A Picture for a Dollar on the Boulevard of Broken Dreams

By Steve Evans

About a decade ago I watched a wildly entertaining and mildly disturbing documentary called Confessions of a Superhero (2007). The film follows four street performers who dress up in costumes and prowl Hollywood Boulevard, offering to take photos with tourists for tips. Sometimes they get aggressive in their pursuit of those tips and police get involved.

Aside from the obvious mental problems many of these performers exhibit, what struck me was their unanimous determination to become movie stars, despite the absence of any discernable talent. They had convinced themselves that panhandling in superhero costumes would lead to discovery, movie offers, fame and fortune. In the 12 years since the documentary was released, the gal who roleplayed as Wonder Woman went on to marry B-movie star Casper Van Dien (Starship Troopers; 1997), so you could say she came the closest to success.

Mostly, though, the documentary is a meditation on our cultural obsession with celebrity. And what is life without the pursuit of a dream?

To that I say there are dreams and then there are delusions, and some people cannot tell the difference.

I mention all this because Christopher Dennis, the street performer who dressed up as Superman, was one of the first costumed panhandlers on Hollywood Boulevard. Some say he bore an uncanny resemblance to Christopher Reeves, who played Superman in four movies from 1978-1987.

Dennis had been panhandling in costume more than 25 years when his body was found over the weekend head-first in a clothing donation bin in the San Fernando Valley, about 10 miles from where he plied his trade. He was 52. Early police reports say no foul play is suspected and that he was most likely rooting around for something to wear.

Dennis had frequently been homeless. A recovering drug addict, his wife left him after being unable to cope with the 15,000 items of Superman memorabilia he had packed into their trailer. A couple years ago, another homeless man nearly beat Dennis to death with a golf club, stole his Superman costume and set it on fire. With the help of a friend, Dennis raised some money with a crowdfunding campaign to buy another costume. The leftover funds paid for rent until the money ran out and he was back on the streets.

Dennis claims several times in the documentary that he is the son of Sandy Dennis, who won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar for Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966). There is no record of Sandy Dennis ever having had a child. The actress died in 1992. Christopher Dennis stuck to his story and shared it with anyone who would listen until the day he died.

We could dwell on the sorrow & the pity of a life lived tragically along the boulevard of broken dreams, but that’s not what I’m about. No, I was shaking my head this morning at the outpouring of sympathy for Christopher Dennis in certain corners of the Internet. Condolences are all very nice and, yes, even obligatory. I merely wish that people who make a big deal over a troubled person’s death, especially people close to that person, would instead have done something helpful while the individual was still alive.

Rubbernecking is borne on the natural human instinct of satisfying our curiosity and to some degree that’s what documentary films deliver. Confessions of a Superhero is a fascinating glimpse into the lives of damaged people clinging to threads of hope. But on reflection, I see that if rubbernecking is all we do, then we’re not part of the solution; we’re part of the problem. So I’m delivering a case of canned goods this evening to Loaves & Fishes, the local food pantry. It’s not much, I confess, but perhaps it compensates somewhat for this lengthy post. Thanks for reading.

Cinema Uprising copyright © 2019 by Steve B. Evans. All rights reserved.

Eddie Murphy is 0utta Sight in My Name is Dolemite

By Steve Evans “I believe in America.” That’s the opening line in The Godfather (1972). It’s also a sentiment I share. Because of that belief, I’ve always rooted for the underdog and embraced rags-to-riches stories. I’ve also been a fan of the late comedian Rudy Ray Moore since before I was old enough to buy and listen to his records legally. Rudy told absolutely filthy jokes in a wild, rapping rhyme style while wearing fluorescent tuxedoes and flaunting a gloriously defiant attitude. Rudy was a poor black dude who escaped Arkansas, made it to Los Angeles, and eventually recorded some top-selling comedy albums and shot a few films during the 1970s heyday of Blaxploitation cinema. We’re talking films with improbable titles like Disco Godfather and The Human Tornado and Dolemite, the name of Rudy’s signature character.
Dolemite was always persecuted by whitey and harassed by vicious drug dealers in the ‘hood. But he knew how to street fight and had an army of fabulous Kung Fu bitches at his beck and call. Plus some retina-burning fashions and an ungodly vocabulary. These movies were made on the cheap and are among the most entertaining motion pictures you’ve probably never seen.
Eddie Murphy transforms into this self-made entrepreneur in the new Netflix film, Dolemite is My Name. It’s dynamite. I have sorely missed Eddie Murphy doing what he does best – balls-to-the-wall street comedy. Having seen all of Rudy Ray Moore’s films, I can tell you unequivocally that Murphy nails the character and the man behind him. This is Oscar-worthy stuff. Also extremely foul-mouthed and hilarious.
Funnier still, the spot-on script about 1970s black culture was written by a couple of white boys: Larry Karaszewski and Scott Alexander, perhaps best known for writing the Andy Kaufman biopic Man on the Moon (1999). They totally capture the era of urban cinema, of hustlers and hucksters, and give Murphy, Wesley Snipes, Snoop Dogg, Chris Rock and others some of their best material in years. This is a great film. Would make a terrific double feature with The Disaster Artist -- stories that reinforce the notion that determination, not talent, is often the greater key to success.
God, I love this country. I believe in America.

Cinema Uprising copyright © 2019 by Steve B. Evans. All rights reserved.

Walking the Walk

By Steve Evans

When I was 10 years old, in 1973, I experienced the heart-stopping fear of vertigo during a visit to the observation deck of the Empire State Building in New York City. That terror of heights stopped only when I cured myself 12 years later by skydiving from the first plane I ever flew in.

It is nothing compared to tonight’s double feature, the Oscar-winning documentary Man on Wire (2008), which chronicles the death-defying tightrope stunt of Philippe Petit, and The Walk (2015), a fictionalized account of the same event. And what was this event, you ask?

Petit and several accomplices in 1974 rigged a cable between the Twin Towers in NYC under cover of darkness and at dawn he crossed that thin umbilical on foot multiple times some 200 feet between the skyscrapers, back and forth, at a height of nearly 1,800 feet over lower Manhattan, stooping on one knee to salute the cheering crowd far below and laying on his back along the cable minutes later, without benefit of safety equipment. He pranced on the wire for about 45 minutes before high winds and a police helicopter threatened to knock him off his precarious perch. So he returned to the north tower.

The police handcuffed the aerialist and read him his Miranda rights. Petit was taken to a hospital for psychiatric examination, then booked for disorderly conduct and criminal trespassing. Under details of the complaint, the arresting officer wrote only “Man on Wire.” The same afternoon, Aug. 7, 1974, Manhattan’s district attorney dropped all charges in return for Petit’s agreement to give a free aerial performance in Central Park, this time only a few feet off the ground. He did.

The Twin Towers are long gone. Inspiration, though, is forever.

I share this not so much in enduring astonishment at Petit’s titanium balls and divine madness in pursuit of an artistic vision, but because life is beautiful, great art should be breathtaking and fear is only a state of mind to be conquered.

Cinema Uprising copyright © 2019 by Steve Evans. All rights reserved.

Tarantino's Greek Chorus

By Steve Evans

Martin Scorsese and Quentin Tarantino understand how to use songs in a film like no other living director. Take your pick: Taxi Driver, Goodfellas, Reservoir Dogs, Pulp Fiction, Casino, Jackie Brown, The Departed, Django Unchained. Brilliant music in every one. Great song selections underline the storyline without bludgeoning home the point.

Both men have new films coming out this year. Tarantino’s lands first. The full trailer for Once Upon a Time...in Hollywood dropped today and it promises amazing entertainment. A film about lost innocence along the boulevard of broken dreams. I encourage you to check out the new trailer on YouTube.

Back on point, one of the tunes he’s using on the soundtrack is by the obscure band Los Bravos. It’s a typical Tarantino choice: all but forgotten, catchy as hell, contemporaneous to the film’s setting and brimming with sly commentary about the onscreen action. Just like a great soundtrack should.

So if you know the fate of Sharon Tate and listen to the lyrics of Bring a Little Lovin', you’ll discover that Tarantino still brings a positively wicked sense of ironic counterpoint to his song selections. There’s a reason he has a rep as one of the hippest cats in the movie bidness. As for Sharon and bug-eyed Charlie Manson, whether Tarantino attempts to rewrite history à la Inglourious Basterds will be determined July 26. Unless you're among the fortunate who got to see the premiere at Cannes this afternoon, after which Tarantino and his cast received a six-minute standing ovation.


Cinema Uprising copyright © 2019 by Steve Evans. All rights reserved.