CINEMA SEEN - "The Joker Is The Whole Card."
By William Margold

     “You either die a hero or you live long enough to become a villain.”
     That's a really cool line from THE DARK KNIGHT---ranking right up there with “When the legend becomes fact...print the legend” (from “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance”) and “And so El Cid rode out of history into legend” (from “El Cid”). And I wish I could simply say that “'The Dark Knight'” should have ended while it was still good rather than hanging around so long that it became bad”---but it was never really all that good in the first place.      
     And therein is the most disappointing result from having already seen, or perhaps, I should say, “suffered through” at a press screening last week---THE DARK KNIGHT---is that I am now deprived of taking at least one friend to see the film.
     Indeed...it has long been one of my supreme pleasures to pick up a buddy in my legendary Bearmobile, gleefully watch him stuff himself full of a good meal that is sprawled in front him at either The Original Pantry, or Pann's, or Paco's Tacos (I don't dine where the portions are petite), and then watch him (from the corner of my eye) revel in the sights and sounds of a film that I have already admired so much that I want to share my film watching experience with him.
     But---with the exception of some admirably androgynous scene masticating nuances by the late Heath Ledger as The Joker---I am now faced with discussing a motion picture that I wouldn't want to ever see again...even through the eyes of one of my enemies.
     Cold on the heels of his 2005 stunningly crafted, painfully insightful to the fact that being a superhero means having an awful lot of dinners for one---“Batman Begins”---director/writer Christopher Nolan is seemingly content here to serve up a dim witted stew of discontent that numbs the senses with lots of slam bang stunts, and bludgeons the sensibilities with a yawn inducing stream of soulless platitudes (with the exception of the one that ignited this column) delivered by a lamentably catatonic cast including Christian Bale, Michael Caine, Gary Oldman, and Morgan Freeman, all of whom were in “Begins.”
     Bale, in particular, who brought so much internal conflict to his first turn as Gotham's City Caped Crusader (as well as pretty playboy Bruce Wayne), here decides to grumble and grouse through his performance in such an uninspired manner, that I would strongly consider not following him out of a burning restaurant.
     Caine and Freeman (as Bale's confidants) have been reduced to caricatures...and are simply kept in the picture to utter a homily here or emit a ho-hum there.
     And Oldman, as Batman's primary police department contact, who was so beautifully bewildered in “Begins”--- appears completely befuddled (and closer to bored) this time around.
     Ineffectually replacing Katie Holmes as Bale's ill-fated love interest is Maggie Gyllenhaal, who gets together with new cast member Aaron Eckhart, who is equally ill-fated, as his character of a super slick DA evolves into the grotesque but sadly only one one-dimensional Two-Face.
     So it's up to Heath Ledger to paradoxically save what's left of the depressing day...and the even more despairing night. And whenever he is on the screen---although it's difficult not to think about the fact that he is no longer with us---he minces, flits, and lip-smacks about with such a demonic glee, that when movie award season comes around, his name will most certainly be among the best supporting actor contenders...and not just out of sympathy.
     But when a film relies too heavily on only one character to make everything else happen, it's virtually impossible not to be anxious and restless during the parts of the film when that character is not on the screen.
     And such the tragic cinematic fate of The Joker---so achingly embodied by Ledger. In make-up that appears to have been applied by accident, and spitting out a litany of antisocial sentiments like so many lethal sunflower seed shells, Heath creates every memory worth a damn in a motion picture that I would otherwise very much like to forget
     end
     NOTE: Originally published in LA Xpress, July 24, 2008 issue.

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CINEMA SEEN - "Amber’s Ark"
By William Margold

     25 years ago...lightning struck the Adult Entertainment Industry when a supremely alluring Southern California sun-baked young lady stood before me wearing only what Mother Nature had blessed her with---in my relatively unkempt third floor office of Reb: Sunset International at 6912 Hollywood Blvd (right across the street from The Chinese Theatre)---her carnal confidence radiating with a glow that seared my senses. I was caught slightly off guard by her presence, and I tried to compensate for my mental discomfort by quickly nicknaming her "The Blonde Panther."
     That seemed to make her happy.
     Her name was Amber Lynn.
     And she would become "A Legend."
     Over the past quarter century, I have had the pleasure of witnessing the radiant Ms. Lynn climb the lusty ladder of X-rated entertainment success as she made her masturbatory mark on sex screens of every size, and on the dance circuit throughout the North American continent, bringing her special form of animalistic eroticism to all those who dared to wet daydream about handling her heat. And to this day I must admit that I am still "scared to even dare." But I most certainly admire her.
     And that admiration grew to the rarefied level reserved for those whom I have called "heroes"---during the past few weeks---as I have been a witness and marginal participant to her masterminding an explicit adult production called WE ARE THE WORLD XXX.
     (A few appropriately pristine production shots, considering this is the back page of THE LAXPRESS, appear here for your viewing pleasure. For more pulsating/pertinent images, please refer to avn.com.)
     When Amber discovered that a highly respected and very popular X-rated film director named Henri Pachard was in a state of seriously declining health, she decided to reach out to the industry that he had given so much to for well over 30 years, in the hope that now it would give something back to him.
     And I was among the first that she called, and through The Protecting Adult Welfare Foundation (www.pawfoundation.org)---a non-profit group that I created back in 1994 for just this type of humanitarian activity---I, in turn, reached out to people from all areas of the adult entertainment industry, and found many of them quite willing to "volunteer their services"---and to climb aboard what I was calling "Amber’s Ark" as it set sail on a sea of goodwill.
     And so they came one by one to become paired up in front of the camera, or to work as part of the creative team headed by Ms. Jane Waters, behind the camera.
     And their names included such historical hardcore luminaries as Georgina Spelvin, Ron Jeremy, Porsche Lynn, John Stagliano, Randy Spears, Stephanie Swift, Cara Lott, Brad Armstrong, and Ona Zee as well as such relative newcomers to the skin screen scene as Manuel Ferrera, Anita Cannibal, Jada Fire, Holly and Troy Halston, Kandi Hart, and Moxxie Maddron, plus an entire orgy full of eager performers---all of whom rose and writhed to the moment when called upon to do so.
     And at the helm, directing all of the tie-together sequences, which included placing me as The Historian (a title that I’ve painfully acquired with the passing, at the end of 2004, of my great friend Jim Holliday) between an angelic Spelvin and a devilish Jeremy as they amusingly argued over the current state of the "sindustry"---before I finally tossed the hedonistic ball to very special guest star---Hustler’s Larry Flynt---was the magnificent Amber, steadfastly determined to make that sure that her vision of the overall concept was going to be realized, so that her friend Henri Pachard could rest a little bit easier.
     And so when Mr. Pachard visited the set on the second day of the shoot, and those who adored him surrounded him, I have never been prouder to be part of what I call "The Family of X.
     "     end
     NOTE: Originally published in LA Xpress, July 3, 2008, issue.

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CINEMA SEEN - "E.T. Call Jones"
By William Margold

     For me...the entire Indiana Jones trilogy was essentially over after Harrison Ford dodged the boulder and leaped from the cave during the first five minutes of "Raiders of the Lost Ark."
     With a vicariously amorous nod toward the gloriously freckled ultra-tomboy Karen Allen in "Raiders"...and a sincere genuflection to the powerful presence of Sean Connery in "Last Crusade"---what came and went during the three cluttered and highly repetitious adventures (the last being in 1989) with Indiana left very little in the way of dazzling discussion material as the years reeled relentlessly by, and Jones’ jaunts became so many celluloid cobwebs in my movie-going memory banks.
     You see...during my cinematic childhood (the 1950’s), I somehow managed to escape the apparent joys that my peers derived from being trundled off to watch Saturday Morning Serials. Therefore I didn’t have very much revered reference material to help me appreciate what master filmmaking buddies George Lucas and Steven Spielberg were "awe-shuckingly" alluding to as the indefatigable, and also somewhat always annoyed looking Professor Jones, took on the minions of late 1930’s evil (invariably nasty nitwit Nazis) in pursuit of assorted priceless, and of course, supremely magical artifacts.
     Indeed...the majority of my Saturday mornings, when not spent as the guest of various institutions of structured living (including many military schools, a couple of fancy private education facilities, Central Juvenile Hall in downtown Los Angeles, and finally, from late 1956 until the summer of 1960, a home in Culver City for the resolutely incorrigible), almost always consisted of outdoor encounters with mischief.
     Now that’s not to say that I didn’t see lots of movies during that period, and in fact, I came to adore as well as emulate on the playground such wildly adventurous films as "Bataan" "Gunga Din" and "The Crimson Pirate"---and bask in the loyalty and honorable glow of westerns like "High Noon" "Shane" and "Red River."
     So when I was told that Indiana Jones was coming back to the big screen, I must admit that I was less than excited.
     But then I heard that my decadent daydream Karen Allen was being (dare I say "exhumed") to play Indiana’s true love, the spectacular Marion Ravenswood, and that the plotline was being moved up into my 1950’s---my interest antenna perked up.
     And it didn’t hurt that another of my fantasy femmes---Cate Blanchett---had been added to cast as a cunning Commie. (Ms. B winds up conjuring Natasha Fatale from the iconic "Rocky and Bullwinkle" TV show, which is not all that flattering, but considering her surroundings, it is tolerable...and sort of fun.)
     So off I went, after appropriately eating at Pann’s, a 50’s-themed diner near LAX, with a special friend---the legendary "paints with a still camera" photographer Kenji---to see "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" at The Cinerama Dome in Hollywood.
     And I came away from the experience---that I’ve labeled "E.T. Call Jones"--- richly rewarded by a film, that while admittedly is highly derivative of its precursors, also absolutely delivers an enormously Fifties evocative, charmingly delightful mixture of well-staged derring-do with a smartly satisfying message about the possibility that perhaps we have never really been alone in the universe.
     Ford labors stylishly as the aging gracefully Jones, and his reconciliation with Allen (in wardrobe that looks comfortably familiar) through Shia LaBeouf as their carnally collaborative product of a night of bedded bliss, resonates perfectly as to how squeaky clean and sanitary all things sexual were during the Eisenhower era.
     And speaking of comfortably familiar wardrobe---that fine fedora that Ford/Jones manages to keep on his head almost all the time has assumed a personality all its own, and I would gain great comfort if it were retired to The Smithsonian.
     Then again...there are still The Sixties and The Seventies for Lucas, Spielberg and Indiana Jones to deal with...!
     end
     NOTE: Originally published in LA Xpress, June 26, 2008, issue.

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THE LEGENDS OF EROTICA

"Class of 2008"

     "There is no future if in the present we fail to pay homage to the past."
     And so it will be once again at Showgirl Video (631 South Las Vegas Blvd.) on Friday evening, January 11, that six Adult Entertainment Industry luminaries will be inducted into THE LEGENDS OF EROTICA (www.legendsoferotica.com) XXX’s most respected and discriminating (in choosing and limiting its number of inductees each year since its inception in 1994) Hall of Fame.
     Although other groups including The X-Rated Film Critics (XRCO), and maybe even Adult Video News (AVN), started out with the good intentions of "less is more" when it came to filling their Halls of Fame with the truly deserving, they have both fallen into the "more is less" trap, and have taken to haphazardly "honoring" many who were, are, and never will be worthy of belonging to any kind of Hall...except possibly the one of Lame.
     But that’s a problem best left for those groups--- and each new batch of instant experts and prattling pinheads who come along armed with indifference and ignorance as well as the lack of historical insight---to contend with when it comes to selecting "inductees" of merit.
     However, a nod of appreciation toward at least their "limiting access" policy must be made toward those in charge of The Walk of Fame at The Hustler Store in West Hollywood, because only two people are honored at a time, and to date...less two dozen "stars"(with only a few being suspect) adorn the area outside the erotic emporium.
     The Class of 2008 will enrich THE LEGENDS OF EROTICA on Friday, January 11---and that group will include the lusty likes of Brittany Andrews, Debi Diamond, Ron Jeremy, Midori, Mimi Miyagi and Kitten Natividad.
     For the record, including the anxiously looked forward to sextet listed above---since The Class of 1994---only a total of 75 actresses, actors, directors, and a few very important personalities (including legendary talent agents "Reb" Sawitz and Jim South, photographer Justice Howard, and historian Jim Holliday) have been given the opportunity to plant various body parts in the blocks of cement that grace the interior of Showgirl. Included among the 75 are Linda Lovelace, Rene Bond and John C. Holmes---all of whom were regretfully inducted posthumously. Lisa DeLeeuw, Shauna Grant and Savannah will also be accorded posthumous inductions within the next few years.
     
     For the record...here is the complete roster of THE LEGENDS OF EROTICA (listed alphabetically/year-by-year):
1994---Veronica Hart, Nina Hartley, Hyapathia Lee, Porsche Lynn and Miss Sharon Mitchell.
1995---Annette Haven, Kay Parker and Seka.
1996---Juliet Anderson, Bunny Bleu, Vanessa Del Rio and Kelly Nichols.
1997---Christy Canyon, Marilyn Chambers, John C. Holmes, Shanna McCullough and Jeanne Pepper.
1998---Erica Boyer, Jeanna Fine and William Margold.
1999--- Bionca, Jamie Gillis, Gloria Leonard, Candida Royalle and Annie Sprinkle.
2000---Rene Bond, Ginger Lynn, Britt Morgan, Joey Silvera and John Stagliano.
2001---Keisha, John Leslie, "Reb" Sawitz and Teri Weigel.
2002--- Justice Howard, Sharon Kane, Amber Lynn, Tori Welles and Randy West.
2003---Lee Caroll, Eric Edwards, Jim Holliday, Linda Lovelace, Ed Powers, Selena Steele and Angela Summers.
2004---T.T. Boy, Victoria Paris, Rhonda Jo Petty, Alicia Rio and Jim South
2005---Angel Kelly, Johnnie Keyes, Shayla Leveaux, Lynn Lemay, Mai Lin and Henri Pachard.
2006---Fred Lincoln, Cara Lott, Jody Maxwell, Tiffany Mynx, Georgina Spelvin and Paul Thomas.
2007---Sean Michaels, Minka, Ruby, Herschel Savage, Serena and Taylor Wane.
     And in the very near future...such justifiably deserving sex screen super stars as Tom Byron, Felicia, Mike Horner, Heather Hunter, Kylie Ireland, Janine, Jenna Jameson, Jill Kelly, Chasey Lain, Mr. Marcus, Peter North, Tera Patrick, Harry Reems, Shane, Rocco Siffredi, and Lexington Steele will be called upon to take their rightful places among THE LEGENDS OF EROTICA.
     Of course...the "Legends" staff has launched a search for such long-overlooked Ladies of Lust as Tracey Adams, Lesllie Bovee, Desiree Cousteau, Barbara Dare, Samantha Fox Ashlyn Gere, Constance Money and Jesie St. James.
     If any readers have knowledge of the whereabouts of any of "The Orgasmic Octet" mentioned above...or would like to offer their own "legends" for consideration...please contact (818) 501-6139...the office number of Protecting Adult Welfare (www.pawfoundation.org)---which will be benefiting from the ticket sales and donations made throughout the January 11 event.
     From WMPR
     End

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CINEMA SEEN - "I Will Play No More...Forever!"
By William Margold

     We stood on our asphalt battleground shivering as the cold hazy early morning air mercilessly cut through our young bodies---but because we knew that it would eventually grow warm because we were living in Southern California---we were covered with only t-shirts and well worn jeans, or for those who dared to bare their knees, modest short pants.
     It was a Saturday in the late fall of 1953, and we, with names like Butch, Gilbert, Randy and Tom, were about to choose sides for a game of war that would be waged on the expansive playing area of McKinley Grammar School on Santa Monica Blvd. near 26th Street.
     The teams of third and fourth graders consisted primarily of little boys, but each side had to choose at least one girl to play "nurse"---and our resident "tomboys" were a chubby freckled redhead named Gloria and a leathery mean-spirited blonde named Betty.
     Our weapons consisted of whatever we could beg, borrow or even steal, but mainly were sticks that could be pointed with menacing accuracy--- matched by our ability to make sounds approximating gunshots and explosions.
     Now while the preceding reflections may appear to you as odd material for my Cinema Seen page, you will notice that the artwork here is from THE WAR---Ken Burns’ demanding, disturbing and yet perversely dazzling documentary series that aired recently on PBS, and which I strongly suggest should be a DVD set that belongs in your collection...after it sears your mind.
     And although I fashioned a very special form of war game on those Saturday mornings in the Fifties, wherein if a kid was unfortunate enough to get killed, he couldn’t simply "count to ten" and then play again, but instead he had to take his stick and go home, my humble homage to the painful permanence of death and dying is monumentally dwarfed by what Master Burns has wrought.
     In fact, after enduring the 15 hours of Burns’ compelling coordination of soul shattering images, besides virtually crying myself out of tears, I swore to never, ever again play war games, even though every time I drive by McKinley Grammar School, I can see myself scampering recklessly across the roof of its main building on my way to attack the enemy from way behind its own lines.
     By the way, that tactic, while being quite dangerous because I could have easily slipped and fallen to a fate that, if not resulting in real-crashing- down-to-the-ground-death, would have most certainly been at least crippling, never failed to catch my bunkered-in opposition off-guard, and invariably, with a frontal attack by my team being parlayed perfectly, would produce quite a high enemy body count, if not complete victory.
     And victory would be celebrated by passing around the vanquished teams’ nurse, which of course, suggests much more to the reason that our games were played. But remember that we were a motley group of eight, nine and ten year olds, and we weren’t really ready to deal with the opposite sex except in manners (or lack of same) that were much more rough and tumble...rather than soft and snuggle.
     In the early Fifties, the ocean air cloaked City of Santa Monica, California could still be considered "small town, America"---and "small towns" are the 1940’s backbone that Burns constructs his Second World War series around, as he deftly crafts the memories of those who lived, labored, loved and lost family members in towns called Waterbury, Connecticut; Mobile, Alabama; Sacramento, California; and Luverne, Minnesota---into the brutal realization of just how high the price of freedom really was.
     Indeed it was a price paid for with the blood of thousands upon thousands upon thousands of American boys who were never given a chance to grow any further than their first step into a battlefield in Europe or onto a beachhead in The Pacific.
     And finally...Ken Burns’ masterwork has produced a prodigious payment in form of the tears---many of mine were expended during the sequences wherein a elegant lady named Sascha Weinzheimer, now 74, achingly etched images of her agonies while she was imprisoned (at 8) when the Japanese took over the Philippines---from the eyes of the grateful generations who have been and are now warmed by the torch of freedom that was never extinguished because of those who fought for what they believed in...without having the option to "count to ten."
     end
     NOTE: Originally published in LA Xpress, December 27, 2007, issue.

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CINEMA SEEN - "Mealtime at the Movies!"
By William Margold

     I bet meals.
     Because...win or lose...I am going to get a chance to eat.
     Many, many, MANY years ago...before I opted for the gastronomic way of gambling, I used to put my money where my mouth (and mind) was...and I would make bets about numerous sporting events (particularly when they involved MY teams: The Detroit Lions and The New York Yankees). But as the years went by, and I found myself winning a great deal by backing The Yankees, but then losing it all (and much more) when I sacrificed my common sense for team loyalty with The Lions---I decided that the bitter taste of defeat or the savory flavor of victory would go down much easier if simply meals at such places as The Original Pantry in downtown Los Angeles (where I am currently already owed not one but two dining experiences), Fu Shing in South Pasadena, Pann’s near LAX, Paco’s Tacos in Culver City, Little Toni’s in North Hollywood, with a hot dog place and a BBQ joint or two tossed in for good waist expanding measure, and of course, The Yukon Mining Company in West Hollywood, were on the line.
     Where betting meals really began to dominate my gambling way of life was when I started making yearly Oscar wagers with my old friend Elmer Pasta (whom I have had the pleasure of knowing for almost 40 years, and who, in fact, was a staff writer back in glory days of The Hollywood Press).
     And currently, perhaps frivolously, I have taken to making eating bets (about all sorts of things) with a co-worker at THE LAXPRESS named Ramsey Moore---a portly fellow who wears his appreciation of food with a proud swagger that is matched with a grin that could span The Grand Canyon.
     Burbling his appreciation for NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN, I couldn’t resist wagering a visit to Little Toni’s (their individual thin crust, extra crispy pepperoni, mushroom and garlic pizza is a lethal love affair with high blood pressure) that the Coen Brothers’ fitfully frustrating affair wouldn’t make to The Final Five in The Best Picture category. Amusingly noteworthy is the fact that the stultifying film, which is set like so many cement cow pies in 1980’s Texas, only comes alive when someone is being killed. The tedious tale of an enigmatic killer (played comatosely by Javier Bardem) pursuing a hapless fellow (Josh Brolin) who has stumbled upon some mob money, while in turn they are both being half-heartedly hunted by a worn out Tommy Lee Jones (who spends way too much hankering for the good old days of black-and-white good guys versus bad guys) is an agonizing mess. Staggering around blindly in the padded cell of Coen Brothers’ black humor pretension and false portent, "No Country" tries desperately to make points with a very dull pencil. I found myself trying way too hard to find something of merit in "For Old Men" and when I have to work that hard looking for "what it all means"...invariably it’s time to realize that certain emperors (and Brothers) are naked.
     On the other knife and fork holding hand, I’ll take any and all bets about AMERICAN GANGSTER making The Final Five/Best Picture cut---as the magnificent Ridley Scott-directed effort is an almost perfect example of compelling and awesome motion picture film crafting at its zenith. Even with its outcome already known, the rise and fall of a Harlem-based heroin peddling super hood of the late Sixties and early Seventies named Frank Lucas, is the cinematic cloth that the words "riveting classic" are woven from. As portrayed with mesmerizing menace and paradoxically admirable evil by Denzel Washington, Frank Lucas takes his place among the screen’s legendary criminals---including even those who have been called "Godfather." The coda of Lucas’ world is as moral in its immorality as it can and must be in order to survive...as well as to profit. Hell bent to bring Lucas down is Russell Crowe, who lumbers about eloquently as he underplays Richie Roberts, an honest cop who finds himself swimming upstream in the rancid waters of corruption that are the majority of the supposed law enforcement officers are contemptuously polluting in his own department. Noteworthy here is that Josh Brolin (who brought very little to the torturous table in "No Country") is balls-out brutal as a dirty detective who winds making both Lucas’ and Roberts’ lives miserable. Somewhat lamentably, the final sequences of the film, when Washington and Crowe finally get a chance to share the screen, appear to be rushed in a sort of Hallmark Card simplistic way of things. But I guess because Scott, Washington, Crowe and screenwriter Steven Zaillian have already provided so much to chew on for well over two hours, the lightness of the dessert portion of the cinematic dining experience is appropriate, as it will allow the major courses of meal to be relished for a very long time to come.
     In fact...you can bet on it!
     end
     NOTE: Originally published in LA Xpress, December 6, 2007, issue.

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CINEMA SEEN - "Honor In...Honor Out!"
By William Margold

     One of my more vexing sentiments is: "As long as you spell my name correctly...I don’t care if you put it on an outhouse wall."
     And so on Wednesday evening (November 28), at The Whiskey-A-Go-Go in West Hollywood, I am being given something called The Career Achievement as a Movie Critic award---during an event called The Hollywood F.A.M.E. Awards (www.hollywoodfameawards.com).
     However, because I’ve noticed that a dress code ("no tennis shoes") has been recently added to their website, I may well be attending the event from the outside...looking in...if I am caught wearing "comfortable" footwear.
     (In fact...with the rarest of exceptions, the only time that I will ever wear my leather shoes again---I have a pair of Florsheim Imperials purchased in 1999 for $125 when I visited Washington D.C.---to plead a respectable position for The Adult Entertainment Industry in its eternal battle to gain equal footing in the eyes of society---is if one of my enemies dies, and I attend its funeral just to make sure that it is dead.)
     But perhaps none of the hulking security guards at The Whiskey-A Go-Go (to which I’ve never been) will notice what is lurking below my pants during the impending sure to be hectic evening...and I will be able to join the myriad of others being honored throughout the affair---including an old friend named Norm Lubow---whose "The Hellemarketer" is being feted as The Independent Feature Film Screenplay of the Year.
     Also slated for recognition (posthumously) is legendary film producer Stanley Kramer, which sort of makes the whole event spin like a runaway merry-go-round of life’s most remarkable coincidences, as it was Mr. Kramer’s HIGH NOON in 1952 that ignited my passion to pursue a long and circuitous reviewing, criticizing, and most importantly commenting upon movies career that has spanned well over five decades, and has encompassed 1000’s of columns in such venues as student newspapers at Santa Monica City College and Cal State Northridge, community dailies ( including The Santa Monica Outlook), numerous "underground" publications, and of course...my current home since 1972---THE LAXPRESS by way of THE HOLLYWOOD PRESS.
     On a Tuesday evening in September 1952, while our first television set was being installed in our apartment in Santa Monica, my mother took me over to The Dome Theatre in Ocean Park to see a western with Gary Cooper. It was a black-and-white, little movie that pitted a weary sheriff (Cooper, who would become my first screen idol) against the seemingly overwhelming odds of four revenge-minded outlaws. And when Cooper reached out to the townspeople they turned their backs on him. So he had to go it alone...to the haunting strains of Dimitri Tiomkin’s score...as the incessant ticking of the clock on the wall of his office headed him toward the showdown time that is the film’s title. And while not overly action-packed, although the gunning down of one of the outlaws in a barn was a death scene that I would reenact repeatedly on the playground for years to come, I found myself consumed by the tension of the piece. And on the way home...I told my mother that it "was the best film that I had ever seen." I was nine years old, and my fate was sealed. Over 54 years later..."High Noon" stills remains an all-time Favorite. However...the bold bloody ballet that is Sam Peckinpah’s "The Wild Bunch" joined "High Noon" in a tie for the top spot on my list in 1969.
     (For the record...the balance of my Favorite Five are "The Magnificent Seven" "The Great Escape" and "Ride The High Country.")
     The recurring themes that run throughout that quintet of films are the cornerstones of my life: Truth, Honor, Loyalty and Friendship.
     My Cinema Seen column, which makes up the very valuable back page of THE LAXPRESS, is a weekly chance for me to fashion a thought-provoking piece about how the movies (and other forms of entertainment) that I see affect me in relationship to the surprisingly diverse life that I have led (take a peek at www.billmargold.com), and that I am currently leading, which for the sake of geographical proximity alone, has already resulted in my being honored (in 2002) less than 100 caddy-corner yards away from The Whiskey-A Go-Go in front of The Hustler Store.
     And so, with a very limited amount of humility, but nevertheless with considerable gratitude to all those who have allowed me to fill up their pages with my insights---that after making sure that I am still in cement for being an Adult Industry Actor and Activist on one side of Sunset Blvd.---I will walk (in tennis shoes, most likely a new pair in the honor of the evening, and because my current ones are pretty well worn down) very slowly (my knees aren’t what they used to be), and very cautiously (remember those enemies), across the street to get a plaque for being a Movie Critic.
     Hopefully...it will have my name spelled correctly on it.      end
     NOTE: Originally published in LA Xpress, November 22, 2007, issue.

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CINEMA SEEN - "Bleeding Pinstripes!"
By William Margold

     It had been a tumultuous baseball season for my beloved New York Yankees---filled with a number of lows but eventually more highs, and then one more low, that made the passing of the past six months speed by to the extent that only now I am able to catch my breath.
     Managing to land the Wild Card spot in the American League, the Yankees were quickly dispatched by The Cleveland Indians, causing me to shrug and utter the sentiment---"Tomorrow is April and the day after that is October."
     And thus another season of New York Yankees adoration was relegated to my memory banks comforted by the fact that during my five decades plus (accidentally aware of the team in 1953, but really being fully aware of them by 1956...which is a very touching tale all in itself) of devotion to the legendary professional baseball entity---I have been warmly rewarded with ten, count ’em, TEN World Championships.
     So come f...ing on, just how upset was I supposed to be?
     Besides...now I was going to be able to dedicate a Cinema Seen page to an ESPN TV mini-series that had made a portion of the summer go by quite enjoyably---THE BRONX IS BURNING----the superlative recounting of the tumultuous 1977 baseball season set against the backdrop of a New York City that was juggling the hysteria of "Son of Sam, " political unrest, sizzling temperatures, and even a blackout.
     I started to write.
     The phone rang.
     It was The LAXPRESS’s redoubtable sports columnist Joey Alkes, a gentleman who bleeds Yankee pinstripes, urgently in need of utilizing me as his "wailing wall" (something that very good friends do from time to time) in an attempt to exorcise his sorrow over New York’s fate. Trying to explain that I had a column to write, Joey was having none of it, as he filled the airwaves with his heartbroken sentiments. Unprintable expletives caused my ears to burn, so much in fact, that I placed the phone down by my computer, so that I could at least contemplate my empty screen on which my excitement over having watched THE BRONX IS BURNING would eventually come to life. Joey’s voice finally rasped out its final lament.
     And I prepared to discuss the wonderfully insightful (and at times painful) performances of the series’ three principles characters: John Turturro as the Yankees’ scrappy manager Billy Martin (an Emmy nomination worthy turn if there ever was one), Oliver Platt as George Steinbrenner, New York’s bombastic owner (equally Emmy nomination worthy), and Daniel Sunjata as the magnetic Reggie Jackson.
     I started to write.
     The phone rang.
     It was Jason Green, a relatively young (considering that Joey and I are in the twilight of our rooting lives) Yankees fan who resides in Las Vegas. Now it was his time to tell me that he was tossing his Yankees hat back into the closet for another winter. I reminded him of much "fearful fun" the season had been. And of how miserable we were at the end of May after losing three straight to the hateful Angels (from wherever)...in Yankee Stadium!!! And how we had "risen from the dead" to slug our way into the playoffs. And that we were "truly lucky to be Yankees fans." I told him that I was going to create a column about Jeremiah Chechik’s masterfully directed THE BRONX IS BURNING.
     I started to write.
     The phone rang.
     It was Dolph Rotfeld from New York---the elder statesman in my life---whose love of the ("our") Yankees is only exceeded by his passion for The Green Bay Packers...as is mine for The Detroit Lions. His mournful sigh of resolution spoke volumes of disappointment. I told him that I was going to write a piece about THE BRONX IS BURNING...and he told me (his tone now glowing with warm reflection) that he was in Yankee Stadium the October night that Reggie hit the three home runs to finish off the Dodgers in the 1977 World Series. And if I had needed a spark to ignite the piece you are reading, Dolph’s sharing of his magical moments on that cold autumn night 30 years ago would have been more than sufficient.
     But you must remember, I had already reconciled myself NOT to take the Yankees losing in the playoffs SO seriously.
     Yeah...and I guess that’s why I superstitiously started growing a beard right after they lost those three games to The Angels (from wherever) back in May.
     I started to write.
     end
     NOTE: Originally published in LA Xpress, October 25, 2007, issue.

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