Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986) “Corn, corn, everywhere, nor any a drop to drink” Frank curses and tosses the empty bottle of Turkey Mountain into the field. Frank was stuck somewhere between Kampsville and Mozier on Route 96. The alternator in the Impala had been weak for some time and he should have known better than to leave the wipers, radio and AC on while he pulled over to check the roadmap. The rain clouds had passed and swept across the prairie, and Frank (having the benefit of spreading the tri-state map over the hood of the car) was now completely sure of his position. However, unless someone passed to give him a jumpstart, he wasn’t going anywhere. A couple of teen girls in a Fiero with MacMurray College stickers had slowed down long enough to giggle at him but that was over an hour ago and it would be getting dark soon. You can’t underestimate either the loneliness or stabbing autumn chills of the mid-west. Cell phone reception was out of the question. Hard to believe there’s still stretches between St. Louis and Chicago where you could see for miles and not spot any houses. Of course there must be one out there somewhere, and if another car didn’t pass in five minutes Frank was just going to have to try to hoof it to the nearest farmhouse. Frank shivers and swipes his jersey gloves out of his rucksack in the trunk. And wishes he hadn’t cut the fingers out of them. If he ever wanted someone to stop and help him, the Impala seemed a poor and suspicious choice at the moment. It was the car of a transient killer and rapist roaming the back roads. Like the Impala driven by Michael Rooker in Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (McNaughton 1986), which was currently out (27 September 2005) in a 20th anniversary edition by Mpi Media Group. Michael Rooker, star of this semi-factual account of serial killer Henry Lee Lucas, probably has never gotten his due as an actor, and the roles he had garnered in the 1980s were the result mostly to the unrated and underground copies of Henry: P.O. A. S. K circulated around LA. You’ve seen him, he’s one of Wyatt Earp’s boys in Tombstone (Cosmatos 1993), he’s the police captain in the Bone Collector (Noyce 1999), he’s Sheriff Pangborn in the Dark Half (Romero 1993). But he hasn’t been given much chance to carry a picture, as he does admirably in H: P O A S K. From the opening pan and zooms over corpses while Henry, a charmer in a Carhart, flirts with a greasy spoon waitresses, the film is decidedly gritty. Shot in a series of bad Chicago ‘hoods, the film is a tribute to all those people and places you kinda know and would rather not admit to, from the white trash young mother shampooing your hair to that seedy ex-con spraying your apartment for roaches, to that scruffy guy whose lack of teeth suggest him to be unqualified to pump your gas and make change. The performances of all the principle characters are excellent, from Rooker’s Henry, to Tracy Arnold as Becky, the young love interest, and especially Tom Towles, as Otis, Henry’s partner in crime. The dialog, considering the theme, is naturalistic and frighteningly somehow rings true: Becky: I don't want to talk about Leroy! Otis: Okay, we don't have to talk about him! You hungry? Becky: Yeah. Otis: Good, I'm hungry too. I wonder if Leroy's hungry. No? Not doing it for you? You have to trust that when maniacs make small talk and little jokes, its something like that. But anyway, as is the fate of all low budget masterpieces, the performances of the non-key players are stilted and poor. Though Frank has heard that one of the actresses playing a victim was so traumatized by the filming that she went into shock. Cool. Please forgive. But, cool. Some of the other cool parts you will probably wonder (if you are as analytical as Frank) as to their intentionality. When Becky tells Henry at length about being raped by her father, we cut to Henry answering: “So you didn’t git along wi’ yo daddy?” The anticlimax is delicious. But is it just poor editing or weak script? Who cares? Or after Henry and Otis kill a couple whores, they grab some fast food. The two drink coffee in sync. Way creepy. But coincidence? Or subtle in-road by the director. Again. Who cares? Once more, the selling point of the picture is Rooker’s likable boy-next-store killer. The quiet cool makes him, convicted murderer or not, seem to be like perfect catch for Becky in that run-down Chicago neighborhood. It’s the burgeoning love affair between Henry and Becky that brings cohesiveness to the story. Of course, this has been more than slightly sanitized for audience. The real Becky was a spry 15 when Henry Lee Lucas got his eye on her (“eye”-singular, Lucas had lost and eye as a child, a result of his mother’s refusal to let him see a doctor after a knife accident). Becky followed Lucas on his misadventures for some time before he stabbed and dismembered her. In Henry, she is spared this fall by being fairly promptly dispatched. The story of the real Henry, in fact, is quite fascinating, and the fast and looseness of H: P O A S K’s use of the life of Lucas is the film’s failing. To be fair, police were still piecing together Lucas’ misdoings when the film was made, so one forgets how much more topical the pic was in the mid-eighties. Also attention to detail is very, very often the death of the bio-pic (consider, despite all due praise to Charlize Theron, the aimlessness of Monster [Jenkins 2003].). Conversely, looseness with the facts has also whitewashed a pic or two (Consider The Aviator [Scorcese 2004]). Real accounts of Lucas paint him somewhat of a braggart and a storyteller. And not the seductive killer as Rooker plays him. Oh, well. Frank isn’t 20 yards from the Impala when the MacMurray co-eds are back. And while they don’t have any jumper cables, they do know of a kegger in Jacksonville…

The Red Tent (1971)/ Red Cockroaches (2005) Frank’s red pen deftly hunts across the page. Not that it mattered; the actors had already taken their last rewrites and for the moment spelling didn’t count. Frank could at least take pride that his little off off off off off Broadway (any farther off and the actor would be swiming in the East River!) piece of schlock was at least better than the last two additions to his DVD collection: Red Cockroaches (Coyula 2005). The Red Tent (aka Krasnaya Palatka; Kalatozishvili 1971). Red C. is available 27 September from Ryko Distribution. Red T. came out 23 August on Paramount. Frank was so bored to tears by last Saturday night’s selections he vowed to never buy movies alphabetically again—or possibly just avoid the word “red”—he’d already been burned by Red Dragon (Ratner 2002); Red Dawn (Milius 1984), Red Planet (Hoffman 2000), Red Sonia (Fleischer 1985), and Red Heat (Hill 1988), just to name a few… Yes, Frank’s Scrapmetal Jesus did have a few things to be proud of. Unlike Red Tent, the story of a failed blimp trip to the north pole in 1928, Frank’s play was not a drawn out morality tale. SJ got right into the muck and was morally ambiguous. Frank’s play also didn’t require long panoramic shots of the North Pole, a cute doggie or a throwaway love story as filler material. Unlike the Red Tent, Frank also didn’t need a top-billed start like Sean Connery to come in at the end, whose anticipated entrance keeps an audience from walking away. Franks play had no G-rating. And its lip-sync was perfect. Frank's characters are weakened by the world, while Kalatozishvili’s are robust, even after weeks in the artic. Of course, to be fair, considering Peter Finch’s kinda cool dirigible crash, both the Red Tent and Scrapmetal do contain people drinking when they ought be paying attention. Unlike Red Cockroaches, the story of brother-sister sex intrigue set in a near future NYC, the acting in Scrapmetal Jesus was excellent and the dialogue far from stilted. Frank didn’t need sexual taboos. To hell with the film considered the best low-budget film(---er, video) of the last few years. Frank certainly didn’t need childish film school tricks: he didn’t use worm’s eye POV in every other shot, smash-cut after smash cut, or dime store sexual symbolism such as a finger in a flower. He didn’t need special effect either, sticking flying CGI cars into every shot. Scrapmetal Jesus was more goofy than its due. That’s true. But at least, Frank muses, it was born of the streets. Not pieced together on an Apple G4 like Red Cockroaches. Having itemized these reasons for hoisting his own play, above his panned DVDs, Frank is more at ease. He orders a Wild Turkey as they begin his play: Scrap-Metal Jesus INT—EMPTY WAREHOUSE—NIGHT [Explosion. Police sirens rattle room. FRANK TRAUTMAN scrambles through a window and tumbles to the floor. TRACY HITLER hurries through the door, slams it, and then lays against it, panting.] TRACY Fucking cops! [He looks at Frank rising off floor and extends a hand.] Hey! Tracy Hitler. Nice ta meet ya. FRANK Frank Trautman—Jeezus! Tracy Hitler?! TRACY Yeah. I know. Tracy’s a girl’s name… FRANK No. I mean, uh—Hitler? You know— [He mimics Nazi salute and mustache.] Hitler? TRACY [Apologetic] Oh! I’m not related to that one. FRANK Well. I know that. Or hoped so, anyway. But, I mean…ya haven’t thought about changing it? TRACY [Becoming indignant] The Hitlers have proudly carried this moniker since the 15th century— FRANK Yeah. Yeah. But don’t you think that, you know—he—someone—kinda spoiled it—? TRACY What? Throw away a perfectly proud family tradition just because, unfortunately, one bad egg had the coincidence of sharing the same surname? FRANK [Waving him off in disgusted disbelief] Bad egg?… [Returning] Okay. So what, your ancestors just went about Austria writing bank checks and repaying student loans for the last sixty years constantly, if not smugly, reassuring everyone, [In faux high-class demure] “Oh no, no. Heavens forbid. We’re not those Hitlers.”

TRACY I should say not! We’re Belgian. FRANK Sorry. Sorry. My mistake. You’re of the Belgian Hitlers. TRACY Brussels. FRANK Brussels. TRACY Oh, yea. We’re dairi-ers— Diari-ists? Dairi-ites? Dairi— FRANKEh? TRACY Hitler’s Fine Cheeses since 1783. FRANK Uh-huh. I see. TRACY [Nods] Diari—ians FRANK [Waves hands] Okay. Fine. Cheese… No. Not fine…In any case, why then, do you have to burst into here and announce that you are in fact a Hitler?

TRACY I don’t get you. FRANK Okay. Okay. Now, watch. I’m you and you’re me. Let’s come in again. [They exit, Frank via the window, Tracy, the door. After a few seconds, they scramble through again as before, places switched.] Fucking cops! [Tracy gets off the floor and extends a hand.] TRACY Hi. I’m Frank Tra— FRANK [Interrupting] Hi. I’m Tracy. TRACY I don’t get it. FRANK Tracy. I’m Tracy. Just call me Tracy. Period. TRACY But now I sound like a have a girl’s name. FRANK So? Better to have a girl’s name than a genocidal maniac’s name. I can, after all, see that you are not a girl— TRACY Yeah, but— FRANK What I can’t tell, nor do I now wonder about is whether, oh I don’t know…. Whether maybe your dad killed five million Jews or something. TRACY Six million. Besides, we’re Belgian. FRANK Yeah, I know. Brussels. Cheese— TRACY Fine cheeses. FRANK Fine cheeses…But I’m talking about first impressions— TRACY Also. He wouldn’t be my father anyway. I’m not that old. More like my grandfather, great grandfather, more likely. FRANK And, of course, your grandfather was too busy making cheese— TRACY Fine cheeses. FRANK Fine cheeses…since 1783—? TRACY Yes. Well, not him personally— FRANK [Continuing] And was thus completely ignorant of the entire World War II slash Holocaust-thing? TRACY No, of course not. But it’s just a name after all. [Tracy sits and considers philosophically] Besides, suppose I that I am Hitler’s son. So what? I should atone for the sins of my father. As if I could help it? Come one, dude. Do you owe all the Negroes forty acres and a mule because of slavery? FRANK Either way. The Trautmans didn’t come to the US until— TRACY What’s that? What’s your name? FRANK Trautman. TRACY Like in Trautman & Trautman Attorneys? FRANK Yeah, so? My fath— TRACY Fascist. [Tracy growls and rolls over to sleep. Frank drops his arms, tired of debate, and looks around the room. The sirens return anew.] FRANK Fucking cops! [Frank pulls a fifth of whiskey out of his jacket and drinks.] Fucking cops… TRACY [Jumping up at the sirens, then noticing Frank, nods] Always time for the ole hammer-juice, eh? FRANK Fuck you, Hitler. [Frank drinks and turns. Meanwhile, Tracy pulls out a few capsules and sets about grinding and snorting them up. Frank turns back to see.] And what, pray tell, are you doing? TRACY [Almost proud] I’m fixin’ on crushin’ up these Ritalin and snortin’em. [He begins.] FRANK Ritalin? TRACY [Inspecting powder] Well, maybe they’re Percocets. [Snorts.] Or Loritabs. [Snorts again.] In any case, unlike you, I thought I should make myself more…eh, aware. Under the circumstances, that is. [Frank grunts, and swigs the bottle. A siren passes, lighting the room. Tracy jumps up.] See? Ready for anything. FRANK [Thumbs nose] Check the sink, Hitler. TRACY [Wiping powder from nose] That’s Mr. Hitler to— [Then, realizing how stupid the rebuttal is,] Jackass. [Sirens] Fucking cops. [Frank pats him on the back, then thrusts his hands in his pockets.] FRANK Well, we agree on that, anyway…. [Frank mills around then peeks out window looking for the cops.] Well. A-hem So as to play devil’s advocate, why, pray tell, are the blues after you, man? TRACY Bullshit, man. FRANK Yeah? What bullshit? TRACY I’ve just been killin’ babies is all. FRANK Killing babies!? TRACY No, no. It’s not all like that. They don’t go to hell, ya see? FRANK Oh? TRACY Babies are too young to sin… FRANK Sooooo…..? TRACY So I am sending them to heaven. FOR-ever! FRANK By killing’em? [TRACY nods] Babies? TRACY Yeah, well. I won’t kill a man. FRANK No? TRACY Jeezus! If I murdered some innocent, unsuspecting guy, what hell, would I be putting him through? Unprepared to die? No-way. St. Peter, Yahweh, Christ, Vishnu, Job, Jehovah, whatever! Those dudes know all about this victim’s soul. More than I could. Think of the afterlife. FRANK But…. by killing babies…Whoosh! Straight to the good hereafter. TRACY [Smiles] EX-act-ly FRANK I see: Only the young die good. OK, Brain-boy. Howabout you, I don’t know, just kill nobody? TRACY [Frowns and slumps] Do nothing? You just don’t get it, doya? Drunkie! FRANK [Sneers back] Guess not, Baby-killer! [Drinks] Guess not. [Frank walks off, then returns angrily] Ok, again, How-a-bout, Don’t kill NO-body!? TRACY You are so friggin’ naïve. [Tracy smiles and pulls out some more pills and a water bottle to slurp them down] FRANK [Stumped] Well, naïve backward is Evian! Hah! TRACY [Rising and dusting from of pants] Well, its simple 1. It’s good for the babies to never know anything but the glory of heaven, and B. [Quiet] I am trying to make my place. FRANK Your place? TRACY Yeah. My place in history. FRANK OK. TRACY You’ve already pointed out my handicap! FRANK Handicap? TRACY The OTHER Hitler? Come on! You think I don’t have that looming over me all the time? FRANK Didn’t think of it. I guess ALL Hitlers must strive for some sick notoriety, if they ever want to be THE Hitler… TRACY Like FDR. FRANK [Nods as if this tidbit will solve everything] Like FDR…? TRACY He had to take on the Depression AND the Nazis to be THE Roosevelt. FRANK [Under breath, walking away, not wanting to argue politics too] So who is THE Bush? Better to finish or start a war? [Then aloud, returning] And so to be The Hitler, you will kill, oh, over 5 million TRACY 6 million FRANK 6 million babies to be THE Hitler. TRACY [Matter-of-factly] With babies, public outcry oughtta be bigger. I figger it won’t take quite that many. Maybe…. [Thinks] A sixth. Yea. About 1/6 the Holocaust should do’er up nicely. FRANK Sounds about right, I guess. Well, let’s hope so, anyway. For the babies sake. TRACY NO. FRANK No? [Thinks] Ohhhh, right. They’re going to heaven…. TRACY But lets hope not for the parent’s sake. FRANK Oh? TRACY I am sending their babies away. [Tranquil] To heaven. FRANK Yes, right. Lucky dead babies. [Frank makes himself comfortable on the ground away from Tracy, backstage. Than rolls over anew:] But, I’ve just gotta ask, how many have you—? TRACY How many have I— [Draws finger across throat; Frank nods.] 9,999 FRANK [Blasé] Oh. Great. So, one more? TRACY [Smiles] One more. [Tracy pulls out a hunting knife, darts over and stabs Frank in the stomach, then runs off.]

Street Trash (1987)

T. Scott, or “Spike” as he was called, stabs at a guava spear and scowls at a rather suggestive piece of text. He and Frank are eating at a small PR place on the 1900 block of Lexington. Spike chews and shakes his head suspiciously, but Frank is unsure whether he disapproves of his new play or the mofongo. “No. No. No!” Spike mutters. (Frank looks up from the paper placemat where he has been taking notes about Spike on a cartoonish map of Puerto Rico somewhere, as far as he could tell, between Fajardo and the island of Vieques.) “I don’t talk like this, bitch!" Frank takes this down word-for-word, underlining “bitch!" It was all very unnecessary. The actors at Carlitos Café y Galeriá, a good four or five blocks away, already had the script and were set to give a semi-impromptu performance of it. It was not an earth-shattering ordeal, but a great chance to try workshop a piece before a small audience. Frank, now impatiently sipping sangria, had been to this sort of affair before and his greatest dread were the twenty-something girls, potential groupies seeking to cling to a dreamy rising star. They would, of course, twist their mouth disapprovingly at Frank’s world-worn face and accusingly clarify: “You're the author?” (Frank notes this too, underlining the first word for em-pha-sis) Frank’s mistake, however, was mentioning the affair to Andrea, who in turn mentioned it to Spike who got on a small prop plane at Quetzalcoatl International Airport, both outraged and curious that he appeared as a character in one of Frank’s scripts. Jumping on a plane in Nuevo Laredo wasn’t a heroic effort by any standard. Spike’s schedule was his own—having left a lucrative job as a lineman on a gulf coast rig to be the personal assistant to a meth cook. Spike considered this to be a lateral career move. Now, as Spike insists on script changes— (He had a particular seething hatred of fully justified Courier New text) — Frank just wishes he was back in the hotel room he had secured in the Indian section of Jersey City. Jim Muro had been a sought after stedicam operator for years, and was now a cinematographer in his own right, having DPed recent films like Open Range (Costner 2003) and Crash (Haggis 2004). However, these films, Frank guessed were the usual Hollywood tripe. Still, before taking the subway up to Harlem, Frank had noticed his hotel had a variety of DVDs available for rent in your room—and at a place available by the hour, to be sure, most were pornos. But Frank had also spied Muro’s directorial debut, Street Trash (1987), now available (30 August 2005) from Synapse Films. Hanging out in Spanish Harlem had given him the itch to watch it for the first time in 15 years. Not that the film is good. It’s particularly reprehensible and kind of icky for no particular reason. The plot revolves around a NYC liquor storeowner who finds an old case of booze called “Tenafly Viper” (after the lovely Jersey burg) while cleaning his cellar. He opts to sell the hammer juice for a dollar a bottle, making it a tempting treat for the local homeless crowd. Viper ingested causes the ingestee to melt in a series of non-realistic primary colors three seconds after drinking.

And that’s your basic plot—except for a crazed Vietnam vet named Bronson, who’s mobilized a gang of hobos in a large auto wrecking yard. He terrorizes the locals with a knife made from a VC femur strapped to his leg. A couple other subplots ensue to add additional gore and nudity, but Bronson’s terrorizing of the neighborhood seems to be the main plot mover. In fact, you’ll soon be asking yourself: “Wasn’t this movie supposed to be about bums melting?” It is. In a remote sort of way… Muro’s cinematographic expertise, however, is evident from the opening credit, containing ambitious stedicam shots, his specialty. From the get-go Muro tries desperately to get us root for his fun loving bums, Fred, a lovable scamp, and his brother Kevin (think Ralph Macchio meets John Tuturro) —and wait a second! Rewind! The car that crashes to avoid hitting Fred has no driver! Until the next shot, that is… But hey! When Bronson’s minions kill a dork wandering into the neighborhood, again revel in Muro’s talented camerawork, filmed in nerd-o-vision, through the victim’s POV. But please turn the flick off when Bronson cuts off one of his gang's penises for a game of gory keep-away. The film is not getting any better… The real redeeming thing about the new release is the “Tenafly Viper” stickers included with the DVD. This would be more “classic” if the movie had more of a cult following. Which it doesn’t. Frank glances at the clock on the wall above a Corona ad. It’s near seven o’clock. Perhaps he should forget both Street Trash and Spike. Ditch’em both. The problem was that both T. Scott and Andrea were appearing as characters in his next reading in Carlitos, so he’d better keep his mouth shut or he’d undoubtedly have twice the fun next time.