For Your Height Only (1980)

Frank is reporting from the corner of St. Charles and Canal, waving from atop the king's and queen’s float in the Krewe des Bebette parade. He was in good with this krewe because he had been the one to introduce the king and queen, Somsak and Manila Hebert. Frank was glad for the honor, however it was not a big deal; As the only two Lao-speaking midgets he knew in Louisiana, it seemed only natural to introduce the pair.

In any case, his one matchmaking trespass didn’t turn Frank into anything of a romantic. In fact, it made him more of a pragmatist if any thing. But that was immaterial. He was just happy that Mardi Gras was even happening this year at all. The fact the pint-sized Krewe des Bebette had survived and organized a parade—that was pure lagniappe, the icing on the king cake, as it were. Frank was more than a tad shy at being on the float, especially conspicuously towering above all the midgets dressed like munchkins from the Wizard of Oz (Fleming 1939); as was often, it was this year’s theme again. Frank made sure to toss all his beads by the time they got to Lee Circle and was now sitting under the crepe rainbow, sipping a Dixie and playing a few rounds of bourre with a dwarf dressed like Nikko the winged monkey. Nikko was losing badly; he was exceedingly tipsy and mostly distracted by the naked gals on the cards. Anyway, the Oz-thing was forgivable. The film was accessible, recognizable, flashy, colorful and of course heavily laden with little people. However, when it comes to non-porn midget flix, you cannot beat Filipino small-man Weng Weng in the James Bond parody, For Your Height Only (Nicart 1980). The once-hard-to-find cult classic was re-released by Mondo Macabre November 15, 2005. The plot simply put: The mysterious Mr. Giant has kidnapped the creator of the N-Bomb, and secret agent 00(Weng) must use his entire bevy of silly gadgets (the best a remote control saw blade hat) and sexy female aides (the best, the unaccredited busty Amazonian crime reporter). The plot, after that, is somewhat of a mystery. There is a large assortment of gangland heavies, low-level bosses (the best “Baldo” whose nickname is “Tattoo?”) in gaudy, gaudy shirts and dialogue lifted from old James Cagney movies (White Heat; Walsh 1949). For example, speaking of some kind of drugs baked into bread, says da boss: “Nobody could begin to guess! There's a lot of dough in this dough,” one henchman cackles, “the butcher, the baker, the candlestick maker. Happy pushing...happy pushing. The boss says to cover every kindergarten and sandbox. We're gonna teach 'em something about pleasure!”

There are a lot of thugs. A whole-freaking-lot. This movie must have one of the largest body count of any Frank has scene. And Weng kicks the shit outta all of them, one-by-one. Gadgets aside, 00’s repertoire includes sliding across floors, punching people in the nuts, shooting people in the arm, disco dancing and punching them in the nuts. Also, he punches them in the nuts a lot. There are also a slew of continuity errors with the dead bodies constantly disappearing from frame. The movie is goofy as all-get out. Such a spoof would have to be. Especially form the American gangster dubbing of the villains to Weng’s own whiny “Oh my widdle head” voice. And the fights are silly and improbable, mostly always relying on somebody throwing Weng someplace to achieve his kung fu moves. In fact, Weng was only 2’9’’, according to the Guinness Book, making him the shortest leading man ever. He also appeared in a 1982 sequel, The Impossible Kid which isn’t currently available. Based on Internet searches (See boingboing.net). He is also have rumored to have been Baby Moses in a 3D Philippine bible-epic (Go Tell It On The Mountain), a porno or two, and MoonBoy From Another Planet, which Spielberg supposedly ripped off for E.T., the Extra-Terrestrial (1982). In short (Ha! Pun!), at least the Weng-ster was a better 00-agent then Daniel Craig. It’s all fun so long as you don’t dwell on the fact that the little guy is presumably dead now, having succumbed to progeria (rapid-aging disease). In close-ups he shows it. But smile and laugh at his antics. Weng would’ve wanted it that way.

If you like the bizarre, For Your Height Only is a must-see classic that you must find, watch and enjoy. (And then obsessively search the web for Weng Weng trivia, mp3’s, stills etc.) Your life will be unfilled til you do. “Please, god.” You will pray nightly, “Allow Mondo Macabre release the whole Weng Weng catalog on DVD. Please!”

But back in Nawlins: Nikko growls “Tete dure!” and throws in his hand. He adds something about Frank’s maman. Frank tosses in his cards too, the slides off the 3 mph float and unto Canal Street. He needed to survey the damage done to the Quarter first hand. No, not by the hurricane. Was it true they had turned the Absinthe House into a tacky daiquiri-to-go place? Ugh.

Sherman’s March (1986)/ The Ross McElwee DVD Collection V-D: Part 2. 11:59 PM Frank is late for his meeting. But he makes it. And hasn’t a jacket or a change of clothes. So its cold with the wind whipping 15-20 mph across West Bay. But he makes it. And, they’ve kept his room at the Holiday Inn. So he makes that too. And by the time he showers and re-dons what 24 hours before had been his favorite check-shirt and slacks, his luggage has made it to the hotel. He didn’t think they’d make it. The front desk clerk also has a package for him. It is a book, Les Paradis Artificiels (Baudelaire 1860). It is something of a valentine from Andrea, who thinks of Frank as Baudelaire’s reincarnation; the note enclosed says: “I hope this makes it.” Furthermore, the inscription “with love,” makes Frank both giddy as a schoolboy and tired as the most ancient of men. After all, though he tends to respond to emails and is a tad too open with his schedule than he would prefer, he hasn’t seen Andrea since their heart-wrenching trip to see A Very Long Engagement (Jeunet 2004), last Valentine’s Day. Currently, she is somewhere in Mexico with Frank’s sometimes nemesis, Spike. That makes this some sort of horrible, horrible anniversary. Frank sighs and pulls out his itinerary, only now noticing that his return flight is for March 14, not February 14. (Frank fucking hates Delta airlines!) Delta, of course, believes this to be Frank’s fault and even if they did have another flight out on Valentine’s Day, it would cost an $80 surcharge plus an extra $700 for the fare. The fares are currently jacked up for Valentines, Mardi Gras or Spring break, or all three. It isn’t clear. Frank must get of Florida! There is only car rental in town that both has a car and will send it one way to Norfolk, where Frank has left his Impala. Thanks Budget! What’s more, although, such a rental is a minimum of five days, they will only charge him for the one day it will take him to get there. Frank fucking loves Budget Rent-a-Car! Fucking loves them!

And so Frank is off to plow his way out of the south in a bright red 2006 Ford Focus. But he feels not so much like General Sherman, than Ross McElwee his soft-spoken documentarian (Sherman’s March 1986). Although, Sherman’s March: A Mediation to the Possibility of Romantic Love in the South During an Era of Nuclear Weapons was re-released on DVD in 2004, First Run Features has recently (November 22, 2005) released a six film, five disc collectors set of McElwee’s films. All of McElwee’s films are personal (and often tangential) in nature, beginning with Sherman’s March, which, though intended to be an exploration of the conflicted figure as McElwee traced his route through the south, instead became a chronicle of McElwee’s strained dating life as he tries to overcome the loss of his girlfriend. The film is honest and often bleak and Frank recommends it, to any woman who wants a peak inside the mind of a man. McElwee is quiet, droll and unassuming with the women he encounters, yet openly eager to consummate a—any relationship, easily falls in love and is obsessed with potential nuclear holocaust. Truly, the dating scene seems pretty wide open and he goes through a lot of women in the space of a 2.5-hour film. From a soul-singing woman who leaves for the road, an actress who leaves him to pursue Burt Reynolds (Deliverance; Boorman 1972), to a wilderness bound grad student who leaves him for the guy in the next cabin over. In short, March, shows, poignantly, all the hoops we men are willing to jump through for sex, companionship, whatever. Even us nice, quiet guys. The women often come-off badly. However, we believe McElwee cares for them all, as he insures us he does. Don’t we all care for someone for some inexplicable reason? Just like Frank cares for the enervating Andrea, who has her Spike and still guiltily pesters him. Frank decides not to think of it but fiddles with the radio and scrawls on his little Budget map song titles he ought to download as MP3’s as he hears them on the radio—such as “These Dreams’ (Heart 1985), and “Time After Time” (She’s So Unusual, Lauper 1983) both of which he for some reason knows all the words to. Grrr. It’s a quick refill on gas and Doritos at the Gator Pit three miles north of Jacksonville, when the hated V-Day finally comes to a close. But there’s still quite a drive ahead…

Death Race 2000 (1975)—30th Anniversary Edition V-Day: Part 1. 12:01 AM Frank hates Delta Airlines. Fucking hates them. He’s tried to fly them several times and has never really gotten anywhere he wanted to go. He now sits at his laptop attempting to dial-up the Internet in an Atlanta, Georgia Comfort Inn hotel room. He is not supposed to be in an Atlanta hotel room. He is supposed to be in Panama City, Florida for a very important business meeting. So he celebrates Valentines Day, now officially after midnight on February 14th by listening to “Till Tomorrow” (McLean 1971): a pretty, sad (or pretty sad?) song, though Frank would like to change the music from the few MP3’s he has downloaded to his laptop. He’d also like to change his clothes. But his CD’s and his clothes her both in the canvas knapsack. And Delta Airlines had lost his luggage. Frank hates Delta Airlines. Fucking hates them. Delta had kept his 5 PM flight on the ground for three hours in Detroit, Michigan. At 8:10 Frank had asked to be re-routed. He would never make his 8:30 connection in Atlanta. The answer from the skybitch, errr, “Ramp Agent”: Frank cannot be re-routed until he has “officially” missed his connection at 8:30. The flight to Atlanta is leaving at 8:15. She gives Frank 2 options and asks him to “guess what he should do.” He can: A. Demand a re-route, in which case, it not being officially 8:30 yet, he will forfeit his entire ticket and have to buy a new one. Or, B. he can get on his proper, though delayed flight, and hope a hole opens up in the space/time continuum which allows his plane to make it Atlanta in 10 minutes—leaving him another 5 minutes to find his next gate. Unless of course a second wormhole opens up on Concourse C (one, much, much faster, then those moving sidewalks) which allows him to... So, Frank took two Valium and boards his plane to Atlanta, where he was given a 10 oz Dasani for his trouble, and flew to a connection which was not there. Surprisingly, he is told by the Customer Service manager who greets the angry passengers, his baggage should have made the connecting flight and be en route to Panama City ahead of Frank. He is also told that if he gets in a line the next available customer service rep available will re-route him and offer him some help with accommodations for the night. This is not the case. Frank hates Delta Airlines. Fucking hates them. Delta has no other flights til midmorning the next day. (Frank will miss his meeting; his boss will hate that). Delta considers weather, being the cause of the flight delay, to be an “Act of God.” Delta does not offer hotel rebates when planes are delayed by God. (Frank will now be paying for rooms in Panama City and Atlanta; his boss will hate that, too.) Frank hates God. Fucking hates him. Outside the airport, Frank flagged a taxi and got in. The driver informs him that taxis do not go to hotels. Frank went to the bus ticket window. Guess what? Buses don’t go to hotels either. Frank grabbed a 40 oz. Icehouse and waited for an airline shuttle that sounded cheap. The Comfort Inn was like a winner, and with no baggage to hand the eastern European driver with the funny William Powell mustache (The Thin Man; Van Dyke: 1934), Frank hopped right in. He nestled in the back with his Icehouse sloshing sleepily amongst the valium, and, as the shuttle driver wings perilously thru beltway traffic, Frank imagined him to be David Carradine as Frankenstein, in Death Race 2000 (Bartel 1975), a Roger Corman production currently available in a special 30th anniversary edition by Buena Vista Home Entertainment. In this film of the not too distant future, road rage is a national sport where race drivers earn points for running over pedestrians. Of course, this is a fantasy. In our civilized 2006, an athlete would never get away with harming another human being. And also, of course, commentary on America’s love of the barbaric in the media is not hard to come by (and often particularly overblown by Oliver Stone [cf. Natural Born Killers 1994]). But this movie is also a dark commentary of the road movies of the 1960s and 1970s (cf. It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World, Kramer 1963)—not that Corman’s satire was too effective; after all, Burt Reynolds went on shortly after on make a career out of such movies (cf. Cannonball Run, Needham 1981). But, fuck all. It's just a fun, though sick, film. If you don't take the death in Death Race seriously, that is. Obviously, for many, it is hard to. You know who you are; please do not watch this 'light' film. But right then, Frank just dozed and imagined his hotel shuttle, piloted by a gentle Carradine, taking out evil Delta employees, as they leave their cushy jobs, another day of bilking customers finished. They are crossing streets, absorbed in fighting over Frank’s pressed shirts and CDs unaware that whoosh! Here comes old Frankenstein ‘round the bend and— Frank’s shuttle is taken down by six cop cars. Frank hates cops. Fucking hates them. But, They make it to the Comfort Inn before they are stopped and the driver is hauled out and cuffed and Frank is interrogated. The shuttle drivers are running some scam of charging lost airline passengers for the supposedly free service. Frank is able to forgo his $5 tip when the officers frown on his sticking it in the drivers cuffed hands. He gets a room for a few hours, attempting to dial up the internet…