Dave’s not here, man!
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Sam Peckinpah’s curious, curiously satisfying follow-up to The Wild Bunch is a strange, strangely fascinating combination of haunting elegy for the old west and Benny Hill-style wacky sex comedy
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One of y’all generous souls paid me a cool seventy-five dollars to revisit one of the many, many nadirs in Madonna’s film career, the screamingly unfunny 1987 comedy Who’s That Girl
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One of you kind weirdoes paid sixty five dollars for me to write about a 1987 teen sex comedy about a 27-year-old stockbroker trying not to commit statutory rape with a 17 year old at the high school he’s hiding out at. Oh well. Still way less creepy than most 1980s teen sex comedies.
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A half century on, Sam Peckinpah’s incendiary 1969 masterpiece The Wild Bunch remains as magnificent and deeply troubling as ever.
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One of you kind sadists paid me one hundred dollars to write about 1933’s Gabriel Over the White House, a look at the oft-overlooked positive side of Fascism and dictatorships.
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One of you generous sadists paid me to watch a seminal 1972 Rapture exploitation movie that (SPOILER) failed to make me a believer.
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One of y’all kind sadists paid me one hundred dollars to see and talk about a 1989 Hungarian-American Felix the Cat movie that, honestly, is pretty fucked up.
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One of you kind souls paid me to watch and write about ALL of Sam Peckinpah’s movies, including 1965’s Major Dundee, a sort of dry run for The Wild Bunch starring Charlton Heston as an obsessed soldier out for redemption and vengeance.
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Many, many years after the release of SLC Punk!, a Matthew Lillard-free sequel was released to deafening silence that one of you kind souls paid me one hundred dollars to suffer through.
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