Late night television is prone to cult fandom. It’s the sort of programming that is almost exclusively consumed and created by misanthropes, insomniacs, unbridled misfits and those who live on the cultural fringes. From your macabre cult films introduced by a costumed host to your off-beat alt-comedy, what is deemed unfit for mainstream consumption is scuttled to almost-morning time slots.
Watching THE CHRIS GETHARD SHOW was like attending an event a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend in an artist collective’s loft. An event where the antics of weirdos and misfits and live music was worth the trek up a six-floor stairwell littered with cigarette butts and empty fifths of Fireball.
(Given that the studio was in a NYC building six floors up with no freight elevator, and the show has its roots in live UCB productions and public access TV, all of the above is entirely possible.)
GETHARD — yes, the show leaned heavily on the comedic value of Chris’s last name — was awkwardly shoehorned into the now-defunct Fusion channel before finding its home at truTV, a.k.a. the IMPRACTICAL JOKERS network, which is where I discovered it.
GETHARD quickly became appointment television for me. I’d thrill to an hour of frenzied slapstick and weird but heartfelt and human interactions. Cult comedian Chris Gethard (who helms the BEAUTIFUL/ANONYMOUS podcast) was surrounded by a stable of quirky characters, such as The Human Fish and Vacation Jason, as well as his acerbic sidekick Shannon O’Neill (who you may recognize from appearances on number of cult shows like HIGH MAINTENANCE and THE OTHER TWO) plus house band THE LLC. Shit got messy in more ways than one, laughs and commiseration ensued.
Oh, and the stunts. So many stunts. The most emblematic episode of GETHARD — and one of the finest hours of modern television — was ‘One Man’s Trash’. If you have not seen it? Do not read any further. Just watch it and you will agree that it is an episode of late night that manages to top itself minute-by-minute.
Now, six years after the last episode aired, Gethard got the band back together for one more live event. While tickets sold out immediately, you can still buy tickets for the livestream! If you miss it, hopefully you’ll be able watch it even after they exit the stage.
The bulk of the public access and Fusion eps are also available on YouTube, so you have hours and hours of some of the finest, weirdest, off-the-wall late night programming you’ll ever see.
I have repeatedly said that every film is a fetish.
There is no better example of that than D.E.B.S.
That’s a good thing! Lean into what you’re into! Taste and wants are what make folks unique and often lend themselves to wild storytelling that will resonate for years! Films are incredibly difficult to will into the world and your fetish? That can be the strongest driving force and make the difference as to whether you can realize your vision.
(Unless your tastes or wants are hateful or hurtful and, in which case? Shut your mouth, head home and lock your door because the world does not need that.)
I’d been meaning to watch D.E.B.S. for years, but never got around to it until recently. To summarize? It’s four college schoolmates who are preliminary spies and Amy — the captain of said spies, played by Sara Foster (ex-fashion model and TV host) — falls in love with Lucy (the very striking Jordana Brewster), one of the most sought-after villains on their list.
I knew this film was queer before going into it, but given that it’s a film from the early naughts I assumed the queerness was couched in subtext instead of being explicit.
No. It is very explicit, practically out of the gate. Even though it’s primarily an action/espionage film that on its surface looks like it was willed into the world by a terrible cishet dude, it is really, really queer. This is all about queer awakening from the get-go, and about moving forward into queer safe spaces.
Writer/director Angela Robinson (who also adapted the life of William Moulton Marston via PROFESSOR MARSTON & THE WONDER WOMAN as well as the severely underrated HERBIE: FULLY LOADED) goes for fucking broke here, while still having so much fun with it.
I know I intentionally buried the lede here but all of the D.E.B.S. — which stands for Discipline, Energy, Beauty, Strength — are young women, helmed by the great character actor Holland Taylor, with some assistance from the much-missed Michael Clarke Duncan, clearly riffing on CHARLIE’S ANGELS.
Also? Their uniforms? Catholic schoolgirl outfits. All ties, white dress shirts, and very, very, very short plaid skirts. Robinson definitely knows what she likes — with a bit of satirical (and sartorial, sorry not sorry) and is not afraid to show it off.
Yeah. Really fucking queer. I can’t imagine how many youths were lit up and awakened by this film in the early naughts.
If there’s such a thing as passing the quasi-opposite of the Bechdel test? This film absolutely does so. This is all about women and there is no moment where two men visibly talk together in the same scene. Do you know how fucking rare that is? Especially in an action/comedy film?! And I am absolutely here for it.
D.E.B.S. is spryly paced and full of kinetic action and so well-cast and so, so much fun and again! Really fucking queer in a way that doesn’t think it’s odd that it’s about two women falling in love.
It also helps that the chemistry between Amy and Lucy is off the fucking charts.
While the film absolutely flopped, it has become a queer cult favorite — rightly so, as it’s one of the few queer films that isn’t sad or fridge their queers — and just celebrated its 20th anniversary, which seems wild to me because it’d feel progressive even today.
Addendum
Don’t believe me? I’ve included a number of links extolling its virtues below!
Look. I love romantic works. Yeah, I know. I’m weird for …someone who is who I am. I have literally penned more than a few very fucking queer romance novels and screenplays. Maybe someday you’ll read one of ’em? (I’ll warn you? It often doesn’t end well! I’ve been through some shit and if I have to? So do my characters!)
Consequently? Yeah, I’m totally reposting this amazing special focusing mostly on Harley and Ivy — colloquially known as Harlivy — because? Well, because it’s fucking Valentine’s Day and it’s adorable and I love it and they are so fucking good for each other and, while they have their issues, they’re the best match and I cannot get enoughof that.
I’ve rewatched this so many times. If I remembered to count, I’d probably be embarrassed, but I stopped counting so fuck it!
It is an absolute delight. (Except for the weird Clayface assplay? Not really sure what’s up with that but that’s what ‘skip forward’ is for!)
(Also? I may or may not have rewatched it halfway through penning this post.)
So, yes, here we are, here’s my take on HARLEY QUINN: A VERY PROBLEMATIC VALENTINE’S DAY SPECIAL .
Also? I love Ivy’s hair here! And I love how the illustrators don’t use the same staple buxom body type for women! And I love that Ivy actually dressed up instead of wearing her bingin’ sweats! The end is so heartfelt and poignant, with Ivy’s reveal about her best Valentine’s Day ever!
Harley: “…yeah, I think the orgasm matters.”
Ivy: “Yeah, I didn’t totally buy that either when I said it, but I needed like a third example for the structure of the speech so…”
Goddamn this show is so much fun and so smart while also being so enjoyably and non-judgmentally smutty! Just fucking watch it already! Happy VD, everyone!!
There are a number of jokes that have been stuck in my head for years, but this one joke from the animated show THE CRITIC — a show created by some of the best writers and producers involved with the heyday of THE SIMPSONS — is one of my absolute favorites.
This is all you need to know going in: A young woman is being fitted for her debutante reveal. She is Margo, a liberally-minded teen who eschews this blue-blood practice she was born into but feels pressured to participate in. While being fitted for her reveal dress, the following exchange occurs between the dressmaker and herself.
“We dressmakers have a very strict code, so I need to know: Do you deserve to wear virginal white? Because if you don’t, you’ll have to wear an off-white, what we call a ‘hussy white’.
“So, which will it be? White-white?”
“…yes. Um, except for the gloves.”
I watched this episode when it first aired and was old enough to realize just how smutty the joke was and could not believe it slipped through broadcast standards & practices. I will not spell the joke out for you, as I give you enough credit to have a prurient imagination.
This joke has everything I could ever want: it’s far filthier than it initially sounds, it has a rare sense of specificity, it is loaded with cultural and sexual commentary, and the voice reading cleverly underplays all of the above. It is a brilliant twenty seconds of animated network television.
(If you don’t believe me, check out the YouTube comments on the link at the bottom, as I’m not the only one who fondly remembers this joke!)
I am in the thick of National Novel Writing Month and my novel this year is specifically focused on a bridal dressmaker and her clients. While this is a debutante reveal dress, it works in very much the same way as a bridal dress in that it is often meant to visually exemplify the best of you, as well as make the person wearing it feel imbued with the best of themselves.
I previously only thought about this joke once a month. Now I think about it every fucking day. (Don’t worry, I don’t even come close to involving any ‘hussy’ notions in said novel.)
(Eventually I’ll write a more involved post about THE CRITIC. For now? This will do.)
Unfortunately there’s no single clip available of it, but you can see it via tubi or on YouTube before a DCMA claim takes it down. (UPDATE: It’s now private. Sorry.)
There are two things I will always post about here: 1) Harley Fuckin’ Quinn and 2) Motherfucking RATED Q screenings at Chicago’s Music Box Theatre. (The Q is for Queer, in case you were wondering.) Both bring me endless joy; I live for ‘em in the best way.
The most recent RATED Q screening featured their usual boisterous trifecta of drag performances that introduce and dovetail with the music and fashions of the the screened film, which this month was the original HAIRSPRAY, willed into the world by the patron saint of misfits and the disenfranchised, John Waters.
HAIRSPRAY’s premise is thin, but results in a hell of a lot of fun. It’s the early 60s and voluminous Tracy Turnblad is a teen who loves to dance to modern rock music, especially music from Black artists. She becomes a local star on Baltimore’s premiere TV dance show. (This was back in the day when half-hours of TV were dedicated solely to a host announcing song after song and you’d just watch youths dance to said song.) Tracy then uses her newfound fame to fight injustice against segregation. Matters escalate, backed by an amazing late 50s and early 60s soundtrack.
John Waters is a master of having his cake and eating it too. He loves pop culture, but also often hates what it represents — the homogenization, the alienation of anyone who isn’t white and straight — and he is an expert at weaponizing pop culture to expose cultural hypocrisy and societal injustice.
If you are only familiar with Waters’ more family-friendly films (HAIRSPRAY, CRY BABY, and SERIAL MOM you may not be aware that he’s also a brilliant purveyor of absolute filth, and he’s damn proud of it and rightly so. If you watch MULTIPLE MANICS or FEMALE TROUBLE or DESPERATE LIVING or especially PINK FLAMINGOS, there are moments in all of those films that will haunt you for the rest of your life, scenes that you will never be able to unsee, but also scenes that — even today — will gleefully prompt you to say: “Wait, you can get away with filming that?!”)
He’s one of the few auteurs in true command of his powers as a creative, as opposed to simply forcing his voice on others. He is often unfairly dismissed as camp (although I doubt he’d deny the label), but — depending on your definition — camp is often vacuous and the works live solely for themselves, as opposed to being created for others with something to say. Waters sincerely wants folks to rethink how they view culture and society, and HAIRSPRAY delivers that wholeheartedly in a slobs vs. snobs way that still feels vital 35 years later.
The cast is amazing. Divine, of course, and they do double-duty as both Tracy’s mother and the evil owner of the TV station. Ricki Lake is effortlessly likable as Tracy in her breakout role. Waters wrangled comedic icon Jerry Stiller as Tracy’s father! Pop legends Debbie Harry and Ric Ocasek, as well as general icon Pia Zadora all have extremely memorable moments! And, of course, Mink Stole, often steals the spotlight.
However, I’d love to call attention to the production and set design, which are as equally rebellious as the script and casting. From the candy-colored sets to the faux-TV cameras used during dance tests, everyone was 100% aware that this was a heightened, but somewhat underground, reality. My favorite design decision though, is the facade of the apartment building that Tracy lives in, specifically the graffiti. It literally speaks volumes. Theatrical and dirty, but also visually striking in the way that only the way that graffiti — and film — can be. It’s an amazing feat.
While I’ve waxed on about how subversive HAIRSPRAY is, I need to underscore that this a fucking fun film. It is a film that will make you want to dance, a film that will make you grin, a film you will walk away from feeling satiated, a film that nestles in the uncanny valley of genre in that it leans on all of the expected plot and character beats, while exploiting them and being vibrantly transgressive at the same time. It is a film that only John Waters could will into the world.
ADDENDUM
I’ll note that this Rated Q screening suffered from what I call a Halloween hangover — the exuberance of October peaks, then November crashes the party and you have the realization that: “Fuck, now I have to start thinking about winter holidays and presents and travel and motherfucking Chicago winter”. I was so psyched to see this — so excited! — as it’s a John Waters film that’s wall-to-wall music and I expected a lot of folks singing along and shouting out lines (“I’m big, blonde and beautiful!”) but nope. It certainly didn’t help that I’ve been burning the candle at both ends as of late. That plus my Halloween hangover caused me to nod off halfway through the film instead of hooting and hollering and clapping, which boggles my mind, but it was a thing that happened. Nonetheless, even if I don’t have peak energy, I’ll be there for each and every screening because there’s nothing else like it.
So I fucking did it: 31 days of (mostly) soft horror recommendations! I know this sort of thing is easier for some folks, but damn, I’m fucking exhausted.
As I’ve previously mentioned, my wife and I have a long-running tradition of just tucking in for Halloween, wrangling wings from BW3 a.k.a. Buffalo Wild Wings — sorry, not sorry as their spicy garlic wings are some of the best things on Earth — and eating candy and watching movies.
Beforehand I send her a list of film suggestions that encompass ‘classic’, ‘cult’ and ‘contemporary’ horror films and she chooses three from ‘em based on trailers and descriptions. (I do not want to be one of those asshole dudebros that force works onto others. Also, this year, just like with Horrorclature 2023, they were all cozy horror films.)
So here’s what we decided on this year. (These are just brief notes! I got other shit to do, y’all!)
CLASSIC
VIY (1967)
This is the first Soviet horror film and it’s all spooky witchy folk horror goodness. Goddamn, the production design and casting here is perfect, especially during the three days the philosopher is stuck in a church with a witch. I still can’t believe that the Soviets went ~40 years without making a horror film.
CULT
THE PHANTOM OF PARADISE (1974)
This has been on my watchlist for a while, and we always love a campy musical, and this delivers in a very Brian De Palma way. If you are a film nerd, you know that De Palma is all about extolling works he loves, and this modern rock opera interpretation of THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA delivers. (I’ll note: it predates Webber’s version by over a decade!) From his split-screens, to his hallmark adoration for Hitchcock, to his fondness of THE WHO’s rock operas and remarkable characters, this is quintessential De Palma and I love it.
Also, it features Jessica Harper, as in motherfucking SUSPIRA lead Jessica Harper. Also in SHOCK TREATMENT! What more could you ask for?
CONTEMPORARY
WEREWOLVES WITHIN (2021)
I rewatched this just a few weeks ago, but I was so stupidly excited to rewatch it again. This film is so, so, somuch fun. It is the perfect amalgamation of cast and script and direction and camerawork. It is funny and witty and spooky and occasionally gory and a glorious ride of a film.
ADDENDUM
Due to scheduling matters, we ended up screening the above the weekend before Halloween, but decided to watch one more scary work on Halloween proper, which I already featured yesterday: MILLENNIUM’s The Curse of Frank Black. There’s no trailer or anything, so you’ll have to settle for my write-up:
DOCTOR X, directed by endlessly exhausted motherfucking Michael Curtiz — oh, did you know he also directed a little film named CASABLANCA? Also, well over a hundred other films? — is mostly notable for its technical details as opposed to its plot, which is wildly chaotic.
If you are older than 12, you’re probably familiar with the traditional Technicolor film look; it’s all vividly colorful and eye-popping and glorious. THE WIZARD OF OZ would be nothing without Technicolor.
That’s not how Technicolor started out. While it was one of the first non-hand tinted color film processes — in the early days of film, folks actually hand-colored individual frames, or entire reels were dunked in dye — it started as a two-color rendition, which was rather garish, mostly a glowing green and a ruddy red-brown.
While those hues were novel, they didn’t quite suit most dramas or comedies being produced by Warner Bros. who had signed an exclusive agreement with Technicolor. Then they realized: “Hey those Universal horror films seem to be doing well, and they’re just black-and-white. Let’s give that a go!”
As a result, the world received DOCTOR X and THE MYSTERY OF THE WAX MUSEUM (which was later adapted as HOUSE OF WAX). They didn’t set the world on fire like Universal horror films, but folks did take note of them.
For a long time, the only way to watch either of them were via shit transfers of deteriorated prints. The vibrancy of the Technicolor process? Nowhere to be seen. Two-color Technicolor? More like one-color Technicolor. When I said they were shit transfers? They were shit-colored, all brown and muddy and not at all appealing.
UCLA, as they often do (along with significant backing) took considerable measures to restore both films to their prior glory. The two colors glow in a singular way that you simply don’t see in films. It’s a very specific look. However, if a film isn’t shot with that in mind, if it’s shot thinking ‘oh, this is full color’ then, well, it’ll look ill-designed and flawed.
That isn’t the case with DOCTOR X. This film was shot by Ray Rennahan, an early master of the Technicolor process. His deft handling of lighting and hues is what makes DOCTOR X exceptional. Plot-wise, DOCTOR X is definitely bizarre and intriguing while at the same time being more than a bit staid and boring. While it’s essentially the tale of a Jekyll-and-Hyde serial killer mystery sussed out by cops and scientists, the means of how they do so are rather twisted and involve a lot of handcuffs and chairs and re-enactments for what I can only deduce as dramatic intent. However, it’s also injected with a lot of pratfalls, poorly conceived attempts at humor, stuttering pacing, and a terrible romantic subplot that even scream queen Fay Wray can’t make work.
While the use of color is the star here, the sets bolster the film. They’re all angular, stark and all over-powering in a German expressionist way. They’re mesmerizing and striking and compelling and draw you into a scene in ways the script fail to do so.
In other words: this is a film where the production values justify its existence, and this restoration does the film justice and returns it to its former glory.
POSTSCRIPT
I’ll note that, even when Technicolor finally mastered full-color, it was mostly via extremely complex and very heavy cameras that shot scenes on three reels — one red, one green, one blue — and it was optically combined in post. Think about that when you see push-ins in films of the late 30s and 40s.
Yeah, and you think CGI FX artists have it rough.
Lastly: I had this film slated for Horrorclature 2023 before I noticed that my local favorite art house theater — the Music Box — would be screening a 35mm print and, of course, I attended. A lot of the finer production details noted above are because of the introduction the programmers at the Chicago Film Society provided. They always do great work and, if you’re in the midwest? They program films not just in Chicago, but all around!
This Sunday’s repost features John Water’s SERIAL MOM, a cutting satire of sympathy towards serial killers and celebrity culture. It also features an astounding cast who are all in on the joke and they lean so far in that you feel that the camera might tip over.
Given the terrible uptick of interest in awful true crime podcasts — don’t get me started — and Netflix sexy serial killer biopics, it was well-ahead of its time. While it has a lot to say about how outsiders view and celebrate dangerous murderers, it is hilarious and — as Waters always does — manages to balance levity with social messaging.
“On the twenty-third day of the month of September, / In an early year of a decade not too long before our own, / The human race suddenly encountered / A deadly threat to its very existence.
And this terrifying enemy surfaced, / As such enemies often do, / In the seemingly most innocent and unlikely of places…”
And after that prelude, we’re thrust into the grimy doo wop of LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS.
Directed by Frank Oz, this is one hell of an immaculately constructed misfit of a musical adaptation of a deviant off-Broadway production. Retaining the original writer Howard Ashman and songwriter Alan Menken — both of whom went onto to craft Disney works that influenced generations — I’m gobsmacked this was ever made. (Allegedly David Geffen, head of self-titled Geffen studios was a huge fan and willed this to the big screen.)
To think that it all started with this oddity of a basement musical based on a Corman B-movie, a B-movie that is mostly only known because it was one of Jack Nicholson’s early films.
(Can you imagine a world without the influence of Roger Corman? I sure as hell can’t.)
The premise is twisted but simple: botany enthusiast Seymour works at a flower shop in Skid Row — a very destitute downtown in an unnamed city full of poor loners and losers — and finagles an interesting plant that he names Audrey II, after Audrey, the co-worker he has a crush on. It turns out that the interesting plant is a carnivorous alien that feeds on human blood. Seymour nurses it into a monstrous creature and matters escalate.
The process of converting a counter-culture work from the stage to screen can be trepidatious, especially when you’re spending a lot of money and working with a major studio. Fortunately, all of the stars aligned for LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS. It features the best of both worlds, which you immediately see in the set design.
“…so I live downtown … that’s your home address / You live downtown … when your life’s a mess / You live downtown when depression’s just status quo. / (Down on Skid Row.)”
While Skid Row does look like a Hollywood set, all flat and confined, the streets and alleyways are covered in dirt and grime and shame. (In other words: Hollywood.)
“Someone show me a way to get outta here. / ‘Cause I constantly pray that I’ll get outta here. / Please won’t somebody say I’ll get outta here. / Someone gimme my shot or I’ll rot here.”
LITTLE SHOP OF HORRORS manages to straddle the best of both worlds: it’s wildly, vividly strange and unique and still has the anarchic energy of subversive theatre, but also has so much fucking Hollywood money behind it. (At the time, it was the most expensive Warner Bros. production ever.)
“Come and look at the plant some more! It’s just going to get bigger and more interesting!”
The cast is astounding: Rick Moranis is perfection as dweeby Seymour and has pipes that you never, ever would have expected from him. Ellen Greene as Audrey is the only one retained from the off-Broadway production and I can’t imagine this work without her; the fifties blonde hair, her nasal, high-pitched, breathy — but surprisingly not irritating — voice imbues Audrey with so much character. You are not human if you aren’t moved by her half of Suddenly Seymour. Steve Martin practically steals the show with his sadomasochistic dental practice number. Bill Murray is one of his patients! Motherfucking John Candy is an over-the-top radio host!
“Let me guess: you got tied up.”
“No, just handcuffed a little.”
I’d be remiss to neglect the invincible, untouchable Greek chorus: Tichina Arnold as Crystal, Michelle Weeks as Ronette, and Tisha Campbell as Chiffon. (If you’re of the age that I am, you may remember Campbell as the charismatic Gina from the TV show MARTIN.) They’re all hilariously brusque when they aren’t perfectly performing doo wop accompanied by tight dance routines. They tie the entire work together, and they riff off of a number of prior musical works including WEST SIDE STORY.
“We’re on the split shift!”
“Yeah, we went to school ’til 5th grade, then we split!”
The real star, of course, is Audrey II, voiced by Levi Stubbs of THE FOUR TOPS. His gregarious and dramatic and uniquely pitched voice breathes life into one of the most articulated and astoundingly animated puppets ever created. The amount of work put into Audrey II — willed into the world by veterans of Jim Henson’s puppet company — is astounding. (I’ll note that working with Audrey II required certain compromises from the performers, such as having to lip sync in half-speed during certain scenes. The fact that you can’t even notice that while watching is not only a testament to the puppeteers but also the performers.)
“I’m just a mean green mother, a real disgrace, / And you’ve got me fightin’ mad. / I’m just a mean green mother from outer space, / Gonna trash your ass! Gonna rock this place! / I’m mean and green, / Mean and Green! / And I am bad.”
I touched on the sets previously and while they’re claustrophobic and often constricted, this adaptation is shot with the verve and energy of a Barry Sonnenfeld film, making the most of tight close-ups while also utilizing deep focus to layer background action, and somehow feeling cartoonish but grounded at the same time. Especially of note is how the Greek chorus is slowly revealed — almost as angels — to back Seymour and Audrey when they finally admit their feelings for each other.
Lastly, goddamn, Menken’s songs. They’re all so wildly catchy and captures the hooks of classic Motown while also being subversive in only the way Menken could pen. Once you watch this film, you’ll be humming and haunted by his songs for days and days.
“Shing-a-ling, shing-a-ling-ding, what a creepy thing to be happening! / (Look out! Look out! Look out! Look out!) / Shang-a-lang, feel the sturm and drang in the air. / Sha-la-la, stop it right where you are. / Don’t you move a thing. / You better / (Tellin’ you, you better) / Tell your mama somethin’s gonna get her / She better — everybody better — beware!”
I’ll note that the theatrical cut’s final act is wildly different from the Director’s cut. I will not spoil matters, but the Director’s cut is very self-indulgent, cost a fuckton of money, and — even for my goth sensibilities — very cruel and dark. I will simply say this: it is extremely nihilistic and goes full kaiju.
“You’re not gonna get away with this! Your kind never does!”
I appreciate being able to see both cuts nowadays via Blu-Ray, but holy fucking shit, if I’d seen the Director’s cut as a youth? Sheer fucking nightmare fuel.
“I’ve done terrible things, Audrey.”
This is a production that has inspired so many over so many years, and this film adaptation not only does it justice, it also makes the most of the medium while staying true to the work’s roots. It’s a remarkable film that will certainly inspire more for years to come, which is an odd thing to say about a film centered around a blood-thirsty singing plant, but we all find inspiration and empathy in the oddest of places.
What if I were to tell you that there’s an episode of TV that features Peter Lorre, Boris Karloff and Lon Chaney Jr. trek out to a Chicagoland hotel to brainstorm horror ideas for a cooperative project?
You might not believe me. It sounds like something a horror fanboy would either pitch, or get their friends together to make a homemade version of said idea.
It absolutely exists. It was an episode of the hit TV show ROUTE 66 entitled Lizard’s Leg and Owlet’s Wing and was the fourth episode of the show’s third season.
PETER LORRE: “What frightened them in then in the dark ages, it still frightens now. Fear is born into people […] And don’t you sell it short, Boris!”
If you are pressed for time, here’s a brief summary: NAKED CITY and THE NAKED CITY TV show creators Herbert B. Leonard and Stirling Silliphant pitched the idea of two younger men — the over-educated Tod and the suave lady’s man Buz — band together and tour the U.S. and picking up odd jobs along the way to fund their efforts. Unlike just about every TV show at the time, each episode was shot on location, turning ROUTE 66 into a weekly U.S. travelogue.
Lizard’s Leg and Owlet’s Wing does take place in Chicagoland.* As previously mentioned, Lorre, Karloff and Chaney Jr. want to brainstorm a project together. Lorre suggests meeting at an innocuous conference Chicagoland hotel ‘The O’Hare Inn’ and they agree. Karloff suggests that they replace their surname with reversed versions of their first name because, sure, that’ll fool everyone.
It just so happens that Tod and Buzz have wrangled a job at the inn as Junior Executives in Charge of Convention Liasons. The job thrills them — especially Tod — as the inn is hosting a large ‘Executive Secretaries of the Midwest’ conference and features a number of attractive women.
TOD, remarking on the number of young women exiting a bus: “What makes you think it’s a convention group?”
BUZZ: “When two or more girls get together and there’s no guy in the group, it’s just got to be a convention.”
TOD: “Buzz, there are things carved in marble with not the one-tenth of content of that last authoritative remark.”
While Tod and Buzz work on wooing secretaries, the three horror maestros finally meet up. Lorre requests a very specific coffin from Tod before Karloff arrives, so he can give Karloff a special reveal.
Tod quickly sees through Lorre’s scheming and suggests that Lorre and Chaney Jr. try their own brand of old-school terror on the secretaries. Chaney Jr. makes himself into one of his classic monsters and matters escalate. Meanwhile, Karloff consoles a secretary who pines for a love who left her.
It’s roughly fifty minutes of self-satisfying indulgence for writer/creator Silliphant but, happily, is also a raucous and memorable crowd-pleasing episode. This might not be the venue we wanted to see all three of these masters together for, but it is a lot of fun.
I rarely link to full episodes, however, if you’re in New York City, you can also watch it for free at the mind-blowing New York Paley Center which is exactly the first work I watched upon my initial visit.
To Chicago residents like myself, there is a difference between Chicago and Chicagoland. A lot of folks who live in Chicago suburbs often say they live in Chicago. Chicago residents often classify those who live outside the radius of Chicago’s L train support as living in Chicagoland.
![HARLEY QUINN: A VERY PROBLEMATIC VALENTINE’S DAY SPECIAL (2023) [REDUX]](https://mediaclature.com/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/harleyquinn-1280b.jpg)
![SERIAL MOM (1994) [REDUX]](https://mediaclature.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/10/serial-mom-poster.jpg)
