Lucas: Autistic Outcast or Foil For Us All?

Heroic underdog sports films are a dime a dozen, as are pandering "special people" melodramas. Recently, Tropic Thunder understood it perfectly, warning actors to never go "full retard". Unfortunately, actors will continue to do this in their bid for sweet Oscar gold, and in a few cases, there is a cross pollination. It's hard enough to weather an overly sentimental attempt to pull at your shoestrings, as my girlfriend would say, but it's nigh impossible to tolerate two plot lines whose sole purpose is to warm the heart. Sometimes there is a diamond in the rough that actually takes the building blocks of these terrible genres and makes something special out of it. After all, the reason there are so many brainless copies is that initially these formulas work.
My relationship with Lucas started as something small, and slowly built into an obsession culminating in last night's viewing. The road to Lucas has been a rocky one, but well worth the journey. My ladyfriend loves movies and has withstood a barrage of films, ranging from The Godfather to Dead Heat, in my company. I sometimes feel like I'm overwhelming her with my crash course, but she sits through it with a grin. In many ways I feel like I'm working with a cinematic blank slate. She loves films, but has no frame of reference for anything. Her inability to make these connections fits with her charming, endearing personality, and it often leads to a cinematic scavenger hunt when trying to decipher a movie she's talking about.
One evening, she described to me and my roommate a film about a scrawny kid that wanted to play football. The kicker, no pun intended, was that he was "a little retarded". If you know my girlfriend, this could mean a wealth of things. Me and my friend nudged her until she admitted that perhaps he was just awkward. For whatever reason, my girlfriend finds awkwardness equatable to lower mental facilities. Also, she is unable to name or identify any actor since film was created. I like to tell her she couldn't pick Tom Hanks out of a lineup, to which she responds, "Hey, I know who that is! But that guy from all those shows..." However, she makes a good point. She often says she likes not knowing who anyone is because it completely convinces her they are whatever character they're playing. As far as she's concerned, Anthony Hopkins is some nice old man who never ate anyone's faces off.
The point I'm trying to make is, figuring out a movie she brings up is the ultimate test for a movie buff such as myself. There is so little to go on, other than your filmatic instinct. My roommate and I came to the conclusion that she was thinking of Rudy, the story of a shrimpy kid that wanted to play for Notre Dame. He had trouble making friends, was taunted, and played in the final game. It was also feasible that my girlfriend would think Sean Astin's portrayal of Rudy was "a little retarded", which amused me and my roommate to no end. Any time one of us said anything awkward or dumb, we were acting a little too "Rudy". My roommate also came from a family of Irish Notre Dame legacies, adding another level of comedy for him personally. Now, I've never actually seen Rudy, so I was pretty much guessing. I know it's supposed to be an uplifting sports film that actually succeeds, I knew the basic plot structure, and it seemed to fit my girlfriend's description.
Unfortunately, as time passed, she became less and less convinced it was Rudy. I couldn't let an inside joke of six months standing be negated! The search was back on, and at one time I was convinced it was the terrible John Irving adaptation Simon Birch, but apparently I was way off. For Laila, aka my girlfriend, aka the girl who has maintained her anonymity until now, the final piece of the puzzle was a burning jock strap. This scene stayed with her, and ultimately lead us to Lucas. As satisfying as it was to have the mystery solved, it was a bit of a letdown since I had never even heard of Lucas. I knew who Corey Haim was, but it was a complete mystery to me, which is pretty rare. We watched the trailer and first ten minutes on Youtube, and I knew I never wanted to see this movie as long as I lived. It slipped from our minds for a while until last night, when fate would bring us together once again.
Laila had actually had the foresight to record a showing of American Gangster, which she really wanted to see. This enthusiasm was rare, so like a complete asshole, I refused to watch it. I couldn't even explain to you why I didn't want to, I just didn't. She started to give me her patented "Big Eyes", which meant the hammer was coming down. I quickly scanned for something else to watch, and there it was. Lucas. Starting in one minute. She squealed in glee, and I knew the fates had dealt me a hand I couldn't fold. We turned off the lights, pulled up the blankets, and got ready for the one, the only, the little bit retarded, Lucas.
I liked it. I really fucking liked it! I hate that I liked it, and it stayed with me enough that I felt compelled to commit my opinion to the world wide web. The film starts off frustrating, and pretty much maintains that tone till the very end. That's one of the things that so smart about it. Lucas is pretty much a weird asshole the entire movie. I know I sure as hell wouldn't want to be friends with him, and I don't really blame people for being a little unnerved by a kid that crawls around sewers and collects bugs all day. However, some people aren't actually mean to him, and he is nice when unprovoked. He falls in love with a girl entirely out of his league, and she falls for the quarterback, who is actually nice to Lucas!
This is another thing about this film. Not everyone does things that you would expect, and it stays pretty true to life throughout. Lucas is weird, but funny enough that people do in fact tolerate him. The girl does not fall for him, and he is left alone. The last third of the film is dedicated to him trying to play football to win the girl back during the first game of the season. And you know what, he manages to sneakily get on to the field and play! He even manages to get thrown a touchdown pass, until he fumbles it, is tackled by ten guys twice his size, and is sent to the hospital. Sorry folks, if you were looking for an upbeat ending where he wins the game, no such luck. In fact, the entire football team completely sucks, and would have lost no matter what. And Lucas' mysterious rich parents? Just a drunk guy in a trailer park.
But you know what, Lucas manages to gain the respect of the school, and the film ends in a slow clap culminating in a freeze frame. This is probably the most cliched part of the movie, but I was glad to know Lucas wasn't shit on the entire time. Most of the film manages to play pretty truthfully to awkward high school social life, and as weird as he is, Lucas is relatable. I suppose the real success of Lucas is how unexpected it is. He doesn't particularly win anything, and he's borderline unlikeable, but this is what makes the film special. Was Lucas an underdog sports movie? Sort of. Was it a story of a kid who was a little retarded? Maybe. Lucas is hard to define, and that's what I loved about it. From now on, when Laila and I are being dumb and weird, we'll call each other Lucas, but with love and respect to the kid who may have murdered his alcoholic father.

The VHS Rack- Dead Heat

VHS has become the new vinyl, and I love it. Bargain bins are filled with mysterious old films, predominantly from the eighties and nineties, discarded for an upgraded version, or no version at all. Video stores, which are now actually DVD stores (strange thought), have dusty racks with three dollar videos, five for ten. Although I am a strong supporter of itunes and digital music in general, I have yet to watch films on my computer or become a member of Netflix. Nothing beats the feeling of walking into a good video store and perusing the aisles, searching for that forgotten gem or new discovery. Looking at a list of names on a computer screen will never match that.
Many times I have offered my dad a burnt cd, but he's chosen to spend fifteen dollars on an original instead, citing the need to have something tangible when it comes to music. I follow the belief that any way I can discover music is alright by me. However, I'm not willing to give in yet when it comes to film. Obviously this is an inherently visual medium, and tangibility plays a large role. You can't quite look at the back of a cd and hear the music, but you can look at the back of a video and get a pretty good idea of what your in for. It's like a mini-trailer in your hands!
This all brings me to my newest column, The VHS Rack. I am fortunate enough to live very close to the greatest video store I have ever been a member of. Oddly enough, I lived in New York for eighteen years and it wasn't until I moved to the sticks of Delaware that I found my hallowed film ground. Anywho, I've recently begun looking through their used tapes for sale, and needless to say I've found some fantastic hidden treasures. It's like when I first started buying records all over again. The variety found in my five purchases for ten dollars was staggering. Some guesses, some favorites, and Dead Heat. If this name sounds unfamiliar, you are in fact a human. Unfortunately, you are missing out on a film that defies definition. A friend and I accidentally found the trailer on Youtube, and later I accidentally found the film on the VHS rack. It was in fact this film that initiated my new purchasing hobby. If I could find Dead Heat for three dollars, I could truly find any film on earth.
There are really only three things one needs to know about this film to get an idea of what they're about to experience. One, it stars Treat Williams, best known as Tom Beringer's replacement in the Substitute series, and Joe Piscopo, painfully unfunny "star" of Saturday Night Live. Two, Williams is killed and resurrected, granted only ten hours to solve his own murder with wise cracking partner Piscopo. Three, there is a scene featuring reanimated Chinese food attacking our leads, including peking duck, a slab of liver, and an enormous cow carcass. On top of all this, Williams is cleverly named Roger Mortis, and Piscopo is uncleverly but hilariously named Bigelow. These three components make for either a very pleasurable experience, or a suicidal one. I went so far as to watch the trailer and instantly buy the movie, so it's safe to say which category I fall under.
This is a film not made for normal people. How a producer thought this was a safe investment I will never know. It's an action/comedy buddy movie...but with zombies! And instead of Eddie Murphy we have...Joe Piscopo! Fortunately for the viewers, the cultivators of this delicate balance commit fully to the ideals set forth by its premise. If you want enormous zombie bikers, you got them. You want Vincent Price and the dad from A Christmas Story as your machinating villains? Deal! How about every side character being randomly killed with little to no explanation? Anything a viewer of trash like this wants, Dead Heat delivers. Piscopo makes for a fantastically terrible sidekick, and every second he is on screen you are waiting for him to be killed, reanimated, and killed again. When Piscopo becomes a mindless zombie, it takes a reminder of a homophobic, lisp filled comment about eye liner to bring him back to his charming, Bigelow ways. I think one particular exchange describes this movie perfectly. "You've been shot, are you all right?" "Lady, I'm fucking dead."

Why Can't I Stop Cheating On Conan?

Conan O'Brien was my life coach. He was there for me at a time in my life when I could not have possibly been more awkward. Make a list in your head of traits you wish you didn't have in high school. Glasses? Check. Braces? Check. Bad acne, bone skinny, and constant hilarious voice cracks at inopportune moments? Check, check, and tear inducing check. Thankfully, I got through that baptism of hormonal fire, and I owe most of it to Conan. Obviously a lot of things helped cushion the fall, but Conan was a man. The Simpsons may have been there twice a day for me, but Conan spoke directly to me. There was no question what his life had been like, and how years of abuse had sharpened him into a comedic killing machine. Anyone my age that even remotely considers themselves "funny" watched Conan. Looking back, so many of my mannerisms and cadence are stolen directly from him, and I see it in tons of other guys my age who had a rough four years.
I recently saw The Dark Knight, and beforehand there was a preview for American Teen, a documentary of the teenage experience. After a particularly awkward scene at the end of the trailer, my friend Michael said loud enough for much of the audience to hear "Why would I spend seven dollars to relive my horrible life?" This got a huge laugh from everyone around us, and Michael was justifiably pleased with himself. Now if that isn't somebody who watched Conan within an inch of his life, I don't know who is. Conan made it ok to be a nerd because he was clearly one of us, and look at how great he was doing! All it took was a little self deprecation and some goofiness to turn that awkward frown upside down.
I was having a debate recently as to why girls weren't "funny". Now, obviously that's stupid and sexist, but the situation made the question feasible. My friend said "Girls don't have to be funny. They don't need anything to interest us, but we certainly need something to interest them. For us, that's being funny. Girls love that stuff." It was something I had never thought of, but the truth behind it was staggering. Everybody loves someone who can control a room, especially if you're the smart ass everyone is laughing with and not at. Conan proved this point to a tee. How could I not love and idolize him? He even wrote for The Simpsons! It was like everything was coming together.
Throughout college my relationship with Conan was sporadic. Sometimes I didn't have a tv, sometimes I did. Sometimes I was in a foreign country, sometimes I wasn't. However, like most strong relationships, long distances couldn't tear us apart. I stayed faithful. Until now. Now I'm home, not a care in the world (except for starting my real life), and I have all the time I need to watch lovable ol' Conan. But I'm not. In fact, I'm doing the exact opposite. I blame my dad. He'd been talking about that dirty Scot Craig Ferguson for months, and out of wanting to hang out with my dad, I'd bitten the bullet and watched a man I was positive was not funny. I hate how wrong I was. Not only was he funny, he was hysterical. I laughed in a way I hadn't in a long time. His jokes were strong, and his interviews were stronger. I loved every minute of it. I watched it the next night to "hang out with my dad". And the next night. And the next. He'd gotten me. In fact, it reminded me of the first time I had watched Conan all those years ago in fifth grade. It was bold, it was exciting, and most importantly, it was new. I had never realized how bored I was of Conan's routine until seeing someone else's.
After changing my viewing schedule, I felt horrible. I still do. Even writing this brings a frown to this previously smiling face. Conan was there for me for my seemingly endless puberty, and this is how I repay him? It truly felt like I was cheating on my girlfriend, my lovely, reliable girlfriend, if only because I was bored with her and needed something new. In the real world everyone knows that's a horrible decision, but in the cutthroat world of comedy, you gotta keep your partner's interest every single day. I'm sorry Conan, but I've found someone better. Don't think this means I haven't loved you our whole time together, because I truly have. You were there for me in ways I didn't fully understand, but now someone else's scatalogical humor is making me laugh. Maybe in a year when you start hosting The Tonight Show, you, me, and Craig can have the proverbial comedic threeway.

The Great Vinyl Debate

Since I walked into a musky, allergy inducing used record store my Junior year of high school, I've desperately wanted a turn table. A multitude of reasons contributed to this, first and foremost, my well known cheapness. The thought of being able to purchase a whole album for a mere four dollars was mind blowing. Keep in mind this was before the complete takeover of the digital age. Radiohead was years away from offering their blood, sweat, and tears for free, and Metallica's take down of Napster was a recent memory. Did I download music illegally during high school? Of course I did. However, I wasn't going on insane 311 binges, nothing of the sort. My interests never strayed far from an obscure song off the Ferris Bueller soundtrack (which never actually existed), or a novelty Cheech and Chong song (for which I am still inadvertently a member of the virtual Cheech and Chong fan club.) Needless to say, I kept my downloading to an extreme, fearful minimum. In my mind, swat team members could come smashing through my bedroom window at any moment, interrupting God knows what. Even worse, my musician dad could catch me and tan my proverbial hide for taking money away from the hardworking musicians I was ripping off. Who knows what he would have thought if he knew I was ripping off Cheech and Chong.
Now, all of this may seem like it has little relation to vinyl, but you have to understand the musical zeitgeist that was going on. Everything was in flux. My mini disc player lay discarded in a box somewhere with my laser discs and betamax. The digital age was rocketing forward, and I felt a nostalgic pang looking at the dusty bins filled with Kool and the Gang EPs. Why I was nostalgic for something I've never experienced firsthand I cannot figure out, but the feeling was there. Sadly, this feeling would linger for another four years until my Junior year of college.
Thank you Christmas, my excuse to indulge in my desires for semi-random forms of entertainment, of which I could potentially lose interest in days later. The two albums I opened that morning, my first albums ever, were Paul McCartney's first solo album, and Cheap Trick's Live at Budokan. My Beatles fanaticism made the first an obvious choice, and my dad's love of Cheap Trick decided the second. I was hooked. Immediately. It was a feeling damn near indescribable. I knew that this interest would not fall by the wayside. In fact, I was ready to begin my search of the bargain bins across the country for that valuable Blind Faith album with the thirteen year old breasts on the cover. (I eventually did find it, for three dollars no less!) Why did I feel this connection to something I had no connection with? I had no "things were better in my day" motivation, considering I was living "my day" that very moment. Over the following months I thought more and more about why I had instantly fell in love with vinyl. Yes, I loved the fact that I could find out of print albums by Humble Pie for a buck, but that was a situation of time and place, not actual content.
Oddly enough, my motivations of love were the exact same as those of the vinyl generation. I loved hearing an album. Two sides, organized to perfection, with seemingly no way to skip around. Yes, I could lift the needle, but if you aren't from a generation of turn table owners, you're going to ruin a lot of records before you get the hang of it. Trust me. I would just sit down, and listen to all of side A. Side A, what a concept! You mean you want me to get up and flip it if I want to keep listening? This was a price I happily paid. Everything started to make sense. Albums I had only understood digitally became brand new. Listening to an album on vinyl really forces you to adhere to the artist's vision. How dare I try and listen to Genesis Live digitally, skipping around willy nilly! What the hell was I thinking? And of course, sweet, sweet album artwork. Oh album art, how I lament viewing you in a 6x6 ratio, hidden behind a cracked jewel case. You really haven't listened to ELO until you've opened up a gatefold painting of the interior of some insane, power pop spaceship.
I don't mind that they take up vastly more space. If anything, I feel a sense of pride the more I watch my collection grow. Another point old fogeys make i.e. my dad, is that vinyl sounds better. From a technical standpoint, this is idiotic. They actually sound much, much worse. The debate I hear is that vinyl has a certain warmth to it. I merely wrote this off as nostalgic posturing, the one concession I was unwilling to make. However, after a few years of actually owning records, this is a point I'm becoming more and more agreeable with. I love the clarity of digital, but vinyl truly has a sound unique from anything else.
Even though it seems like I'm going two steps back, I'm not the only one returning to this lost medium. It seems that every band considered "good" or "respectable" by the critics are simultaneously releasing their albums on cd and vinyl. I can find Arcade Fire, White Stripes, or Belle and Sebastian on vinyl in an instant. This is one transition I am unwilling to make. For all my talk concerning the beauty of vinyl, I'm not willing to pay twenty bucks for something that's going to be a pain in the ass to listen to. Didn't I just sing the praises of vinyl, and how in fact it is a pleasure to listen to? Yes, but I can't seem to integrate the new and the old. I like listening to Spoon on my itunes, not some ancient sound system. I hate that I am a complete hypocrite, but I'm just trying to be honest. Maybe what it really comes down to is what got me interested in the first place. Not spending money. While vinyl remains cost effective I'll shout its merits from the rooftops, but the second it hurts my wallet I'll stab it in the back like so many fallen interests before it.