Kevin Birch
PHOENIX
LITERARY ART MAGAZINE
WINTER1980
Features____________________ A Singular Approach_____________________________2 Melrose Triangle________________________________ 6 The Advent of Cult Film__________________________17 Electronic Music_______________________________ 24 New Repertory Dance Co._________________ 32
Fiction_____________________ The Quittance
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A rt________________________ 8 On the Cover: Photograph by Dane Swindell
Poetry 21
Fbrtfolio 28
We will consider unsolicited articles, manuscripts, art and photos at the beginning of each quarter. ©Copyright 1980 by the University of Tennessee. All rights retained by the individual contributors. Send contributions to Phoenix Fine Arts Magazine, 5 Communications Building, 1340 Circle Park Drive, Knoxville, TN 37916.
Editor___________ Managing Editor
DAVID D. DUNCAN JOHN RUSH
Design Editor_____
DANE SWINDELL
Art Editor________
JULIA BURR
Photography Editor
KEVIN BIRCH
Prose Editor______
JIM BROOKS
Production
BETTY ALLEN LYNNE NENNSTIEL
A Singuleir Approach:
Lori Saylo
by Judy Katzel Photos by Kevin Birch Skepticism overpowered all other thoughts as I looked at that red brick house with the mustard yellow doors. It certainly didn't look like a school, but rather like it could have been smack in the middle of some mid-western suburb. Nonetheless, Laurel High School stood defiantly on the corner of Laurel and 16th, supporting a new addition outside and a new tradition inside—all in the name of progressive education. "The purpose of our school lies in helping students set goals and achieve goals, and to do a better job of promoting worthwhile skills." The school's main promoter and teacher, Mary Oliver, widened her lips to complement her already smiling eyes, as she spoke proudly of the 9year-old creative education program she had helped start. But this kindly, rose-cheeked teacher with her gray hair drawn back in a school-marmish bun was going to have to do more than smile to convince me she could successfully guide the 10 students presently enrolled through four years of "proper" high school training by allowing them to choose their own path of study—even if that meant graduating with 18 units of P.E. "Students don't have to attempt any academic project unless they feel commited to do so. And, a student gets credit toward graduation for any constructive learning process."
What? These students were not being forced to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous algebra? I nervously drummed my fingers on the kitchen table where the students and their instructors had eaten lunch together. In the background I heard shuffling and laughter in the halls as students—often with ’ individual instructors—picked rooms in the old house in which to hold afternoon classes. (Probably "The Aesthetic Value of House Paint 2110" I sneered to myself, only to realize that my skepticism toward this school was actually resentment toward my own education—or rather my lacK of choice concerning what I learned). "Educational research has proved the only thing that's different in kids being successful or not is whether they feel they are in some control of what they learn. We're happy to take kids who've been tossed out of other schools, as long as they're interested in something here. Our main expectation is that something constructive will be going on —no
sitting around." She smiled again and this time I found it a little less irritating and far more reassuring. She was not a sly watch-swinging necromancer brainwashing the youth of America (or at least Knoxville) into choosing a life of bead making and basket weaving. She had a genuine concern for students who refused to be molded into the conventional school system. For $1,200 a year, she, two other full-time and six part-time teachers will instruct a student in any field in which he wishes to become more proficient. Classes in chemistry, grammar and Spanish are just as available as jewelry making, photography and creative writing. If a student is interested in going to college, his 18 credit units can be made to match those required by accredited high schools. If higher education is not the individual's goal, programs of interest to the student can be followed. "W e don't push college, but we don't discourage it. It's really up to
3
the individual. No student has ever been turned down because we are not accredited by the state." There came that warmly confident smile again, touching its soft glow to my already melting cynicism. But, I refused to succumb until I had seen just what kind of young adults this school produced. I envisioned greasy drop-outs who were trying to be abstract by wearing six-pound medallions around their necks and were taking a free ride to a high school diploma because they couldn't handle being told what to read, when to read it and what they were supposed to have gotten from that reading—like in the "real" schools. What I saw instead was responsible, mature, sensitive (nongreasy) students who were interested in learning, often to the point of returning to school at night to work on projects. I, on the other hand, (at their age) was in the bandroom'blowing through my spit valve showering the french horn players in the next row and plotting how to dodge the cafeteria line and sneak to Burger Queen for lunch. One student said, "A lot of people really wonder how—after graduation from Laurel —how you'll handle sitting in a classroom if you go to college or how you'll deal with life outside. Here, you have to make your own decisions, which is exactly what you have to do once you get outside the school. It's not like sitting in a classroom 6 hours a day and having someone tell you what pages to
read, what questions to answer and when to go to the bathroom." To be really successful, Mary Oliver said she feels a school must represent a way to integrate the expectations of the students and the adults responsible for the education of those students. "A t Laurel High School, a student's business is to pursue those topics he finds interesting and can identify to- be useful, with encouragement and support of the adults, teachers and parents. The role of adults is to make their best estimates as to those skills and personal characteristics likely to be useful in the future and find workable ways to promote these with the student, who will at least give a fair try to what a trustworthy adult says is worthwhile knowledge. "I think there's a lot of students who can benefit from this kind of education." Her face crinkled with that same infectuous smile which had become so familiar now. She threw her hands up and laughed loudly. "What we do here may look a little wild —but it works!" Touche, Laurel High School! The three Rs alone alone didn't make the good ol' days so good, did they? You stole my conventional textbooks and won my conservatively guarded approval. Maybe voluntary learning has been an obscene phrase long enough, and perhaps it's time for a little less math and a little more Muse. You've got my vote; I never liked 'rithmetic, anyway. If Among other classes offered are dulcimer and jew elry m aking .
J I
I
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PHOENIX
contours of creative effort We walk around the pool and could jump in at any point. So, where do these illusory barriers originate? where? But listen, EVERYWHERE hear the Voice of the Sea of the Sea Pearl
A stained glass piece done by Mark Evans hanging in the Tennessee Valley Unitarian Church
J l f i eâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;l ( 3 â&#x20AC;&#x2122;d settled into a nice L t k . S \eaiized that <3
not alone.
3 l n d lo ! the protective walls o f invincilyle enamel that were o f my toh began to fade and he made to go elsewhere. 3 l n d the bathroom in its entirity, likewise followed suit. W here tile and toiletries had once been, and where dwelt spiders and mildew and soiled towels, was a vast expanse o f water, more terrible and indescribably big and excessive than any that the eyes o fk uman understanding had ever, ever been witness to. Especially since S knew that it had once been my bathroom. 3 ln d o n ly just seconds earlier, too. <Jlnd then 3
saw that which 3
came to know in later times to be
my- - .future husband! 3 (e was not what the usual human female would c all
pretty,
as he had
a rather football-shaped hunk, and rather thin arms. M e also had among his credentials a ta il longer than the main portion o f his collective bodily parts and greenish scales. ^ u t what a sipiftinjel i M e iua5 a marine iguana. Smoothly throughout the water to me as 3 awaited his reptilian touch, he moved. J i n d we joined hands as the beings o f our worlds began to sing and combine, and as a branch o f light fe ll and lit the surface o f what had been an ordinary bathtub, we freed emotions to watch their play above our water around the lig h tâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s branch. ^Before floating away into the positive oblivion, a cicada landed on the window among which we made tracks, and scared us into anullment. 3H y fiance went cold-bloodedly away as 3
watched, unable to distinguis k tke
water o f the big sea from the water o f my eyes.
l/we am/are the tree which is growing within this environment. Be directly part of this environment. Call it playing God or playing Life. Pearl
3)esparate as the lovelorn w ill be, 3 ran to the zoo in my bathrobe, there surrendering myself to the cages to fin d solace in a collective marriage wi ik the flocks o f fo J . Goodbye, my sweet reptile, S lu b y
The Melrose Triangle By James E. Brooks Planes and ships don't disappear in the Melrose Triangle, but it looks as if the Triangle itself will be the one to vanish without a trace. UT needs a new library building, and the Triangle, now occupied by the Art department, is a proposed site for its construction. However, reconstruction of the present buildings would serve two purposes; preservation of the few remaining examples of historical architecture on campus and the restructuring of an area that some people regard as tarnished. Other alternatives include conversion of the buildings to a series of student lounges, another item that seems slated for extinction. The history of the area began in 1897, with the construction of the Briscoe house. The other houses were built on land originally part of
the Briscoe lands. Construction ended in 1921, even though further modifications were made on each structure until the present. In the midst of standard, modern, and sometimes sterile architecture, the houses of the Melrose Triangle are a welcome change. Each structure holds its own history, a history which is being threatened by progress. The area itself sits as an oasis in the middle of a concrete jungle. The possibilities for its renovation are staggering. What the area means in terms of heritage and atmosphere can never be recaptured once removed. One need only walk through the area to see its significance. For the Triangle is like a page in the time that was never turned. It sits there waiting to be appreciated. ^ Kevin Birch
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PHOENIX
The Briscoe house, first house built on Melrose Avenue, constructed in 1894 by architects Baumann and Baumann.
A rt
Untitled from the Fan
8 PHOENIX
Series
Mixed Media
Tom Reising
9
10
PHOENIX
U
Memoirs, Besket Islend
Mixed Media
Marcia B. Goldenstein
A Night at the Ritz
12
PHOENIX
Lithograph
Richard Seiman
The Quittance by T.L. M cDonald Boone sat motionless, staring out his dirty window, watching the sun crawl into the darkened sky. He stirred his coffee listlessly, without looking at it, his mind a blank void of exhaustion. A timid creak on the ancient stairs outside startled him from his dreamless world and his heart paused, his breathing stopped. The door across from him opened, then slammed shut and Boone exhaled softly - it was just the neighbor coming in from his all-night job. But someday, he knew, that sound on the stairs would be Them, and he would see the end of his toobrief life. He never doubted that They would find him. Once he was terrified at the thought, but the years of living in fearful seclusion had rather dulled the danger of it. Sometimes he was so tired of the game that he found himself wishing They would find him and write the last chapter of his lonely exile. But not this morning. It had been a long night of sleeplessness, his usual vigil of listening (always listening!) for the sound of a strange step on the stairs, or the faint creak of his door opening, perhaps the scrape of his window being forced open. The sun, however, brought a feeling of near safety, so Boone shoved the last bite of charred toast in his mouth and crossed the room to the old, sagging couch. He threw himself down on it, pillowless, and curled tight against the cool air, drifting into stale and dreamless sleep. He had been physically and mentally drained, and the sleep that fell on him lasted through the day and into the dark of night. Suddenly, from the midst of his sleep, he
started up; shocked to see the darkness, paralyzed by a sound at his door. He knew he had heard it, so he waited...waited with a stiff body until he heard it again; the same muffled, scrape-scrape against his door. "W ho’s there?" he croaked through his hoarse, constricted throat. No answer came, just the same scratchy sound beyond the plank of wood, an inhuman sort of sound that never changed. Terrorized, Boone stayed frozen for long, agonizing moments in the darkness. Then slowly, an inch at a time, his body began to respond to the urgent signals of his brain and he moved. Silently, (though his blood was beating with sick ferocity inside him), he moved towards the door. Again the sound. He steeled himself for the final moments of his life, afraid yet grateful that the end had at last come, and flung open the door. He knew immediately that he had • died, although he never expected heaven to look like the scene before him. A primeval forest stretched out beyond his door. Looking down, he saw a thorny fern brushing against his door, causing the strange sound. Beyond that were huge giants of trees that bordered a lush, grassy veldt. Nothing moved beyond the sway of a gentle breeze. It was as if nothing had known a human touch, as if 'human' had lost its meaning in the midst of this dense green. The air was fresh and thick with the smell of the forest. It was the kind of world he'd dreamed about in his exile: fertile, virgin, safe. He stepped into it. It had a lonely feeling, yes, but the kind of loneliness he didn’t fear.
knowing he did not need to look over his shoulder here. He felt the soft earth beneath his bare feet, felt it clinging warmly between his toes, smelled its damp fragrance as his steps stirred it. Paradise, Eden for the persecuted. Boone heard her, then, for the first time. Her soft, sweet voice was chanting a childish tune of timeless innocence. He followed the sound, brushing through the dew-covered growth until he found a small clearing in the heart of the primitive forest. Her appearance matched her voice for she was white-skinned with long blond hair and a naked little-girl's body that was so stunning and sweet he could not move. His fear of frightening her dissolved as she turned and saw him. Her blue eyes grew to big 'O's of surprise and then she walked up to him slowly, with tiny, inquisitive steps. Her small pink lips puckered into the sweetest little smile he had ever seen. There was silence between them as she grew nearer. He was seized, not with passion, but with the kind of paternal love he had been denied in his tumultous life. He bent down and picked her up under the arms, and her smile deepened. She curled, innocent in his big arms, her flawless skin seemingly perfect and her babysmell that of all purity. He gave those tiny lips a gentle kiss and felt, holding the baby-child, more peace than he had ever known before. She wriggled after a moment, and reluctantly he put her down. She put her little hand in his and began to lead him. In a few moments he found, to his amazement, that she had led him back to his own door. He
turned back, but she was already melting back into the shadowy forest, and all he could see was a flash of her soft yellow hair. It had been a perfect time, but as he stepped back through the door the peace of it was marred, for he forgot the fern and one of its big thorns left a deep scratch in his arm. He stood in his room, a discolored handerchief held against the bleeding scratch, and stared at his door. But for the cut, Boone would have thought himself insane, but the blood trickling past the cloth was proof that the incident happened. He lay, wondering, on the bed until exhaustion again took over and he dozed fitfully. Boone spent the next day in his usual routine, the memory of the night receeding in the daylight until he at last convinced himself it had been a dream, and that the cut had been the result of brushing the rough wood of his door while sleepwalking. But that night, as he lay down in the dark, listening for the inevitable steps on the creaky stairs, he had a growing sensation of anticipation. No threatening steps came that night, and he drifted into uneasy sleep. It did not last very long, for soon he woke to the sound of his name, being called softly from beyond his door. "Uncle Boone? Uncle Boone?" He got up and went towards the sweet voice, opening the door and finding her, now a cute nine-years old, waiting for him. She giggled. "You're not very good at hide and seek. Uncle Boone. I've been hidden for a real long time and you couldn't find me!" Dazed, but overcome with pleasure of seeing that peace-giving child once more, he went through the door. He was on what appeared to be an old farm. The pretty little girl with the blond pig-tails wore a pair of faded denims and a flowered blouse. She ran up to him and hung on one of his arms. "Oh, please don't go in now. Uncle Boone! I've wanted someone to play with for the longest time; Please!" He caressed her soft, fine hair and fed like a starving man on her clear blue eyes. She was as fresh as the
1 4 PHOENIX
countryside, and he loved her as if she were his own daughter. "C'mon, let's play tag!" She squealed and ran. He hesitated a moment, then ran after her. It was an exhilirating experience as they chased past the henhouse, through the barn and up into the loft. At last, spent, she fell laughing in the dry hay and he fell beside her, trying to catch his breath. "Oh, Uncle Boone, I'm so happy when you visit me. It's so lonely when you're not here. Promise you'll come again!" "O f course I w ill!" He gasped. She laughed again and kissed him with joyous gratitude. Then she hugged him tightly and he was aware of more than paternal urges. Suddenly she stood and pointed, smiling. Astounded, he saw his door where
the window of the loft had been. He turned around, but she was already gone. He started toward the door with regret. Halfway there he tripped on a pitchfork that had been left lying, carelessly, half-hidden in the straw. He grazed himself badly on one of its prongs as he struggled back to his feet. His finger was bleeding profusely as he stepped back through the door. The next day he rarely thought about Them, he was more concerned with what the night would bring and his own desperation to see this angel-child again. With the darkness came the sound of music, before he even lay down to try to sleep. It didn't take him long to confirm that the music came from beyond his door.
He flung it open and found himself staring at a lavish Southern ballroom, festive with the grace and dignity of a formal party. Hesitantly, he stepped through the door in the glamour world before him, but no one seemed to think it odd that he should be there. None of the bland faces showed the slightest surprise at his corduroy pants and his flannel shirt; they acted as if it were the most normal thing in the world that a weirdly dressed stranger should suddenly appear in their midst. But Boone was unconcerned with them; he was searching the faces for her. "W hy Boone darling, I thought you'd never get here!" He turned toward the sound of that sweet voice and saw her beside him. She was older now, about sixteen, and he realized this party was probably her blueblood introduction to society. Her blond hair was a little coarser now, but her face was still just as beautiful with its little pointed chin and delicately chisled features. She had lost her babyish charm, true, but it had been replaced by a more mature beauty, with an added over indulged, spoiled air that reminded him of the high-school cheerleaders he had known. "Well Boone, aren't you going to ask me to dance?" Smiling in turn, he offered her his arm and with a smug smile she turned back to the dance floor, her bouncing curls swinging saucy. He lost track of time, but at one point they left the ballroom and ended up on a balcony in the still, warm night. He looked at her and could only think of how beautiful she was, and then be bent, wanting to kiss the sassy smile off her fee. Unexpectedly, she returned his kiss, and then they were clinging together hard and his hands were running over her breasts and holding her closer to him. He felt urgency mounting in him, and his only thoughts were to get her alone somewhere and satisfy the fierce urge within them both. But she pulled away. "If Daddy catches you doing that he'll kill you, Boone," she asserted in a soft Southern drawl. "But..." he started. "Oh no, here he comes! Oh Boone,
if he finds us alone together I'll never live down the shame!" "What can I do?" He asked, irritated and afraid. She pointed, soiemniy. He turned and found, miracuiousiy, his door beiow the baicony. "Okay, okay I'll go-but I'll be back," he said through clenched teeth. Her eyes were bright with sarcasm and laughter. "Oh I know you will, Boone darling, I just know you w ill!" He went over to the edge of the marb!e balcony and lowered himself, his fingers digging into the cold rock, scraping the skin from his knees. At last, bleeding from a dozen spots, he stood at the bottom and turned to look back up at her one last time, but she was gone. He went back through the door to find himself alone, cold, and hurting from the wounds on his hands and knees. Boone went to sleep the next night without thinking of Them at all-his only thoughts were of anticipation, excitement, even a little fear. Sometime in the night he woke to the sounds beyond the door. They were low, gutters! moans !ike those of an anima! in heat, desperate for a mate. He opened the door steaithiiy, and found it gave way to a bedroom. The furnishings of the littie space were shabby, ragged, and the air smeiied of stale cigarette smoke and sweat. The bed was rumpled, the only light given from a single bulb glowing from a shadeless lamp. He turned suddenly, and in the shadows of the corner he saw her. She was a woman now, but not the sparkling beauty he had expected her to become. She had tried to dye her hair back to its original baby-blond, but the result was a stark yellow color. Her pouty face was layered with make-up, her lips painted bright red. Her once-pure blue eyes were clouded and shaded by thick blue eyeshadow and gross false eyelashes. His eyes traveled down, he saw the telling wrinkles in her neck, and through the flimsy old negligee she wore he could see her breasts hanging, bared. Her legs were splayed wide, and one of her red-nailed hands played teasingly with herself.
"Hello, Boone," she said with subtle laughter. "I knew you'd be back, and I knew what you wanted. Here I am, all ready. Come on honey, come on..." She got up and took one of his hands, leading him to the bed. It kept pounding in his dazed brain that she wasn't the girl he'd been dreaming about - that she was only a cheap whore and that all her beauty was gone. This wasn't the woman he wanted, but he knew that this degraded creature was her, even though she was older now, and used. He kept telling himself he'd be foolish to let this chance go by, especially since he was to die soon, when They found him. So, though her make-up, and dyed blond hair, and used body were repulsive, he could not resist moving closer, and before he knew it he was erect and throbbing with readiness. "Come on, honey," she crooned as she lay back and put her knees up. "I know you want it, come here and stick it in-that's what you want to do." She laughed again, low and hoarse as he climbed on top of her and felt his shaft sink into her wet, dark well, felt her shift and move expertly beneath him. She knew how to please him, and as they moved on the bed, silent but for the deep, labored breathing, she was smiling. In the highest moment of his pent-up passion, he shot into her, then collapsed on her, feeling her damp, warm skin mold to him. "Better now?" She pushed him away with a victorious smile on her smeared-red lips. "Now you ready to pay, aren't you, Boone?" He rolled off her and stood up, ashamed, degraded, angry, looking about for his door: he knew it had to be there. "Oh no, Boone, you don't want to leave before you pay, now do you? I need to collect, did you think it was gonna be free? Don't you get it? All along, the more you got, the more you paid, and now you really owe me!" His face drained and he was seized with panic as remembrance flooded him. He thought of the 'payments' he had made-he almost screamed as he
15
Sarah Lockmiller
turned suddenly and narrowly missed the vicious swipe of the blade in her hand. Desperately he searched for his door-finally he saw it take shape on the other side of her. Cautiously he moved forward as she crouched, ready for him, sweat standing out on her body, the nipples of her drooping breasts erect with tension. He blocked another thrust of her knife and got lucky, knocked her back away from him and bolted through the door, slamming it shut. For long moments he rested against it, weak, sweating. "You've got to pay, Boone, pay...pay!" he heard her saying again and again, until the sun came up and the voice melted away with the darkness.
1 6 PHOENIX
His first thoughts were to get out of the apartment, but as he looked out the window he saw a bulky form staring up at his light. He drew back quickly, hoping the bullet-headed mass had not seen him. He could not get out with one of Them watching for him. He stayed quiet all day, afraid to make the slightest noise, panicky with the thought of the approaching night. As the sun went down he sat in the darkness behind the door. He had not paid, and now one of Them was out there, too. The exquisite tension must have finally gotten to him, for he dozed off for a moment. "Boone!" He started back up at the vicious, rasping sound, no longer the voice of a human being. "You
gotta pay, Boone!" He backed against the wa!!, so terrified he couid not breathe as the door rattied dangerousiy with the sound of the terrible voice. Then he heard the creak of a strange footstep on the stairs outside. Once, Boone was a mouse of a man, so pacifistic that his assassins only worried about finding him, and felt no fear for themselves. But she had changed that. He was no more the same man as she was the same girl, and a spark of cruel desperation lit the panic of his brain. He moved behind the door, and unlatched the chain. The steps outside stopped. Boone was plastered against the wall, sweating, his eyes wide with fanatical intent, as the door swung silently, carefully open. The bullet headed figure came in cautiously, stealthily, gun in hand. Boone slammed the door hard against the bulk, heard the edge of it thud dully on the unseen head. He heard the clatter of the gun on the floor as the unknown reeled against the wall, holding his cracked and bleeding head. Boone closed the door and then, with a grim, cruel smile, and whispered, "Are you there?" "Yesss," hissed the terrible answer. "Good," he said softly, "'cause I have your payment!" With a snarl he grabbed the moaning bulk and pushed it through the door. He stared at the bloody sight for a moment, so sick he could not summon the strength to move. All he could think of was that it might have been him in the horror beyond the slowly, softly, closed the door. After a moment's pause, he vomited violently on the floor. He was unafraid to sleep that night. He knew that They would still try to destroy him, but that just made him smile a little. He knew that when he opened the door later he would see the primeval forest, and an innocent child running through the dense green. %
NO GUTS, NO GLORY:
The Advent o f Cult Film
by Jack Stiles, Jr. To take the word "cult" — "an obsessive devotion to a person or ideal" — and apply it to movies would encompass practically the entire output of the film industry. The term "cult film " is terribly misused. Critics and reviewers apply the term to any genre of film without recognizing the true meaning of its use. When analyzing films, one must deviate from accepted definitions because movies aren't made to be taken literally, especially cult films. And so, we must define exactly what a cult film is. For my money (and I've spent a lot of it seeing the kinds of movies that I believe are cult), the cult film is a non mainstream film (given very limited release) with a shoestring budget (often very slender) that has an inherent universal trashiness (sleaze, etc.) and is made by unknowns for strict exploitation value to play primarily the midnight-movie circuit. Many films that are often labeled cult do not rheet these qualifications. Easy Rider (1969) is sometimes labeled a cult film, and while it meets the requirements of lacking a major
star, director and budget, it fails to meet two elements that are essential for cult status: longevity on the midnight-show circuit and universal trashiness. Easy Rida- was dated before it came out. I put on my leather jacket and roared to see it a million times just like everybody else back in 1969. Today, I merely chuckle at the disposition of a bygone era. Similar reasoning disqualifies five other films popularly given cult status: 1 Harold and Maude 1972 2 Kino of Hearts 1967 3 Deep Throat 1971 4 The Devil in Miss Jones 1971 5 The Rocky Horror Picture Show 1975 All of these films are so-called "cult" favorites by many esteemed critics and reviewers but actually they are merely fads. Each committed the cardinal sin of mainstream distribution and no cult film would ever do that. Each appeals to a very limited audience—the same one.
midnight-movie and the others are revival house offerings as are a million other films. None have the universal trashiness of a true cult film although a case could be made for Rocky Horror, but its appeal is strictly on the level of a musical kinkiness, while porno just isn't shocking anymore. Four have been virtually forgotten and Rocky Horror will bite the dust soon, as all fads do. The cult film starts as a regional phenomenon and is steamrolled into a national one through word of mouth by the "drive-inners" and "midnight riders." It appeals to a wider audience who are well versed in the grand B-movie tradition of American International Pictures, Roger Gorman and Allied Artists during the 1950's and '60's. Here are ten films that best fulfill the requirements mentioned above. Discussion will be limited to a brief discription of each film and its importance in the cult world. The list is in order of preference; the comments are grouped by director. Thus—the Top Ten True Cult Masterpieces:
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1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10
Texas Chainsaw Massacre Dawn of tlie Dead The Hills Have Eves Night of the Living Dead Desperate Living Eraserhead Rabid Tia.st House on the Left El Topo Pink Flamingos
George Romero When this young Pittsburgh cinematographer unleashed Night of the Living Dead on an unsuspecting world in 1968, the cult film was sired. This grisly horror yarn was an instant classic and is still thriving on the midnight scene. The story is relatively simple. A brother and sister are visiting their father's grave. Suddenly, the brother is attacked by a lumbering goon. Sis escapes to an isolated farmhouse; the goon follows in lukewarm pursuit. She finds a cross-section of American life holed up thereâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a black man (the hero of the tale), two young lovers, and a middle aged couple with their young daughter. Sis surveys the situation and goes crazy.
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1974 1979 1977 1968 1977 1978 1976 1973 1970 1972
Tobe Hooper George Romero Wes Craven Romero John Waters David Lynch David Cronenberg Craven Alexandro Jodorowsky Waters
The audience is told, through insipid TV news reports, that radiation from space has caused the unburied dead to arise and prey on the living. Their main course is intended to be the farmhouse "Family," apparently the last vestige of humanity. The remainder of the film concerns the human defense of life and home against the everincreasing horde of rampaging zombies. Night of the Living Dead is genuinely frightening and revolting, with scenes of explicit gore never before witnessed on the silver screen. But Romero had more in mind than mere exploitation, for this film is actually a vicious assault on American mores and manners. It did
not set a precedent in this regard (Hollywood had used the horror genre to satirize before, most notably Bride of Frankenstein in 1935), but never had a film done so with such gruesome effectiveness. The grainy black and white cinematography, unknown actors, the small town setting of Pennsylvaniaâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;all these elements make Night of the Living Dead seem like a documentary of where we could go with the help of science gone astray. The themes Romero developed were carried to the next logical extension in his sequel. Dawn of the Dead. This time he had a fairly large budget, 11 years of experience and color to work with. What he did was make a near-perfect movie.
Dawn of the Dead picks up where Night left o ffâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;with insipid TV news reporting. Of course we knew there was no way that all the zombies could have been killed, and now the undead legions are getting smarter. Again, a black man is the focal hero, and he is teamed with an army man, a pilot, and a TV newswoman. Their flight from impending doom leads them to that great bastion of American society, the Mammoth Shopping Mall, but the zombies have already established a foothold. Survival of the fittest will end there. And this is where Romero's satirical force is unleashed. Dawn of the Dead is the most chilling and funny social statement the movies have produced to date. Although the full blown effects of various bodily parts being dismembered in living color is the real audience turn-on, the strength of Dawn of the Dead lies in its biting satire: The Consumer Society is upon us and Romero's vision is frighteningly prophetic. With Night. Americans and their way of living were torn apart; Dawn took the next step in lambasting American society in the "age of me." Romero promises that the third and final excursion into the undead world will take us full-cycle with zombies as the accepted norm.
various vintages." Yet in Texas, bizarre happenings are bigger and better. Brieflyâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a group of five young travelers encounter a mental deviate hitchhiker who informs them of his family's local slaughter-house dynasty. After he playfully cuts one of them, they quickly depart company. Eventually, they run out of gas and one by one stumble upon a rural farmhouse hoping to find some fuel. And just guess whose deranged family lives there? To reveal anymore would be sacrilege. Suffice to say that what follows is an unnerving attack on the viewers' psyche.
Wes Craven
Tobe Hooper Tobe Hooper's Texas Chainsaw Massacre is the greatest of all cult films. Made on a miniscule budget around Austin, Texas with the help of a Texas U. cast and crew, this film is all the more frightening because it deals with reality. The "typical" family unit is removed from all ties with normalcy. They are portrayed as real people in real situations; only the circumstances have been stretched a bit to protect the horror effect. The film is based on a true incident that happened" in Wisconsin in 1957, when a man was arrested "after police found his farmhouse littered with dismembered corpses of
explicit violence, and most of the squeamish scenes are suggested instead of shown. Texas Chainsaw Massacre is extremely well filmed, suspenseful, humorous, terrifying, and a natural audience grabber. The mixture and pacing of horror and comic relief is flawless. Every depraved act has a weird comical feeling to it, which makes the film effective and gives it the vivid quality of a nightmare. Hooper's use of the "Old Dark House" and "Psycho" themes indigenous to many horror films is parlayed in Texas Chainsaw Massacre to appeal not only to cult film fans, but to those who appreciate good cinema as well.
The cosmic force of the chainsaw is Hooper's key element and the suspense leading to its initial use is brilliantly done. However, once we are forced to deal with it. Hooper does not make us wallow in the inherent goriness of the chainsaw's deeds. The film is almost void of
This man is a devious filmmaker who makes a bloody game out of death and destruction. He is an audacious sleazy-horror merchant and his films reflect the tactics of the scavenger bird his name implies. Last House On The Left gained Craven prominence for its incredible scenes of death and torture. Basically a tale of a father's revenge on the rapist/murderers of his daughter, the film is an almost sickening excursion with terror as the guide. The reason is that Craven lets the action play unemotionally. There really are no good and evil characters, only extremes. This is not damning praise because Craven does work marvels on the audience. People don't get up and leave when the lights go up; they have a hard time doing either. Craven polished this technique further with The Hills Have Eves, the most cynically evil cult film. This tale of the battle between an innocent but stupid family from Cleveland and a horde of degenerate Hill People they accidently stumble upon during a western vacation is essentially an excuse for Craven's cinematic textbook of how many ways flesh can be pierced, torn, flamed and devoured. His graphic examples
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include skewering with a crowbar, chewing on a tendon, crucifying on a cactus and salivating over a "tenderloin" baby. The cannibalistic Hill People are clearly noble savages, judging from their god-like names (Poppa Jupiter, Mars, Mercury and Pluto). They commit their atrocities in the name of survival and not just for blood lust kicks. The Clevelanders intruded on their domain after they were warned not to and, after all, a Poppa has to feed his family. The only true noble characters from the Cleveland family are their two pet German Shepherds, Beauty and Beast.
Wes Craven is an important cult figure because of the expertise shown in his technique of using shocking scenes of grisly deeds to make his point. He is a master audience manipulator and has a cinematic flair for regional resources that is marvelous to watch. The Hills Have Eves works brilliantly and is a shining testament to Craven's unique ability.
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John Waters John Waters defies description. His films are not horrifying, they are horrible: horribly sick, disgusting, tasteless, filthy, bizarre, insane and absurd. He is actually in a cult class all by himself - Repulsive. In normal (?) life Waters is a mild mannered resident of Baltimore, the setting for all his films. However, the way of life he exhibits on film is far removed from any accepted behavior. The film that put Waters' sickening style of decadent entertainment on the map was Pink Flamingos, the now legendary exercise in poor taste. It is the story of the battle for the title of Filthiest Person Alive between Divine, an outrageous 300-pound transvestite and cult goddess, and her perverted rivals, the Marbles. Their olympian actions defy belief and Pink Flamingos culminates in the most sickening display ever put on film â&#x20AC;&#x201D;the actual, close-up consumption of poodle stool by Divine (although the talking asshole scene runs a close second). Waters' latest achievement is Desperate Living, his most mature well-rounded work, and a masterpiece of garbage-level entertainment. It offers an entire kingdom of deviates, led by "Queen" Edie-the-Egg Lady of Pink Flamingos fame, who wallow in the pleasures of transvestitism, mutiliation, stomping, suffocation, oral-anal sex, torture, and general rudeness. No other filmmaker comes as close to the edge as John Waters. To accuse him of bad taste would be purely gratuitious; to accuse him of going too far would be complimentary. Reaching the limits of bad taste is integral to going too far and that is what Waters is trying to do. Pink Flamingos and Desperate Living are really underground cult films but their acceptance is growing. Their creator filled them with an enjoyable hilarious raunchiness transcending the basic shock impulses of the cult film into a
distinctive perversity of vision.
David Cronenberg David Cronenberg is an export that Canada should be proud of. His work is the most original to grace the cult field and Rabid is his crowning achievement. Through the stroke of genius casting of porn queen Marilyn Chambers as the title carrier, he was
one theyW perfectly . normal,
able to take the mad-scientistturned-supposed-benefactor-of-mankind theme and transform it into a wild satire on sexual morality. Chambers infects her victims through close encounters and although the gruesome effects are present, the primary enjoyment derived from Cronenberg is the inventiveness of his premises. All his films explore sexual byways with reckless abandon. They Came From Within was the story of a VD virus with a mind of its own and The Brood concerned an unstable woman who was able to give birth to her various sides of anger in the form of hideous little monsters. Cronenberg is the obvious heir apparent for the next Darling-ofCultland. David Lynch Eraserhead is a student film, funded by the American Film Institute, whose cult status comes from its surreal, horrifying exploration of the dark, damp passages of the mind. It is another tale of the farnily gone haywire, this time focusing on the "terrible child," a revolting freak of nature that resembles moldy cottage cheese. The father of this monstrosity is constantly dreaming that their heads (minds) are interchanging and that his own is converting into a pencil
reminescent of Luis Bunuel. The screen is overloaded with a dazzling, decadent panorama of true cult images including flagellation, assorted grotesqueries, and
eraser (to erase the burden of fathering a freak). Eraserhead is cleverly enigmatic, humorous, and depressingly pessimistic. It is the closest imagery of a living nightmare ever transferred to celluloid. Alexandro Jodorowskv Jodorowsky came to the cult world from the prestigious art of mime, where he worked with Marcel Marceau for six years. He then went to Mexico to become the premier stage director for that country. It was there that he made El Topo. an unforgettable assault on the senses and the most demanding and inaccessable of the cult genre. El T odo is an ambitious, long, violent, allegorical western that seriously attempts to sum up the Old Testament and man's search for meaning in life. It is filled with obscure symbols, amputated actors, and an abstract atmosphere
ingratiating violence. The impact is accomplished with a remarkable visual style that leaves the viewer ravished like dropping seven hits of acid on a bad night. Regardless of the individual threshold of intolerance or whatever level of resilience, it is essential to see these films for complete cult-ural education. They are the backbone of the cult film world, where pleasure can be derived from the most heinous activities. And remember, they only come out at midnight. H
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Poetry Afterthoughts The numbness remains prevalent As my mouth tries to smile But my eyes are at W ardrowning Read the Gray Skies The peaceful resting hours before a storm are not without purpose. Fools squander them away while poets try to express the calmness with pen. Wise men savor the time by thinking out the patterns of their lives, and the insane fear, reading the transparent. Sharon C. Reagan
I think it's daylight outside Not that it really matters Except I think I hear birdssinging I don't know what the date is Maybe it's (thankgodit's) Friday But it could be Thursdaydawning |^'gg||
^pg
Perhaps I'll go off alone today No one should see m edying Sheri Walker Tw o Births It is no blue vision I have seen In your sometimes pensive eyes. I was there with you When she slid you flesh and frail From her dumb womb Into that brown existence. It was not beautiful. The Georgia clay your mother craved. As cows do before calving. Was rust red and bitter as wormwood. You have never been bitter, I have inherited the bitterness. It was your pain I learned within your womb. These messages are unexplained That must have passed through membranes. I know that when they separated you From her, the air around you toreIt ripped and bled. And you have carried a scar of air. And 1was born your beautiful wound. And we are bound by an invisible blue And silent bleeding. David Van Ingram
2 2 PHOENIX
D a n c in g
I dance in the halls of the mental house. 3:00 A.M. I plie and rise before the long mirror quietly, so as not to disturb the strange, drugged sleep of the patients. I, thin caretaker rise and fall with pointed toe, hands delicate as lace moving like the shadows of fish along pale, scrubbed, tiles, a groanI've done it now, he's awake. Shhhhhhhhh, Paul, or Miss Moody will come. You wobble down the hall, head bent, fondling an old shoe like a memory. They call you retardeda crack on the head when you were two. Now you are forty and all that matters are a few articles you can tuck inside your shirt, a kind of security. Your eyes are bruised your face is covered with scar tissue. Below the cliff of your forehead crouch two narrow eyes watching me with suspicion and hate. They are two orphans your eyes and I am moved to touch you the Christ is so real. My hand is smacked, a warning: back off! and you move away. But inside me there are ears that hear the sweet conclusion of our souls. I watch you flounder down the dark corridor feeling .your way toward the bathroom, a groan and the door slams. Where was I in the dance? Oh yes... a plie and then Katie Burns a turn...
February Walk #34 Big, beautifuLgolden cat Believes he is the King of Beasts as he Stalks in this cold and grey winter forest. And his madam strolls nearby Believing she is the Queen of Hearts, Indeed. Together they march through the brown blanket of last summer's green that covers the earth. The sounds arousing their ears to dance Are those of the tall naked trees On parade. That King and his Queen Waltz Into spring As the palid sky spits her last Confetti. Ellen Stracener
ON PRESUMING TO BE MODERN:
By David D. Duncan Photos by Bruce Lustig Alphabet by Paul Jankowski
The gap between technology and the individual is often an expansive one that increases with each new development in science. This paradoxical future shock is one reason why the success of electronic music has been somewhat limited to date. There seems to be an intense animosity among those trained in the "classical" school toward electronic music - the sun may rise and set on Beethoven but there is total darkness on the horizon of any music generated by electronic system components. However, electronic music dictates no style and is simply a different medium. It always takes a certain amount of time for new instruments to establish themselves. The sounds are becoming increasingly popular with the general
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PHOENIX
public, even if the techniques are relatively unknown. Development of an electronic music department here at DTK was started in the Fall of 1973 by Dr. D.M. Pederson, who is the head of theory and composition in the Music Dept. With the help of a graduate student who transferred from electrical engineering to music, Pederson purchased equipment as funds became available. Priorities included procurement of basic components, allocation of suitable studio space, and a search for someone to actually build the studio. Enter Dr. Kenneth Jacobs in the Fall of 1974. He is the man responsible for the accumulation of hardware, facilities, and curriculum in the electronic music program since then. His perserverance has resulted
in the establishment of course titles offered at all levels from sophomore to graduate in addition to Synthesizer Ensemble and Applied Composition in Electronic Media. Yet one of Jacobs' greatest challenges was in the construction of the studio facilities. Considering UT didn't have a music department until 1948 (the university was founded in 1796), Jacobs' task was formidable. Although the studio didn't develop as fast as Jacobs wished., it has evolved into a reasonable facility lacking only three essential items: professional quality tape mastering machine, comparable mixer, and studio synthesizer. He services almost all of the equipment himself, and the time involved is phenomenal. Most of the compositions created in the studio are generated directly
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on-line. Compositions based upon natural environmental sounds (musique concrete) are less feasible in the Music Building because of extemporaneous noises, so microphones are rarely used. The equipment ranges in quality from state-of-the-art (computer type processing) to marginal (sound generation and mastering). A substantial grant from the University Research Office led to the introduction of a digital processing lab, and Jacobs forsees the opening of a second studio by Summer, 1980. Born in Indianapolis, Indiana, Jacobs was reared in several geographic locales including Illinois and New Mexico. Electronics were always a hobby of his, but he didn't begin toying with electronic music until he began work on his doctorate
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at the University of Texas in Austin. He is the composer of several multimedia works including "Scenes From The Earth," "Walk In Many Lands," and "Winter Strategy," that have been exhibited in and out of the Continental United States. His most recent composition, "Caravans," for string orchestra and tape, will be presented during the Electronic Music Festival from April 16-20 with William Starr conducting. The fact that much electronic music is not intended for stage performance has led to the integration of human or visual interest through the involvement of instrumentalists, dancers, actors, narrators, light shows, photography, and other abstract visual representations. Jacobs' own compositions feature slides
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synchronized to music by way of a control track on tape. Each presentation involves three projectors and 240 slides of abstract artwork created directly on film by etching, coloring, burning, and painting in miniature, forming a unique sensory experience. Even though his work is accessible to a large majority, Jacobs still believes that there is a great audience gap. "There is a reluctance in listening to electronic music unless it has a traditional melody. A tape type of composition is born in the studio and requires no performer because the composer is the performer. It therefore sounds best when heard under similar Circumstances. "In other words, it is a natural medium for record release. Electronic
25
music is cheap to produce, there is no studio expense involved, and the master tape is ready to be cut onto the disc. Due to the present commercial situation in the record industry, it is virtually impossible to get electronic music released commercially unless it is part of a 'pop' style. And this is generally not a tape composition at all but a synthesizer performance, live, which doesn't use any tape manipulations. "It is a lamentable situation. Go to the Schwann music catalog and look up electronic music. It is covered on a page and a half. And there are tons of unrecorded tape compositions that are out of this world which are far superior to anything I've heard on record." Jacobs credits the increasing popularity of electronic music to its widespread exposure in rock music.
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PHOENIX
"Karlheinz Stockhausen was writing electronic music 20 years before any rock band ever knew what a synthesizer was, but it took rock figures like Pete Townshend of the Who and Brian Eno to popularize its use." Now, many synthesizer sounds are well-known and accepted by a large audience. There are few drawbacks to synthesizers themselves because they are not frozen instruments and don't dictate a specific style. The desired sound depends on what the individual musician is attempting to achieve. A flexible teaching approach is essential in the instruction of electronic music, according to Jacobs. He doesn't try to push students into a particular mold and feels that no one can accuse the department of having all the students exit the program with their
compositions sounding alike. "In a tape composition at the beginning level, I try to have students stay away from traditional tonality and scale and chord structures geared for live performance. "I'm trying to emphasize electronic music's differences rather than its similarities, tone colors and rhythms rather than melodies and harmonies. It's a big switch, and it is just as hard for a composer or musician to get into electronic music as it is for a non-musician. It's a whole new ball game with different techniques and thought processes, although the underlying principles of composition are exactly the same. It is imperative to utilize studio techniques in a tape composition." Jacobs' main intents (other than creating good music) are to foster creativity and provide technical
expertise. "I don't take the elitist approach that one has to be gifted to work in the arts. Many people consider the arts to be one of the luxuries in life, and to a certain extent they are. But, absolutely anybody can exhibit creativity, and it can be demonstrated in many subtle ways. It can be expanded out of the concert hall or museum and into as many areas as possible. "Electronic music is a fantastic training ground for developing creativity within the individual. It opens the ear and mind to a lot of new things. New sounds can foster new experiences and unharness the imagination to experience and share things. And you don't have to know how to read music to create a tape composition." Diversity in personal education constantly changes creative perspectives and horizons in Jacobs' method of instruction. He lists influences in film, painting, architecture, and literature (Koestler, Sartre, Conrad, Ravel, Debussy, Bartok, Bergman, Fellini, among others) as having measured impact on his career. Jacobs is an ardent fan of undistilled African rhythms and praises soul music as a recent preoccupation. This variety of aesthetic media is reflected in the material the Synthesizer Ensemble selects. In the past three years, the Ensemble has done avant-garde improvisations, with occasional jazz influences, along with pop material. The instrumentation for the upcoming March 11 performance of original compositions includes guitar, voice, synthesized bass and strings, electric piano and about three different lead synthesizers. Other activities that Jacobs initiated are a WUOT radio show, "Composers and Computers," and an electronic music exchange program with other universities. As electronic music enters the '80s, the computer is going to become even more important. Music
has always been the meeting place between science and art and as mankind's development continues, a realization that electronic music is not in competition with classical tradition will emerge. Although an
enduring marriage is unlikely, a friendly relationship between the two will be established. The musical pulse of the future, sparked by electronic music, will reflect another new age of creative innovation. H
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2 8 PHOENIX
Fbrtfolio
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3 0 PHOENIX
K e v in B irc h
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New Repertory Dance Company
Three quarters of the year, dancing is daily duty for the members and apprentices (27 coveted positions in all) of the New Repertory Dance Company and its new director, Cathy Fox. Ms. Fox's background includes teaching and performance credentials, the most recent being from the University of Minnesota and at the Minnesota Dance Theatre, which performed at Clarence Brown Theatre in March, 1979. She and choreographer Richard Croskey emphasize the importance of daily rehearsal to build the strength and fluency of technique that turn a
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dance group into a professional company. Croskey spent most of November as choreographer-inresidence at Southern Methodist University; his performance background includes the New stage. In the past, those members of the company who attended the University of Tennessee majored in the variety of subjects (and still do; one ballerina is studying pre-med). This year, for the first time, a double handful of company members major in dance, a program newly established at U.T. in September, 1979. Dance majors are required to audition for the NRDC every fall, and
must develop the expertise necessary for NRDC membership for two years in order to qualify for graduation. The culmination of company classes and rehearsals is the spring concert set for April 18 and 19, 1980. Through a variety of lyrical movements, musical moods, and theatrical setings, the NRDC repertoire includes works by Croskey and others, for a special evening of performances designed to appeal to avowed dance fans and to hard-core anti-culturalistsaswell. ^ Martha Rogers Photos by Tom Rinehart