Book review: Land of a Thousand Balconies By Jack Stevenson
Historical note: While going through old files, I found this book review. I have no idea who I wrote it for or if it ever was published (I have a feeling it was rejected because it was too long). The file was last touched on October 27, 2004. Re-reading something I had no idea I wrote I found it quite enjoyable, and I hope you do too. The book is still available to order from some dealers.
Land of a Thousand Balconies: Discoveries and Confessions of a B-movie Archaeologist
By Jack Stevenson
Review by Lars Erik Holmquist October 27, 2004
There is a certain type of magazines, where, if you claim you buy them “for the articles”, people will shake their heads and smile knowingly. And no, I’m not talking about PLAYBOY, which in this age of silicone might actually be worth buying more for the articles than the photos (not that I would know, officer!). Instead, I mean publications like THE BIG REEL, which consists almost exclusively of advertisement for movie ephemera. Here, collectors submit crudely handwritten or meticulously typed advertisements for posters, lobby cards, trailers, 16mm prints, projector lenses and everything else you need to run your own little movie house. It is an essential meeting place for the few film-obsessed souls who have not yet figured out how to get on the Internet.
But THE BIG REEL did in fact sometimes have readable articles, that were not just about what to do when your treasured film prints “go vinegar” (they really do, you know). Occasionally, an interesting article about an odd cult film or phenomenon would pop up. And every time, those articles were written by Jack Stevenson, US citizen, Danish resident, film collector, Scopitone expert and cult movie historian. Some of those texts, together with a whole lot more, have been collected in this volume. And fortunately, now you don’t have to wade through pages of half-literate hand-written advertisement to get to them!
The book is divided into five thematic sections, covering cult film history, unusual people, cinemas and cinema managers, the phenomenon of “camp”, and tales from the road. Some of these sections are more successful than others, and there is sometimes a little repetition indicating that this is more of a collection of individual texts than a monograph, but Stevenson’s style is always readable and, when the topic allows, very funny.
We’ll get some minor bad things out of the way first. My interest wavered considerably during a few chapters, like the history of Copenhagen’s art house cinemas (no surprise there), and it is clear that not even Stevenson’s enthusiasm can liven up certain topics. The book could have done with a little extra proofreading, not just to eliminate repetition but also to weed out some obvious mistakes (e.g. I’m sure Stevenson doesn’t really think Stuart (RE-ANIMATOR) Gordon directed all those giant monster movies in the 50’s (p. 18), especially as the director’s correct first name Bert is used a few pages later!). Finally, if you are well read on cult film history, the content of some of the articles – such as that on William Castle – may seem overly familiar.
Two of Stevenson’s collecting specialities seem to be industrial films and Scopitone reels – a sort of film jukebox that was a fad in the 60’s. The chapter on futuristic films (industrial and otherwise) is all too brief, and I have a feeling there may be a whole new book buried in this topic. But the chapter on the rise and fall of Scopitone tells the whole story very satisfyingly and compactly, and best of all, makes you yearn to see some of these surreal pre-cursors of the MTV music video. Filmed in garish colours, with exaggerated choreography and conservative music (the Scopitone owners were firmly sceptical to rock and other “long-hair” music, which led to the company’s demise in the late 60’s) these shorts seem to be beyond irony. I’m already searching the Internet for DVD collections.
But Stevenson is at his very best when telling stories from the cult film front lines – of theatre owners, film club organizers, projectionists and all sorts of odd people who brought strange films to the masses in 16 and 35 mm form. I used to be one of them, but just like many others, the availability of every scrap of American B-movie, Japanese monster flick, scratchy underground opus and Italian giallo on pristine DVD editions has made me throw in the towel. People simply don’t go to theatres to see this kind of movies any more. Which is a shame, because the home “theatre” experience can never match the flickering magic of real film, threaded through a rattling projector, perhaps splicy, scratchy and faded, but alive. I have a feeling Stevenson’s band of enthusiasts know what I’m talking about, and hopefully a few of them are still at it.
The chapters on experiences on the road – touring and screening cult films in Europe, the US and even Russia – are a lot of fun. The story of how Mike (THUNDERCRACK) Kuchar went AWOL during a tour of Europe, forcing Stevenson to sit in on an interview in Denmark, thus meeting his future wife, is priceless. And the tale of an impromptu visit to Moscow to screen the anti-communist classic RED NIGHTMARE is so bizarre, every word must be true. But my favourite is the Nyback Chronicles, about what must be one of the most stubborn, single-minded and downright crazy enthusiasts in the business. Dennis Nyback ran a series of cinemas in Seattle and New York, one more dishevelled than the next. Audience apathy at his innovative programming (HONG KONG HODGE PODGE consisted of the screening of five unrelated reels of black-and-white Chinese movies found in a garbage dumpster!) was the least of his troubles. Water leaks, stabbings in the next-door apartment, and visits from the public building inspectors (who needs a permit anyway?) should not bother a true movie lover. Last I heard, Nyback was touring Europe showing odd cartoons from his own collection – including the banned Donald Duck World War II short, DER FUHRER’S FACE, much to the dismay of Disney lawyers!
The final chapter in the book brings us full circle, by giving a worrying glimpse into true madness: the world of the avid film collector. I know, because I have been there, obsessively scanning THE BIG REEL for that elusive find (most people just don’t know that the line “REVENGE OF DEAD, 35 mm, turning, some splices, $50” roughly translates to “you just hit Eurocult paydirt!”) Stevenson brings us into this world of retired theatre projectionists, dumpster diving, and illegal transactions in apartments stinking of cat piss. I’m not sure why he consistently calls the magazine THE BIG SPOOL, but it’s clear that we both once inhabited the same place. In fact, we even traded prints on more than one occasion: we showed his prints of Jon Moritsugu’s underground epics and FOXY BROWN to stunned Gothenburg crowds, and he in turn treated Danish connoisseurs to the delirious delights of Lucio Fulci’s ZOMBIE FLESH EATERS (“35 mm, good colour, $75”). I was too weak: I sold off the 500 kilos of celluloid in the attic and checked out of the cult film business. Stevenson is still there, looking for that pristine third reel of VIVA LAS VEGAS, keeping his projectors in shape, and hatching schemes of new screenings and tours of ever more obscure subjects, none of which will ever make any money. You should pay him a visit – by reading this book!
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