Campy Teen Soaps and Other Mysteries

by Jillian Butler, Ampersandology

Did you celebrate 90210 Day yesterday? That's right: September 2nd, 2010 = 9/02/10 Day. There's no day when the human race wouldn't be better served flouting a long-dead campy teenage hot mess. What a glorious age we live in!

My own memories of Beverly Hills 90210 begin and end with one item of clothing: a relative had purchased a nightdress for me with Luke Perry's face on it, under the mistaken impression that being both a girl and often awake meant that I like looooooooved OMG Beverly Hills 90210. Sadly, this was untrue; being 10 meant that I was usually in bed . For one thing, I had no idea who Luke Perry was, and I thought he was funny looking; I do not yet disagree with my younger self. Anyway, I figured that as long as I had the nightdress (emblazoned, as it was, with all the neons of the rainbow) I might as well watch the show. I was unimpressed, but now look back on that

To celebrate the just-passed 90210 Day, let's revisit this delicious old nugget from Aught '08, re-imagining the credits of the Citizen Kane of Our Time in the vein of precious early 1990s teen-y soap operas.



However, if all this confuses you, you clearly weren't watching television by 1992, and you will kindly leave this blog. Leave it now. If you missed the Berlin Wall, we just can't be friends.

But on another note, Chuck Bass, ladies and gentlemen.

Have a suggestion for a future Ampersandology topic? Got something you’d like to say? All feedback welcome! Shoot us an email at ampersandology@gmail.com, or follow Ampersandology on Facebook. 

Author Slash Rock Star

If I was already ensnared by the writing, when I saw the photograph on the back
flap of the published edition I was seriously smitten; the Jagger lips, moody
monobrow and fag between two fingers exactly fitted the image I’d formed of a
coldly alluring Martin Amis. And even sexier was the discovery that, having left
Oxford with a first-class honours degree in English he was, as his protagonist
dubs himself, “fucking clever”.

This article, detailing the love affair of Martin Amis and Julie Kavanagh, is the best thing in the world. No joke. I Googled "best thing in the world" and this came up. On the Google in my head, anyway.

Phony Me, Phony You

Oh, J.D. You lovable scamp!

Anyone with half an ear tuned to the ground would have heard the literary stomp that came after the recent announcement of an unauthorized sequel to The Catcher in the Rye. J.D. Salinger, notoriously silent in the 40-odd years since the novel was published, is mad as hell, and he’s not going to take it anymore. He’s talking lawsuits, and he’s talking raining hellfire, and…it’s pretty much the first thing he’s talked in about 40 years.

And my response? Eh.

What can I say? Salinger’s solitude –driven, as I understand it, from the intense and somewhat misguided fervor of the novel’s fans—has become something of an American cultural touchstone. To seek out Salinger’s remote mountain location is to chase some simmering footnote of American memorabilia. Like Howard Hughes and his toenail jars, or the mother-daughter two-punch of Grey Gardens, Salinger’s willful exclusion reeks of an American experience so thoroughly out of place that of course it couldn’t happen anywhere else.

Let me expand. Few other cultures seem to grant this celebrity-like status on the members of its societies who decide to exclude themselves. America’s a funny place like that: while it was fostered on hard-boiled individualism and the triumph of will, it can’t help but point at the weirdoes who choose to exert that will in a way that goes against the populist grain. In other words, if you don’t join into the reindeer games, what the hell is wrong with you?

Anyway, I think the point I was trying to arrive at is that Salinger’s actions, in a way, created its own cult that probably extended the shelf life of his novel. In the interest of full disclosure, there’s no love lost between the original and I. I held off on reading it for the better part of my life because of its devoted cult-like following. I read it eventually, because I felt it was my cultural duty, but walked away with the reaction I suspected I would have: eh.

I’ll put my own personal animosity aside for a moment to say this: The Catcher in the Rye is fine. But it’s really a work that’s become bigger than itself. Holden Caulfield has been adopted into the popular mindset, if not in name, at least in spirit. Could it be, then, that Salinger’s "most powerful…most eloquent, perhaps his most lasting work of art" is his silence and disavowal of society, as Ron Rosenbaum suggests?

If that’s true, then kudos on the commitment. This guy could put Brando to shame.

For an article comparing this latest controversy to one involving Vladimir Nabokov, an author of profound merit, read Ron Rosenbaum’s latest at Slate.com.

I have good news and bad news about Buffy.

The good news: A new Buffy the Vampire Slayer movie is officially in the works.

The bad news: You won't want anything to do with it.

Here's the lowdown: it all comes down to Fran Rubel Kuzui (whose name avid Buffy watchers, like myself, will vaguely remember rolled with every set of credits). She's the rights-holder to the entire franchise (and director of the 1992 film) and got it in her head that she'd like to resurrect (haha, get it? Resurrect? Vampires? Whew. Tough crowd) the series.

Only without Joss Whedon. Or Xander, Willow or Giles. Or Buffy. Which makes it....The Vampire Slayer?

And that's all well and good, I guess. I'll admit with only 24% shame that I've read more than one Tales of the Slayer, and most of those volumes combined with the Fray graphic novel supported the notion that a Slayer other than Buffy could be interesting.

But, um, how do I say this without betraying my 12 year old self?

Oh, I know: the story itself kind of...sucks.

Well, only really as Fran Rubel's version painted it (a technique I affectionately call a "whitewash"). Let's take a walk down Memory Lane, shall we? Back to a time which Joss Whedon probably refers to as the Dark Ages: 1992, and the release of the original theatrical version of Buffy.

Whedon's original conception, as most fans will tell you, came from a twist on an old horror movie cliche: what if the little blonde girl cowering in the alleyway turned around and beat up the villains herself? On paper, it has promise, but pointed more towards Campsville than actually provoking some kind of commentary on gender relations.

Joss wrote that script, not that you could guess from the final edit. The possibilities for camp + sexy blonde proved too tempting for the bigwigs in charge (alas--you should have seen the original version of American Pie 2. A stirring evocation of youth through the travails of its nubile, privileged characters, not unlike a young Henry Miller). Last minute casting changes, low budgets, and a studio-sized dent in the production notes left the actual release a big mess of...well, if I wasn't such a lady, I'd have a very apt description for you.

It took a deft hand many years later to turn that dreck into one of the best television shows that ever aired. To layer that little blonde girl with enough pathos, vulnerability and smarts so that we not only believe this girl can kick ass, but we really really want to see her do it. To turn a fight scene into something more emotional and cathartic than a simple kick, punch, block routine. To turn being young into something more dangerous than fighting demons, and make the monsters literal AND figurative.

In other words, it took Joss Whedon, and the Buffy the Vampire Slayer mythos only caught on because of what he poured into it. It's his dialogue, his pop culture references, his infuriating tendency to rip the still-beating heart from your chest and play with it like a cat before popping it back in place.

To no one's surprise, it's the success of the Twilight franchise that has studio fingers poised over the green light button. Which really, should piss me off more, considering that this forces me to think for three seconds longer than I like to grant those stupid, brain-candy wish-fulfillment books.

[SIDERANT! On the subject of that insipid series: GOD! EDWARD! Seriously, I understand that every teenage girl needs a non-threatening sex object onto which to project her hopes and desires (though going the extra stretch to make him a spineless eunuch was a nice touch, I'll admit). But that doesn't excuse the countless people my own age who lust after what is a chesspiece in what's essentially a fable for the joys of abstinence. I've studied this subject considerably and I'm here to say: these watered down, defanged vampires that stand around all day conflicted about their blood lust aren't attractive. They're the product of a coddled, Oprah-fied society. They defeat the purpose of being a vampire and therefore, are LAME. Ahem. Siderant over.]

And Fran, honey? If you still think it's just a cute young girl punching demons and being quippy, then I don't even need to wish this project failure. It already is one.

Moviehole: Buffy Movie Officially in the Works

The Future's So Bright, We're All Going to Need Corrective Eye Surgery

You've played with kids before, right? You know how they do something cute once, and you laugh, and they get really excited and keep doing it? Remember how it's funny the first twenty times or so, and then you find yourself shifting uncomfortably while you try and come up with a way to tell the kid to go away without scarring them for life? 

Keep that metaphor in mind while you read this post. 

From what I've heard, advance buzz about the new Star Trek reboot is mostly positive--it's a lot of excitement from both fans and non-fans alike. But one other thing has surfaced about the new Star Trek, that has little to do with how good it is or isn't: it's probably GOING TO BLIND YOU. 

Director J.J. Abrams (Jabrams to those with the peculiar and temperamental relationship with him only a fan can have) proves himself once again intent on having the reviews of his film focused on one or two schlocky gimmicks instead of what's going on with the moving pictures. With Cloverfield, it was shaky camera angles. With Lost, it's the fact that no plot line can ever be tied up without three more growing in its place (the Hydra school of film making). And with Felicity, it was that no girl could possibly be that self-obsessed and yet so blithely unaware. 

He continues this proud tradition with: lens flare? 

Yes, lens flare. i09 interviewed the man himself on the abnormal amount of flaring lens in the advance screening of the film. And what did he say? Well, I didn't really follow, but the subtext was definitely along the lines of, "GUYS HOW AWESOME IS THIS?!?!one!!"

"I know what you're saying with the lens flares. It was one of those things ... I know there are certain shots where even I watch and think, 'Oh that's ridiculous, that was too many' ... There is something incredibly unpredictable and gorgeous about them. It is a really fun thing. Our DP would be off camera with this incredibly powerful flashlight aiming it at the lens. It became an art because different lenses required angles, and different proximity to the lens. Sometimes, when we were outside we'd use mirrors. Certain sizes were too big ... literally, it was ridiculous. It was like another actor in the scene ... So it was this ridiculous, added level of pain in the ass, but I love ... [looking at] the final cut, [the flares] to me, were a fun additional touch that I think, while overdone, in some places, it feels like the future is that bright.

I swear, sometimes he seems like an overgrown kid who still can't buy that the grown-ups are letting him house-sit. 

Before you go gettin' cocky and assuming that they still haven't made a lens flare YOU can't whip, then watch the following brief scene. And imagine it ten times bigger and also brighter. 

Oh, I'm going. I'm just going to close my eyes against, Raiders of the Lost Ark style, because they can't hurt me if I don't see them. 

(via Vulture)

Greed is ALIVE AGAIN!

In a truly stunning turn of events, Oliver Stone is in talks to make a sequel to his 1987 ode to high finance greed, Wall Street (the origin, you'll recall, of Gordon Gecko's famous mantra "Greed is good."). Details are still sketchy, but this is the most excited I've been about an abstract concept in a long time. 

Let's face it: Stone has lost a lot of what little appeal he had in the first place. He really made his name taking already sensational headlines and simply adding more exclamation points: his projects are marked by the oversaturation of his subjects with sensationalism, migraine-inducing editing and loud noises until people started paying attention. So his decision to revisit what really made him relevant in the first place (Wall Street, and timely digression on the nature of the cynical, fast money designs of the 1980s) is not only a stroke of genius, but also a deliciously ripe hot mess waiting to happen. 

Because Wall Street has always seemed like one of those films whose influence is greater than its actual audience, as Gecko's strong advocacy of greed (and wish-fulfilling lawful prosecution as the credits close) came to represent the money-hungry, moral-lite version of the 1980s so rampant in pop culture. Three years after its release, its mantra was central to a 1990 Newsweek cover story that asked the counter to Gecko's assessment: "Is Greed Dead?" Most recently, Owen Gleiberman of Entertainment Weekly proclaimed that the film was an eerie foreshadow, as watched today it "reveals something now which it couldn't back then: that the Gordon Gekkos of the world weren't just getting rich -- they were creating an alternate reality that was going to crash down on all of us."

So, this remake/sequel idea is clearly outstanding, for several reasons (helpfully outlined below): 

Item 1: The timing is perfect-almost too perfect. Given that the germ of this recession was born in the self-centered and image-obsessed 1980s, History will look back on these days with an oddly comforting stance. It pretty much proof that history repeats itself, with a a built-in cross reference. The original has the delicious, tawdry feel of a morality tale that got caught up in its own vices,  and this sequel could potentially give many bruised consumers the cathartic growl they need. 

Item 2: It's being called a sequel, but everyone knows it will be more like an updated remake. Or at least it should be, if they're smart. Which instead of lame and unimaginative, is instead of AMAZING IN EVERY WAY. Think of it: what other somewhat forgotten 1980s movie is so ripe for a second life? (If you said Willow, you leave this blog. Leave it right now). So if they could only manage to keep the same themes, power struggles and stock characters, superficially updated to accommodate the recession, this will be brilliant. There is no way that film could fail. 

Item 3: I saved the best part for last but: not only is MICHAEL DOUGLAS returning as Gordon Gecko, but do you know who will reportedly take the role of the naive but quick to tarnish young financier? SHIA LEBEOUF! Yes, everyone, Shia LeBeouf once again proves himself the only working young actor by snagging this plum role. Originally filled by charmingly wooden Charlie Sheen, this role will give Shia the chance to use that smarmy baby-face to sarcastically fight the Man (AND MAYBE MORE?!?). 

It's unfortunate Shia doesn't have a father who is conveniently also an actor, thus sealing the onscreen father/son relationship with the rich layers that only quality stunt casting can accomplish. The father/son dynamic, with Martin Sheen acting as the ignored voice of reason to son Charlie, was actually one of the strongest parts of the original, with Gecko's counter influence acting like an incubus on the natural bonds of the American family unit. Or something! 

Early reports are promising--with writers on the project maintaining that the recently-released Gecko will appear to have reformed but ACTUAL QUOTE! "A leopard doesn't change its spots." That, random writer on the project, is a true thing.   

The possibilities are literally endless. If this turns out to come to nothing, I'll be very disappointed. I feel like this project is the last chance Olivier Stone to give his 1987 self an eternal high five.

Aftermath: Catastrophe.

I KNEW IT. Almost $5,000 on the nose. 

Lunch with Jon Hamm has gone to someone else. a***c, you have made a powerful enemy in me today. 

This is right for so many reasons.

I've been reading Brando biographies again, which is nothing sort of usual around these parts. This week it's Patricia Bosworth's Marlon Brando.  I've found a lot of speculation on screen legends in general (and Brando in particular) gets caught up in wading through the pile-up of hard-to-verify anecdotes that gather up over the crawling decades, trying to separate man/woman from myth. 

I don't think that should ever be a factor with Brando. If anything, my excessive reading on this hot mess dandy has taught me that I don't really believe there IS a separation to be found. Yes, I'm pretty sure Brando actually was that unbelievable. 

Any Brando biography worth its salt will deliver on this front, serving up an outstanding anecdote or two which all defy explanation, rationalization, and beg to be proven wrong. But you can't. Brando was a Bad News Bear of the first degree.

I like this one: violence, bitchiness and the triumph of Brando (despite himself). Brando had been cast as Stanley for Tennessee Williams' A Streetcar Named Desire on Broadway. The role was originally written for a much older man, but Tennessee fell head first for Brando's vicious portrayal and practically gift-wrapped the role for him (he was known to admonish director Elia Kazan to just "Let Marlon be."). Rehearsals began in the New Amsterdam Roof Theater and newcomer Brando was a bit of a loose cannon.... 

…Brando’s instincts took him all sorts of places in rehearsals, as in the famous birthday party scene in which he stormed from the table, then slammed his hand down on the plate, smashing it to smithereens. As he delivered his line, My place is cleared, you want me to clear your places?” he swept the rest of the plates from the table with a great crash. The first time he played the scene full out, he had to keep picking shards of china from his bloodied fingers, but he spoke his lines anyway. He was totally into his character.

On opening night in New Haven the show was a technical shambles. The complex lighting didn't work. Music cues were off. But when Brando entered as Blanche DuBois' brutal executioner, in his jeans and t-shirt clutching his bloody package of meat, the audience gasped.

[…]

 [After the show] playwright Thornton Wilder, author of The Skin of Our Teeth…primly gave his critique of Streetcar: it was negative. He maintained that the play was based on a totally false premise. No southern belle as genteel as Stella would marry a brute like Stanley, let alone succumb to his sexual violence.

Tennessee Williams listened politely for as long as he could, but when Wilder was out of earshot, he murmured, "That man has never had a good lay!"

Ha.  Outstanding.