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The Blog of ALEX COX



Have been in transit for the last couple of months working on EXTERMINATING ANGEL PRESS commercials... there are two for the extraordinary book SNOTTY SAVES THE DAY, a true story of everyday life in Liverpool, which the viewer may enjoy Part One here and Part Two here.

These are on the vimeo site, which is perhaps a little less cluttered and more up-markety than youtube. There you can also find a video I did for Kid Carpet's very touching song LAST WORD, and the USER'S GUIDE TO 3 BUSINESSMEN, based on the writings of Peter Watkins re. the Monoform. Roaming around vimeo I also found two short films by Kim Ryan -- one of me at the Futurist Cinema, talking about Peckinpah and the masons; plus her remarkable documentary about the anti-war demonstration we all went to in London... two million strong.

Kim's PEACE TRAIN is a great short film, best of the bunch, and an inspiration in view of all the extra anti-war and anti-bank-bailout demos we'll be attending shortly.




John Ross was one of the 'Red Diaper' babies - born to communist parents in New York City in 1938. He was arrested by the FBI in 1963 for refusing to report for induction in the US Army; he became the first draft resister to be jailed for declining to go to Vietnam.

He spent the sixties in San Francisco as a tenant organizer. In the 70s John discovered a taste for journalism. He wrote on environmental politics and social movements in California, Spain, and North Africa, and was one of the first international reporters to report on Sendero Lumnoso in Peru.

John was always drawn to where the action was - so after an earthquake leveled the center of Mexico City in 1985, he moved there. For many years he lived in a hotel only two blocks from the Zocalo -- the huge square where all the political demonstrations end up. He covered the theft of the Presidential election there in 1988 (when Salinas stole the presidency from Cardenas) and the theft of the election in 2006 (when Calderon stole the presidency from Lopez Obrador). Nothing changed - not the corruption of the political sector, nor the US media's willingness to play along with the charade, nor John's loquatious outrage at the never-ending scam.

John Ross, periodista

I read his dispatches in a small town California newspaper called the Anderson Valley Advertiser; then subscribed to his self-printed newsletter, MEXICO BARBARO. As his sight failed, he renamed his journal BLIND MAN'S BLUFF. I tracked him down in Mexico City and introduced himself. He was energetic, funny, moral, perennially short of cash. When other reporters flew to the scene of the story, John took the bus. "Gets there last, but gets there fast!" was his motto. And it served him well: Ross did some of the very best reporting of the Zapatista movement, which he followed - not uncritically - as it developed from a social movement in Chiapas to a world-wide phenomenon.

When I mentioned that my friend, Pedro Armendariz, was trying to mount a stage production of THE PRODUCERS, John told me that his father was the model for Max Bielystock (the part played by Zero Mostel in the Mel Brooks film). "He was a theatrical entrepreneur," John told me. "He would seduce widows and use their money to put on shows that failed. He had a cardboard belt!"

I believed him, absolutely. Why would he lie? John was one of the 'human shields' in Iraq: the original embedded journalists. After our last lunch in Mexico City, I hesitated before getting into a cab. All those stories about cabbies kidnapping their passengers and holding them to ransom... "Get in!" John told me, sternly, opening the door. "Taxi drivers have a harder time than you do - you'll be fine!" I turned back to watch the tall, old, bearded blindman, making his way with easy grace through the great crowd.

(John died in Patzcuaro, Mexico, two nights ago)

John's site is http://www.johnross-rebeljournalist.com



This is just a note to say THANK YOU VERY, VERY MUCH to all the theaters which hosted the STRAIGHT TO HELL RETURNS TOUR, and to wish all involved a very merry Xmas and a happy and prosperous (especially prosperous...) new year. The theatrical reissue took off at the Roxie in San Francisco on Halloween, then the San Rafael Film Center in Mill Valley, the Zeitgeist in New Orleans, the Nickelodeon and the Clinton St in Portland, the Grand Illusion in Seattle, the CCA in Santa Fe, The Guild in Albuquerque, the Vancity in Vancouver, The Loft in Tucson, le Cinéma du Parc in Montréal, the Billy Wilder in LA, Movies on a Big Screen in Sacramento, the Bijou in Eugene, the Olympia Film Society in Washington's capital, the Pickford in Bellingham (one week before they move to their new premises!) and the Grand Cinema, Tacoma.

Mil garcias to all concerned -- and particular shout outs to Keif and co at The Guild in Duke City, to Seth and all at the Clinton St Cinema in the Rose City, and to Shannon and the UCLA Archive/Billy Wilder crew. You made me, dogs, cast and crew feel more than welcome!

(STRAIGHT TO HELL RETURNS screens in 2011 at the Times Cinema, Milwaukee, the FilmBar, Phoenix, Lincoln Center in New York, and other venues TBD... it's also available on DVD and, one of these days, via download)



To Portland, to record the presentations of Danbert's 3 DEAD PRINCES fabulous fairytale and E.E. King's hysterically funny GUIDE TO THE AFTERLIFE at Powell's. These are wonderful books, full of beautiful pictures, from the highly-regarded Exterminating Angel imprint, and I can impartially recommend them to all my readers, or reader.

At Wordstock, later in the week, I'm told that websites have gone the way of buggy whips and the Palm Pilot. The contemporary hipster has no time for tedious blogs or pages of outdated facts uploaded weeks or months or even years ago... John McCain said he understood the importance of the blogs but does he know how to do the facebook or to twitter?

Neither do I. I remain blissfully unaware of these things, and this happy state of inability to communicate is enhanced by losing my cellphone in the sand at Cannon Beach and the thought that if no one reads the blogs anymore I can cease boring my imaginary friend with these outpourings!

Pearl on her bed

How splendid instead to be a henchman, assigned to checking the enterprise out of its hotel rooms, carrying the occasional box of books, and walking the publisher's dogs!



I used to think that every aspect of post production was fascinating. Anything that entailed sitting at a moviola, or a flatbed, or a nonlinear editing station, was fine with me. I enjoyed shooting mainly for the chance to get into the editing room because that is where the film gets made... even if the film is made entirely of long takes.

Straight to Hell Returns trading card, by Webster Colcord

But dust busting is authentically boring, and, like other jobs designed by the Devil, is an undending one. It seems to be a bit like proof reading. Keep going over the same material, over and over again, and you'll keep on finding mistakes... In the days when films were projected in cinemas we didn't need dust busters. Those pups shot through the gate at a rate of 24 images per second. Stop the projector and the celluloid would catch on fire (as it does so memorably at the end of TWO LANE BLACKTOP... and that was in the script! This was no improv or something they came up with in the editing room. It was the Work of the Master, Wurlitzer).

Now, people have big plasma screens and the capacity to freeze frame whenever they so desire. Dust and scratches no longer flash by, but hang, frozen in time, like kinfe-scars in the canvas of the Mona Lisa. Or at least a Velasco. Endless work ensues. HD projection and dust-busting go together like Disney and Draconian Copyright Laws.

So, anyway, last week I downed the dust pan and drove with Tod and the dogs up to Twisp, where Danbert was presenting his book, 3 DEAD PRINCES. Tod is the publisher, and I the illustrator. The do went very well, I thought. Nobacon sang a new song - the first rock song I've heard which mentions H.G. Wells - and cooked us breakfast before we hit the road.

The Twisp River Inn is very scenic and dogiferous, but we were tired by the drive (and by a ghastly night in Goldendale, whither we will not be hurrying any time soon), so when we reached Hood River in the Colombia Gorge, Tod decided we would stay two nights.

How right she was. The Colombia Gorge is scenically amazing, but what really blew my mind is the amount of human transport and power-generating infrastructure crammed into it. There are highways, bridges, railroad lines on both sides of the River, locks and power-generating dams. All overshadowed by the magnificent natural beauty of cliffs and waterfalls.

(There were also two magnificently beautiful brew pubs - the Double Mountain in Hood River and Everybody's Brewing in White Salmon, across the 75 cent toll bridge - a moderate consumption of whose products enhanced my enthusiasm for a fine if somewhat rainy place.)

Tomorrow Danbert will appear at Skylight Books in Los Angeles to read from his book and entertain in other divers ways. I shall be filming the proceedings, then attending the LA premiere of SEARCHERS 2.0 at the Aero. If time permits I'll also try the East LA extension of the Gold Line. Whee!!

[SHAMEFACED UPDATE 2010.9.26: I must apologise for my failure to appear at either of the above events! Setting off at 5.45 I had a flat tire (a.k.a. tyre) at the top of our dirt road and spent the rest of the day engaged in its replacement. Thus is life in the WUI, or Wildland Urban Interface.]



When, a couple of years back, we made the picture, it seemed like a good idea for our male actors to appear extremely sweaty. This was pretty easy, given that they were wearing thick wool suits and the temperature was 110 Farenheit, in the shade. But Tom Richmond, the sadistic cinematographer, and I, were driven to further excesses: spritzing the actors with faux 'sweat' which was really sugar water, in the hope that flies would land on them.

What this translates into, in the dust-busting phase, is dozens of glinting white highlights on the faces of Joe Strummer, Sy Richardson, and Dick Rude -- each of which resembles a scratch in the emulsion, or a speck of white negative dirt. Software would remove them all, equally. But Tom and I don't want them all removed! We worked hard to get those glistening beads of moisture on or actors' brows. So scratches and sweat-drops must be distinguished by the human eye, because software doesn't know the difference, any more than spell check can discern between their and there.

Likewise -- when a black dot appears -- is it dust, or is it one of those flies we so carefully cultivated? Black dots, too, must be scrutinized by a semi-human eye. My rule of thumb: if there's a white dot on the face of Courtney Love or Grace Jones or Michele Winstanley, get rid of it; if there's a white dot on the face of Shane MacGowan or Elvis Costello, investigate further, as it may be one of ours.

Meanwhile, blood-stained VFX continue to flow in from Collateral Image. To give a little taste of what Collateral are doing with RETURNS, of its enhanced violence and new colour scheme, I've put a wee trailer here.

(Doesn't time fly! I't almost time for our annual trip to Twisp, WA, in support of the artistic ventures of our dear pal Danbert Nobacon. I have drawn the picture's for Nobacon's fairy tale, 3 DEAD PRINCES, but it it is a fine book in spite of this, and Danbert will be reading from it at the Twisp River Pub on 16 Sept. (A very fine porter is brewed and served in this establishment, but this is purely coincidental.)



SEARCHERS 2.0 comes out in theaters next month, courtesy of Microcinema International Releasing. You can watch the trailer here.

SEARCHERS was shot digitally, and digital is digital. Whatever you think about the format, it's pretty predictable and reliable. Digital photography has difficulties capturing detail in both bright and dark areas; beyond that, what you see it what you get, whether it's the original master or the millionth copy. Film is another matter. The detail it captures - in dark and light areas simultaneously - is vastly greater; so when we discovered that UCLA Film and TV Archives had a copy of the original interpositive of STRAIGHT TO HELL (think missing scenes!) I jumped at the chance to make a HD transfer.

Vittorio Storaro has estimated that there are a minimum of 6000 x 3000 bits of information in one 35mm celluloid frame - in other words, eighteen million bits of pictorial information. In our HD transfer, there are roughly 2000 x 1000 bits of information per frame (or there would be, if we were working in Storaro's ideal but theoretical 1X2 ratio) - i.e. about two million bits of information.

So even the highest quality HD transfer - which is what we've got from STRAIGHT TO HELL - contains only a fragment of the 35mm frame's potential. Still, what a difference! The transfer was done as a 'one light' - the basic colour and detail, as in a RAW still photograph. But such detail! I hadn't really bought the HD hype before I saw the difference between the old DVD version of STRAIGHT TO HELL - made from a digibeta tape - and our new transfer. It is amazing. You can see things that were previously invisible: the double-entendres carved onto Frank McMahon's belt buckles; the Michael Jackson air freshener hanging from Karl's Wiener Cart; the names on the crosses in the cemetery...

Tom Richmond, ace cinematographer, and genius colourist Beau Leon have since given the transfer an entirely new colour treatment - heavy on the yellows with deep contrast and thick blacks - which looks extraordinary. Richard Beggs is dragging the audio into the 21st century. And Collateral Image are working on a host of bullet hits, bursts of gunfire, and VFX violence: stuff we only could have dreamed of, back in the day...

With such beauty comes responsibility, of course... And the dread task of dust busting. Dust busting is something we never thought of back in the days of film. We wanted the negative as clean as possible, of course. And we wanted the prints clean and unscratched, too, at least for a while. But, watching a film in the cinema one didn't complain too much if individual frames showed scratches, or traces of hairs or dust balls, or if there were occasional imperfections in the grain, or tiny holes in the emulsion. These things flashed by, lost in the action and excitement of the story. Or so it seemed.

Now, thanks to non-linear editing and image adjustment software, it's possible to spend day after day staring at a screen, watching your picture frame-by-frame and debating whether that tiny little spot is sufficiently annoying to warrant the dust-buster. It takes less than a minute to to get rid of a spot; a big scratch may take a couple of minutes. But there are 24 frames in every second of film, and sixty seconds in every minute, and STRAIGHT TO HELL RETURNS - in its new incarnation, with added skeletons, five extra scenes, and high-tech violence - is 92 minutes long.

Perhaps you get the idea. Dust busting is how I spend my days now. Two weeks in I've still an hour of film to go. Still, it's worth it. For every twenty debatable dust specks, there's a genuinely obnoxious hair or scratch which really needs to go. Consider the following examples:

Figure One shows Shane MacGowan, in the role of Bruno McMahon, in the original DVD version of STRAIGHT TO HELL. If the image isn't too tiny, can you see the light-coloured 'loop' marring Shane's cheek? This is not actually part of our hero's face: it's a hair which somehow landed on this frame of the negative, and ended up on the 16X9 video master which was used to make our DVDs and TV prints. The horizontal lines intersecting Shane's profile are nothing to do with him either: the PAL transfer of the film was 'interlaced' which means that this screengrab is a mish-mosh of two not-entirely-identical half-frames.

Figure Two shows the same image, in the new HD transfer of STRAIGHT TO HELL RETURNS. Observez la difference! This is a screengrab of one clean, progressive frame, with that irritating hair removed. The aspect ratio isn't fixed yet - the final version will probably be 1:2.35, the original scope ratio in which the film was theatrically released - but it gives an inkling of the look of the new version.

STRAIGHT TO HELL RETURNS! With a world premiere at the Roxie in San Francisco this Halloween. Now, if you'll excuse me, the dust buster calls.



The end of the Film Council is bad news for the Hollywood movie studios and their employees in London: British filmmakers, especially those who live outside London, are less likely to be brokenhearted.

The FC was a fairly typical New Labour product: much-hyped, packed with consultants, overly fearful of the Americans, apt to re-brand. It sported six-figure executives and snazzy premises off Oxford Street. No cheap operation, it disbursed Lottery money but failed to achieve what one assumed were its goals: supporting and growing British film.

Was this really the Film Council's or New Labour's agenda? Possibly not. In the computer design world there's an acronym, POSIWID: the Purpose Of a System Is What It Does. Looked at from this viewpoint, one of the FC's purposes was to give Lottery money intended for the cinematic arts of Britain directly to the American studios, or their subsidiaries: a diversion of arts funding which hadn't previously occurred. In managing this, the FC has been a success.

But is such success good for British films? Or even... though I shudder at the word... British movies? The American director Michael Mann told me he didn't make films, only movies. I didn't get what he meant. We were discussing a script and there was the chance of a job in it, so I asked him to elaborate. "A film costs a maximum of six million dollars. A movie costs thirty million at least. Your script is for a film."

Movies are attractive because they have vast budgets, amazing special effects, and glamourous, popular American movie stars, who you may see pass you in a limo, en route to their boutique hotel. Movies are also hugely costly when they tank. In the exciting world of movies, one bad investment - consider Film Four, and CHARLOTTE GRAY - can do enormous harm.

Britain can't afford to make movies, and shouldn't try. Films, on the other hand, are something we have always been good at. Considerably less expensive, sometimes they make money, and - if enough of them are made - the film industry becomes a self-perpetuating artistic community/job creation scheme. The really hard part isn't making the film, in any case: it's getting it seen. A sensible new film policy wouldn't support the big cinemas which make their money mainly from Hollywood blockbusters: it would actively attempt to create an alternative distribution network, for independent British (and other!) films, made outside the studio system.

In the old days, in America, Roger Corman did this, almost single-handedly supplying drive-ins and second-run cinemas with sci-fi, horror, comedies and action films, while simultaneously providing foreign movies to the urban 'art' market. Corman's own films were predictable: some action, some social commentary, some girls. But it was he - not the Hollywood studios - who 'discovered' Francis Coppola, and Martin Scorsese, and James Cameron, and Jack Nicholson, and gave them their first paying creative work.

Can David Cameron play Roger Corman? I'd like to see him try! Lottery money and tax breaks help the studios to shoot in England, and keep American visual effects guys on the job, in London, on HARRY POTTER films. But who cares? What has Harry Potter, an American franchise tied up with fast-food and Coca-Cola, to do with us, or with the long-term health of British cinema? The day Prague or Shanghai offer Harry a better deal, his studios will whisk him thither. Everyone knows this, and anticipates the day. Studios don't need subsidies, but, giant beasts that they are, they'll gobble 'em up, if offered. (The next episode of the TWILIGHT saga is to be shot, not in the Pacific Northwest where the books are set, but in South Carolina. Tax rebates talk.)

Over the years, attending the Rotterdam Film Festival, I was impressed by the way that city took off as a hub of film and television production. I guessed the Festival had something to do with it. Later - looking for funding, naturally - I discovered that the real engine of this creative industry was Rotterdam FilmFonds. This was a two-or-three person operation, with a budget of several million Guilders (later Euros), whose stated goal was to grow the city's creative industries.

The way Rotterdam did it was this: it offered free money to producers - in the form of an interest-free loan - on the basis of the producer's spend in the city. Spend 200,000 Euros, they'd loan you 100,000. The catch was this: all that money, yours and theirs, had to be spent in Rotterdam, on the creative aspect of the movie. In other words, it all had to go on salaries - of the crew people or actors you hired locally - or on locally-rented camera equipment, or editing facilities. The producer received no subsidy for hotels, or taxis, or meals. All the subsidy money went into the creative sector of Rotterdam, plus another 200%, courtesy of the visiting producer, who had been lured into this mutually-beneficial 'trap'!

It wasn't a trap, of course, because the Rotterdam technicians were terribly good and all spoke fluent English, and our film - THREE BUSINESSMEN - turned out fine. The last time I was in the city I realised an abandoned warehouse on the docks - one of those industrial-derelict places which film directors love - had become a media office complex. It now housed production companies, editing suites, two special effects companies, and a lab. All the companies in the building had received support, one way or another, from FilmFonds.

This doesn't mean that everything in Rotterdam is wonderful, or that British film policy should replicate that one city's experiment in every way. But, to grow and support a cultural industry, one must support the cultural workers - the writers, directors, technicians, actors - as directly as possible. Funneling Lottery or tax money directly into studio pictures, or studio-owned companies, is not the most sensible way to do this. Subsidizing the studios is trickle-down economics. It leads to a long-term inequality, in which some studio executives - or executives of government quangos - receive six-figure salaries, while most independent filmmakers make a pretty lousy living, sustained by the love of what they do.

Examples as diverse as Corman, Bollywood, and the Netherlands Film Funds suggest that maximizing production is the way to go. A judgmental attitude is not called for: what is needed is support of British filmmakers sufficient for them to make many low-budget features; and a real and innovative effort to create and maintain an alternative distribution network, so that - whether in the cinema, on telly, or online - these films are seen. It is worth studying Film London's 'Microfeature' project, and other attempts at super-low-budget production, with a view to stimulating similar projects nationwide.

Nationwide is important. Too much money, public and private, is already spent on creative industries within the M25. Creativity is everywhere, and a bold government initiative which genuinely targets the provinces (rather than London transplants with an address in Leeds!) and stimulates artistic expression and artistic commerce would repay itself a thousandfold.

Shunning the studios and letting a thousand independent features bloom may seem impossible. It ain't. Creativity in British arts is at an all-time high -- yet, in the film industry, most of the best and brightest players are underused. The 15 million pounds to be spent over the next twelve months to keep the Film Council open while it closes could bankroll 150 microfeatures.

Who's going to be in charge of this? One could look among the ranks of the old British Screen and BFI Production Fund, two entities which worked well with small staffs and limited budgets. Or, why not ask filmmakers to run the operation? Artists, rather than bureaucrats, disbursing money to artists! Wouldn't that be a novel idea?

I'd love to see Ken Russell and Mike Hodges, or Sally Potter and Peter Greenaway, persuaded to act as public servants, deciding where that Lottery money ought to go. Film Czars! Ahabs, of Limited Duration! No one to serve for more than two, years, though - or three at the most. Their mission is to make and screen uniquely British films -- and lots of 'em -- while avoiding, at all costs, another bureaucratic film quango.

(The above piece provoked a rather startling ad hominem attack on me in the pages of The Times. According to its author I am opposed to the principle of giving British tax and Lottery money to the Hollywood studios because I was "rejected by them". Since the offended one is both on the staff of the Film Council and an employee of Universal Pictures, maybe he could supply a little more information about this process of "rejection". Do all the studios "reject" filmmakers simultaneously? Do they do this by coincidence or by design? And if said "rejection" is coordinated, might not "blacklisted" be a better word? Just askin!

My pal's other substantive objection was that "most microfeatures aren't very good." So what? Most films in general aren't very good. Nor is most art. This is judgemental thinking, which leads to misdirected funds and errors of public policy. Those who alot public funding shouldn't be sitting in judgement over artists - we already have critics and academics for that: state film funders are there to maximize opportunities for work in the creative industries, so that they grow, and generate further employment - and to do this nationwide, not just in London. This means funding lots of projects, most of them low-budget, sooner rather than later, and getting them seen.)



That'll teach me to write about Nuclear Winter: the regular Winter has been revisiting us ever since. I'd barely got my lettuces and turnips in the ground when the snow began again. And at the same time we're training for the summer's fire season... You can see a video of our rural fire deparmtent here: shot at the retirement ceremony of Hilt Deputy Chief, Andy Herskind. New volunteers are always welcome!

The lizards were out for a few days but have vanished again. I'll keep you updated on their inevitable reappearance. And if anyone would like to know about the Museo Nacional in Mexico City, where the Velasco paintings are, well, I just happen to have penned a brief intro for you, while watching the snow fall, here...



An exhausting trip with Tod to many places in The Old World: Brussels, for the wonderful Cinema Nova Italian Western Festival, and a vist to the RITS film school, Paris for lunch, the Paris-Madrid night train (which is a marvellous trip, and includes a decent meal aboard the train, unlike the microwave fare I've been enjoying on Amtrak!), Almería to shut down my old house in Tabernas (books donated to the library, clothes to the church, tables and art supplies to Charley Braun's maginficent daughter Anushka), London to visit Hanway and Margaret Matheson, Bradford to support the International Film Festival, which has grown to a huge enterprise under the stewardship of Tony Earnshaw, and finally Aberdeen University, where I pretend to the students of the Granite City that I know something about independent film.

En route I read an early Tony Hillerman - LISTENING WOMAN - which I enjoyed a lot, and Cormac McCarthy's THE ROAD, which needless to say was pretty disturbing. McCarthy is quite a writer. As usual, he has trouble finishing the book - but his vision of a world wrecked by nuclear winter (who on earth thought this was a book about global warming? It ain't) is remarkable and very appropriate, given the ongoing possibility that something in the Russian or American (or British, or French, or Chinese, or Israeli, or Pakistani, or Indian) nuclear apparat will go badly wrong.

There's an interesting 'spot the mistake' moment in THE ROAD (the book, not the film, which I haven't seen). Father and son at one point find a wheelbarrow, and swap it for the shopping cart they've been pushing through the bleak and terrifying landscape. They set off with their possessions piled high in the wheelbarrow -- then, two pages later, it's a shopping cart again, and remains that way until the story's end. Far be it from me to suggest that McCarthy's agent asked him to write another chapter to make the book a bit longer, ergo pricier. But that's presumably what happened. This is the curse of books written on computers: it's easy to cut, paste, and insert extra bits, and - presumably - equally easy to forget to adjust everything that follows the insertion so that the story makes sense.

I only complain because otherwise the book is quite extraordinary - the best I've read since BLOOD MERIDIAN. And the warning about the insane consequences of our Great Leaders' nuclear posturing is very timely.

For a non-ficitonal update on the climactic consequences of nuclear war, check out this article from the Bulletin of Atomic Scientists, or the website nucleardarkness.org.

There's also a nuclear firestorm simulator where you can see the results of a nuclear detonation (chose your weapon, Russian or American, and its kilotonnage) on your own home town here.

Happy Easter!



The image below is of the Cine Esteli in Nicaragua: a genuine 35mm picture house, playing almost-first-run 'international' films! When we were in Nicaragua, back in the day, mumble, the embargo against the Sandinistas meant that the cinemas couldn't show new American features. So they showed old American features, instead. This was done in very good taste. One day I bought a ticket for a film whose Spanish title I didn't recognise, and watched - to my delight - RIDE THE HIGH COUNTRY. It was a battered old print, its colours faded to a hideous combo of pink and blue, but it was still a print! And a Peckinpah Western! One of the great ones.

Cine Esteli, Esteli. Suerte!

Meanwhile, Jon Davison has very kindly sent me, on DVD, two new Buñuel films I hadn't seen: LA ILUSION VIAJA EN TRANVIA and DEATH IN THE GARDEN. DEATH IN THE GARDEN is a new digital transfer from a very good print, and looks spectacular. It has subtitles in English and you can watch this strage story of French expatriates in French or Spanish, depending on your mood. Made in 1956, this is the social/existential territory of WAGES OF FEAR: no trucks, but a Surrealist-crashed-plane. Is it Buñuel's first film in colour? It is quite beautiful.

The DVD of LA ILUSION VIAJA EN TRANVIA is very bad: no elements, no subtitles, a telecine from from a beaten-up old print. But the film is excellent! The story of two guys who hijack a tram and drive it up and down Rio Churubusco, giving people rides. Wealthy drunks, old women with lifesize religious icons, slaughterhouse workers carrying animal caracasses, schoolboys, and a beautiful girl, all crowd aboard the phantom bus -- cheap, made in black and white, it is important work (I think) by the Master!

(It seems you can download English subtitles for your DVD of LA ILUSION here -- but I have not done this and don't know how or if it works...)

Peter McCarthy reports sadly that he has seen the trailer for Universal's faux-sequel, REPO MEN. I have missed this delight.

Gilbert Roland was, as you know, a Mexican actor who starred in Hoillywood films. When he died, his widow came up to Talent, OR, where she became friends with my barber, Mike. After she died, Mike ended up with a copy of Gilbert Roland's never-published, untitled, autobiograpy. He lent it to me last week. It is great. Gilbert Roland - real name Luis Alonso - seems like one of those guys who gets along with everybody. Nothing disturbs him. He has a ready smile, a clean shirt, and a trim moustache always. Needless to say, his father was a bullfighter. From Spain.

Yet I enjoyed it. Its hero is indefatigable, undefeatable, always ready for a game of tennis or a dramatic role. You want to kill him, but he's so ingenuous, and truthful, and gentlemanly that he wins you over. He is aware of the reality of his profession. Here's what Gilbert wrote about acting in a prison drama on location:

"We spent two weeks in San Quentin dressed exactly like the regular prisoners, carried the same identification cards, excpect that in the space for 'offence' our crime was listed as 'actor'."

Gilbert Roland




Another good friend died at the end of the year: Elizabeth Fallaize, a brilliant academic at St Johns, in Oxford. I won't burden the reader with the details of her extraordinary career since several long obitiaries appeared in the press; you can read one here.

Over Xmas, in search of light entertainment, and following in Tod's footsteps, I re-read the Sherlock Holmes stories. This led us to rent a bunch of DVDs starring Jeremy Brett as Holmes. I'd never seen that series (I suppose because I was living in the States when it came out). I was used to Peter Cushing and Basil Rathbone and doubted that Brett could ever surpass them in his performance. But I was wrong, and Tod right: Brett is perfect in the role. Unlike his predecessors, he makes Holmes a hysteric... somewhat autistic, even. His choices are quite amazing, totally in keeping with the character in the books, and far beyond the decent but restrained work of Rathbone, Cushing et al.

I'm ashamed to say I knew nothing of Brett's too-short career till now, having avoided "quality" television like the plague.

Rereading the Holmes stories, which remain exemplary into their third century, led me to a biography of Conan Doyle by Andrew Lycett. This is a pretty good and thorough book. Conan Doyle seems to have been a pompous and detestable character, a war-lover who avoided military service but made sure his younger relatives signed up and went to the front. Those who didn't die in uniform he kept shackled to him via financial handouts, which ruined the family. The best chapter is the epilogue, in which Lycett describes his loathing of Doyle's playboy sons:

"These two sons used the Conan Doyle estate as a milch-cow ... Because neither man ever did anything useful in his life, they both took pleasure in making things difficult for anyone who tried to write about their father."

They sound like certain so-called film distributors I've had to deal with.

Conan Doyle was a big booster of the First World War. Lycett mentions HG Wells in the same context, as a war propagandist. This struck me as strange, given what I knew of Wells, so at the library I tracked down Michael Foot's biography of Wells and discovered that, sure enough, HG did indeed work for HMG, abandoning his internationalist sentiments and his Socialism, and promoting that obscene and useless waste of millions of young lives.

So this was a lesson to me. Foot's book is as bad as Lycett's is good: hagiography pure and simple. As far as Foot was concerned, Wells never did a bad thing. His anti-semitism, his dastardly treatment of younger women, his abandonment of his principles, all are glossed over, or ignored. I still like Wells, as the author of the greatest of all science fiction novels, THE WAR OF THE WORLDS. And I still like Foot, the politician. But in this writing, Foot shows the politician's glaring weakness: generalism, a blinkered and inadequate world-view, and an inability to acknowledge incovenient facts.

Two other books I enjoyed over Xmas. One was Rudy Wurlitzer's "two-fer" QUAKE and FLATS - like one of those old Ace sci-fi or Western novels, when you finish the book, you flip it over, and there's another one waiting for you to begin. QUAKE I read when it first came out: it's a horrific tale of the aftermath of the Big LA Earthquake. Rudy thinks catastrophes and disasters bring out the worst in people. I believe they reveal people's finest qualities. For this reason Rudy and I are the best of friends. FLATS is a tough read, at first: an experimental novel, with no fixed protagonist, no settled first- or third-person. A man, or men, near death, grovels through a desert or a wrecked factory during the night, as a menacing Police Machine hovers overhead, and the horizon burns. Nothing much happens - this is the point! - and if you stay with it, the book will stay with you for a long time.

My other read was Roberto Donati's new book about Sergio Leone - L'AMERICA, LA NOSTALGIA, E IL MITO. My Italian isn't very good, and he deals mainly with Leone's last films, DUCK! YOU SUCKER and ONCE UPON A TIME IN AMERICA, which are his weakest. But there are some fascinating interviews in the second half, particularly Giancarlo Santi's recollection of one day on the set of ONCE UPON THE TIME IN THE WEST, when the news of Robert Kennedy's murder came.

"Bronson applaudiva; Fonda, republiccano, rimase indifferente, e Jason Robards invece in lacrime."

I translate this as: Bronson applauded, Fonda, a Republican, seemed indifferent, and Jason Robards was in floods of tears. Interesting to see how these three Hollywood icons reacted on the day of Bobby's death, and to be reminded how the US Right rejoiced when the Kennedy brothers were klled. This story has been re-written subsequently, so I'm grateful to Donati and Santi for telling it as it was.

Audio-wise, I've been listening to my ancient copy of Link Wray's superb 'Link Wray' album - made back when the creator of Rumble was still an American Indian - and to the Sex Patels' wonderful version of The Clash's Straight to Hell. The lead singer of the Patels has the most beautiful voice and the clearest diction: what a pity she's just left the band!

No more for now. I'm still trying to figure out my response to Universal's fake REPO MAN sequal: a breach of my contract, and completely illegal. But what can one lone filmmaker do against a huge malevolent media corporation? In my February blog I'll share the strategy...




I've tried writing this blog over the last couple of months, but, reader dear, I have done little worthy of your attention. My time has been spent following Tod on the Exterminating Angel Press Pacific Northwest Tour, as she reads from her book Jam Today in diverse charming and eccentric independent bookstores.

Here my assignment is 1) to shoot the show on the little JVC camera, or 2) to hold the dogs, assuming the premises are dog-friendly. Truth to tell, this is a happy existence, expecially when it replaces the less-than-enjoyable aspects of independent filmmaking.

Last week I was trying to put together something for this site and realised I had THREE COMPUTERS running simultaneously: the big editing one, plus two laptops, all engaged in some ridiculous process or searching for something, surrounding me in my hut like great, white, blind, glowing eyes. What the **** was I doing? I turned all the machines off and went outside.

But yesterday Lorenzo phoned from Mexico City and told me we've lost another friend: Claudia Becker, the demure, beautiful, ironic woman who cast all my films in Mexico, and who was also my agent and got me acting jobs in some interesting films.

Now, there's an inherent contradiction in being a casting director AND an actors' agent, but Claudia handled the grey area well: I don't think she did this for many clients, but she was especially kind to me. She was like Hercules in London: the friend I stayed with, when I was in town. "Come to Mexico right away and read for this part!" Claudia would instruct me. "Of course, your house is here; you will stay with me!"

Claudia lived above the office, in a big apartment she had designed herself. Downstairs, all was hustle: actors or - worse - actor-children, waiting to be put on tape for commercials; Claudia's nefarious staff, bent over catalogues of actors, and later computers, putting telephone petitioners on hold, which was a form of torture as the 'hold' music was the theme from THE STING, played over and over and over. All around, people were shouting 'action!', child actors were crying, the camote cart was rolling past whistling its weird birdlike cry...

Upstairs, a sea of tranquility. Claudia Becker, in her robe or one of several daily outfits, seated demurely - with perfect posture - on a sofa beneath one of her many paintings, a shot glass of tequila in her hand...

Claudia was second-generation Mexican cinema - of the generation of Arturo Ripstein and young Pedro Armendariz. They all grew up together, knew each other too well, worked together, fought, fell out, then worked together again. Her mother was Lonka Becker, a Jewish refugee from Austria, who became Mexico's most famous actors' agent.

For Claudia, who grew up knowing old Pedro, 'El Indio' Fernandez, Katy Jurado, who dated Peckinpah, the die was cast. She loved the cinema as much as she hated commercials, which in later years paid for her daily bread.

Lorenzo hired Claudia to cast WALKER's Mexican actors. I fell in love with them, with Mexico, with her. She introduced me to young Pedro, to Blanca Guerra, to Jorge Russek, to Alfonso Arau... Then, in EL PATRULLERO, she put us in contact with the new generation: Roberto Sosa, Zaide Silvia Guttierez, Damian Alcazar, Vanessa Bauche, the Bichirs... She was connected to everyone, to everything. And Claudia introduced me to directors; to Ripstein, to Casals, to Fons - who had just clandestinely directed the incredible ROJO AMANACER - to Carlos Carrera, to 'El Perrito' Estrada. Great directors, and a thrilling time.

Claudia's list of credits is immense. Her influence on modern Mexican cinema is similarly great, thanks to her great taste and real love of actors: something not all casting directors or movie people share. She was utterly generous, a thrower of big, lively parties, a great friend to sit with, watching somebody's reel, some other friend's new film. Claudia cared little about food, had an incredible capacity for tequila, yet always remained completely poised, demure, and perfectly upright, in circumstances where I was prostrate, and Charley had fallen off the balcony. Sometimes, on a rare occasion when she was hungry, she had me drive her car through the back streets and then up Insurgentes, to her favourite antro. Driving Claudia's car at night in Mexico City is something no gringo should do.

If you see EL PATRULLERO, Claudia has a cameo as "Hermana Zeldita," a cigarette-smoking, kickback-pocketing nun. She was a good actress (she also appears in PERDITA DURANGO) but she preferred to see actors do it. When she got me the job of the drug-lord in ROSARIO TIJERAS, her commission was a trip to watch me and the other actrors at work, in Medellin. I'd been a little trepidatious about working in the capital city of drug crime and express kidnapping, but when Claudia showed up, all was well. Thanks to the presence of this tiny, bird-like, powerful character, I felt able to venture out, ride on the metro, and visit the Posada museum.

In Claudia's company, I knew no fear.

When striking deals with actors, Claudia's policy was this: it didn't really matter how much you paid them, as long as you treated them respectfully. She could get really good, gifted actors like El Indio and Katy to work for not so much money: because she always insisted on the first class ticket, and the good hotel. She knew actors well.

A couple of years back, Claudia suffered a stroke, and ran up some hefty hospital bills. Her children put the word out, and her friends covered it. A second stroke hit her on Thursday; she passed away that night. I was hoping to fly down for the BIG FUNERAL, but Claudia was an Atheist, and will be cremated without ceremony. The big party - the VELORIO - was last night. Lorenzo told me there were fifty people around the coffin, in the little room. There was apparently much drinking, and laughing, and good memories. I wish I had been there.

Just as La Becker would have wanted it. Adios, Hermana Zeldita. Que le vaya bien!



At Venice our premiere and the public screening were packed, the audiences enthusiastic. Some old friends were there: Marco Giusti, Lars Bloch, and Max Arvelaiz from Venezuela, who stayed an extra day to catch the film. Jaclyn had dinner with Max and Hugo Chavez the previous evening: it was the first time a Latin American president attended the Venice festival, I was told. Marco Muller and Giulia Vallan gave us a wonderful welcome: no festival has better, kinder hosts. And Giulio Questi was there, as well!

I've been Questi's fan since I was a teenager, when I watched, agog, his brilliant Horror-Western DJANGO KILL, at the Scala Cinema in Liverpool. That Questi came to watch a film of mine is an honour beyond words. It's as if Buñuel or Ambrose Bierce had returned from the misty beyond to see my picture.

But I felt sad in Venice, too. My old pal Hercules used to rent a grand palace on the Big Island for the duration of the festival. When the vaporetto stopped at San Samuele, I got out and sat on a bench outside Herc's place. In my friend's absence, the Big Island didn't seem as full of wonders as it had when he was alive.

After our screenings I flew down to Almeria. I've rented a place in the desert there - not far from where we filmed STRAIGHT TO HELL - for twenty years or so. There were ghosts there, as well. This is where the late Karl Braun and I had our production company - a company which made no films but poured money into the economy of several local bars.

Now a desire to get rid of stuff possessed me. I piled up scripts, notebooks for films made and unmade, correspondance with revolutionary orgs, conspiracy books, old clapper boards, and threw the whole mess out. One thing I found harder to dispose of: a prop from HELL, made at an actor's request during production. The actor was Xander Berkeley: back then, playing the Preacher, he'd wanted an icon of a skeleton, nailed to a cross. Andrew McAlpine, the production designer, rustled one up for him at short notice, and, in the intervening two decades, the grisly thing has hung above my bed.

It's a fine piece, and it didn't seem right to bin-bag it. So I walked out into the desert, under a dark sky - via the canyons west of Tabernas, beyond Decorados, past Mini Hollywood and the Rancho Leone, and through the tunnel under the Granada highway. I headed up a narrow, multicoloured ravine which Joe Strummer had once named - for the most obvious reason - Dead Donkey Gulch. The ravine leads to the Blanco Town, where HELL was filmed. The place is almost gone now: remnants of adobe walls and tumbled bricks are all that remain. And a surprise: among the strange rocks which surround the place I found 20 or 30 young gringos: hippies? geology students? They carried sketch pads, and were clambering about just as Strummer and Berkeley and Braun and the rest of us had, back in the day when we were young (or young-ish) and entirely mad.

I left the skeleton icon in a niche in one of the surviving walls of the 'church'. It fitted perfectly. As I clambered down the Gulch, the heavens opened up, and to avoid the downpour I took shelter under a rock overhang. A small black bird with a white tail flew down and sheltered beside me: then, realising what I was, it fluttered away.

The rain stopped. I headed back towards town.



[via telephone] "I'm currently in Spain, walking in the desert. Will return to blogging soon"




On the interstate not far from our shack is a sign dedicating the last stretch of freeway in California to Dwight Eisenhower, the president who warned the public of the dangers of a 'military-industrial complex' after devoting his life to creating and expanding it. The interstate highway system (like the 'information superhighway' itself) was a military project, designed to facilitate the easy movement of tanks, rocket launchers, and other big polluting machines around the country in anticipation of the Russian invasion which, as far as I know, never occurred.

So instead the interstates are full of 18-wheelers exceeding the speed limit, private cars exceeding the speed limit, SUVs exceeding the speed limit, and your correspondent, whose vehicle is so old and funky it could not exceed the speed limit if it tried. I bought my truck to take the dogs out to hotsprings in Eastern Oregon. During production I've been driving up and down this endless, overcrowded interstate: Oregon to San Francisco, Oregon to LA, and back again.

When we shot SEARCHERS 2.0 I used to make the journey on a train, and sometimes I still do. But usually I'm travelling with a shitload of equipment - cameras and hard drives and tripods and model trains, not to mention the dog Pearl - and so it's in the truck we go.

The interstate in question is called Five. Five runs from San Diego all the way up to the Canadian border, I think (though with luck I won't have to find out). The first part of the journey south is picturesque, through high desert and past pretty mountain towns like Weed and Dunsmuir. But south of Lake Shasta Five becomes a nightmare: a long, hot, straight stretch of four lanes bordered by ugly towns like Redding, slaughterhouses, and 'tribal' casinos. There's no air conditioning in my old truck, and one of the windows has fallen into the bowels of the door, so it's a sweaty, unrelieved, demented excursion - at least until you get to Williams, 220 miles later, where there's decent coffee and a proper taco stand.

On a recent journey south, instead of continuing on Five I turned west at Williams. My idea was to take a leisurely drive through the 'wine country' and spend the night in Petaluma, before hooking up with Richard Beggs - our sound designer - at his office in the Presidio. Oh, foolish choice! The two-lane blacktops that wind through the 'wine country' are just as busy as the interstate: but the drivers are all half-pissed, courtesy of 'wine tastings' at every turn-off; they have also rented expensive BMWs and Audis and the like, to make their fantasy of empowered holidaymaking complete. On these roads I can manage the speed limit, but no matter: invariably I find myself leading a long column of expensive motors and motorcycles, and pulling over every chance I get, so that the assholes can shout at me as they roar by.

All of them are tailgating. What pleasure do these doofuses derive from racing too fast down windy lanes, nose-to-tail with the car in front of them, in twenty-vehicle blocks? As a lad, I used to be a bit of a cop magnet, and became nervous whenever I saw a state trooper, or the LAPD. Now the sight of a highway patrol car lurking behind a bridge or in the meridian warms my heart. Go, officers!

Tod warned me to avoid these backroads, but what did I do on Sunday, exiting the Golden Gate Bridge? Tried another little 'shortcut' through the 'wine country' with even more dire results. This time, it was getting dark, and I found myself on the two-lane road between Novato and Vallejo (villages which have become sprawling, Bakersfield-style city-ettes) when all traffic ground to a halt. Miles ahead, some kind of accident had happened. There was a concrete barrier down the central divider, so I was well and truly trapped. But wait! Just ahead was a break in the barrier, with a big 'no u-turn' sign. I followed the scofflaw in front of me thru the gap, and headed back the way I'd come.

By the time we got wherever it was we were, I was pretty wrecked. It was nine at night, the dog was starving, and there were no motel signs anywhere to be seen. At a gas station, two women took pity on me. One of them, going off her shift, actually led me to the well-concealed motel a few miles away. It was such an act of kindness - generously offered to a total, manic stranger - that I felt the blessed Virgin of Los Angeles must still be watching over our production. Gracias, Diosita! Mil gracias!

And what am I doing on all these trips? Nothing directorial, any more. Just watching the VFX guys build their amazing models, and writing and collecting contracts, and gradually inputting the results of other people's work - animation, music, audio files - into the finished project. I am an administrator now: a proper producer, in other words. And soon, even that work will be done.

Maybe then the Goddess can take a holiday: rent a VW Jetta and tailgate her co-deities through the California 'wine country'. But not just yet, please, Diosita. We need you for a couple of weeks yet!



I anticipated the "cease and desist" letter from The Studio, attempting to stop production of one of my films on the spurious grounds that it was an illegal sequal to REPO MAN. That was inevitable, given the history of the company, whose parent - MCA - stood for "Muscle, Cash and Attorneys." So, when a letter came, forbidding me to make my movie and signed by no less a personage than the Executive Vice President In Charge of Litigation, I stuck it in the drawer labeled 'Restraint of Trade' and carried on.

What I wasn't prepared for was the e-mail Jon Davison sent me today: an article reporting that "Universal's embattled execs" were putting their big hairy monster picture on hold, and rushing out a film called REPO MEN.


REPO MEN is definitely not a sequal to my film. I still have a contract with these guys and - if they ever want to make a film based on my original work - they have to ask me to direct it. What fun that would be! But it seems The Studio has, among its souvenirs, a Jude Law thriller called THE REPOSSESSION MAMBO, shot in Canada, almost two years ago. I'm sure this is an excellent film, which Universal accidentally forgot to distribute, and now are passing off, in their innocence, as the new REPO MAN. Only a cynical person might see any attempt to catch the upward draft of my picture, and give loft to a turkey.

These MEN have nothing to do with me. For shame!




After shooting some footage on the second-class bus in Mexico, I returned to Los Angeles for our foley session (that's where essential audio like footsteps and the cup-downs are recorded. Presumably the process is named after a Mr or a Ms. Foley -- in Mexico, it's called Gavira, after the man who did it for Churubusco Studios). This we did at Post Creations, in Van Nuys: a splendid facility, if you're after a fast, well-organised foley place. I spent my LA evenings lurking at the Union Station, downtown, filming arrivals of trains.

Next day I took the Coast Starlight north from the Union Station, headed for Oregon. I woke next morning to find our train, #14, parked south of Redding, CA. A UP freight had broken down ahead of us, and we were four hours late.

Now, if you're in a plane or a car, or sitting aboard the Branson Hell-Train from Liverpool to London, a four hour delay is an absoloute nightmare. On train #14, or #11 (the same journey in reverse), such anguished certainties don't apply. People don't take long-distance trips on Amtrak because they're in a hurry. They do it because they like the ride. So, after a leisurely breakfast in the Parlor Car, I got off the train at Dunsmuir, CA, to stretch my legs.

There I discovered the Silver Solarium, hooked to the back of the train.

Now, it was the Silver Solarium which inspired me to write a train-based screenplay. Riding #11 down to LA one time, I saw it and another California Zephyr car - the Silver Lariat - join us at Oakland. I enquired about it, and learned that these magnificent relics of the Golden Age of Rail are rented out: sometimes to millionaires for private parties, sometimes to train enthusiasts, like me. I began thinking of a story involving a super-luxurious antique train car, pursued by a repo crew, packed to the gills with dignitaries and millionaire celebrities, and SOMETHING VERY BAD HAPPENING TO THEM...

Burt Harney, who rents the Silver Solarium and the Lariat, let me ride with him up to the next station. I was able to get the one shot I was missing, for my train interiors. Then I just stood on the platform between the cars, with the window open, watching Mount Shasta recede, and the pine forests give way to volcanic rock, and the wetlands south of Klamath Falls.

So I must say thank you to Burt, and to someone else, as well: Mr Max Nakahara, of JVC cameras in Japan. I met Mr Nakahara at a trade show in Tokyo, and - when in the process of filming toy trains and real ones - got back in touch with him and asked if JVC would lend me one of their new HD cameras: either a GY-HM100 or a 700. Max-san told me that all the 700s were spoken for, but that I could borrow a 100 for the duration of post, if I wanted. I said yes, of course: and this was the camera I took to Mexico and LA. So far it's proved quite an amazing thing.

First, its size is tiny. It fits in my SLR case. But it comes with a separate audio controller and a phantom-powered mike which gives much better sound than the in-camera mikes this class of camera usually includes. I showed it to Steve Fierberg and he pronounced the ergonomics impressive: we're both fans of the old VX-1000 and this camera is about the same size as the old Sony, and even easier to use.

Unlike Panasonic, Canon, and most Sony models, the JVC shoots both PAL and NTSC. JVC seem to be the only manufacturer who doesn't want to maintain two separate markets just to move a few units more. It's simply a software issue now, and JVC are to be praised for making a truly worldwide camera. The image quality seems excellent - the GY-HM100 records onto two SD cards in full HD - and my only criticism thus far is that the wide angle of the fixed zoom isn't really wide enough (maybe it's the equivalent of a 34mm lens on a 35mm camera? At least a 28mm equivalent would be preferable, though JVC do make a wide angle converter for the camera).

I've tried the Sony EX1, which I don't like much, and I went and bought a PAL version of the Panasonic 151 to shoot the previous train interiors: something I regret now. The JVC GY-HM100 is the best of the bunch, and - on the basis of these experiences - seems ideal for under-the-radar independent filmmaking.

So domo aregato, JVC, and Mr Max, for entering into the spirit of REPO CHICK, where money rarely changes hands, and high levels of creativity are everything.

(Speaking of stellar creativity, I just finished reading the new script by Luis Estrada and Jaime Sampietro, EL INFIERNO. These are the guys who made LA LEY DE HERODES, the most popular Mexican film of all time. I'm blown away by how good EL INFIERNO is: better, funnier, and sadder than anything I've read in a very long time. Adelante, mi Perrito! Suerte en la carretera...)




To Vera Cruz, to say goodbye to Charley Braun.

Charley was German, born in Tokyo during the second world war. So his birth certificate - as he would gleefully point out - had a swastika on it. He delighted in winding people up, and playing the bad guy, and yet he had no meanness in him, no cruelty of any kind. He was working as a ski instructor in Switzerland when he met Sergio Leone. Leone, always on the lookout for big, tough, blond guys, invited him to come to Almeria and play a cowboy in his next Western.

KHB bust; Scharlach's mask

The film was A GENIUS, produced by Leone and directed by Damiano Damiani. Charley had a few scenes with Klaus Kinski: if you see the film, he's playing cards with Kinski in the ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST saloon. Charley liked the film world, liked playing a cowboy, liked the desert. So he stayed, finding a place in what was then a hippie enclave called Mojacar. He soon hooked up with Kate Mulock, widow of Al Mulock, another tough-and-crazy-looking character actor who had died during the filming of Leone's art Western.

I met Charley in '85, when I was looking for a location manager for a video clip: Joe Strummer's LOVE KILLS (it's the only pop promo to feature Gary Oldman; visible here). By this point Mojacar had filled up with useless English expats who spoke no Spanish, and who surrounded Charley because he was quadri-lingual, and could order their drinks and count their change. Unlike the worthless limeys who populated the Spanish coastline, Charley was intelligent, thoughtful, and intensely competent.

His principal interests seemed to be smoking and driving. Cigarette in one hand, asthmatic inhaler in the other, he would race back and forth between Mojacar and Tabernas, where the Westerns were made.

In '86 we shot STRAIGHT TO HELL in Almeria, and Charley was our production manager. Needless to say, he quickly became one of our actors, too: he played the Pogues' blacksmith, and had a dramatic death scene - machine-gunned by Sy Richardson, in the town well. Miguel Sandoval was impressed by Charley's acting and suggested that we ask him to play a serious role in WALKER: that of the Prussian freebooter, Bruno Van Namzer. Charley was quite nervous about this - it was a real part, with a lot of dialogue - but Miguel and Ed Harris both spend time with him, working on his part. It's hard to imagine two better acting teachers, and Charley pulled it off with great elan. In San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua, he decided that, rather than ride a horse, he would show up on a huge white bull. He rode that bull, which was only half-tame, extremely well.

Back in those days I was quite naive politically. I would never have guessed that the Sandinistas - our partners on the picture - would morph into a right-wing political party. Charley was under no such illusions. During his time off, he flew to Corn Island and the Atlantic coast. On his return, he told me that the Sandinistas had no support at all on the Caribbean coast, that they treated the Afro-Caribbeans with disdain, and that a top-down, elitist revolution wasn't going to last. I didn't believe him. But he was right.

Blacklisted after WALKER, I returned to Spain. Charley had started a production company - Castillo Films - and opened an office in Tabernas. I became his partner. This was our least successful enterprise. Malcolm McLaren came to check out our facilities; otherwise we had no visitors at all. In the absence of production, we spent our time in the adjacent bar. In '91 Lorenzo O'Brien invited me to Mexico to direct his script, EL PATRULLERO. We hired Charley to play the nameless drug dealer who Roberto Sosa kills and buries in an unmarked grave. Charley loved the locations - in Durango, Parras, Zacatecas and Sombrerete - returned briefly to Mojacar to pack his bags, and moved to Spain. The following year he produced DEATH & THE COMPASS, which I directed.

Thereafter Charley worked as a line producer, a location manager, and an actor. He fell in love with one of the locations he discovered - the lagoon at Sontecomapan, in Vera Cruz - and built a shack there. For a decade he commuted between Sontecomapan and Mexico City, where the work was. He was diagnosed with lung cancer a couple of years back. Despite the usual arduous and expensive treatments, the cancer spread. One of his last features was BANDIDAS: a mediocre VIVA MARIA! remake which he blessed with incredible locations. He played a minor bad guy in that film.

As Charley's health worsened, his friends came through. Lorenzo and Miguel Camacho paid for his medicines. His magnificent daughter, Anouschka, travelled from Spain to care for him. Javier Gunther, the transportation captain, arranged for his return to Sontecomapan, where old friends visited. Last week, Lorenzo and I flew to Vera Cruz and took a complex series of taxis, buses and launches, to say goodbye.

I'd hoped to talk about the old times, but it was too late for that. The big man had lost a lot of weight, could no longer walk, could barely speak. I spent three days sitting beside him, looking out of his window at the tropical forest and the lagoon which he loved. When some devout locals tried to send for a priest, Charley's response was admirably characteristic: "Fuck that!" He fell into a coma on Friday, and died yesterday.

Adios, dear brother Braun.



Pretty funny to see my Democrat friends swinging in the wind trying to explain why the President refused to put polar bears on the Endangered Species List. In so doing, Obama distressed environmentalists and bear-lovers worldwide, and garnered praise from his future running-mate, Sarah Palin.

Obama doesn't really hate the bears, I'd guess. He just doesn't care about them. He and his crack economic team of Lawrence Summers (ex-World Bank/IMF) and Robert Rubin (ex-Goldman Sachs) answer not to the electorate, but to the big corporations - just like Palin, McCain and Bush. If Obama were to put the bears on the Endangered Species List, the government would be obliged to ACT to protect them. And that would mean legislation and action to roll back climate change, instead of bullshitting and making up stuff.

But what a miserable disappointment the guy is! Guantanamo Bay Torture Camp still open, extraordinary rendition still in operation, the transfer of taxpayers' money to the banks continuing, the occupation of the Iraqi oilfields and the Afghan heroin operation intensified, harrass the Russians with radar/missile systems based in Poland, warrantless wiretapping a bipartisan project... and now two fingers to the polar bears.

The only thing that's actually working to hold back global warming, and the Deluge, seems to be the Recession. So maybe we should be glad we don't have jobs. But, other than throwing millions of people out of work, worldwide, do these clowns have any solution to the fix we're in, or know how little time is left to repair it?

None of the stupid ideas Obama and co. propose regarding climate change will work. Carbon trading is merely moving deckchairs around a sinking ship - it doesn't reduce overall levels of CO2 at all, and does nothing to address the methane pouring out of America's factory farms. Carbon sequestration doesn't exist. It's merely a wonderful idea, like Nuclear Fusion, and Clean Coal, and Nuclear Power Too Cheap To Meter. All are fantastical, magical ideas, backed by the governments' top scientists, who - comfortably employed in highly-paid jobs - throw fairy dust at desperately real problems.

Meanwhile, in Britain, a wind farm is to be destroyed to make way for a nuclear power station; and a sea barrage power generation project (another unproven piece of technology which might actually work, if it were ever finished) is abandoned.

Will the electorate get real and give us some Green MPs in the next General Election? I certainly hope so, and promise to work hard in my usual stumbling way towards this goal. Arjun Makhijani, president of the Institute for Energy and Environmental Research, has just been interviewed by the Multinational Monitor. He says that - contrary to the propaganda of the nuke, oil and coal industries - wind and solar could power the entire United States, using technology already available. And what applies to the US presumably would work in most of the rest of the world, as well.

It's a very important interview, I think, though I can't say if he's entirely right, or wrong. But his proposals seem more practical than moving deckchairs around, murdering Iraqis to steal their oil, and giving what's left of our money to to total bankers.




So, I have a new book out - a chronological history of the Spaghetti Western - no relation to the previous book of the same name, now lurking somewhere on this site as a .pdf called MASSACRE TIME.

I haven't seen the book yet, though it came out on May 1. Sending authors copies of their lovely works must be low on a publisher's agenda, but I'd still love to see one: especially as I believe it's the first book about Italian Westerns published in English which DOESN'T have a picture of fucking Clint Eastwood on the cover! Instead there's a still from Giulio Questi's DJANGO KILL / SE SEI VIVO SPARA, courtesy of the director himself.

Excellent! And at the same time, apologies to Howard Hughes, Katsumi Ishikuma, Marco Giusti, Lars Bloch, and Don Giulio himself, all of whom have been promised copies. As soon as I get any, I'll certainly send 'em on.

In the mean time, anyone who desires some background on this obsessive project can find it in this article for the FT. Sorry about the picture: I sent them some nice ones of me, Marco and Don Giulio, and a great shot of the 'El Paso' set in ruins after a storm. Instead they printed one of some monkey in a brown shirt. Oh well...

Without having seen it, I still have high hopes for the tome. My energy ran out in the chapter on the seventies, and I probably should have taken more time to digest films like DON'T TOUCH THE WHITE WOMAN and CALIFORNIA, both of which struck me as remarkable on a first viewing. But the chapters on and 1967 and 1968 - the period Marco calls the golden age - are, I think, pretty good.




In Liverpool, meeting with Kim Ryan and Sparkle Media, I see an amazing convoy of cops: the Manchester Road is briefly and completely taken over by police cars - blocking crossroads, weaving back and forth across two lanes with blue lights flashing - four or five cop cars, followed by an armoured prison truck, then three vans, packed with cops.

It is a hugely macho display, alien, scary, show-offy and dangerous. Kim Ryan, who has pulled over to let the cops pass, tells me this happens every day. In the morning this small army of fifty boys in blue burns down the motorway from Manchester to Liverpool, where presumably the unseen prisoners are on trial. Then at five they burn back to Manchester, weaving across dual carriageways, blocking intersections, flashing lights.

Who are these prisoners? That's the mystery. The Liverpool Post and Echo have no news of any high-profile trials. Sometimes Manchester gangsters are tried outside their home turf, in Liverpool's Crown Court. But these trials are big news, and everyone knows who's in the prison van. This time, nobody knows what's going on.

Clearly this is fun for the police and means plenty of overtime. But who are these high-profile prisoners, being moved around the North West in brazen secrecy?

A week later I'm driving down Interstate 5 from Oregon to Los Angeles. South of San Francisco I start seeing squadrons of motorbikes headed north. I think at first it's a Harley club (the real bike gangs are too busy with their business activities to go on runs these days), but no, as they pass I see it's cops: scores of motorcycle cops, riding their Hogs and their Beamers and their Kawasakis north. I count more than a hundred: broken into groups of 20-40.

These guys' mission I understand: they're on their way to the funeral of the four cops murdered in Oakland a few days before. Two of those guys were bike cops and, as an old biker myself, I can assure you it's no fun at all riding up and down 5. Bikes are for blacktops and back roads, not for truck-infested freeways smelling of cow shit. But duty calls.

In LA we shoot on a spaceship set, in a fine, clean sound stage in the Valley: this is the scene we were forced to drop when our equipment was stolen. Pearl comes down with me and is a very good girl in the sense of not running away or barking during the shoot. But like all heelers she is food-mad and I fear some of my colleagues must have fed her donuts. We deal with the consequnces of this on the way home.

The shoot goes well, with only one disaster: a great actor, and veteran of REPO MAN, gets in a car crash on his way to the stage, and is taken tothe emergency room. At the eleventh hour we're forced to draft another thespian to replace him. Such bad luck! But he is still alive. Despite robberies and car crashes, La Señora de Los Angeles continues to watch over us.

The bunker stuff fits into the film marvellously. Steve Fierberg has always been a great DP, but lately he has morphed into a genius. I have never had a film cut together as well and as easily as this one: his illumination of the green screen footage was amazing, while his bunker material looks like the out-takes from DR STRANGELOVE.

Then right away I'm en route to LA again, this time aboard the antique California Zephyr 'Silver Solarium', shooting interiors for our train scenes. The first private owner of this car did it up amazingly: there are hand-made wooden blinds in every window - including the vista dome. This is a 'train movement' - the Solarium and its companion, the Silver Rapids, are on their way to LA for the use of a private party who wishes to travel to Seattle in style. So I have the whole coach almost to myself, for 12 hours.

Next day Del drives me to the Marina del Rey and up into the mountains above Pasadena, where we shoot more background plates. That evening, Miguel and Linda take me to USC, the rich kids' film school in Los Angeles. I've never been before, but an old friend of ours, Candace Reckinger, is showing some of her work in the... get this... Steven Speilberg Building! You couldn't make this stuff up. The Steven Spielberg Building looks for all the world like the Holiday Inn Express. Directly opposite this architectural masterpiece is... the George Lucas Building! This, a mirrior image of the Spielberg Building, resembles, err, another Holiday Inn Express.

Well, those rich kids' parents get what they pay for, I suppose. And after all, an education in the Spielberg Building, plus at least one parent in the industry and considerable personal wealth, is all any young person needs to gain a foothold in the exciting world of film.

(photos by Miguel Sandoval)



Not so long ago I found myself adrift, at Frankfurt Airport.

I'd been invited to Russia, where I'd never been: only to discover, in a distant cold-war airport terminal, that my papers were not in order, and - according to the people who had invited me - they could not be put in order, and I could no longer come.

I had no return ticket. No reason to be in Frankfurt, or Germany, or Europe. What to do? Where to go? I wondered who, on that continent, I could call, at 0900 hours on Saturday, and ask if they had plans for the weekend. Such people are few. Most people I know have children, or aged relatives, or are putting in overtime at the repo yard or the corrections center. Only one name occurred: Hercules Bellville. I called Hercules, got his machine, and told it I was coming to London on a whim, and hoped Herc was free and didn't have houseguests.

At the railway station I bought a ticket to London, via Brussels. At Brussels I called again, and found Herc in. He'd rearranged his schedule, had no houseguests, and invited me to stay for the weekend. That evening we had a takeaway and watched a film and some short subjects on his plasma screen. Next day we took a boat ride to Deptford, and walked along the south path of the Thames , approaching the Dome by foot - something neither of us had known was possible. It was a winter day but brilliantly sunny. Hercules always eschewed the Tube (when he lived in Chelsea he was a 38 bus man) but on this occasion he graciously agreed to go on a tour of the new underground stations, including Bermondsey and Southwark.

Bellville and the Domes

Not only was Hercules Bellville the only person I could consider imposing myself on in this manner, he was also the only person I would WANT to impose myself on. Sometimes, when I was based in Liverpool, I would call him up and invite myself down to his pad in London - not because I liked London. I liked Hercules. In the sixties he'd worked for Roman Polanski: those are his arms that come through the wall and grab Katherine Deneuve, in REPULSION. We lived in Los Angeles around the same time, though Herc refused to believe this, insisting it couldn't be true, as he'd never seen me at any parties. On his return to London he became Head Henchman to Jeremy Thomas, the independent producer, a job he held for almost 30 years. As Henchman, Herc hefted a mean address book, and was often called upon to wine and dine actors and directors. It was in this context that we met. We never worked together, but we hit it off, and remained good friends for 25 years.

Herc produced a few films, and directed at least one: a popular English gangster thriller, credited to a commercials director, who couldn't make the days. He was intelligent, always contrarian, studiously hip, and very knowledgeable about filmic things. Only Hercules could have made Tod and me watch THREE HUNDRED. And only Hercules would have screened LORD LOVE A DUCK! His greatest asset was his capacity for friendship. And he was the most generous individual I've met.

For many years he kept a pad in Chelsea, on Glebe Place. It was packed with stuff, books and VHS tapes piled on the staircases, pictures on every wall but one. You would be sitting in his front room, on the sofa, looking at Hercules, a big telly, and a wall densely packed with framed art pieces, mostly commercial art or Erro-esque stuff, and getting visually utterly over-stimulated. Hercules, on the other hand, would have a restful view of you, and his other guests, against the backdrop of a plain, white wall - the only such surface in his house.

This represents, I think, an ability to create areas of order amid chaos for which one is also largely responsible: a tremendous asset in the film business. Hercules died last weekend, after a period of illness.



Today I have time on my hands, as last night our production equipment was stolen. It had been locked up in a supposedly-secure room in our supposedly-secure sound stage, and then the door was open and the camera, batteries, a lens, tripod, camera head, et al... all went walkies.

The endless cycle of upgrades and the presence of a green screen means that the SEARCHERS 2.0 camera has been set aside in favour of a higher-end machine which records RAW data onto drives. All this involves computers and screens. Gone are the days when Steve Fierberg would hand me a newly-shot MiniDV tape and I'd put it in my pocket! Gone too are our computers and screens. All must be replaced, software reinstalled, things that need to be calibrated calibrated.

It means a lot of scrambling and the loss of a full day's shoot. But things are only things, of course, and they can be replaced.

The master criminals are clearly filmmakers, since they made off with just enough stuff to make an indy feature with. And it doesn't take Sherlock 'Olmes to twig it was an inside job, as, in order to break into the storage space, the geniuses bypassed a non-existent guard, evaded non-functional 24-hour video cameras, and used their keys to the stage! But next time, guys, why not break into one of the studios? They have even more stuff than we do!

(This of course was the fate of the Chevy Malibu on REPO MAN, which went mysteriously missing a few days into that shoot... But it is still an enormous waste of time and energy and causes good, hard-working people a lot of useless extra work.)




A fascinating week in Tokyo and Yokohama is followed by a frenetic drive from Oregon to Los Angeles. Instead of writing about any of this, let me share something really important with you, discerning reader: the location of one of the best hot springs in the United States.

This is called Buckeye, and it's some ten miles southwest of the town of Bridgeport, CA, where I spent my first night en route to LA. Part of the road is paved, and it was a sunny day, but there was ice and my guess is that, when the snow comes, you'd have to snowshoe or ski in. No matter. You can get directions in town, or at Doc & Al's Resort. They're proud of the place.

When you reach the hotsprings, you see a tree with a small pond under it.

The water is warm, and as you can lie there you've a view of two snow-covered mountain ranges and the edge of the Great Basin Desert. The scene is spectactular, and the water is almost warm enough... But it's a little tepid. Closish to perfect, but if only it was a few degress hotter...

Look down into the ravine, then. See steam rising from the partially-frozen creek? There are more hot pools, a short hike down the hill, on the creek's edge. Water pours down moss-covered rocks, creating a shower in a HOT soaking pool.

There are cooler pools, downstream, as well. Buckeye is reputed to be popular, but if you arrive midweek, early enough - this was around 0930 hrs last Thursday - there may be no one there. Ditto when it snows.

If you're an on-sen enthusiast, you must visit this place. I checked out a couple of others, too - Crab Cooker and the Travertine - but they were more visited, and more exposed. Buckeye is extraordinary.




Today I finished it. By 'it' I mean the all-revised, all-new 10,000 WAYS TO DIE.

It was a year ago, I think, that my dear friend Steven Davies said, "Al, why don't you write a Spaghetti Western book for Kamera? They're very nice." And for a long time, it's true, I had been thinking - sort of as an art project - of watching all the Italian Westerns I could find, on DVD and video, in the order in which they were made. So I got in touch with the publisher, and did it.

Over the last 12 months I have watched over 100 Italian Westerns, starting with Corbucci's RED PASTURES and ending, today, with Michele Lupo's CALIFORNIA. I know there are later ones, but you have to stop somewhere, and I am bushed.

But it was wonderful to end on such a high note - CALIFORNIA is a good film, the best of the Giuliano Gemma Westerns. And the book is still a few months from being done - I have to revise it, do the index, all that stuff.

But it's good to have reached the end of this particular trail.




Rudy Wurlitzer told me recently, "This is the worst time to be selling art or photography. Absolutely the worst time." Rudy knows his stuff. But I thought it might be worth conjoining the cox.com with the coxart.com and coxpix.com sites as some of the large images make charming screensavers, especially the reptiles.

The 35mm film pix were taken with my old Pentax K-1000. Some of the digital pix were taken with a Konika Minolta Dimage 7i: a big point-and-shoot with a long zoom. This was a nice camera. Stills on the set of Searchers 2.0 were taken with a Panasonic Lumix DMC-LX2. This is an amazing camera with native 16X9 format: it has survived being dropped, bashed, and crushed.

The most recent pictures - and all the lizard ones - were taken with a Pentax K10D and, most often, a Sigma 70-300mm lens with a 2X teleconverter. Stumpy is still around and doing fine as a mature lizard. All are hibernating now.

You're welcome to use these electronic versions for any and all non-commercial purposes, via a Creative Commons license. If you'd like prints, or to use the images commercially, get in touch.

(All proceeds from sales of the Worcester College pic will go to the College, old members!)



Bellingham was enlightening for several reasons. The cinema where we played - The Pickford - is a great little art theatre in the middle of downtown. It's relocating to two screens, across the street, next year. Good people. One feels that foreign-language pix and marginal stuff like SEARCHERS 2.0 will continue to be available, as long as there are cinemas and cineastes like these.

Tod and I had lunch at a big independent bookstore, also in Bellingham. Impressive place. Old building, done-up, with giant windows, a cafe serving beer and wine, kids being read to in the story area, selling lots of books. Some of the cinemas we've seen are struggling a bit: what will happen to the Bijou, in Eugene? Will this wonderful, eccentric space remain a cinema? If I was an alien looking to set up in business and my options were independent filmmaking or independent publishing, my alien brain might opt for the latter.

(Bought a copy of the new Project Censored 2009. Number one ignored story is the Iraqi casualty figures. The authors estimate as many as 1.2 million Iraqis killed by the Americans, the British, and their allies in the Coalition of the Killing. This in addition to the million Iraqi children who died as a result of sanctions in the Clinton/Albright years. Amazing.)

We came back down the Washington coast, which neither of us had seen. Amazingly austere and thickly forested. Very unlike the Oregon coast, which is more open and visibly dramatic. We stayed at the hot springs in Sol Duc, where there is no televison, and so missed the Vice Presidential debate. What a pity! Next night, in Iron Springs, we watched the storm over the Pacific.

Total mileage: 1,546 miles. Cheapest gas, Florence, OR: $3.23 a gallon.

In email land, Abbe Wool and I creep slowly towards our goal of learning how much money SID & NANCY has made. The receipts are split three ways, it seems - between a foreign sales company, Studio Canal; Granada International (who have inherited two territories, Britain and Eire, from the original producers, Zenith); and MGM, who have taken over the US rights once owned by Embassy Home Entertainment.

MGM have, apparently, sublicensed SID & NANCY to Murdoch's 20th Century Fox, who are selling an American DVD. I am disappointed, and do not in any way approve of this. At the time we made SID & NANCY, Murdoch was in the process of breaking the London printers' unions, by relocating his crap newspapers to a fortress, in Wapping. He had enormous help from Thatcher and the police. At least one trade unionist was killed.

So, at the time, many British filmmakers vowed never to work for Murdoch or his creepy companies, and not to give interviews to his lousy rags. I don't know if our vow is still in vogue or not, but I'm still keeping it, and the thought that the Dirty Digger has got his murderous mitts on one of my films is deeply troubling.

This worries me more than the discovery that some enthusiast has apparently put ALL OF SID & NANCY - in ten minute segments - up on the net. Big chunks of SEARCHERS 2.0 and REPO MAN are up there, too, and it doesn't seem to do any harm to the films' respective prospects.

But I am pissed off that Murdoch's Fox has raided my cultural henhouse, and would recommend - if you must watch all of SID & NANCY - the British DVD, on the Momentum label. It has better elements, too: including a drunken commentary by me and Drew Schofield.

Interestingly, another enthusiast has compared both these DVDs with the Criterion DVD - no longer available - and by means of screen grabs, bitrates and other yardsticks deems the Criterion DVD far superior to Murdoch's or Mo's.

Best leave SID on the shelf, and rent Criterion's DVD of WALKER instead. Thank you.

Abbe and I still await an accounting from MGM.



A thrilling week of SEARCHERS 2.0 screenings followed by Q&As wraps up tonight in Bellingham, WA. Our first date was in a converted church in Eugene: the Bijou. A charming venue and a good alternative use for a religious building, of which there are far too many. Before the show we watched the 'Debate' between Obama and McCain. But there was no debate at all, as both expect the taxpayers to bail out the bad debt con-men of Wall Street. No problem there, then, and no reason to vote for either. On the peace front, Obama positioned himself to the right of the War Criminal, calling for an expanded war in Afghanistan and a possible American attack on Pakistan.

Because the screening was a midnight one, I did the Q&A next morning in a coffee shop. One of Harry Harrison's many collaborators, David Bischoff, turned up. He told me BILL THE GALACTIC HERO persuaded him not to go to Vietnam! What better compliment could one give to any writer? David's life - and the lives of many Vietnamese - were saved by this brilliant parody and anti-adventure saga. Harry is not only the most popular SF writer in Russia, he is a hero of the Anti-War cause! Memo: must make film.

In Corvalis, we showed the films at the Darkside, a fine four-screener in a defunct department store. In Portland we screened at Cinema 21 and got completely snookered with some nice people from Powell's and our old screenwriter chum, Wes Claridge. Somehow I acquired the proofs of Lawrence Lessig's new book, REMIX. Excellent!

In Portland and Eugene, some nice chats with homeless guys who increasingly resemble me in terms of age, education, and demographic. These are not winos or junkies but lower-middle-class guys suddenly sitting on a pack bench with a backpack. The homeless situation is the worst it's been since the early days of Reagan and Thatcher.

To Olympia, the Capitol of Washington State, whose streets house many homeless. This has been a sunny week, but Olympia will be less lovely when it rains. Screened at Evergreen University Campus in the woods nearby. Amazing: it's like Warwick, or UCLA North Campus, but in a rain forest!

The Grand Illusion in Seattle was also host to me and Eddie Izzard on the REVENGERS tour; a lovely cinema. Among the attendees this time, Danbert Nobacon - now a resident of Twisp, some four hours into the woods. He gives us a copy of his fine new CD, The Library Book of the World. And thence to Bellingham!

A short 'making of' documentary - depicting the behind-the-scenes drug-taking and orgies common on independent films sets, and crucial to SEARCHERS 2.0, can be seen here.



And here, I'm pleased to report, are the details of the SEARCHERS 2.0 Pacific Northwest Tour, featuring that fine film and several others. Kick off is:

Friday 26 Sept at the BIJOU ART CINEMA in beautiful Eugene, OR. This is the first of several screenings, including WALKER.

Saturday 27 Sept at the dog-friendly DARKSIDE, in Corvalis, OR.

Sunday 28 Sept at CINEMA 21 in lovely Portland, OR - copies of X FILMS, my book, will be available courtesy fo Powells gigantic bookstore.

Monday 29 Sept at EVERGREEN COLLEGE, WA, I'll introduce a double bill of SEARCHERS 2.0 and WALKER.

Tuesday 30 Sept it's the GRAND ILLUSION, Seattle, where Eddie Izzard and I showed our REVENGERS TRAGEDY not so long ago.

Wednesday 1 Oct we bid adieu at the PICKFORD CINEMA, Bellingham, WA. Another book-friendly event.

Apologies to friends and a fine cinema in Vancouver, BC, who also invited us and the film. But crossing the border with two rabid dogs seems too risky, at least on this occasion!

And thanks to STEVE TENHONEN, the genius who has organised it all.




The bank called me on Monday and said there was a wire transfer for 225,000 dollars waiting to go into my account. Then they rang back and said no, it was pounds, so worth about $390,000.

I was thinking, who has sent me all this money? Lorenzo, in Mexico City?
Negi-san, in Japan? The owners of SID & NANCY? How kind of them!

The experience concentrated my mind wonderfully.
What would you do if you unexpectedly had 225,000 dollars in your account?
Or 225,000 pounds?

I'm pleased to report that I decided to produce my own film, rather than something sensible like paying off the mortgage or sending the dogs to college.

And what film? I thought about all the projects in the Commies From Mars portfolio. What could be made for such a modest, unrespectable sum?

The bank called back and told me it had all been a mistake. One of the world's giant media conglomerates had wired me money which they owed to someone else, instead of a smaller sum, which has yet to show up.

(More video has gone up, including parts of the SPANISH TRAGEDY reading with Derek Jacobi and other wonderful actors, and, in three episodes, JAIL ME!, written by Tod Davies, produced by Sol Papadopoulos, with music by the mighty Pete Wylie.)




Just a note to report that EDGE CITY, a.k.a. SLEEP IS FOR SISSIES, is now available for download/streaming. It's broken into four parts, the first of which can be found here.

With luck Chapter One of XFILMS will now make sense to its diehard readers. It was an interesting experiment to break this 38-minute film into four pieces, make title cards etc. Only 28 years later there are gaps for the commercials at last!

Part two of EDGE CITY can be found here.

Part three is here.

And the thrilling and mysterious finale is here.



Apologies to all Dennis Potter fans for the weird claim, on the cover of the US edition of XFILMS, that I was thick with him, or that he was one of the luminaries with whom I've worked.

Sadly, it isn't so. Whoever wrote this blurb obviously has Potter confused with one of the other Dennises I've been privileged to work with - Muloney, Hopper, and Dolan. But not Potter. Maybe they thought I was Tom Richmond, talented cinematographer of THE SINGING DETECTIVE.

Or maybe they didn't think at all. Apologies, too, for the very dark printing of the REPO MAN stills on pp 42, 43 and 60. These were edgy, but the British publisher managed to retain the detail. Somehow the faces got lost in the American edition. Enough apologies! The rest of it is excellent. Buy now!

I'm reading a good book called DIGITAL DESTINY, by Jeff Chester, published by the New Press. It talks about the amazing left-right fusion which managed to defeat, or partially defeat, the FCC's cave-in to the big media conglomerates in 2003. The EFF and the National Rifle Association on the same side - freedom of speech! - against Murdoch, GE, and AOL/Time/Warner. It's noteworthy the way the media companies created (and continue to create) 'front' groups of fake consumers, and paid-for academics, to promote their power grabs - in the same manner as the CIA created fake student groups, and trade unions, and 'Free Europe' committees, early in its history (it would never do that today, of course, since this is now the job of privatizing spookery has itself been privatized). Chester's is an important book, I think.

These fake 'front' groups are ubiquitous. They oppose windmills and support nuclear power; they demand obscure, expensive medical procedures and 'patient choice'; some of them are even charities, and human rights groups. All claim the middle ground. In the human rights and charity area, they even tut-tut about bad things in the West - the number of black prisoners in the US, say - and then go back to their principal work, spending their CIA stipend and helping find targets for those cluster bombs. (Note how Brown was able to screw-up the wording of the cluster bomb treaty on behalf of the US? Amazing! Now he's on his holidays in Martha's Vinyard. Surely Harvard awaits him, after he's kicked out of England?)

A left-right fusion is what these middle-ground, free-trade, corporate slaveys dread the most. Who knows? Perhaps that's one of the reasons - besides being paid to do so - that media liberals mock conspiracy theories, which sometimes - as in the case of JFK and 9/11 - unite left wing and right wing in disgust at the 'official' version of events. Right now, in the US, McCain and Obama share the same essential policies on everything. As a result, Obama's early lead has evaporated, and the two run neck-and-neck. There is no Green candidate for President. Ralph Nader is running as an independent, with Matt Gonzales, the San Francisco supervisor, as his VP candidate. This is fine. But what about a Nader/Buchanan ticket? Pat Buchanan is an old rightwinger, I know, but he has been more anti-NAFTA, more in favour of American industry and Mexican agriculture than any Democrat. And he also seems to be against the wars in Afghanistan, and Iraq.

Nader/Buchanan in 2008! The bumpersticker along would strike terror into a free-trader's heart. (This was proposed back in 2000 by the website antiwar.com. Both are ready, if not rested!)

Another correction. It was a cricket bat, followed by a metal barrier, which decapitated the eight-foot Thatcher statue in London. Not a piece of scaffoling. The valiant decapitator refused to plead guilty of anything, and was sentenced to prison for three months. Thanks to Chumbawamba for the song, I Did it For Alfie, which makes all this clear.



Three cheers for the good German who went to Mme. Tussaud's house of waxworks in Berlin and knocked off the dummy Hitler's head. The fact that the fellow had been drinking beer beforehand demonstrates how that splendid beverage can be a spur to right-thinking and political activism. In biru, veritas!

Of course, one is inevitably reminded of the valiant Englishman who, a couple of years back, decapitated Thatcher's statue with a scaffolding pole. That was a good thing, too, but it pales beside the sabotage of Hitler's dummy. Frau Tussaud should leave Adolf this way, brooding at his desk in the bunker with his head knocked off. Instead, no doubt she'll fix him up and put him in a bulletproof box, or give him an armed guard. Too bad. A headless wreck is a perfect symbol of Hitler the man, genocidal killer, free-trader, and pro-corporate internationalist.

Thoughts of Hitler, Thatcher, and free trade bring me for no particular reason to Peter Mandelson. This dodgy crony of Tony Blair got bumped from 'English' politics a while back, and was appointed a European Commissioner. Now, I know pan-European politics can seem very complex. It's almost as if they are intentionally presented in a dense and boring manner, so that we won't pay attention to them. All the argument about referenda, and revoking democratic rights, and the European Parliament, and the European Commission, is quite puzzling, but there's one sure way of sorting out the bad from the good, or at least the rats from the mice: whose side is Peter Mandelson on?

Whoever Mandelson's working for, oppose them. This never fails, as Mandelson always fronts for the richest oligarchs, the biggest cartels, and the most powerful corporations. In the case of the European Union, Mandelson represents the European Commission - an unelected supra-national government composed of professional politicians, spooks, and corporate flacks. This is the evil, anti-democratic, snickering twin of the European Parliament, which is by comparison benign. Some MEPs may be shambolic and corrupt, but at least they're all democratically elected - and via a transferable / second preference vote which gets smaller parties like the Greens and UKIP elected, too. There are two Green MEPS from Britain - Jean Lambert and Dr Caroline Lucas; both are intelligent women who do excellent work.

Mandelson is currently flacking for the WTO at the latest 'free trade' talks: trying to convince third world countries to privatize their water and their health services, and submit to American and EU 'intellectual property' laws. See what a reliable bellweather the guy is? Mandelson: Occam's razor of darkness versus light! Stand with Pete and you have Mr Tony, Shrub Bush and the World Bank on your side. Oppose him and you're stuck with Brazil, Argentina, Christian Aid, Oxfam, the Zapatistas, and the Greens.

The Guardian Diary reported that in London Mandelson is protected by armed bodyguards - either plainclothes cops or something more top secret - at the taxpayer's expense. The Guardian was told he received this treatment becuase he'd been a Northern Ireland secretary. But Mo Mowlam was also a Northern Ireland secretary, and she received no offer of police or secret service protection. And Mayor Ken Livingstone, a more high-profile and recognisable figure, rode the Tube to and from work, alone.

So Mandelson has powerful protectors. And, possibly, some fascinating helpmates among his 20-person Bruxelles staff. Recent articles about the trade talks quote not Mandelson, but his spokesman, one Peter Power.

Now that's a familiar name. Isn't Peter Power the name of the 'crisis managment specialist and government adviser' who claimed he was running a 'terrorist bombing simulation' in the three Tube stations attacked on 2005/7/7? Who told the BBC his exercise 'went live' once they realised the bombs were real?

Well, yes. Now, to the best of my knowledge no journalist has grilled Peter Power about the nature of this exercise. Is his story true? If so, what did the 'exercise' consist of? How many people were involved? Who were his clients? Is there any possibility that the criminals who planned the 7/7 terrorist atrocities had advance knowledge of the 'exercise' - and took advantage of it? Or is it just a coincidence - like the Vigiliant Guardian 'crisis simulation' and the NSA plane-crash evacuation practice on 9/11?

This is very interesting stuff, and the only explanation for such journalistic indifference is that Power's claim is considered 1) untrue or 2) too 'hot' to touch.

But why? And is Peter Power 'crisis manager' the same person as Peter Power 'spokesman' for Peter Mandelson? It would be handy if he were, since one could then start treating Mandelson's office as conspiracy central, rather than a mere bellweather of evil.

One researcher who's investigated Peter Power I is The Antagonist. His discovery that Power I faked his resume (pretending to be a senior London police officer when he was actually a West Dorset cop, under investigation and suspension from duty, who retired early on 'medical grounds') can be found here. So it's possible that Power is a fantasist who's been conning the media, and who made up the story of the 7/7 exercise. Maybe.

Such a nut would be an ideal spokesman for Peter Mandelson, and the European Commission. But there's a small photo of Power II on Mandelson's EC web page, and it looks like a different Power to me. Another power-ful coincidence! Still, any excuse to be reminded about this ongoing 7/7 mystery.

Enquiry, anyone?