Control Nathan Rabin 4.0
a column where I give patrons a chance to choose a movie for me to see and write about for a one time one hundred dollar pledge
One of you generous weirdoes paid me one hundred dollars to finally get around to experiencing the exquisite madness of Manos: The Hands of Fate, a Mystery Science Theater 3000-roasted camp classic and popular contender for worst film of all time that was everything I hoped it would be and more.
One of you kind souls paid me a cool one hundred dollars to watch Have a Nice Day, a slow, achingly beautiful Chinese animated riff on hardboiled crime.
Our reader-funded exploration of the films of David Bowie begins with Nicolas Roeg’s 1976 masterpiece about a space alien that comes here to save his family and planet but just ends up getting drunk and watching TV.
One of you kind souls paid me to see all of Sam Peckinpah’s movies. We’re up to 1973’s troubled, mesmerizing Pat Garrett & Billy the Kid, which brought together a young Bob Dylan, a 36 year old Billy The Kid, a whole bunch of dead chickens and James Coburn enjoying the simultaneous sexual services of four beautiful prostitutes.
Will you still need me, will you still read me, when this column gets to entry 64?
One of you generous souls paid me to write about every Sam Peckinpah movie, including this brutal Jim Thompson adaptation written by a young Walter Hill and starring real-life lovers Steve McQueen and Ali MacGraw.
One of you kind weirdoes paid me to re-experience The Temp, a Tom Holland-directed Fatal Attraction knock-off where a sexy, evil temp played by Lara Flynn Boyle terrorizes poor, lame Timothy Hutton with her kittenish sensuality.
One of you generous weirdoes paid me one hundred dollars to write about the movie that got WWE Films and Blumhouse into the mediocre, painfully bland, mega-church-pimping Christian movie business.
Our ongoing, patron-funded exploration of the films of Sam Peckinpah reaches Bloody Sam’s problematic and deeply troubling 1971 provocation Straw Dogs.
One of you generous weirdoes paid me to revisit Julien Temple’s fascinatingly muddled 1986 musical flop Absolute Beginners, an exceedingly white, straight look at racial tensions and the exhilarating freedoms of life in late 1950s London.