10 (Fifty-Five Actually) Reasons I Love Two-Lane Blacktop.

This post is part of the Criterion Blogathon, a collection of writings related to The Criterion Collection. The blogathon is hosted by Criterion Blues, Silver Screenings, and Speakeasy. Follow the #CRITERIONBLOGATHON HQ.  

“People love lists.” People say this.

In an unguarded moment—no doubt involving bourbon, perhaps gin and in a pique of honesty—I might admit to being a writer, I may even say I enjoy writing, sometimes. I know I don’t enjoy not-writing. And so I dislike the popular trend of compiling lists. That’s not writing, it’s math. And I straight up despise the made-up internet word ‘listicle,’ which doesn’t charm me as an astute portmanteau for the digital age. But make me think  ‘testicle,’ some pendulous extension that hangs from the ‘taint of not-writing. In other words I don’t think ‘listicles’ have much in the way of balls, they’re a cop out, lazy.

Well, as the saying goes “don’t knock it ‘till you try it.” The criterion release of Two-Lane Blacktop includes a tribute by Richard Linklater, “10 (Sixteen Actually) Reasons I Love Two-Lane Blacktop.” It’s from an introduction he gave in 2000 at South By Southwest as part of a retrospective on the career of director Monte Hellman. The ‘sixteen reasons’ give the piece that even/uneven cardinal number cache so favored by Vulture, Buzzfeed and the other listicle swingers out there. But this is Linklater, a director who doesn’t truck with soulless slick surfaces, a raggedy director if there ever was one.

As I read Linklater’s list I let go my snark and heard the thrum and rhythm of what he lays down. Read it aloud, as Linklater would have, and you’ll catch the cadence. Ride in the pocket of the groove. Hear how these bullet points tune in on the simplicity, the stillness and the details of Two-Lane Blacktop. I got it. I get it. This is a movie about practitioners, monk-ish men, strict devotees, zealots really. They’re God is the holy road and the automobile is their prayer. Two-Lane Blacktop prizes existence, the meaning of existing … ranks it, presents it, lists it. And so should we.

With apologies to Mr. Linklater for copping his idea, here are “10 (Fifty-Five Actually) Reasons I Love Two-Lane Blacktop.”            

1. Because the color of the Car is primer grey.

2. Because Rudy Wurlitzer capitalizes the ‘C’ when he refers to ‘the Car’ in his screenplay.

3. Because it’s about handmade: a 454 with custom built headers … not a 396.

4. Because the Driver (James Taylor) and the Mechanic (Dennis Wilson) never lock up the Car when they stop.

5. Because James Taylor still has hair.

6. Because Dennis Wilson is still alive.

7. Because the Girl (Laurie Bird) just gets in the Car and makes herself at home.

8. Because the Girl’s handbag looks like a headless Muppet.

9. Because the Mechanic’s jeans are so dirty.

10. Because of the Driver’s green sweater.

11. Because the director, Monte Hellman, and cinematographer, Jack Deerson, never use the conventional two shot looking at the Driver and the Mechanic through the windshield.

12. Because there is the road … and that’s it.

13. Because “gone” is the best color.

14. Because “make it three yards muthafucka and we’ll have an auto-mo-bile, race” is a way men talk in movies to other men about car racing.

15. Because, as G.T.O (Warren Oates) says, “performance and image … that’s what it’s all about.”

16. Because it takes a singular talent like Warren Oates to make something sound as rehearsed, like a lie, as G.T.O.’s stories.

17. Because Warren Oates is still alive.

18. Because of that weird little rack G.T.O. keeps putting his Coke bottle in and out of again and again.

19. Because the Girl calls tapes ‘groovy records.’

20. Because the Driver and the Mechanic ignore the Girl when she says things like “Screwdrivers and wrenches don’t make it for me,” and “I don’t see anyone paying attention to my rear end.”

21. Because the GTO makes a whirring sound every time G.T.O opens or closes the driver's side door.

22. Because “racing bread.”

23. Because the Mechanic lies down on a clean bedspread in those dirty jeans.

24. Because it’s never not funny when a hippie walks in on a ‘business man’ in a gas station bathroom.

25. Because of the look of those ‘stock’ headrests on 1970 Pontiac GTOs.

26. Because Monte Hellman cut his own movie.

27. Because “racing for pinks” and “General Delivery” sound so cool and so desperate.

28. Because when the hand-sy Oklahoma hitchhiker (Harry Dean Stanton) propositions G.T.O., G.T.O. says “I ain’t into that! This is competition man. I got no time!” and not ‘no.’ Later G.T.O. tells the hitchhiker “I got no time for sidetracks.” But, again, not ‘no.’

29. Because the only response to a toast like ‘Here’s to your destruction’ is ‘same to you.’

30. Because a dumb-ass question like “How come you ain’t in Bakersfield” deserves a smart-ass answer like, “‘cause I’m in the Southwest.”

31. Because Two-Lane Blacktop is a time capsule of a long-distant America.

32. Because it is best “to keep a hunger on.”

 

33. Because this is one of the most classically and beautifully composed publicity stills for a movie, maybe ever.

 

 

34. Because it’s a story about Westerners going east.

35. Because the Hot Rod Driver (Rudy Wurlitzer) has a bad night.

36. Because cicadas are “some freaky bugs.”

37. Because of Monte Hellman’s amazing white man’s afro.

38. Because of everything going on in the background in Two-Lane Blacktop, all those horses and trains and trains carrying train cars and cars and roads, all those roads, all that road going.

39. Because neither of the non-actor-professional-musicians (Taylor and Wilson) perform in a movie that’s all about performance.   

40. Because there are few opportunities to use a phrase like “rolling stock” or “the whole shot” outside of the movies or maybe gambling.

41. Because Laurie Bird was still alive.

42. Because of who found the location where G.T.O. picks up the Texas Hitchhiker with the sign that reads: “Notice please do not pick up hitch hikers in this area, thank you, State Hospital.”

43. Because when the Car goes off the road to narrowly avoid a wreck between a tractor and a station wagon the Mechanic’s first instinct to check the Car's undercarriage.

44. Because of the Mechanic steals a license plate to help him feel ‘less nervous’ when he’s in ‘this part of the country.’  

45. Because of the way the Girl smiles, especially when G.T.O talks, which probably has something more to do with Warren Oates than his character.

46. Because nowadays so few gas stations look like the way they look in Two-Lane Blacktop.

47. Because neither the Car nor the G.T.O. has seatbelts.

48. Because “city car’s what killed ‘em.”

49. Because plot has its place. To borrow from the Driver, “’course there’s a lot of movies out there with plots. They all look the same. They perform about the same too.”

50. Because nobody ever says what year the Car is except the announcer on the loudspeaker at Lakeland International Raceway.

51. Because the only thing existential about Two-Lane Blacktop is everything and, yeah, nothing.

52. Because who wants to go to Columbus, Ohio anyway.

53. Because Two-Lane Blacktop is not about the race.

54. Because “You can’t stay with the same high forever.”

55. Because “Those satisfactions are permanent” might be the greatest closing line in cinema history.

H is for Hausu (House)

This originally ran on Psycho Drive-In as part of the ABC's of Halloween Series (2014)

 

Hausu or House (1977) proves the phrase “you’ve never seen anything like …” doesn’t always have to sound (or read) like hyperbolic bullshit. You have never seen a movie like House, for sure.

Imagine a cinematic exquisite corpse, a handmade invention that combines ‘Mr. Magoo Meets Frankenstein,’ a parody of a parody of a Japanese game show which involves martial arts, elements copped from Hope and Crosby road movies (complete with kick-ass dune buggy), Japanese folklore, the most hyper-realistic rotoscoped matte paintings of blue skies, sunsets and rainbows (EVER!), giggly schoolgirls in sailor suits, watermelons and bananas, romance, a dead mother and a white Persian cat (named Blanche) that may or may not be able to deliver mail, not to mention, kill. For the sake of not ruining this head trip, it’s enough to mention only a few of the many horrors of House like the possessed lighting fixture, a dancing skeleton and a very puckish piano. Then, there’s the blood (oh God, Mother!) so much blood. So yeah, the attempt to describe what makes House House equates to a fool’s errand; and yet, for all of its what-the-fuck-ness, its House-ness, the plot plays like Horror for dummies.

During a school vacation, a motherless teenage girl who’s not at home with her father’s new girlfriend, invites six of her friends to go with her on a road trip to visit her long-time-no-see maternal ‘auntie’ at her home in the countryside. So pure it floats, right? Now, because this is House, the name of the plucky protagonist is Gorgeous (Oshare: ‘fashionable’), her six friends are Kung Fu, Fantasy, Prof, Mac, Melody and Sweet, respectively. These are the girls and these are their names. That’s the point. Hint or intent at abstraction or overthinking is coincidental. Except for Prof and Mac (short for stomach) who wouldn’t want to be Gorgeous or Sweet? As for being called Kung Fu? Cool, so cool.

Therein resides the integrity of the structure. The soul of House epitomizes a rare (bloody?) example of the self-aware avant-garde aesthetics of Cinéma pur -- visual composition, motion, the relation between sound and image and rhythmic editing -- sans the art house severity (think more Hitchcock, less Buñuel, but still some, especially the surrealism) and with all the sincerity of the most sincere pumpkin patch.

The madman at the controls of this saturnalian doomsday device of pop culture kitsch and horror clichés is one time experimental filmmaker and advertising wunderkind, Nobuhiko Obayashi. In his essay, “The Handmaidens,” Chuck Stephens writes: “What Toho Studios was hoping for … was a homegrown Jaws: a locally produced summer movie roller coaster sufficiently thrill-chocked … fast and loud, with tons of fun packed between screams.” Think about that: give us something Japanese with the crowd-pleasing sensibilities (and box office returns to boot) of Spielberg. The intentions of the Toho suits read like Act One for an only-in-Hollywood-only-in-the-70’s-auteurist-fiasco, but Japanese.

What keeps House from being a movie by committee (or a Nipponese Alan Smithee film) is, first and foremost, Obayashi’s cognizance to entertain, to be a showman. After the Toho logo fades to black a blue point of light like the flickering of film through a projector appears in the bottom left to form a box at the center of the screen and then the words “A” and “Movie” appear on separate title cards. Only a rotund Englishman lining himself up with a caricature of his own profile before he wishes the audience a “good evening” would be more self-aware, more fun.

As the premiere exemplar of a film that must be seen to be believed, to open too many of the locked doors of this funhouse would be both a cheat and a crime most foul and unfair. There are many points where the ridiculous surpasses the sublime along the way to the fireworks factory that is the Aunt’s creepy country estate. Come to think of it, House is one big fireworks factory. Obayashi developed the story after asking his pre-teen daughter for suggestions and it shows. Either through camera movement, the on-screen action or the dialogue, every scene moves with the rambunctious energy of a sugared-up six-year-old or a kitten. Even the most lactose-intolerant may start to feel cramps and nausea after so much cheese, or worse, inherent vices like cynicism and impatience may hit enough of a pique that stopping the ride seems like the only sane (and smart) action in this bat shit crazy movie.

Don’t.

Yes, this is, perhaps, the weirdest of weird cinema. And no, it makes no sense, except, of course, it does. Like all art, film aspires to be a transformative experience, anything goes and the only limit is the imagination (or the budget). Look no further than when the story’s knight-in-shining armor, Mr. Togo, gets his ass stuck in bucket and a small boy in a backwards Mao cap and red overalls starts to play the bucket like a drum, because of course. If this scene were written by Cervantes about another knight errant it would be considered the height of seventeenth century world literature, but here it becomes yet another silly non sequitur. Meanwhile, the soundtrack, blithely unaware of the dramas playing out onscreen, shimmies with the most bubble-gum sounding J-pop song in the history of blithely unaware J-pop songs. Ditto later on when Togo unexpectedly (?) turns into a bunch of bananas while the score swoons with a romantic ballad. Yes, you read that right. Bananas. What does this B-story in a B-movie -- House was second on the bill to less banana-centric (one assumes) teenage-romance, Pure Hearts in Mud -- have to do with the horrors of main narrative? Everything and nothing.  All the over-the-top-ness, the blind alleys House gambols along and its sheer absurdity make it of a piece, an exercise in the mindfulness of play and a true cult movie.

When House’s Id gets too manic it’s its ego, Kung Fu, who puts the madness into perspective. As matte painting clouds turn shades of dreamy tangerine, gold and turquoise, Kung Fu, in search of the missing Mac, delivers House’s most meta line without the slightest irony. She says: “This is ridiculous. Maybe it was an illusion.” Ah for the love of film. Of course, Kung Fu says this after she has fended off a surprise attack of flaming chunks of stove wood with the ancient art of karate. Before Obayashi gets on to the next bit of irrationality the blanket Kung Fu was holding before the fight began drops back into her arms. And scene.
 

Neither cartoonish gestures nor earnest intensions put asses in seats, let alone butts in buckets. Like the most modish Melville or refined Renoir, Obayashi cares deeply for the craft of film itself and composes every frame like a maestro. Auntie, who before was resigned to a wheelchair, now, handkerchief in hand, expectedly (?) saunters into the kitchen where Prof and Fantasy wash and put away dishes, predictably a waltz strikes up and she tells the girls she feels like she did when she was a child and went to a restaurant in town. Cut to a close up of Auntie next to a refrigerator as she wipes her lips with the handkerchief, pulls a lascivious smile in the direction of the girls and gives a handkerchief flourish befitting a grand dame after an exhausting performance. Obayashi then cuts to an overhead shot with the actors framed in the upper right hand corner. The door to the refrigerator opens and Fantasy watches Auntie steps inside the refrigerator and the door whooshes closed behind her. Fantasy drops a dish (who wouldn’t) and when it smashes on the floor Prof runs in to find out what’s happened. Fantasy explains the unexplainable. As Prof opens the refrigerator to show Fantasy there’s nothing inside (there isn’t), Auntie moves from off-screen into the foreground, turns to the camera and smiles. This kicks off a montage of Auntie as she dances barefoot in the rafters, cavorts with a life-size anatomical model of a skeleton, hums along to the soundtrack (as the cat meows along in melody and dances, via jump cuts, across the piano keys) and tucks into a human hand before giving one last wistful smile.

In House no in-camera editing trick, movement or movie-making technique is left untried. Speed the frames up, slow them down, reverse them, force perspective, spin the camera, use animation always, pedestal, dolly, truck and use as much stage blood as the censors will allow and do it, all of it, at will and never, never go light on the sound effects. It’s like Obayashi took George Lucas’s stage directions to the actors in Star Wars, to heart: “Faster. More Intense.”

House stands as a monument to imagination and DIY invention, a thumb in the eye to today’s slick, vapid binary fascism of entertainment. For the love of God, see House and believe. Speaking of which, for those fun goalies out there, perhaps Jesus’s advice to Thomas is enough: “blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed.”

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Keith Silva writes for Comics Bulletin. He didn’t want to spoil the bit about the bananas, but, c’mon, if the ten seconds we get to see Togo’s unfortunate fate doesn’t sum up this eighty-eight minutes of whack-a-doo-ery, what would? Probably the other eighty-seven-minutes-and-fifty-seconds, seriously.  Follow @keithpmsilva on Twitter.