NO COMMERCIAL POTENTIAL David Walley Outerbridge and Lazard

I was once party to the production of a concert featuring Frank Zappa & his Mothers of Invention, just a few days before they recorded the Fillmore East album. On the afternoon of the Big Day, I was at the hotel checking out last-minute arrangements with a few of the Mothers. (Frank was somewhere else; probably off looking for pennies in the street, one Mother ventured.)

Anyway, one of them (whom I’ll not mention, because someday he might be out of work and Frank might have further use for him) rummaged through his suitcase and produced a little baggie filled with boo. Immediately, one of the other Mothers jumped up and positioned himself guard-like next to the door. “Oh gosh,” I exclaimed, “I thought Frank was against the usage of drugs, especially in his own band.” “Well, he is,” said the Mother with the boo, “but, you know, sometimes you’ve just gotta humor Frank ...”

The task of unraveling Frank Zappa is by no means an easy one. The man who force-fed the term “freak” to the mass vocabulary has used it to mask himself in as many layers of personality as one man could ever lay claim to, and the scene which he helped foster has extended so many branches that to see the roots clearly requires a lot of digging. But David Walley did that digging, and what he unearthed makes for one of the most entertaining rock and roll profiles to come barreling down the pike in quite some time.

Offering most insight is the tracer Walley puts on Zappa’s early life (the formative years — one to 18, when your child develops 90% of his adult neurosis), and the relatively clear translation of those experiences into later developments. The son of a Greek metallurgist. Southern California. High school principals and disciplinarians. “The Movie King of Cucamonga.” The most scandalous pornography bust in the history of Antelope Valley. Cheezy beer bars, chicanos and endless repetitions of “Louie Louie.” Grease and Varese. By the time you reach the first Mothers of Invention album, Frank Zappa begins to make a little sense, and that alone is no small accomplishment. He is shown to be not a test-tube experiment from some demented conservatory run amok, but a being of flesh and frailty just like the old lady next door or the kid that never quite graduated from your high school. Human; a word seldom associated with Frank Zappa.

I think that in some ways Walley perhaps envisioned this book as a sociohistorical document, in much the same way that Zappa views his records. He is careful to detail the cultural atmosphere surrounding Zappa at every turn, simultaneously giving us the larger picture while he zeroes in on his specific subject. In this way, No Commercial Potential is as much the story of the times as it is the life of Frank Zappa.

The only error in judgement Walley makes is in his often generalized approach to the subject. Obviously, he thinks that a book on Zappa does indeed have commercial potential, and he consequently puts everything on very elementary terms. The problem with this assumption is that one must accept Frank Zappa as an artist/genius such that young marrieds and gas station attendants would be motivated to plow through a book on him. I don’t think such claims can be made for Zappa yet, and Walley’s concentration on the historical aspects of the story may well be a concession to those doubts.

Given his subject’s questionable commercial viability, he could have directed the book in two other ways. 1) Realizing that Zappa’s appeal is still predominantly cult-oriented, he could have written this book for the maniacal hard core. ’Course, nobody with even a loose grip on sanity would’ve been able to make any sense of it. Or 2), working on the heavily implied Zappa characteristics of calculation and manipulation, he could have created the story of the world’s most successful hip carpetbagger. (Sordid stuff! Unfortunately, Walley likes Frank too much. Too much.)

Just prior to the book’s original publication date, Zappa suddenly refused to grant permission for lyric reprints in an obvious attempt to snuff its appearance. I fail to. see why he even bothered; by all indications, Walley was exceedingly fair. Considering attacks leveled at the subject by people with only a sketchy knowledge of his affairs, Walley doubtless uncovered enough evidence to have mounted a full-scale assault had he chosen to. His respect and admiration for Zappa probably would not have permitted such “sacrilege,” but the fact that his enthusiasm and reverence were reduced in the end to mere objectivity says as much about Frank Zappa as all the words in No Commercial Potential’s 184 pages.

Ben Edmonds

MOVIE PEOPLE Edited by Fred Baker with Ross Firestone Douglas Books

Nowadays you can’t even go into a pharmacy, forget the college bookstore, without stumbling over racks and racks of film books. Past the malteds and prophylactics, where once Harold Robbins and Irving Wallace reigned in glory, now lie the collected works of Kael, Sarris, Eisenstein and all the rest of the heavies. You go in for a pack of Trident and wind up walking out with yet another cinematic primer. The market for books on the art of film seems to be coming perilously close to the saturation point.

All of which, paradoxically enough, makes Movie People a most welcome addition to the ranks.

Why? Because this is a book about the business of making movies. The budget hassles, the rewritten screenplays, the screwed-up distribution deals, the whole bit; you can leave your Theory of Film textbook home because a textbook’s not going to help you raise the two million bucks you need to make the film of your dreams. This book might; however, because it’s loaded with the kind of no-bullshit talk that film industry people usually save for their private parties. Free of pretension and illusions, Movie People is a breath of fresh air; like coming across a copy of Variety while combing through a stack of back issues of Cahiers du Cinema.

The book is a series of 11 interviews with prominent people in the film industry: Roger Lewis, a producer; David Picker, a distributor; Sidney Lumet, a director; Francis Ford Coppola, a director; Terry Southern, a screenwriter; James Salter, a screenwriter; Rod Steiger, an actor; Aram Avakian, an editor; Quincy Jones, a composer; Walter Reade, Jr., an exhibitor; and Andrew Sarris, a critic.

Throughout the interviews two themes consistently emerge: money and ego. The first is conscious, the second largely unconscious. In one way or another, that’s what everyone agrees movies are all about: getting the money to get them made, which requires having the ego to go out and get the money.

It*s not that the people in this book aren’t artists. Almost all of the creative people represented have done a fair share of respectable work. It’s just that they’re wise enough not to have any illusions where business comes into play. They know that the releasing company is probably going to try and screw them on their percentage deals and that getting financing for a film often involves some high-classed whoring. And because they know these things, and because their knowledge has helped them to become successful in a notoriously unstable industry, they feel a certain sense of self-satisfaction that often translates into pure naked ego. These things — the power of money, shrewdness, and ego — are, of course, not exclusive to the film world; Gracie Slick hasn’t remained a star long after the last of the flower children rolled over and died on her talent alone. In Hollywood, as in most places, the smart boys finish first.

There’s lots more in the book — funny, “typical” Hollywood stories, some genuinely insightful comments on the art of film - but it is the discussion of film as a business and the revelation of the kind of business that makes Movie People a far better than average film book. Francis Ford Coppola, who’s just hit the biggest jackpot of all time with The Godfather; sums it up best when he says:

You just can’t sit around talking about making a film. You must do anything you can to bring that film to reality ... You can’t just shake your fist at the establishment and put them down for not giving you a chance. You have to beat them down and take that money from them.

If that sentiment turns you off, you’d better forget about Hollywood and take that job making candles at your local headshop.

John Kane

THE LAST STARSHIP FROM EARTH THE RAKEHILLS OF HEAVEN THE POLLINATORS OF EDEN SEX AND THE HIGH COMMAND THE ORGAN BANK FARM The complete works of John Boyd Berkeley/Medallion

Two years ago, a friend presented me with a hardback copy of Last Starship From Earth as a birthday present. I groaned. I hated science fiction. But, the scribbled message inside read, “It’s not science fiction, you dumb Robot. It’s much more than that, and you’re gonna like it.” He was right on both counts.

Yeah, I admit that the action occurs only in remote places and dream-nests. You get a world where mathematicians can’t marry poets, or a world in which people are dissassembeled like automobiles, of a world without morality. But Boyd doesn’t possess the elusive economy so essential to a hack sci-fi writer. Even though he disguises his work behind the science fiction banner, he can’t hide the obvious. John Boyd is a satirist.

It’s not so difficult to understand. William Burroughs and Kurt Vonnegut and Italo Cavino have also transcended the sci-fi elements in their work. John Boyd ranks right up there with them. Agreed, he doesn’t dabble with technique like those writers, but then again, his gimmick is probably more highly A developed.

Boyd’s technique is to actually pose as a hack sci-fi writer. It works. It’s that subtle.

There are clues. Mr. Boyd has sent up so many obvious clues, in fact, he often times comes off as being too cute and slick, too polished, and all those other meaningless critical catchphrases. Like, when he dedicates Sex and the High Command to Aristophanes and Lenny Bruce. Or, when he quotes John Donne in The Pollinators of Eden, a novel about flowers with sex appeal. Boyd’s literary references and wordgame pranks can get on your nerves, but they sometimes function as signals. Suddenly, you realize there’s something serious about his work. It begins to bother you.

But John Boyd is one of the new league of writers (Barthelme, Ishmael Reed, Robert Coover) — who can carry it off. The serious is combined with a sort of pop artificiality, and somehow fiction is fun withour having to stoop to the level of pop Tabulation. The essential ingredient is contrivance. Fiction can no longer be classified as sci-fi or fantasy or whodunit or whatever when it’s in the hands of the satirists; it’s all a big joke anyway, and the point is to give the reader a good time. It’s entertainment at face value, and it may signal the advent of the fiction writer as pop-star.

.,. . and John Boyd will be traipsing up there with the rest in his day-glo spacesuit and dubl-hue helmet. The Ultimate Fabulator on parade. Handing out painted pennies and distributing chocalate clits and hurling jello just for spite. He may even tapdance, backed up by Uriah Heep, of course. But no one reads any more, except a few prospectors in the frosty desert, so Mr. Boyd will have to read his books for his fans. At concerts. On top of giraffes. Kangaroos forming out of Play-Dough. John Boyd kissing his nectar vowels.

Back to the oral tradition . . .

Unlike most narrative fiction writers, he doesn’t just hurl you into an abyss and leave you. You become attached. John Boyd becomes less omniscent voice, more special personality. Cuddly like Van Morrison. He’s all yours and it seems like no one else knows about him.

I could do a few plot synopses or compare characters or trace themes or note Boyd’s development from the religious to a more philosophical plane, or examine his complex devices and all that literary gush. But I ain’t gonna.

I just wanted to let you in on a secret. A secret so secret it’s available at all respectable paperback book stores.

Robot Hull

SEX AND THE TEENAGE GIRL Carol Botwin (Lancer)

“Hey Ma, what’s an orgasm?”

“SANDRA HOROWITZ, you’re talking no good! Where,’d you pick up that kind of talk. Oh, god, don’t tell me, it’s that Wazluoski girl down the street. Lord knows she’s a little tramp. 0 why, o, why did I let Sandra start wearing Maybelline Irridescent Eye Shadow,” wailed Mrs. H.

“Ma! All I was wondering . . . well . . . Did you ever have one, an orgasm, I mean?”

“SANDRA! I warned you to quit talking trash! What do you want the neighbors to think, you have a reputation?”

“Orgasm,” she muttered. “Why I was married ten years before I even knew what one was.”

The next day, Mfs. Shirley Horowitz hurried down to the Muncie Public Library and checked out Ann Landers Talks Frankly About Sex and Twixt Twelve and Twenty by Pat Boone. She slipped into Sandra’s bedroom and left them on the dresser. Maybe now Sandra will stop asking those “funny questions.”

Did you ever wonder things like: “If I give a guy a ‘blow job’ can I get pregnant from swallowing sperm?” or “I heard a man tell my father he couldn’t get it up, what did he mean?” or maybe “Are balloons a reliable contraceptive?” Try those on your mother, Sandra Horowitz!

Since none of us has a fairy godmother riding atop an irridescent birth control pill to consult, who can we ask? Albert, while you’re in the backseat of his car?

Try Carol Botwin. She’s written Sex and the Teenage Girl No, it’s not a cop on Helen Gurley Brown’s helpful handbooks for horny secretaries, but an honest and straight-forward book that lets you know what you’re in for. Ms. Botwin isn’t forcefeeding the morality bit. Instead, she says, “Most girls reading this book will have premarital affairs in early adulthood.” So, you’re going to screw, well you might as well know what you’re doing. In Sex, you’re tuned in on some of the traditional lines you shouldn’t fall for — “You would do it if you really liked me” or “It wouldn’t hurt anybody” — and some of the current ones (“To enable us to become spiritually united we must first become physically united,” or “You’re unliberated if you won’t.”)

Ignorance isn’t bliss, it’s babies. Botwin cautions you to beware of some of the pitfalls — for instance, you might encounter Pepsi as a precautionary measure. “You can’t rely on Pepsi, or Coke, to stand between you and pregnancy. Sodas are for drinking. Period. (Or no period, if you know what I mean.)” Or about the merits of Saran Wrap, as an effective contraceptive: “If you wr^p it around a penis all you have is a male “see through.’ ”

If you’re over 14x/i and aren’t ready for The Sensuous Woman, try Sex and the Teenage Girl on your misguided teenage lust.

Jaan Uhelszki

THOSE GREAT MOVIE ADS by Joe Morelia, Edward Z. Epstein and Eleanor Clark Arlington House

This 8-1/2 by 11” book provides a crash course in advertising graphics, a compendium of stars arid directors, a sociological study of evolving mores, a wealth of catch phrases and most of all, a lot of good guffaws.

Judith Crist introduces the 800 selections, arranged into categories: logos, sequels and series, selling technical changes, critics’ quotes and great ad lines. Some of the better known of the latter include: “Gable’s back and Garson’s got him”; “The birds is coming”; “The motion picture with something to offend everyone”; and, of course,“Love means never having to say you’re sorry.”

Using critics’ quotes is still a prevalent device. Even a turkey can be made apparently respectable by taking a reviewer’s words out of context, a trick that has been curtailed in recent years. The book includes such ads, and those which emphasize the director, stars, awards (Oscars, Cannes Film Festival winners) or the original book or play. They’re often misrepresentative, but movie hucksters are paid to sell tickets not extol honesty.

One tradition that’s crumbling is massive slick-magazine ad campaigns. Most ad dollars are going into newspapers and tv. Full page newspaper ads — remember Hercules and Hercules Unchained? — are seldom used anymore. {Super Fly is a recent exception.)

I would have preferred to see the ads dated, but that’s a minor point. For $15, film freaks can have a fine bit of frivolity.

David Batterson

HOW McGOVERN WON THE PRESIDENCY AND WHY THE POLLS WERE WRONG — Arthur Tobier (Bantam/ Outerbridge & Lazard): You’d be foolish, of course, not to invest in a copy of this book, if you can find one. Not only is it a collector’s item, but it’d sure freak out all your friends when they found one on your bookshelf in about six months. What they, and you, and we, and probably the publishers and the author, too, are going to find even harder to explain is why this book was published in late October, well before the election. One thing for sure: nobody is going to be able to ignore this book. And don’t forget: Use the Power (18) and Be Sure to Vote. Tell ’Em the Beach Boys Sent Ya.

BODYCOUNT — Francie Schwartz (Straight Arrow): Nice Jewish girl from Pennsylvania gets laid. And laid. And laid. “Body Count cuts through the rhetoric of sexual politics and gets right down to the labia minora. ” The spirit of P.T. Barnum will never die.

THE POSSESSION OF JOEL DELANEY — Ramona Stewart (Bantam): If you’ve seen the movie, the book brings back all the chills. If you haven’t, this probably isn’t quite as good, if only because the gore is more understated. But as a book about the synchronicity of ritual in a melting-pot culture — about science as superstition, and superstition as science — Joel Delaney is superb. It’s the best popular book about the occult, in lots of ways, and well worth reading for those infatuated.