6/24/15: The Cause of, and Solution to, All of Life’s Problems

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'80s comedies, ad agencies, advertising agency, advertising industry, Alan C. Peterson, Alar Aedma, alcoholism, Allan Weisbecker, alternate title, bad films, battle of the sexes, Beer, Bill Butler, Bill Conti, brewery, cinema, comedies, David Alan Grier, David Wohl, Dick Shawn, directorial debut, film reviews, films, homophobia, husband-wife relationship, Kenneth Mars, Loretta Swit, masculinity, Mel Brooks, misogyny, Movies, Norbecker, offensive films, over-the-top, Patrick Kelly, Peter Michael Goetz, racist, Rip Torn, satire, Saul Stein, sexist, silly films, spoof, The Selling of America, TV ads, unlikely heroes, William Russ

Every once in a while, a movie comes along that manages to genuinely surprise me, for one reason or another. It might be a film that’s surprisingly good or even unexpectedly great. It might be a “sure thing” that fails miserably, maybe something by a beloved filmmaker that manages to completely miss the mark. On very rare occasions, a movie might surprise with an unexpectedly thought-provoking concept or some heretofore unexplored insights into the human condition. And then, of course, there’s Beer (1985), also known by the much more on-the-nose title The Selling of America.

In this particular case, Beer surprises by being one of the most outrageously misguided, casually offensive films that I think I’ve ever seen. Coming across as a completely tone-deaf attempt to emulate the societal critique of Mel Brooks’ immortal Blazing Saddles (1974), Kelly’s film is stuffed to bursting with so many outdated, honestly offensive observations on race, feminism, masculinity, nationality, gender and sexuality that it makes something like Porky’s (1982) seem progressive. Beer is a “have your cake and eat it, too” kind of film, a movie that wants to shake a finger at society’s ills while gleefully indulging in the same sort of bad behavior.

A.J. Norbecker (Mel Brooks mainstay Kenneth Mars) has a bit of a problem: the German-born brewery owner is experiencing an unprecedented drop in sales and he places the blame squarely on the advertising agency that’s handling his promotional material. As Norbecker sees it, all beer is just “piss-water”: it’s the ads that really make the difference and he wants ads as cool as Miller and the other major players. To that end, he gives the agency’s president, Harley Feemer (Peter Michael Goetz), an ultimatum: beef up their campaign, increase his sales or lose their biggest client.

Behind the scenes, Feemer and the other guys try, in vain, to come up with anything original. Leave it to B.D. Tucker (M.A.S.H.’s Loretta Swit), the agency’s “token female executive” (their phrase, of course) to come up with the only good idea: they need an ad campaign that will appeal to the common, everyday man who’s the actual market for Norbecker Beer…nothing posh, highfalutin’ or pretentious, just a bunch of normal, macho guys drinking beer. Hiring her old friend, former hotshot director/current washed-up alcoholic Buzz Beckerman (Rip Torn, consuming scenery like a black hole), B.D. goes about putting together the ad campaign that will reset Norbecker’s fortune and secure her own future.

As luck would have it, B.D. and Buzz find their ideal spokesmen when they witness a trio of doofuses accidentally stop an attempted robbery in a dive bar. The three guys are perfect for their purposes, mostly because they’re not real people so much as generic templates: Merle (William Russ) is a good-ol’-boy (complete with steer horns on his Cadillac) fish out of water in big, bad New York City; Frankie (Saul Stein) is an Italian-American construction worker with a raging libido and the kind of enormous, stereotypical Italian family that passes around bowls of pasta large enough to drown in; and Elliot (David Alan Grier) is an uber-nerdy black lawyer who gets pushed around at his blatantly racist firm and fights a losing battle, at home, to prevent his young son from listening to boomboxes (no, really).

In no time at all, Merle, Frankie and Elliot are national heroes and superstars: all men want to be them and all women want to bed them, which is quite a change from their former loser/unemployed statuses. With new-found fame, however, comes a whole new raft of problems. Merle begins to feel a loss of identity and pines for the simpler life, Frankie develops erectile dysfunction just as he becomes a sex symbol and formerly nice-guy Elliot is starting to treat his wife and kid like crap. As the men become more and more wrapped-up in their manufactured personas, their real selves begin to fall by the wayside.

As the campaign continues to pick up steam, B.D. looks to find new ways to keep her manufactured stars in the media spotlight, mostly by injecting some all-important sex appeal into the proceedings (“Whip out your Norbecker…Beer!). With feminists around the country in an uproar, Norbecker Beer becomes more popular than ever, cornering a whopping 50% of the U.S. market. Norbecker, obviously ecstatic, sets his sights a little higher: he decides that he wants to take over the European market, as well, believing that a “surprise advertising blitz” will allow him to take over Germany (his first name is Adolph, after all). Will our hapless heroes end up losing their very humanity, becoming as callous and ruthless as the Madison Avenue execs that made them what they are? Will B.D. ever earn the respect that she so desperately wants? Will Adolph conquer Europe? Whip out your Norbecker and find out for yourself!

Make no bones about it: Beer (or The Selling of America, whichever you prefer) is an absolute mess, albeit a fascinating one. The biggest, most obvious issue with the film is that director Patrick Kelly (on his sole production, apparently) and screenwriter Allan Weisbecker (who also wrote an episode of Miami Vice) have absolutely no grasp on the supposedly satirical material whatsoever. Beer ends up in that nebulous “no-man’s-land” between pointing out the systematic stupidity of things like sexism and racism and actively upholding said prejudicial viewpoints. It’s the equivalent of someone who goes out of their way to explain that they aren’t racist before busting out the most virulently racist joke you’ve ever heard. It’s the “feminist” who drops a wink while telling women to get back into the kitchen, the “progressive” who thinks the term “twinkletoes” is a perfectly acceptable descriptor for a gay man.

Time and time again, the film seems to be attempting to poke holes in these very real issues while also attempting to milk them for easy, shallow laughs, many of which end up being more than a little mean-spirited. At one point, B.D. tells Elliot that he isn’t “black enough,” so he goes home and watches a handy “black studies” videotape, picking up such important tips as grabbing his crotch, swaggering and walking around with a boombox. When he shows up to the next shoot looking like an extra from Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo (1985), B.D. is absolutely shocked: “You look like you just stepped out of the ghetto! When I said ‘black,’ I didn’t mean ‘black-black’!” Funny shit, right?

Or how about the thoroughly “fresh” way in which Frankie’s entire family seems to have stepped out of a dinner-theater version of Mama Mia, complete with endless shouting and fainting when our friendly mook reveals that he plans to move out of their unbelievably crowded apartment? He’s only 29, after all, which is way too early for a good Italian boy to cut the apron strings. Frankie’s also such a completely irresistible ladies’ man that even when he can’t get it up, his conquest-of-the-moment blames it all on herself, begging him profusely for the opportunity to “do better” and not “disappoint him.” Whatta guy, right?

We even get a heart-warming, climatic scene where Merle and Frankie must wade into the “horrors” of a gay bar and “rescue” poor, drunk Elliot from a fate worse than death: that the scene devolves into the kind of rousing fist fight that would be more at home in Road House (1989) probably goes a long way towards indicating where the filmmakers sympathies lie. Never fear, however: it’s all balanced when ol’ Norbecker decides to market a new “lite” beer to gay men. As we see him cavort with a bunch of half-naked men in a sauna, he delivers the immortal pitch-line: “You can take it in the bottle or you can take it in the can.” Because, you know, “can” is also used as a slang word for “butt” and that’s kind of funny, right?

Truth be told, not much in Beer is actually funny, though nearly all of it is pitched at the kind of frantic, hysterical pace that usually denotes slapstick comedy. There are moments that manage to shine through the mess: the various TV commercials are actually pretty good and Buzz gets in a great line about how he once made Alan Ladd look “six feet tall” (I’m a movie nerd: that’s the kind of reference that makes me chuckle, sadly enough). The acting is also just fine (or, at the very least, it’s all of a piece with the film’s overall tone), with fantastic turns from David Alan Grier (in a very thankless role) and Loretta Swit (in an even more thankless role).

While I frequently found myself cringing during the film, my heart really went out to poor Swit: she really is a great actress and she gives the performance her all but it’s a ruthlessly stacked deck, from the get-go. Nothing about the character of B.D. really makes sense (at one point, she actively fights against sexualizing the ads, only to flip-flop a moment later) and the filmmakers seem bound and determined to humiliate her as much as possible. Rather than letting B.D. succeed, since she mounted a successful ad campaign and won a coveted CLEO award, we instead get the pathetic culmination where Merle comes to his senses and decides to leave, spurring B.D. to bed him to stay: “Do I have to get down on my knees,” she asks, with her tone and body language pointing to the obvious.

Turning B.D. into the butt of the film’s joke actually manages to sum up the movie’s problems in a pretty good nutshell: while Beer makes noises about tackling issues like sexism, racism and masculinity, it’s pretty clear that its sympathies lie elsewhere. The feminist protesters are portrayed as shrill nuts, the gay men in the club are lascivious wolves, the German guy is power-mad and the only one who makes any sense is the guy who looks like he stepped out of an old Western. It’s a stacked deck, regardless of how ridiculous the prejudicial portrayals are: showcasing an eye-rollingly obvious example of racism isn’t the same thing as condemning or commenting on it, after all.

There will, undoubtedly, be many who would counter my observations with the rejoinder that Beer is nothing more than a typical, ’80s comedy (almost, but not quite, a sex comedy, to boot): was I really expecting any kind of astute observations on anything? I’ll freely admit that I never expected Beer to be a great film, nor even a particularly smart one. There’s nothing wrong with dumb, politically incorrect comedies: I saw more than my fair share of Police Academy and Porky’s movies, growing up, and I don’t consider myself to be a raging, misogynist beast. This is a very different era than 30 years ago (or even 10 years ago, to be honest) and certain mindsets have a tendency to look as quaint as museum setpieces in this day and age.

At the end of the day, however, Beer can really only be judged on its own merits. As a film, it’s silly, nonsensical, occasionally funny but, for the most part, resoundingly lunk-headed. With too many detours into genuine racism and sexism to have much modern value, Beer/The Selling of America will probably best be remembered as a curio, a representation of a time when films could flaunt flagrant stereotypes, all in the guise of “making a statement.” Don’t be fooled, though: the only statement here is that this Beer is warm, flat and skunky.

7/1/14: That New World Odor

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Aaron Poole, Alan C. Peterson, Bruce Clayton, Christopher MacBride, cinema, conspiracy theories, conspiracy theorists, cults, feature-film debut, film reviews, films, found-footage, James Gilbert, Lina Roessler, Mithras, Movies, New World Order, paranoia, secret societies, Tarsus Club, the Bilderberg Group, The Conspiracy, thrillers, writer-director

If you think about it, it’s really not so difficult to imagine that some sort of world-wide conspiracy is responsible for the current state of the world. After all, in a time when the rich and multi-national corporations have their hand in everything from food safety to the justice system to scientific research, it’s not a stretch to assume that they don’t really have the best interests of “the rest of us” in mind. After all, the robber barons may have built America but they didn’t build it for the railroad workers, the slaves and the “poor, huddled masses”: they built it for themselves and were “nice” enough to allow everybody else to live there…for a price, of course. Just because the notion of a secret, all-powerful group who runs the world from behind the scenes is plausible, however, certainly doesn’t make it fact. As with many things, the belief in large-scale conspiracies requires no small amount of faith on the part of the believer: after all, you can find a pattern in almost anything, if you look hard enough. On the other hand, however…is it really paranoia if someone is actually out to get you?

Writer-director Christopher MacBride tackles this idea of global, secretive society head-on in his recent found-footage thriller, The Conspiracy (2012) and the results are certainly fascinating, if less than eye-opening. While much of the film revolves around some pretty basic, “Conspiracy 101” ideas (chem-trails, the Illuminati, secret societies, the NSA, New World Order, et al), The Conspiracy manages to be more than just a soapbox: there’s plenty of genuine tension and a cracking good ending that manages to reference both The Wicker Man (1973) and Kill List (2011) while still managing to maintain its own sense of self. While The Conspiracy might not have the capacity to change the world, it certainly offers a nice respite from the usual “haunted house/lost in the woods/exploring the asylum”-type of found footage films and should certainly hold some appeal for fans of more thoughtful horror offerings.

Beginning with a quote from Benjamin Disraeli about how the world is governed by very different forces than we imagine, we’re introduced to our protagonists, Aaron (Aaron Poole) and Jim (James Gilbert), a pair of filmmakers making a documentary about conspiracy theorists. Jim is the more settled of the two, thanks to his loving wife, Tracy (Lina Roessler) and infant son, while Aaron is the wilder and woollier of the pair (at times, Poole reminds of Aaron Paul). We’re told that the dynamic duo began working with uber-conspiracy theorist Terrance G (Alan C. Peterson) in 2011, after coming across YouTube clips of Terrance practicing his particular brand of street-corner conspiracy evangelism. His goal, as he tells the fellows, is to let “them” know that he knows about them: watching the watchers, as it were.

After a July 11th interview, however, Aaron and Jim lose contact with Terrance for four weeks. Going to his formerly cluttered apartment, they find the whole place cleaned-out, save for heaps of the newspaper clippings that Terrance kept tagged to every available surface in his place. Taking the assorted clippings with them, the pair is, at first, extremely flippant about Terrance’s disappearance (“Maybe the mother-ship came and picked him up”) but are still curious about his “research.” As Aaron becomes more and more invested in the clippings, however, he begins to adopt some of Terrance’s rather nutso tendencies, such as filling every available surface in his home with clippings, scraps of paper and pictures while also noticing a distressing amount of mysterious folks hanging around everywhere. Jim is naturally skeptical of the whole thing (“Every conspiracy theory is up there: if you stare at it long enough, of course it will make sense,” Jim tells Aaron in exasperation) but begins to come around when Aaron makes a breakthrough. According to Terrance’s research, Aaron is able to trace the source of many of these conspiracies back to a single group: the Tarsus Club (standing in for the real-life Bilderberg Group).

According to Aaron (and Terrance), the Tarsus Club (whose symbol is a red bull’s head) has been pulling the strings on every major political, socio-economic and cultural issue for generations: their meetings always seem to occur right before big, world-changing events (such as wars) and the group seems unnecessarily secretive: their website describes Tarsus as “a membership-only club for leaders” and a call to their listed phone number only results in an automated female voice repeating Aaron’s phone back, over and over. Clearly, something is going on here and the guys do what any self-respecting researchers would do: they flood the internet with requests for any and all information about the Tarsus Club and their activities. Soon, they’re sent an invitation to meet in one of the online conspiracy virtual chat-rooms that Terrance frequented: once there, they’re introduced to Mark Tucker (Bruce Clayton), the supposed author of a Time Magazine article about the Tarsus Club. Mark agrees to meet with them, in person, and give them the low-down on Tarsus, provided they stop with all the internet stuff: according to him, it’s just pricking the bull (so to speak) and will only result in them getting unceremoniously squashed.

Mark proves to be a rather strange, enigmatic figure, whose obviously broken and reset hand speaks to some pretty dire stuff in his background. He fills them in on the Tarsus Club, telling them that the club actually dates back to a pre-Christian cult that worshipped the god Mithras. Mithras was always depicted killing a bull, hence the bull-head symbol, and Tarsus Club meeting always include the ritual killing of a bull. When asked what the point of all this is, Mark readily points to the New World Order: the desire to put more power in the hands of fewer people has resulted in the entire world being split up between a few factions, all of which are connected to Tarsus.

As time passes, Aaron becomes more and more paranoid: he sees strangers stalking him at all times and ends up moving in with Jim and Tracy after his apartment is ransacked. When a mysterious, black SUV shows up at Jim’s house late one night, he begins to get the notion that this whole enterprise might be a wee bit hazardous for him and his family but Aaron refuses to back down. When Mark tells them that he can actually sneak them into the next Tarsus Club meeting, so that they can see what goes on firsthand, Aaron jumps at the chance, dragging a much more hesitant Jim along for the ride. The pair will soon learn, however, to be careful what they wish for, as they get to witness, firsthand, just how the Tarsus Club conducts business.

As a unique spin on found-footage films, The Conspiracy really stands out, with one rather odd caveat: most of the cinematography is way too good to ever be passed off as found-footage. In fact, up until the two infiltrate the meeting, there’s not much of the film that couldn’t pass for a more “traditional” paranoid thriller. While I expected this to bother me, I actually got used to it pretty quick: in many ways, The Conspiracy is more of a faux-documentary than a found-footage film (at least until the final 15 minutes or so). The cinematography, by veteran camera operator Ian Anderson (who also makes an appearance in the film), is quite good throughout and goes a long way towards establishing the film’s chilly, sinister atmosphere.

I was also quite fond of many of MacBride’s filmmaking tricks, such as the decision to “blur out” all of the faces of the people at the Tarsus Club: this added an extra air of authenticity to the proceedings, which helped with the overall suspension of disbelief. In fact, everything about the Tarsus Club portion is spot-on and pretty great, especially from a horror standpoint. If the film has the occasional rough moment in its first two-thirds, the back-half is consistently well-done and, at times, quite frightening. While I could see the ending coming fairly early on (if you watch enough of these kinds of films, it’s pretty inevitable, regardless of the quality of said film), MacBride still managed to throw a few twists in that I didn’t see coming. The Conspiracy is MacBride’s feature debut and I’m genuinely interested to see where he goes from here: I’m not sure if the gentleman is actually interested in conspiracy theories or is merely mining fertile ground for his own uses but he’s obviously a talented filmmaker/writer, which is always a great find.

Ultimately, despite its emphasis on conspiracy theories and paranoia, The Conspiracy is not simply aimed at a core, captive audience. I’m willing to bet that anyone, regardless of political or social believes, would find something to like in the film: after all, remove the conspiracy angle stuff and you’re still left with a whip-smart thriller that features just enough horror elements to appeal to a wide swatch of potential viewers. While The Conspiracy may not revolutionize the world (or filmmaking, for that matter), it’s a more than worthy addition to the growing canon of found-footage/first-person-POV films and should appeal to anyone with an open mind and about 80 minutes to kill. Remember, though: it’s not paranoia if they’re actually out to get you.