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Drive-in Pirandello, cf. Ulmer's Club Havana, practically a précis of Roger Corman's independent filmmaking. The restaurant where The Platters perform is not for the needling twerp (Dick Miller), he gets thrown out but not before starting a scuffle between snooty maître d' and burly waiter. The seedy dive dubbed Cloud Nine is more his (and the director's) speed, the owner (Robin Morse) knows bartending from TV shows and the strapped newspaperman (Richard H. Cutting) name-drops O'Neill and Saroyan. "Free jam for free beer," The Blockbusters squirm through a couple of numbers for the ratty clientele, "them squares don't know the difference between Dinah Washington and the Washington Monument." Couples' night—half-witted musclehead (Chris Alcaide) and razzing girlfriend (Jeanne Cooper), wannabe prizefighter (Beach Dickerson) and worried wife (Barboura Morris), fugitive thugs with itchy trigger fingers (Russell Johnson, Jonathan Haze). The amateur songbird (Abby Dalton) is choked by jitters but regains her voice at gunpoint, the bebop manager (Mel Welles) supplies the verdict: "That was the infinite! That was the livin', rompin', stompin', whippin', flippin', non-stop end! That's what that was, daddy!" A bit of ash flicked into a mug of slop, counter and tables and bandstand with a sequestered audience, more than enough for an astringent Corman marvel. The hostage situation evokes The Petrified Forest, the antisocial runt rises to the occasion and steps out with the ingénue to rewatch a favorite, King Kong. "Funny how small a big guy looks when he's dead." The verve and freshness of the construction are fully appreciated by Tarantino in Death Proof. With Clegg Hoyt, Ed Nelson, Richard Karlan, and Bruno VeSota. In black and white.
--- Fernando F. Croce |