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LaserDisc

LaserDisc

LaserDisc was no medium for seventeen-year-old working part-time at Winn-Dixie in Texas. It was too expensive, the software was hard to find, and a 13″ CRT plugged into a free sharp stereo was no way to appreciate its powers.

Nevertheless, I was devoted to the format. The cost forced me to be more selective in what I bought, encouraging an interest in criticism (and get better jobs), the scarcity eventually drove me to online commerce—specifically eBay and Ken Crane’s—and—after replacing my monitor with a 25″ model—I got a job at Best Buy to upgrade the rest of the system. (I met my first love there, but that’s another story.)

Once again, thanks are due to Mr. Rogers, who introduced me to the format in my ninth grade history class—“We’re all Spartacus!”—and also to Charlie, who took the plunge just ahead of me. For a format that never enjoyed the dominance of VHS or DVD, it illustrated just how little the former had to offer and pioneered almost everything the latter would build its reputation upon.

It was a short but passionate affair.

You Can’t Do That on Television (1979–90)

Periodically, people asked what happened to me. Very often, I point at Gigglesnort Hotel (1975–8), but I suspect a lot of the blame could also be attributed to You Can’t Do That on Television (1979–90).

Created by Roger Price, also responsible for The Tomorrow People (1973–9), it partnered with Gigglesnort Hotel and the books of Roald Dahl—and their cinematic adaptions—to ensure I ended up with a black sense of humor and a fatalistic outlook.

Might I have been happier had I been plopped down in front of the Disney Channel all day like my wife? I don’t know…

The Queen Is Dead (1986) by The Smiths

Karl had an array of black audiocassettes in his VW bug, a self-sequenced assemblage of upbeat melancholia that first introduced me to the miserablism of Morrissey, but it didn’t take until I was house sitting in grad school and popped my friend’s copy of The Queen Is Dead (1986) into the tape deck and became properly acquainted with the Smiths (and, tangentially, Alain Delon and Hubert Selby, Jr.).

The entire album is a masterpiece, but “There Is a Light That Never Goes Out” could be played on repeat for the rest of my life, and there would be no complaints.

The Stunt Man (1980)

For Eli Cross (Peter O’Toole), the auteur theory is woefully inadequate, godhood being the only status comparable—in his view—to that of a film director with an unorthodox approach to stunt casting.

Peter O’Toole and Steve Railsback in The Stunt Man (1980).

I’ve had Paul Brodeur’s 1970 novel on my shelf for over a decade—and its time will eventually come—but just over a year ago, I rewatched The Stunt Man (1980)—on the occasion of screenwriter-director Richard Rush’s death, and it was no less a marvel of smoke and mirrors than when I first saw it on Anchor Bay’s splendid DVD release 20-odd years ago, right around the time they issued The Wicker Man (1973), as it happens. 

Vince Gilligan (1967–)

Because process is as important as product—even when the product represents the best the medium has to offer—I admire the creative ethos of Vince Gilligan.

Vince Gilligan by Peter Gould.

From fostering the creative aspirations of his staff—many of whom are now the top talents in their respective crafts—to disseminating the credit for the success of Breaking Bad (2008–13) and Better Call Saul (2015–22) among the entire cast and crew—despite the showrunner being an obvious lighting rod for attention—to the ongoing effort to share how the series were made—via Blu-ray supplements and the Insider podcasts from editors Kelley Dixon and Chris McCaleb—every element of the production seems geared to not only get the best out of those working on the shows themselves, but to inspire them—and their audience—to create something special.

The Wicker Man (1973)

The Wicker Man (1973) is a searing reminder that not everyone believes the same thing, and that any given majority’s belief—no matter its basis—will have the last word.

Ingrid Pitt, Peter Woodward, Diane Cilento, Donald Eccles, Christopher Lee, and Britt Ekland in The Wicker Man (1973).

Nigel Kneale (28 April 1922 – 29 October 2006)

The B.E.R.G.CAST suggests most people born after the era live dramatic broadcasts and the heyday of Hammer Films approach writer Nigel Kneale via the gateway drug of Doctor Who. I was no exception. As I dug deeper into the making of my beloved tv series, the name came up over and over again, until I was forced to pick up an Anchor Bay DVD double-feature with Quatermass and the Pit (1967).

My mind completely blown by the perfect mix science and superstition, a binge matched only by my descent into Dennis Potterdam followed, with Tomato Cain and Other Stories (1949), the extant episodes of The Quatermass Experiment (1953), The Quatermass Xperiment (1955), Quatermass II (1955), Quatermass 2 (1957), The Abominable Snowman (1957), Quatermass and the Pit (1958–9)—which was even better than the Hammer Adaptation!—First Men in the Moon (1964), The Witches (1966), The Year of the Sex Olympics (1968), The Stone Tape (1972), Beasts (1976), The Quatermass Conclusion (1979, television, theatrical, & novelized versions), The Woman in Black (1989), and The Quatermass Experiment (2005).

My timing was excellent, with more material available than at any time in the history of home video, and though I still have a lot to seek out, the just-released Nineteen Eighty-Four (1954) will be tonight’s treat for a day of hard work.

Ordinarily, I try to verify the quotes that accompany these postings, but I’m hideously behind already, and if this wasn’t actually said, it should have been:

“All stories should have some honesty and truth in them, otherwise you’re just playing about.”
Nigel Kneale (28 April 1922 – 29 October 2006)

Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979)

The beautiful and terrifying thing about the human race is the ability of its constituents—when provided with the same right or wrong data—to develop wildly varying interpretations of the information. This phenomenon seems to result in two products: Art and War. Generally, I think the former happens when an individual perception of reality—despite its uniqueness—captures something universal when presented to the world. The latter seems to be a result of the individual trying to inflict their interpretation—typically an erroneous interpretation full of projection and superimposition—on everyone else…probably to avoid the embarrassment of being laughed at for decades of thinking the woman who wanted to put Toto down was called Elvira Gulch rather than accepting she’s Almira and blaming the true villains of this sordid history: the damnable Oak Ridge Boys.

This is, of course, all preamble to Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979), a superlative study of the phenomenon mentioned above, no matter how many sandals your faith requires you to wear…

Casino Royale (1953) by Ian Fleming

“The scent and smoke and sweat of a casino are nauseating at three in the morning. Then the soul-erosion produced by high gambling—a compost of greed and fear and nervous tension—becomes unbearable and the senses awake and revolt from it.”

The first two words of the second paragraph transform the name of an American ornithologist into a literary and cinematic trademark worth more money than I can possibly imagine.

Favorite #360 is not 007—and all that goes along with his licence to kill—but rather that first spin of the roulette wheel, the initial roll of the dice, the hole card you haven’t yet seen. Casino Royale (1953) by Ian Fleming could have been just another book. Even the best-written book with the excellent reviews and the full backing of an enthusiastic publisher can vanish without a trace in a decade. That James Bond lives on gives me hope, as does the fact that Fleming wrote Casino Royale when he was 44. No pressure, Jason.

Burbank, California

When I was eleven or twelve, Nickelodeon started running Rowan & Martin’s Laugh-In (1968–73). That’s where I heard the phrase “Beautiful downtown Burbank” uttered every night by Gary Owens. It was a bit like a well-executed commercial jingle, setting up residence in my mind.

A decade later, I booked an extended-stay apartment in Burbank because that’s where all the interns from my Radio-TV-Film department stayed…of course, their internships were at NBC and mine was at Fox, but at least there were people I knew in the complex. I didn’t see much of Burbank in that month, but I saw enough, so I came back three years later. I’ve lived here longer than anywhere else, and I even got to hear Gary Owens utter his famous phrase in person for the city’s 100th anniversary a few years ago.