than two hours. As luck would have it, that next movie turned out to be the vile “Where’s Poppa?” which ran a scant 82 minutes, proving that when a movie is truly putrid, it can fool you into thinking you’ve been sitting there for three or four days.
But things could be worse. Instead of reviewing movies back then, I could be doing it today. The mere thought makes my blood run cold. Frankly, it’s a wonder to me that there are grown-ups willing to spend their lives in dark theaters just so they can come out and assure us that once again our worst cinematic fears have been realized.
With nearly every movie costing upwards of a hundred million dollars to produce, nobody is willing to take a chance on something even halfway original. Instead, they either churn out a lousy sequel to a lousy movie or they re-make something that was done far better in the past, such as “Alfie,” “Bad News Bears,” and “Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.” Worse yet, they re-cycle old TV shows, simultaneously producing rotten movies and trampling on our nostalgia for such fare as “Sgt. Bilko,” “Bewitched” and “The Honeymooners.”
When you factor in the cost of tickets and popcorn, even if you don’t have to pay for parking and a babysitter, and even if you’re willing to overlook the sticky theater floors and the clucks who forget to turn off their cell phones and those who forget to turn off their mouths, there is no good reason for any sensible person doing a damn thing to subsidize Hollywood’s pampered children.
Isn’t it bad enough that unless you happen to be a knee-jerk leftist, they dismiss you as a stupid redneck? As they laugh all the way to the bank, who do you think they’re laughing at?
So, the next time you even think about forking over all that money at the local Bijou to see yet another movie in which a ball of flame almost, but not quite, barbecues the hero, treat yourself instead to a lobster dinner. Even if you wind up with a mild case of heartburn, it will be well worth it. At least you won’t hate yourself in the morning.
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