I might be one of the few schmucks of my generation that, until recently, had only seen the original WICKER MAN that starred Christopher Lee and Ingrid Pitt, and not the vacuous, craptastic, incredible, life-changing Nicolas Cage remake from 2006.

Now I can proudly claim that my eyes have beheld both masterpieces, and somehow lived to tell the tale, thanks to a hilarious Doug Benson Movie Interruption at The Cinefamily in Fairfax. Tonight he’s doing GODZILLA, if you’re interested.

It’s nigh impossible to form a coherent thought about THE WICKER MAN, but then again, there isn’t a coherent moment in the entire film that ranks in the Hall of Fame of awful, alongside THE ROOM and Lou Diamond Phillips’ filmography.

Nicolas Cage (I’m not even going to bother with his “character” name) is an LA cop who gets a letter from his ex-girlfriend, telling him about her daughter’s disappearance from Summerisle island, a fake cult island in the Pacific Northwest. If it existed, I would totally have visited during my upbringing, and never would’ve been the same, probably because there are no boys on the island. Also, before this letter, Nic watches as a semi just obliterates a car with a mother and her indignant pissant daughter inside, a nonsensical “plot point” we’ll be reminded about several times throughout the movie (I smell a drinking game rule). Here’s that immortal scene:

Yup.

What’s even crazier about this movie is how generally close it hews to the original movie, which is rightfully hailed as a horror classic, thanks to its score, awesome twist ending, the aforementioned Christopher Lee as the eerie, cross-dressing Lord Summerisle, and Bond girl Britt Ekland humping walls naked. You can read my review of it here. Yet, this WICKER MAN is a classic awful movie, that adds some baby drama (Cage is the father of the missing girl!) and the aforementioned car crash, subtracts any and all poignant imagery/metaphor (religion, sex), and replaces it with bees, women punching and gibberish.

There’s also Ellen Burstyn, DEADWOOD’s Molly Parker, AMERICAN HORROR STORY’s Frances Conroy and 90’s “ingenue” Leelee Sobieski, all in the worst movies they’ve ever been apart of, a claim that Nicolas Cage would scoff at, seeing as he likely has 23 other films that jockey with WICKER MAN for that title. Until the Cageback takes America by storm (and it will, unless the Wesley Wevival intercedes), we can continue to revel in the wonder, majesty, mystery that is Nicolas Cage’s career.

THE RULES

1. The “Not the Bees!” scene in WICKER MAN has rightfully become an internet phenomenon, and it should be rewarded with a drink any time there’s a scene involving bees. The infamous scene is actually from the Director’s Cut on the DVD or something, but revel in its insanity here:

That is so fucked up. Also, it spoils the movie, but whatever. WICKER MAN is un-spoilable.

2. Every time Nicolas Cage opens a drawer, drink. When you were about 4 years old and pretending to be a detective, opening drawers is how you’d look for clues. This is how Nicolas Cage looks for clues in this movie. There’s one particular scene that might kill you.

3. A subset of the above rule is that whenever Nicolas Cage ignores absolutely, mind-numbingly obvious clues, you must drink.

4. Any time that Nicolas Cage utters gibberish, take a sip.

5. Drink when Nicolas Cage puts on a bear costume.

6. Drink for every semi-steamrolling flashback.

7. Waterfall for however long Nicolas Cage rides a bike.

8. Take a lusty pull from your beverage any time that Nicolas Cage hits a woman. Finish your beer for this moment that combines rules #5 and #7:

I love movies. No matter what’s happening in my life (or isn’t), when I step into that dark, hopefully comfy theatre, I’m able to escape, decompress, and walk out inspired in some way, no matter the film. Maybe it was a line, a majestic landscape, a smile, a sweet rack, or just a wonderful, life-affirming experience. There isn’t an art form that hits me as hard and fast as movies. I see a lot of them, I “write” about them, and can’t get enough of them. But I have gaping blind spots in my movie knowledge, including foreign films. I don’t have anything against them; I know I’m ignorant (does that help my case?), but who has the time? I know hardly anything about Italian cinema, besides knowing that Federico Fellini is a God, and that Dario Argento and the giallo movement profoundly influenced American horror. I have a feeling that’s going to change.

Enter IL SORPASSO (1962) this past Tuesday evening.

Very rarely these days do you get a chance to stumble into a movie theater without expectations, or knowledge of the plot, actors or behind the scenes squabbles. I highly recommend doing it, if you’re able. That was the rare opportunity I was given when I purchased tickets to IL SORPASSO earlier this week at the Silent Movie Theatre (or the Cinefamily). The film has mostly been lost to American audiences, but thanks to a lovingly crafted DCP (digital cinema package) restoration of the print by Janus Films, IL SORPASSO has been given another shot.

In Cinefamily’s monthly newsletter, IL SORPASSO is hailed as one of the greatest films OF ALL-TIME, the kind of hype that normally falls flat on its face. That recommendation got me into the theatre, but I had no idea what, really, to expect.

What I got was a riotously funny, rousing buddy road movie that felt as real as it likely did in 1962 when it first came out. The film comes from writer-director Dino Risi, branded (rightfully so, I’d wager) the “maestro of Italian film comedy.” Immediately, you realize Risi has a gift for slapstick, free ranging dialogue, staging scenes, particularly those in a car. Risi is most familiar to American audiences because he was nominated for an Oscar in 1974 for his Adapted Screenplay of PROFUMO DI DONNA, or the original SCENT OF A WOMAN (with Vittorio Gassman instead of Al Pacino).

IL SORPASSO has the flimsiest of set-ups, but it works perfectly. Bruno Cortona (Vittorio Gassman) cruises around Rome, a shell of its former self due to the Holiday (whatever it is, it doesn’t matter), shops and restaurants closed, the hustle and bustle that Bruno thrives on conspicuous in their absence. He can’t even access a pay phone. Bruno stops, randomly, in front of an apartment building, where he meets Roberto Mariani (Jean-Louis Trintignant, who was most recently the male lead in AMOUR), a young, shy, introverted law student.

Roberto invites Bruno up to make his phone call, despite his conscience telling him not to (a running gag throughout the proceedings), and then he can never get rid of him. Again, the phone call doesn’t matter: whomever he’s trying to reach is never reached, and it’s just a reason for Roberto and Bruno to meet, and for the wacky, weird and hilarious adventure to begin.

I say wacky because of the tone, and the bombastic, booming soundtrack that trumpets throughout (it’s one of the greatest I’ve ever heard, my favorite song is below). But IL SORPASSO isn’t zany because of its high stakes, bizarre hijinks. It never feels anything but authentic, as Bruno and Roberto don’t end up in RAT RACE or a HANGOVER movie. They meet Roberto’s extended family, they learn about one another, they try and fail to pick up chicks, they sing, they dance, they (maybe) become friends. But the tension never leaves. Is Bruno a con man, or nothing more than a lout who makes Roberto pay for things? Was it really a coincidence that Bruno found himself at Roberto’s apartment? Is Roberto playing an understated, lonely character, hoping to spring a trap on Bruno? Are they actually becoming friends, or do they can’t stand each other? It’s both, perhaps all of these things, and it’s gripping. In many ways, I think seeing IL SORPASSO now, after decades of road trip movies and topsy-turvy relationship dramas that inevitably inform your expectations, is likely even better.

IL SORPASSO is one of the best road trip movies ever precisely because there’s no destination in mind, at least not geographically speaking. Bruno wants fish soup, but really, he wants someone to eat fish soup with, he wants company, and a sounding board for his ridiculous observations and statements about the world. Bruno is all over the place, a fun-loving drifter, while Roberto studies alone in his apartment, daydreaming about the lovely girl across the street. They’re opposites, but both equally as lonely and desperate for someone else in the world, even if their whole day trip turns into something far more than that.

You know from the start something bad is going to happen, yet it’s abrupt, shocking and tragic when it finally strikes. It’s all in the title. IL SORPASSO translates to “overtaking,” which, on the surface, refers to Bruno’s dangerous driving habits. He’s always speeding, always passing cars (his annoying and hilarious car horn is practically the third biggest character), never taking the time to appreciate where he is, or what’s around him. This becomes all too clear when he learn about his family life, or lack thereof. “Overtaking” can also refer to unexpected misfortune, which is exactly what we’re prepared for in the opening credits. It’s a rare tone and expectation for such a funny movie, making it that much deeper an experience.

There are even babes.

Vittorio Gassman is absolutely incredible, a comedic tour de force, rattling off ridiculous jokes like an Italian and far more attractive Vince Vaughn. It doesn’t get more over the top than his Bruno character, but he’s never anything but charming, and you can’t help but want to be just like him, as Roberto eventually succumbs into believing as well. Jean-Louis Trintignant is no less magnificent, but on an entirely different wavelength. He’s almost an observer, an audience stand-in, his monologued thoughts giving us insight into his mental state, because most of the time, we’re unsure where he stands, or what it is he’s thinking. He’s a chameleon, almost creepily so.

The innumerable driving scenes are impressively shot. You wouldn’t expect to feel uncomfortable, or feel claustrophobic while watching two dudes drive around a cramped automobile in a movie made in 1962, but you’re wincing along with Roberto as Bruno cuts corners and passersby. Dino Risi’s film doesn’t cut any corners, however, and the result is a masterpiece.

Tonight, April 10^th, is your last chance to catch IL SORPASSO in theatres at the wonderful Cinefamily on Fairfax in West Hollywood. The last encore performance starts at 7:30 PM. Don’t miss it if you have the opportunity to see it!

During the fateful first get together of the Writer’s Meeting in Burbank (a group now forever known as “Hear Me Out, Bro!”), one of my friends brought up the film A FIELD IN ENGLAND.

I had heard of the movie, as it played at the Beyond Fest, which means one thing: it’s weird as shit. Aforementioned Writer Friend confirmed this, when he said he went to a screening and was offered shrooms by someone else in attendance. He declined the offer, never having taken shrooms and wisely resistant to experimenting for the first time in a public venue.

For a couple days I just thought this was an amusing anecdote. Then, on this particular Thursday night (Feb. 13th), faced with the possibility that I may never get the chance to see A FIELD IN ENGLAND in its proper venue, it was the only thing I could do without tearing off my apartment’s wallpaper. My apartment doesn’t have wallpaper; that’s how dire a situation it was, exacerbated by this trailer:

A FIELD IN ENGLAND was ending its run at Cinefamily‘s not-so Silent Movie Theater, an awesome local theater recently renovated and under new ownership (with JGL, Phil Lord and Michael Cera on the advisory board), playing both the classics (like Chaplin-era classics) and new, trippy films like Ben Wheatley’s newest. Not only would I miss out on the chance to see this bizarre movie about a few 17th century British civil war deserters in theaters, I’d be missing a chance to see it at the Silent Movie Theater, on one of their comfy couches that take up the first few rows, AND, I’d miss the possibility of seeing a psychedelic movie on psychedelic drugs. So, I made sure that didn’t happen.

I’ve done shrooms once, and it was alternately one of the best and worst moments of my life, but it also revolved around an (admittedly obvious) movie: PINEAPPLE EXPRESS. For a couple hours, I was one of James Franco and Seth Rogen’s pals, along for the ride, kicking out the windshields and giggling with them.

Then, I was forced to endure the movie a SECOND TIME (I couldn’t move from the couch; the only thing I managed to do was rub the hardwood floors lovingly with my feet), and that led to vomit, massive embarrassment and darker thoughts than I’ve probably ever had. I wanted to go to the hospital, or bang my head against the toilet to blissfully pass out for a little while. I was prepared to live the rest of my life in a psych ward in a straitjacket, with my parents looking down at me in disappointment. Miraculously, friends and WALL-E managed to drag me out of the darkness and into the light of the stars.

Having had this experience, I felt like I was ready for A FIELD IN ENGLAND, and thought the movie would be better for it.

I hopped on the bus, and arrived way too early. I purchased my tickets and walked around Fairfax, determined to squeeze out even more fun into this evening. After a Yelp search and a few circles around the block that likely made another moviegoer believe I was chasing him, I ended up at…

The Dime. The place is exactly the dive one wants at about 1:38 AM. At 8 PM on a Thursday, there was about 4 people in the bar, and the tiny space felt darn right huge and comfortable, a feeling never shared after 10 PM. From my painful conversation with the hot bartender, I learned that the Dime had DJ’s every night (every night). I also learned that a dive bar in LA means $9 well vodka drinks. The Dime is not the right name, though it does have one of those old-school cash registers:

The vodka soda at least was strong, and it readied me for the mindfucks to come.

Unfortunately, no one offered me shrooms. I don’t know if I didn’t qualify, if Shroom Dude wasn’t in attendance, or if my writer friend just happened upon a miracle (and wasted it). Until I arrived there, it seemed to me like it was a veritable certainty, as if my ticket entailed I receive a handful of smelly, awful tasting psychotropic drugs.

Alas, it was not meant to be (or perhaps thankfully, judging from my only other experience), and I think the movie was worse for it. I had no idea what was going on, and while I know that was the point, I feel like I just wasn’t on the same plane of existence with the characters, the filmmakers or the writers (Amy Jump and Ben Wheatley). This movie demands another frame of mind and a lack of sobriety, and I celebrate it for that. It’s essentially MONTY PYTHON meets David Lynch and Ingmar Bergman.

Even so, it managed to be hilarious at times, and if you desire random penises and other disturbing images of violence, sex and god knows what, wrapped around by an absorbingly eerie score, A FIELD is for you. There’s even a scene where one of the soldiers is literally choking on mushrooms, and I can’t imagine this movie puts you in good, magical happy trip land based on its fucked up content.

While I was disappointed by the movie and the experience as a whole, I’m glad I went for it. I could’ve stayed home and caught up on AMERICAN HORROR STORY, but instead, I tried to live out my own episode. These are the kinds of things I’m in LA for; these are the kinds of things we live for. I’d rather go and experience the weird, than for a moment regret I didn’t.

I also ended up getting a business card out of it for an event planner who once raised money for charity by traveling across the world wearing only a Tuxedo. Yes, the guy rules.

To figure out how to see A FIELD IN ENGLAND, check its website. Its apparently on demand, available on DVD and Blu-Ray, and during the summer of its release, you could’ve seen A FIELD IN ENGLAND…in a field in England. That would’ve been everything.