CREEMEDIA

CREEMEDIA

A Case Of Jello Venom

THE RUTLES

All You Need Is Cash

(NBC)

by Rick Johnson

Rutlemania was an amazing phenomenon considering that it never happened. Wherever the pre-fab four appeared, they were pursued by crazed young girls wearing paddleshoes in order to navigate their own secretions. Until they broke up amidst a flurry of law suits and odd-lot Rutle wigs, they had the pop world eating out of one hand while they gripped its throat with the other. They were the biggest thing since chocolate air bags.

Copyright © 1978 by Marvel Comics Group. All Rights Reserved.

BEATLES REDUXI

Get ready for yet another project the Beatles won't get any bux from (not that they need it). The Beatles Story (a Marvel Super Special) it coming your way in the form of a comic book tracing the saga of the fab four from their Liverpool roots to the top of the charts to their demise a decade or so later. This Is for all you Beatlemaniacs who have nothing to do but ponder your Social Security benefits...not to mention you poor slobs who didn't know that Paul had a past before Wings. Want all the hot poop on how the lads began their successful world takeover? So what If they don't reunite even for a quickie chorus of Love Me Do"... (Writer: David Kraft. Artist: George Perex)

Or so Monty Python conspirator Eric Idle and his gang of comedic beekeepers would have us believe. All You Need Is Cash is a painstakingly twisted parody of the rise and fall of the Beatles, so ingeniously fitted to existing factoids, that you half expect to turn on the radio and hear that pseudo-Harrison Rutle Stig has just been found in India blissfully embalmed with bamboo soup.

The four Rutles were remarkably similar to the overblown media personalities of the Beatles. Idle himself played Dirk, the proto-Paul with the UFO eyes who's more animated than a Raid commercial. Neil Innes as Nasty, the snide flip side of the Rutle muddle, has Lennon's nasal whistle voice down to the last wheeze and the kind of personality a sick dog would want to lick. Drummer Barry (John Halsey), whose early ambition was to "become a hairdresser, or even two hairdressers," remained faithfully in the background, doing cute nose nods and performing as though he were mentally designing chess sets. Ricky Fataar's Stig, the guitarist obsessed with grand Indian Ouija thoughts, was uncannily like the George Harrison of today: all the presence of a neutral corner.

The Rutles story is a cracked historical mirror image of the Beatles. After years of playing Liverpool teen trenches, they were discovered by Leggy Mountbatten, a weird but sharp entrepreneurial type who "wore swimming trunks in the bathtub to avoid looking down on the unemployed." Almost before the drool was dried on their recording contract, they had 16 singles in the Top Five and Princess Margaret wanted to shine their collective saddle.

Then came the fateful day that Bob Dylan introduced them to the mysteries of tea. In no time at all, they were raving Lipton heads, and their music changed accordingly. Sgt. Rutles Only Darts Club Band, "a millstone in pop history, " was released, followed shortly by their disasterous Tragical History Tour TV special featuring nuns in bunny rabbit suits and nonsensical songs about snickering teapots and Iranian crossword puzzles.

In the midst of the controversy that surrounded the disillusion of the financial suction pump they called Rutle Corps, they decided to call it quits. Dirk went on to form the seminal punk rock group, Punk Floyd, Stig became an Air India stewardess and Nasty set out upon a series of peace antics with his German wife Chastity. Barry was the only Rutle to surpass his dream: he became three hairdressers.

The burning question that's on the lips, fingers and other assorted sticky parts of the body today has to be: Will the Rutles ever get back together again? Mick Jagger, cornered by a daring interviewer at Karl Wallenda's highwire funeral, answered it best when he replied, "I hope not." The Rutles may indeed be gone, but rest assured that what little they left us will soon be forgotten.

Tinsel Town Greases Down

AMERICAN HOT WAX

(Paramount Pictures)_

by Billy Altman

NEW YORK CITY, 1959-THE BEGINNING OF AN ERA says the blur^b for American Hot Wax, and I just hope that kids for whom the 50's mean nothing except grease and pony tails don't see this film about the "early days of rock and roll" and believe it's a movie accurately portraying the early days of rock 'n' roll. By '59, the first great bland-out was already well in progress, what with Paul "Love me, love my schmaltz" Anka and the "fabulous" Fabian and Frankie "Is it OK if I hold my nose while I sing this one so I'll sound younger?" Avalon smellin' up the airwaves while doo-wop was breathin' its last, thanks to poseurs like Danny and the Juniors (in retrospect them doin' "Rock And Roll Is Here To Stay" was about as right on as Gentle Giant goin' punk). If anything, it was the end of an era.

So how come American Hot Wax is a good movie? I'm still not sure, but I dare say that Tim McIntire's portrayal of Alan Freed has plenty to do with it. McIntire turns in a magnificently understated performance as rock 'n' roll's most celebrated disc jockey.

Early reviews of the movie have been knocking it for glorifying Freed and setting him up as a martyr (really didn't like the races mixin' it up and you better bet that the whole payola scandal had a lot to do with the establishment runnin' scared in the face of Little Richard, the Coasters et al.—not to mention po' white trash like Elvis and Jerry Lee). Did just about every jock get "gifts" from promo men? You bet.

Anyway, the Freed character is done well, and maybe this movie is supposed to be tryin' to catch "the spirit" of rock 'n' roll's first few birthdays and doesn't really succeed, but it's hard to complain when you got Chuck Berry, J.L. Lewis and Screamin' Jay Hawkins (coffin and all) doin' some tunes and Richard Perry playing George Goldner is a laff riot (not only looks like David Brenner but sounds like him too) and Kenny Vance, a real American (as in Jay and the Americans, where he played guitar and made goo goo eyes at the other two background singers) co-ordinated the m usic and did a decent job.

So take American Hot Wax with a box of Diamond Crystal as far as the "what is was really like" aspect goes. But hey, it's Hollywood, y'know, and for a flick, it ain't bad.

DRIVE-IN SATURDAY

Double Thriller Feature

by Edouard Dauphin

The dictionary defines "coma" as "a state of deep or prolonged stupor," which is pretty much what you're likely to fall into while watching Coma, a new film released just in time for summer drive-in dozing.

Webster's also notes that "coma is often caused by injury or disease." But, in this case, it's caused by the acting of Genevieve Bujold (sounds like a damned Frog to me) and Michael Douglas (shoulda been mugged on The Streets Of San Francisco and had his credit cards stolen by Karl Malden). Together they're about as dynamic as refried beans on melba toast.

Bujold plays a smartass doctor who suspects skulduggery at a prominent Boston hospital. Seems lots of patients being treated for minor ailments are lapsing into comas and croaking faster than you can say "Last words, please?"

The bedpan matter hits the fan when her close friend becomes a coma victim following a routine abortion.

Bujold confesses her suspicions to her dull boy friend, Michael Douglas. Despite his resemblance to a certain aging actor, Michael is moving up the hospital corporate ladder. He scoffs at Bujold's conjectures and who can blame him? Even a coma is preferable to everyday life in Boston.

Genevieve takes her suspicions to Rip Torn, chief anesthetist at the hospital, and he's no help at all.

Finally, Bujold consults Richard Widmark, chief surgeon at the hospital. He is Mr. Important. He puts the likes of Teddy Kennedy and the Secretary of Health, Education and Welfare on hold.

Naturally, he's no help either. In the end, Bujold has to fend for herself or wind up in her own terminal coma. She survives, but chances are you won't.

See Coma but bring along some amyl nitrate .

☆ ☆ ☆

The Fury is also well named. You'll be furious when you realize you've plunked down hard earned cash for this latest soporific from director Brian (Carrie, Obsession) DePalma. Stop this geek before he films again!

Aging actor Kirk Douglas plays an ex-CIA man searching for his kidnapped son who happens to be a psychic.

Kirk enlists the aid of Carrie Snodgrass, an ESP specialist. But, having lived for eight years with Neil Young, Carrie can only hum a few bars of "Sugar Mountain" before nodding off into a stupor.

Carrie gets snuffed when her body is thrown through the windshield of a moving car. Maybe "only love can break your heart," Neil, but jagged glass can do a pretty good job on your jugular vein.

Kirk teams up with Amy Irving, fondly remembered as Sissy Spacek's snot-nosed nemesis in Carrie.

Amy gets telepathically in touch with Kirk's brat, which saves them all a lot of money on long distance. She leads Kirk to the agency hideout where the boy is amusing himself by psychically sending people spiraling into the air at about 500 rpm's.

The Fury ends with a spectacular blowup scene which is guaranteed to wake you in time for the final credits.

Skip The Fury even if it's the only film in town all year.