In American film and literature, “genre” is a term denoting relatively formulaic work in sub-categories such as western, mystery, and romance. In Australia, the term is a general reference to exploitation pictures, separated from the A-listed dramas not so much by category as by quality. That the dozens of sex, horror, comedy, biker, and kung-fu movies previewed in “Not Quite Hollywood: The Wild Untold Story of Ozploitation” (Varsity, Aug 14-20) are referenced as “genre” pictures may come as a slap in the face to American cineastes who revere the term, but while some of America’s most accomplished and celebrated directors have distinguished themselves in this field, few participants in Australia’s history of sleaze gained any measure of respect for their efforts.
“Not Quite Hollywood” plays like a collection of trailers with commentary. Teeming with titillating scenes from obscure movies, it offers a teasing glimpse into a vault of skuzzy sinemania promising a mother lode of treasures to trash prospectors. One drawback to looking under rocks for something new is that you find a lot of unpleasant things. And many of these pictures fail to live up to their promotional snipes “The Adventures of Barry McKenzie” looks hilarious when, in reality, it is pretty much a dud. There are some winners here, though. “The Long Weekend,” a horror film about a bad marriage lost in the woods where the animals avenge the murder of a sea cow, is every bit as good as sycophant Quentin Tarantino claims.
But the video store clerk turned film director, whose own movies teem with recycled junk from the infantile crud to which he is addicted, is just as enthusiastic about unwatchable dross as he is about the occasional gem. Fortunately, his views are balanced here by those of Aussie film critic Bob Ellis, who has nary a good word to say about any of it.
It is noted that these pictures were made at the same time as Australia was making its mark on the international market with art house hits such as “The Last Wave,” “Breaker Morant”, and “My Brilliant Career.” Aside for a running joke at the expense of “Picnic at Hanging Rock,” scant attention is given these better known and more rewarding films. Even among the genre pictures, there are some odd omissions. While “Mad Max” is duly revered, its sequel, “The Road Warrior,” which John Hartl canonized alongside “Seven Samurai” and “The Wild Bunch” when he reviewed it for the Seattle Times, receives no mention.
For those already familiar with movies such as “Felicity,” “Inn of the Damned,” and “Stone,” “Not Quite Hollywood” doesn’t provide much of an education. All the Dennis Hopper anecdotes from “Mad Dog Morgan” have been recycled from the extras on Troma’s DVD release. But for those who know Australian cinema only from titles such as “Walkabout” and “Gallipoili,” “Not Quite Hollywood” offers a glimpse at something that is just a little skuzzier than you might have expected.
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For all the fun and games promised by Ozsploitation, there is nothing to compare to the monolithic exercise in hilarity, bad taste, and musical audacity of Frank Zappa’s “200 Motels” (Grand Illusion Cinema, Aug 14-20). The first major release to have been shot on video and transferred to 35 millimeter, it seemed futuristically high-tech when it was released in 1971. To people encountering it for the first time in 2009, it will surely appear hopelessly tacky. But you will not find a better artifact of early seventies pop culture than this odyssey of road musicians who discover that touring with a comedy rock band can make you crazy.
The casting is inspired. Howard Kaylan and Mark Volman, former lead singers for the Turtles, front a line-up of Zappa’s Mothers of Invention that includes many of his original cohorts. Additionally, Ringo Starr plays a dwarf, Keith Moon plays a nun, and Theodore Bikel leads the final singalong that commences with the benediction, “God bless the mind of the man in the street.”
With a script based on secret tapes Zappa made of his band-mates hotel room bull sessions, “200 Motels” is not only funnier than “Spinal Tap,” but is as psychotically true to life as the recent documentary, “Metallica: Some Kind of Monster.” Seattle musician Jeff Simmons, allegedly fired from the band because he refused to be in the movie, is hilariously represented by a cartoon character bearing a resemblance to Donald Duck.
The music reeks of all that is memorable about vintage Zappa. Profane lyrics sung by opera singers in post-modern symphonic settings, heavy blues rock riffs anchoring silly innuendoes, country-western parodies and bubble gum anthems to groupies all combine into a delectable hodge-podge of genius gone mad in an American landscape on the brink of cultural suicide.
