My first Collegian column.
What a buzz; nothing like the thought of thousands of devoted readers eventually knocking down my door for autographs or spare lingerie. Oh the ecstasy, the ego-trip . . . the responsibility, the deadlines, the stress.
Argh.
I need a topic to enhance my sense of self worth and calm me.
Movies -- the perfect remedy to cure life's pale moments.
For the umpteenth summer, I felt a need to witness every motion picture available for consumption. I rampaged through every film playing, topping out at five in one week.
This year's crop left me hollerin' for the days when movies had that something special: A TITLE WITHOUT A NUMBER AFTER IT.
True, this summer did not rival last year's season of sequels, but Terminator 2: Judgment Day will probably pummel all competitors and be, as Arnold predicted, "the biggest summa moofie."
I grow weary of the whole dastardly affair. Hollywood leaves me cold. This from the person whose ultimate weekend getaway involves spastic interaction with the Star Wars trilogy. Hollywood's hypocrisy and banality of spirit cultivate lack of faith in the most fanatical movie-goer.
I yearn for the days when schlock filmmaking didn't cower behind pyrotechnics. The action film genre, while providing a momentary release of sexual tension crushes adult drama.
Case in point: Distributors consider winter months the high season for adult dramas. This window grows ever slimmer. Just this year The Silence of the Lambs pounced on unsuspecting viewers on Feb. 14. The film's mental anguish pushed it into the horror strata. In 1990, the year's first mega-budget action flick arrived in early March.
This summer cemented my disillusionment.
The most heinous affront to the public was the gargantuan number of releases. You needed to go to the movies nightly to catch them all, which at these prices would drive you into bankruptcy faster than an S&L. The headspinning pace would have left you with little respect or pleasurable recall.
Studio rhetoric impresses the need for a summer blitzkrieg, since kids have no school. If I ever grow up and have kids, the last thing I'll inspire them to do is waste away in a movie theater. Such a life breeds nothing but pop culture junkies, who can not name all the state capitols.
If Hollywood does not toss the kids-out-of-school line at us, they whittle their way out of releasing uninventive films by calling it free choice. What choice? Does Hollywood really believe that they do not practice the most sinister form of generic filmmaking?
This summer's release assault also squeezed out independent films and bumped less-publicized features below an acceptable weekly gross level.
For instance, after hearing about Thelma and Louise, I rushed to my newspaper for showtimes. It played at one theater in my area. That is fine if you live in Hicksville; I live in an over-crowded Philadephia suburb. Before I retreated to school, the film already illuminated the marquee of the one-show-a-night theater.
John Singleton's Boyz N the Hood covered violent subject matter without exploring brutality --worth a looksee. However, the only theater near me not paranoid about possible violence still dumped the film after a short release.
Now I've returned to Wonderland with glee in my heart at the prospect of a multiplex in my own backyard. However, I harbor little hope of an offbeat winner like Joel and Ethan Coen's Barton Fink ever arriving.
State College movie offerings often leave me asking that age-old party question: Who invited this lout and when will it leave?
I do not wish to assail filmmakers -- I did not hate any film this summer. I realize artists are the wretched refuse, spat out if grosses do not suit.
I've decided to aim my disgruntlement at the studio executive -- more than likely an under-30 ass kisser whose parent got him/her the post. I will whack them where it really counts.
The only remedy I forsee is the systematic rebuking of all movie-going. However, my painful, costly addiction to films leaves me little choice but to wishy-washily accept an alternative. I will not see another big-budget studio production this semester. (How's that for bold?)
I cheer Cinema World, Inc. for leaping to my aid. Their new status as a pseudo-art theater will surely help keep me in celluloid. Keep those art films coming, but I still want John Turturro.
We must all realize that beyond Batman 25, and Jean Claude van Damme's kick-'em-ups lurks an untapped world of filmgoing pleasure.
After supporting the Tinseltown machine for 15 odd years I feel like the ultimate Benedict Arnold; but never did a traitor feel so guilty.
I spit at the system. I implore you to do the same.
Now then my loyal charges, if you too dare to dream of a world without tyranny, a degree in four years and a hipper movie scene, raise your right pinky and take the Students and People Against Sucky Movies (S.P.A.S.M.) oath.
"I will not venture to another gore fest; I shun all tearjerkers; I triple-dog dare anyone to drag me to an action thriller. I spit at the system."
That wasn't so taxing, now was it? I expect to see all Die Hard S.P.A.S.M inductees working hard to Terminate their film withdrawal and go to Bat, man for our cause.
