It's the stuff that dreams are made of.

The Saenger Theater in downtown Pensacola has a series going on right now where they are showing a total of ten classic movies through the summer. If you haven't been, I suggest you pick at least one of the remaining films to attend (Show Boat, Citizen Kane, My Fair Lady, Fiddler on the Roof, The Music Man, Casablanca, and The Wizard of Oz). Each showing is Saturday at 7, with tickets costing $5. The experience of seeing these classic movies in a theater with an audience is really something. During the first movie, On the Town, which I admittedly don't like, the theater was packed with what I call a "reaction audience." They let out enormous reactions at every little thing. Somehow, they're enjoyment of the movie made me like it a bit more than I ever have, but also made me realize how much the same audience would have enjoyed something much better, like Singin' in the Rain.

Last week, they showed The Maltese Falcon, one of the great masterpieces of American film. I mean, it created an entire genre, for heaven's sake. It is generally considered the first of the movies that can be referred to as film noir, and once again judging by the audience's enthusiastic response, it still packs a punch. The movie stars Humphrey Bogart as a private detective whose partner is mysteriously killed. He finds himself involved with an assortment of criminals who are looking for a statue of a falcon said to be worth an awful lot of money. The movie co-stars Mary Astor, Sydney Greenstreet, and Peter Lorre, and they are all together a very eclectic bunch. This is one of the movies that I really have seen a countless number of times, but which never loses its effect, and which also reveals new things with each viewing. For example, I noticed more visual allusions to prison besides the stripes on Astor's nightgown and that famous shot in the elevator. I also was aware that the Lorre character was gay, but watch his first scene and the positioning of that cane with the long handle.

Above all else, seeing the film in a theater opened my eyes to how amusing it is. For some reason, I have never thought of The Maltese Falcon as being funny, but a lot of people, possibly seeing it for the first time, were struck with giggles at various points throughout. I actually appreciate the movie even more now because it has proven to be a more rounded entertainment than ever. The exact same thing went for 42nd Street, which was shown yesterday evening, and which inspired loud laughter from all through the audience. I had never thought of it that way. However, everyone seemed to be in unanimous awe of the film's musical climax, which remains an impressive acheivement eighty years later. The movie itself is not a musical, but a sometimes dramatic, sometimes humurous, documentation of the production of a musical play being put on by a director played by Warner Baxter who knows he won't be around long enough to make another. Ruby Keeler also stars in her first feature as the plucky, if a little weak-headed, youngster who becomes a star.

The first two-thirds of the movie are light and entertaining, but that finale is sensational. The extended musical number that closes the film was directed by Busby Berkeley, who also lent his hand to other popular musicals like Footlight Parade and Gold Diggers of 1933, which contained a number where the girls wear aluminum bathing suits and the guys are equipped with can-openers. Similarly, 42nd Street has more legs than you can shake a stick at (Remember that it was 1933 and the strict production code hadn't been introduced.), causing one woman-chasing financier to remark, "After three weeks of this, a leg means nothing to me but something to stand on." The most famous shot of the film is when the camera pans through a line of girls with spread legs, which, along with the spinning circles of limbs forming geometric shapes, made Berkeley legendary. These scenes were also incredible for how mobile the camera was, since in previous years, the introduction of sound forced the camera to sit stable behind a glass wall, whereas it could now move freely through the action.

In short, movies were meant to be seen on the big screen and, in some ways, seeing movies with an audience can increase the enjoyment and understanding of the film. Next week, the Saenger is showing the 1951 version of Show Boat for some reason, but I would most recommend Citizen Kane, My Fair Lady, or Casablanca, if you haven't been and want to try it.

"New York, New York;" it's a terrible song.

Just for the record, the Saenger Theater in Downtown Pensacola is showing a series of ten classic movies, one a week, for ten weeks starting July 14. Each movie will be shown on Saturday at 7, and the movies are On the Town, The Maltese Falcon, 42nd Street, Show Boat, Citizen Kane, My Fair Lady, Fiddler on the Roof, The Music Man, Casablanca, and The Wizard of Oz. Tickets are $5 each, or $40 for ten. The selections were apparantly made based on public opinion polls at some point, which probably explains why seven of the ten movies are musicals. Why the first was On the Town was a bit of a mystery to me, until I saw it in a packed theater of all kinds of people who loved it, from families to couples. Everybody wildly enjoyed it, and the experience, a few technical difficulties aside, was wonderful. It will probably be amplified by some of those better movies they'll be showing later on, because the great setting didn't make this movie any better.

On the Town was directed by Gene Kelly and Stanley Donen a couple years before they made Singin' in the Rain and, though it may be a bit unfair to compare the two, it is far inferior to its successor. I suppose I could understand someone loving the movie if it was one of the first classic musicals they had seen and didn't know any better, but I can't see it as anything but a lame stepping stone on a path to actual greatness. The whole movie is the very definition of corny, with the songs being largely bland and forgettable, the staging of the songs being very awkward, and everything in-between the songs being a bunch of stupid jokes that go nowhere. The whole point of the movie is that three sailors, Gene Kelly, Frank Sinatra, and Jules Munshin, have one day of shore leave in New York City, and they pretty much just want some G-rated musical sex. One of the biggest reasons for the film's popularity must be all the innuendo, with songs like "Prehistoric Man" and "Come Up to My Place," having surprisingly racy lyrics for 1949, though it's all very tame now.

The sailors inevitably each end up with a woman, Ann Miller, Betty Garrett, and Vera Ellen. Miller is probably the highlight of the whole movie, with a significantly more vibrant personality than anyone else present, or maybe it's just that outfit she probably specifically picked out just in case she ended up tap-dancing. Garrett and Miller fail to make an impression as likeable or even appealing characters and you wonder why the sailors go so crazy for them until you realize that they're just as uninteresting. Each character has one thing they do: Kelly desperately searches for Ellen, Ellen pretends to be high-class (but that's just a lie), Sinatra tries to see all the sights he can, Garrett frantically tries to show Sinatra the sights in her apartment, Munshin jumps around like a mental patient on a bad sitcom, and Miller smiles and looks pretty and probably wishes she had gotten into a better movie.

Yes, my dislike of this film is almost entirely based on the fact that it's not as good as others, but why settle? The most inspired moment in this movie is also the most unnecessary, a ballet recap of the entire thing, not un like the climax of An American in Paris, which is a million times better. I've seen On the Town twice and neither time did I enjoy it or feel that it was a notable acheivement in any way. I guess the one thing it does have going for it is some sort of longevity, which would explain the hundreds of satisfied customers at the Saenger last night. Oh well, next week is The Maltese Falcon, and that is well worth going out of your way to see.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

Film fans like to debate what the greatest film of all time is. I don't really see the point in tying down just one movie and saying it's the greatest ever. In most cases where people offer the typical selections, like Citizen Kane, The Godfather, or Casablanca, I just sit back and agree. It's easy to praise great movies like those. Sometimes, though, greatness seems too easy. Where's the point in being a film critic if you do nothing but agree with everyone else? Now, I'd be the last person to say we shouldn't praise great movies and criticize bad ones, but there are times when the line is hard to draw. I believe that great movies can't be judged alone, but there are also bad movies that become great through necessity. So, if I say that Pink Flamingos is the greatest film of all time, who's to say I'm wrong?

I've only seen John Waters' infamous underground comedy, that he himself deemed "an exercise in bad taste" once, and I'm not likely to revisist it anytime soon. It is probably the most revolting thing I've ever laid eyes on. The plot was concocted to make room for all manner of disgusting activity, from bestiality to cannibalism to incest. It all is part of the main character's desperate attempts to earn her title of "filthiest person alive," and ultimately leads to the infamously vile climax, in which cross-dressing star Divine actually eats a handful of turd fresh out of a puppy's bottom. Some theaters provided barf bags for this scene, and it's not even the most sickening thing that happens.

The movie was made as cheaply as possible, which results in some laughably atrocious visuals that somehow manage to enhance the seediness of the content. The acting is beyond egregious, with all of the stars being close friends of John Waters, who wrote the script while seriously stoned, but insists he was sober while directing. That didn't stop the accidental on-screen murder of a chicken, which is a moment far less ridiculed then I would have thought. It seems like everything that touched the movie turned into filth, but as Divine screeches at one point, "Filth is my politics! Filth is my life!"

One good thing I can say about the screenplay is that it's strangely endearing. (I was unaware that "Babs Johnson" is an All-American name.) For every revolting moment, there is an equally charming one, usually from poor Edith Massey. She is one of the most hideous women I've ever seen and is constantly asked to wear revealing clothing and spout lines about her character's obssession with eggs. Did I mention Pink Flamingos is gross?

It's also an essential part of the fabric of cinema. It is a great movie because Waters knew that somebody had to go farther than anyone else dared, and he had just the nerve to do it. How could we know the limits of good quality if the outreaches of bad taste hadn't been breached? For the movies to survive, it is a requirement that there be as many bad movies as good, which allows plenty a bad movie to access the greatness their existence requires. So, for every Citizen Kane, there is also a Pink Flamingos, and they both have equal claim as the greatest movie ever made.

Never go canoeing in the near vicinity of hillbillies.

What makes a movie a classic? Some seem to believe that the definition applies to every movie they saw in their college years, as in, "Dude, Last Action Hero is classic!" Some would argue that it applies to every movie made before the 70s, as in, "Don't say anything against Cat Ballou, it's a classic!" I say the term can be applied to any movie new or old that is truly great in every way, as in, "Moonrise Kingdom is a modern classic. Go watch it now."

A lot of people really do subscribe to this last version of the definition, which by all accounts is the correct one, but sometimes a movie that doesn't deserve the title somehow slips through the cracks and gets it anyway. I sat through Deliverance for the second time in my life last night and again wondered to myself, "How in the world did this movie ever become a classic?" No, for the most part, I don't like it. It tries to be thrilling and important, but it's just slow to a fault. It also is much less important than it thinks it is, as better movies had been featuring similarly shocking content for a few years prior.

Despite all that, I can't call it a bad movie, criticize it at any length, or even think of it without respect. If someone mentions Deliverance to me, we don't discuss it, I just nod in solemn understanding. The movie is a nightmare to get through. I can't imagine how awkward it must be to watch it with anyone. It is bewildering and frustrating and an emotionally scarring experience. You can't watch it and not think about it. In many cases, I suspect people watch it and wish they hadn't. If you joke about it, you're a heartless creep. A friend of mine once said she accidentally saw it for the first time as a pre-teen. That's more disturbing than anything in the movie.

It is incredible to realize how enormous the movie really is. If you just google the word deliverance, every result except for the definition is about the movie. It seems like everyone has seen it or knows what it is about. It's like some sort of American tradition. I know people who have seen Deliverance who have never heard of Casablanca. I guess I won't spoil it for those who haven't watched it, but the impact of the film stems entirely from that scene about halfway through. Yes, the scene in which a main character is requested to squeal like a pig. Before the movie was released in 1972, everyone pretty much knew what would happen from all the controversy surrounding the book on which it was based. The movie probably couldn't have been a success without it. People like to be horrified.

That's what it all boils down to. The scene is handled with a disturbing silence, a realistic discomfort that makes everyone squirm because there isn't anything fake about it. The scene hangs over the rest of the movie like a guilty conscience, and everyone runs out of the screening to tell their friends how positively shocking the movie they just saw was. It still works today. There are certain things that can never be watered down.

So, the one scene is so effective and the second half and ending so manipulative that the movie has become history. The fact that it is boring and dated doesn't factor into it. The fact that it isn't remotely fun to watch is technically the whole point. The movie wants you to soak it in and ponder questions of morality and so on and suchlike. It is a classic movie that skips over the stage of actually being a good movie. It simply did too much damage, leaving a permanent blotch on American cinema that can't be ignored now. The influence even reaches people like me, who can barely stand it. No matter how much I roll my eyes during the viewing, I still think of it every time I hear a slow banjo strum, see a wrecked vehicle in the middle of nowhere, or am asked to do anything out in nature.

"Are you kidding? I'm not going anywhere near the woods! Have you seen Deliverance?"

Thank God for Friday.

When I woke up this morning, it was as dark as the middle of the night. It was easier to wake up than most mornings, but mostly because it was Friday and Friday is possibly more awesome than any other day of the week. But this was a rainy Friday, and there is very little awesome about that. In the process of going to work, I stepped in a rather large puddle, soaking my shoes and socks. It is always cold in my office, so by the time I left for the day at two in the afternoon, my feet were frozen. Also, my chair at work is so uncomfortable I have to take regular standing breaks to releive the pain in my backside, which only becomes worse when I come back home and sit in that desk chair all night. Also, the fluid that has been attacking my head for days was putting up a terrific fight today to ensure an eventual cold. My right eye has been uncommonly dry for hours, and because I keep rubbing it, it keeps getting more irritated. At one point, I made someone genuinely unhappy due to a miscommunication involving humor, which naturally made me feel bad some more. To put it simply, this was a wretched day.

When I woke up this morning, I was breathing and refreshed from a thorough night of sleep in a comfortable bed in a private room, which just happens to come equipped with a roof. This wonderful device shielded me from the raging storm outside that got worse as it got closer to time to get out in it. But I am thankfully heading to my place of steady employment on the day that I receive compensation, which is more than can be said for a lot of people in the world. The building has all the latest gadgets, like air conditioning, which comes in real handy during these Florida summers. My job has been perfectly designed for me, and I can't imagine where I'd be now without it. The contacts I was able to get for next to nothing with my vision insurance should arrive on Monday, which means I can expect things to be looking a lot better in the coming weeks than they have in the past half a year. I am grateful for the friends who do get my sense of humor and continue to put up with me and for my family that I get along with so well, a unique position. I spent my evening watching TV with my brother and I had a great, relaxing time. I will go to bed tonight still breathing with nothing to suggest I won't wake up again tomorrow. On the whole, it was a pretty good day.