Miracle Mile (Steve De Jarnatt, 1988)

I'm having a bit of trouble understanding why Anthony Edwards' Harry Washello jumped out of the back of that moving food truck near the beginning of Miracle Mile. Oh, I get it, he wants to rescue Julie Peters, the woman he met at The Page Museum the previous day. But the funny thing is, Julia Peters isn't played by Betsy Russell. No, she's played by Mare Winningham!?! You see what I'm getting at? Now, I'm not trying to imply that Mare Winningham isn't worth rescuing because she doesn't look like Betsy Russell, it's just that Anthony Edwards just met her... like, five hours ago. However, as Anthony, er, I mean, Harry Washello, says in the film's intro, "Love can sure spin your head around." Meaning, love can make people do crazy things. Whoa, I think better start steering this review into less obnoxious waters. The last thing I want is this to be is one of those Miracle Mile reviews that spends the majority of its time bemoaning the fact that Mare Winningham is no Betsy Russell. And that's what it's starting to become. That being said, the casting of Mare Winningham as the lead's love interest was a bold decision. Which is not that surprising, as the film, written and directed by Steve De Jarnatt (Cherry 2000), is filled with bold (and some idiotic) decisions.

If you think about it, Mare Winningham is the perfect woman for a socially awkward trombone player. (Don't you mean, "socially awkward museum employee who plays the trombone on the side"?) That's just the thing, I always thought Harry Washello worked at The Page Museum (a.k.a. La Brea Tar Pits). But get this, he's doesn't, he's simply a humble trombone player (one who's in town to play a series of concerts).

Okay, now that we've established what Harry Washello does for a living, and tiptoed around the fact that Mare Winningham is an unconventional leading lady, it needs to be said, and as often as possible, that Miracle Mile is a top-notch thriller.

Seriously, the moment Harry Washello (Anthony Edwards) enters Johnie's Coffee Shop at the corner of Wilshire Boulevard and Fairfax Avenue, I was transfixed. Which is not something I can say about a lot of films. Most movies are a real chore to sit through. Either they fail to hold my attention or are just stuffed with superfluous nonsense.

Anyway, getting back to the scene in the museum. Even though I initially thought Harry Washello was employed at the museum and that Julie Peters (Mare Winningham) was a teacher leading her students on a field trip (she's not a teacher, but a waitress at Johnie's), nothing can damper the sight of the two colossal dorks playfully flirting with one another to the synthy sounds of Tangerine Dream.

Thinking that he's blown it with Julie, Harry goes out to wallow in self-pity near La Brea Tar Pits. But wait, what's this? It's Julie (if you look closely, you'll notice that her purple tights are pressing against her aching girl-maw with the force of a thousand vice grips). It's turns out he hasn't blown it. In fact, that exact opposite is true, as the two embark on a whirlwind romantic adventure. We're talking merry-go-rounds, impromptu lobster liberation, the works, baby.

Oh, and if you thought the music of Tangerine Dream was great during the opening scene, you should hear the piece used during the scene where a bird inadvertently knocks out the power at Harry's hotel. (Wait, what?) A bird tries to use a lit cigarette (one that Harry tossed on the ground) as nesting material. And since the bird's nest lies on a bunch of wires, the fire it sparks causes the hotel's power to go out. As I was saying, the music used  here is my favourite out of all the Tangerine Dream compositions heard throughout this movie, as it perfectly sets up the events that are about to unfold.

Since the power outage causes Harry's alarm to not go off, he ends up missing his rendezvous with Julie; the plan was to pick her up at Johnie's when she got off work at midnight. Sleeping till 3:45am, a panic-stricken Harry rushes over to Johnie's. Of course, Julie isn't there (she would be insane to wait that long). What Harry does find when he gets there is an odd assortment of characters, a revolving digital clock and a ringing pay-telephone.

While Harry should technically ignore these things, especially the ringing pay-phone (no good can ever come from answering one), the person on the other end of the line, time and the early morning diner crowd are what give him a slight edge in the not being vaporized by a nuclear explosion department.

According to the person on the other end of the line, a nuclear war is about to get underway, and L.A. basin is going to be, to quote Jenette Goldstein, "a total overkill zone."

Now, some of the folks in the diner believe what Harry tells them. O-Lan Jones (who, of course, plays a waitress), Alan Rosenberg (a street-cleaner), Robert DoQui (Fred the cook), Diane Delano (a stewardess) and, most importantly, Denise Crosby (a.k.a. The Woman with the Mobile Phone), for instance, are convinced he's telling the truth. Whereas, Roger the Transvestite (Danny De La Paz, 3:15), Claude Earl Jones (the other street-cleaner) and Earl Boen's drunk L.A. BBQ expert are less convinced.

The even number between those who believed Harry and those who didn't helped add to the sense of realism. I mean, would you really believe the half-baked ramblings of some stranger in a diner at 4am?

However, it was the way Denise Crosby reacts to certain things that Harry says that convinced me that shit was about to get real. Plus, she carries a mobile phone (only important people carried them back then).

Taking notes on what transpires after Harry takes the phone call proved to be quite difficult, as the film never really gives you a chance to catch your breath. Shot in real time, Miracle Mile is a relentlessly paced thriller that only follows Harry's valiant attempt to rescue Julie, who, like the rest of the city, is sound asleep.

As that damned revolving digital clock constantly reminds us, time of the essence. In other words, will Harry be able to get Julie to the top of 5900 Wilshire Boulevard before the missiles start landing? Or, more importantly, will Harry be able to find a helicopter pilot at 5am? Obviously I'm not going to say. But I will say this, the parts of the film that depict the various reactions of the sleeping masses when they finally find out what's happening are truly terrifying.

Cobra (George P. Cosmatos, 1986)

How long do you think the members of so-called "New Order" knock their axes together? I'm no expert when it comes to ritualistic axe knocking, but I'd say no longer than five minutes. Sure, the Night Slasher, their non-charismatic leader, can knock axes till the cows come home (he has the upper body strength to handle a full day's worth of axe knocking). But what about those of us who can't hack it? (get it, hack it). We've got axes to knock, too. Or, I should say, we've got axes to grind, too (man, I'm on fire today). Is there no place for weaklings in the New Order? Even though only me and probably around five other people thought this, I still think the axe knocking sequence that opens Cobra, a glorified commercial for Pepsi and Coors, was what inspired the music video for "New Mind," the opening track from Swans' Children of God album. Granted, no axes are knocked together, but there's plenty of axe swinging. Anyway, as any child of the 1980s will tell you, the poster for this movie was everywhere during the spring of 1986. And even though Sylvester Stallone is the epitome of lame, the shot of him on the poster wearing his signature aviator sunglasses holding a Jatimatic SMG below a tagline that reads: "Crime is a disease. Meet the cure," is the stuff of one-sheet legend.

This leads to the question: Does Cobra live up to its poster? Yes, I realize this question should have been answered years ago, but now is a good a time as any. Nonetheless, you could say the poster and the movie are exactly the same. Both are flat and square. Zing!

Seriously, did you see that photo of Ronald Reagan on the wall of Lieutenant Cobretti's office? Ugh! I have no problem with people admiring Ronald Reagan nowadays (time has a habit of distorting history). But admiring him during 1980s?!? That's just plain wrong.

Moving on, since Sylvester Stallone and Brigitte Nielsen both possess a minimal grasp of the English language, it's up to Lee Garlington to carry the brunt of the film's linguistic burden. Oh, wait, that's right, she only has a handful of lines. That being said, the way she says the word, "Yes," in response to the query: Are you drunk?" was the best line delivery of the entire film.

(Um, the line is actually: "Have you been drinking or something?") Either way, her delivery of the word "yes" was spot-on. Okay, now that we cleared that up, let's circle back and try to sort through this humongous turd in a calm and rational manner.

I'll give the filmmakers some credit, the opening credits are pretty cool. Sure, they begin with  Marion 'Cobra' Cobretti (Sylvester Stallone) reciting crime statistics in an overly serious manner, but I liked the way the shot of a man riding a motorcycle was edited together with footage of the New Order knocking their axes together.

It turns out that the guy on the motorcycle (Marco Rodríguez) is a member of the New Order and he's heading to a nearby supermarket to cause a little trouble.

Pulling out a shotgun, the so-called "Supermarket Killer" blows away the produce section. At first I thought he had a grudge against veggies, but it's clear that his agenda has got nothing to do with the evils of asparagus. Holding a group of shoppers hostage, the Supermarket Killer demands that he get access to the media. While the cops (lead by Detective Andrew Robinson and Captain Art LaFleur) have the store surrounded, they're at a loss. Realizing that he's probably going to regret saying it, Art LaFleur suggests they call Cobra.

Now, I don't know what it is about Cobra that makes him so special (as far as I know he has no superpowers). Nevertheless,  Lieutenant Cobra saunters into the store without a care in the world. How do I know he was carefree? Let's just say people who walk around in public with a unlit matchsticks in their mouths are the definition of carefree; they're also the definition of pompous jackasses, but let's try to focus on one thing at a time.

Personally, I think he's perfect for this particular job because he doesn't seem to care about the rules. Yeah, I think that's it. Oh, and, by the way, the reason Cobra doesn't care about the rules is because he plays by his own rules.

Case in point: When the Supermarket Killer threatens to blow up the store with a bomb, Cobra replies: "Go ahead... I don't shop here." See what I mean?

When he's done taking care of the shotgun-wielding psycho at the supermarket,  Lieutenant Cobra heads home to eat cold pizza and clean his gun. He would have gotten home sooner had it not been for the unruly Hispanic gang members who decide to harass the hard-boiled cop outside his apartment. Wait a minute, I think I got it the other way around. Call me crazy, but I think Cobra was the instigator. Think about it, the Hispanic gang members were simply minding their own business when this colossal douche comes along and starts causing shit.

As you might expect, it's tough to root for the film's hero when he's so thoroughly unpleasant. That being said, the film's villain, the Night Slasher (Brian Thompson), isn't that appealing either. I know, he's not supposed to be "appealing." But other than the axe knocking thing and that freaky-looking knife he carries, there isn't really much to this guy.

What this film needs is a montage. One that features Sylvester Stallone shaking down lowlifes and Brigitte Nielsen posing for pictures set to "Angel of the City" by Robert Tepper. Yeah, this is what it needs and this is what it delivers.

The best thing about this montage is the fact that "Angel of the City" drowns out Sylvester Stallone's dialogue. Screw that noise. The best thing about this montage is the sight of Brigitte Nielsen posing up a storm for a robot-themed, wig-tastic photo shoot. Work it, girl!

After Brigitte Nielsen's Ingrid witnesses the New Order murder a woman at the side of the road, she finds herself in their cross-hairs for the rest of the movie. Anyone care to guess who's put in charge of protecting Ingrid? That's right, Lieutenant Marion 'Cobra' Cobretti. And, yep, his real name is "Marion."

Since staying in the city is not a viable option (both Ingrid and Cobra are nearly killed by the New Order), they decide to relocate to the country. And it's during this relocation period that Brigitte Nielsen says to Sylvester Stallone: "Can ask you something?" When I heard her say this, I was like, Noooooo! Why would you want to ask Sylvester Stallone ask something? Nothing good can come from this. And just like I predicted, nothing good does come from this. If I had to sum up this movie using only one word, it would be: Asinine.

Pass the Ammo (David Beaird, 1988)

Our shimmering neon crucifix is filled to the brim with underpaid operators who are standing by to receive your generous donation, so, please, look deep into your heart and give us a steaming wad of your hard earned cash. Oh, and when I say, "give us," I really mean give me. After all, I'm the one doing the majority of thr spiritual heavy lifting. Just a second, did you say, "neon crucifix"? Yep, I sure did. Wow, that must look amazing on television. Why just thinking about its chromatic glow washing over me as I sit motionless in my sparsely furnished living room makes me want to run next-door, masticate the living daylights out of my neighbour's insipid taint, and chug a can of Fresca (and since I'm already there, I might as well grab myself a complementary footstool). What I'm doing right now, believe or not, is I'm attempting to understand the mindset of the type of individual who would give their money to someone who gives them nothing in return. It's true, you could argue they're providing them with divine comfort, but its essence is purely hypothetical. If you told a stranger or a total stranger, let's say, while riding the subway, that you had just purchased a shitload of divine comfort for around fifty bucks, they would look at you funny and proceed to get off at the next stop, regardless if it was their stop or not. Judging by the mail streaming into the megachurch in Pass the Ammo, a blunt satirical attack on evangelical hucksterism from the director of, get this, My Chauffeur, they're sending more than just money. It would seem that nothing is off limits, as everything from jewelry to insurance policies, to even teeth are being sent their way. But why are they giving these freaks all their valuables? I'm no expert when it comes to irrational zeal, but I bet it's got something to do with the sheer size of the hair sitting atop the head of the preacher's wife? The only reason I mention her hair is because its largeness is the main reason I would send them any money (as a recovering Goth, I know hair spray ain't cheap).

If you're anything like me, then you no doubt spent a huge chunk of the late 1980s taping televangelists off the television in order to use their bizarre ramblings to spice up your homemade industrial music. Recording their sermons with a steely resolve wasn't always easy, as sometimes their preachy gobbledygook would seep into your feverish brain. Even though my memory of this period is a tad foggy, I could have sworn I bought six prayer clothes. Preachers, infomercial pitchmen, lawyers (particularly ones with offices in Cheektowaga), scumbag politicians (i.e. all politicians), those chipper ladies who sell bras on the shopping channel, they all prey on your vulnerabilities. In order for them to remove a sizable amount of cash from your wallet, they need to either scare you or belittle you. Your average televangelist does a bit of both, feeding off human weakness and general gullibility. It's no surprise that these shady godmongers have an air of superiority about them, one that definitely masks a sinister underbelly.

Feeding off your nonexistent ignorance by amusing the lint-covered receptors that dot the surface of your face, the Rev. Ray Porter (a wonderfully insincere Tim Curry) is the leading force when comes to distorting the teachings of Jesus Christ, a man who preached peace and love, not greed and pettiness. Hosting his garish gospel program along with smoking hot wife Darla (Annie Potts), even her name makes my flesh tingle with untoward satisfaction, the preacher with state's most hairless nostrils is literally raking in the dough. Hypnotizing his mostly yokel-based congregation with a kinetic brand of forthright evangelism, the oily reverend manages to extract millions of dollars from his devoted flock.

Am I shocked that the Rev. Porter was able to pilfer his followers so comfortably for so long? Hell, no. Have you seen his show? It's fucking awesome! Taking your racist grandmother's evangelism and jazzing up for the 1980s, the Tower of Bethlehem ministries, by adding Las Vegas-style production values, and employing MTV-style editing, have managed to turn apotheosizing into a multi-million dollar a year industry.

You only have to take a casual, non-judgmental glance over at Darla, her rarely violated body sheathed in a silver frock, to fully understand what the Tower of Bethlehem ministries are bringing to the highly lucrative preaching the gospel on TV racket. Smoke, neon, irregular pantyhose, and Engelbert Humperdinck-quality facial hair fill the air as Darla saunters down the stairs of the main stage. An audible gasp lingers in the audience as Annie Potts, channeling Kate Bush while performing choreography straight out of Liquid Sky, starts singing the line, "you're in paradise now," over and over again.

In order to emphasize how much money the sight of Annie Potts, the mousy blandness she exuded in Crimes of Passion has been completely exorcised, belting out religious show tunes as Darla makes for the church, we're subjected to a montage–one set to the strains of "Lay You're Money Down for Jesus" by twins John and Paul Cody–that depicts the complex machinery that operates behind the scenes (the church basement is packed with people whose sole job it is to oversee the cash flow). As we're down there, we also see Rev. Porter blessing the letters sent in by those suffering from various diseases (before he blesses a pile, a lackey informs him of which illness they're afflicted with).

Meanwhile, in another part of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, Bill Paxton is being straddled by a slip-wearing Linda Kozlowski (much respect to her for ignoring the waspy pricks who probably told her to change her name to something less Polish). Unsatisfied with life between Miss Kozlowski's able-bodied thighs, Bill Paxton, who is actually playing a character named Jesse, decides to rob the Tower of Bethlehem. You see, they took 50,000 dollars from Linda Kozlowski's dying bubby (Linda's character, by the way, is named Claire), and Jesse would like to get that money back.

Of course, they're gonna need a little help, after all, you'll need more than a fully grown Bill Paxton and a silky brunette woman in a slip (her dainty ankles beaming with Polish pride) to pull off a job like this. Enter Big Joe (Dennis Burkley), a shotgun-wielding career criminal who fancies himself a country and western singer, and Arnold (Glenn Withrow), the reincarnation of one of Marie Antoinette's handmaidens, two ex-cons just itching to "go do some crimes." Now you'd think these characters, simply by looking at them, would bring nothing but comic relief to the proceedings. But they're just as important as Jesse and Claire, even more so at times. Representing the healing powers of redemption, Big Joe humanizes the police with his stirring rendition of "Policeman," seeks financial advice from a crooked reverend, and uses his giant teddy bear-eqsue temperament to successfully placate Darla's impending meltdown, while Arnold finds love in the form of a choir member dressed as an angel (Debra Sue Maffett) and employs his playful nature in a way that allows the show's fake born again director (Anthony Geary) to reconnect with his inner rabble-rouser.

With his team assembled, it's time to head on down to the Tower of Bethlehem. Since no-one wants to watch a film where a megachurch is robbed without incident, Jesse, Claire, Big Joe, and Arnold find themselves, after taking a wrong turn, in the middle of Kenny (Brian Thompson, the weight-lifting helicopter pilot from Miracle Mile) and Darla's impassioned interpretation of the story of Samson and Delila.

When it comes to movies that feature hostage situations, I always side with the hostage takers, as I tend to identify with their status as outsiders who want to buck the system. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your outlook, Pass the Ammo presents a bit of a conundrum in that the character I would normally root against is so darn affable. If I had to blame anyone for this off-putting turn of events, it would have to Leland Crooke (Cat Fight from My Chauffeur). Charming, folksy, and always levelheaded, Leland and his Louisiana accent bring a lot of unexpected nuance to Rascal Lebeaux, a smalltown sheriff who's thrust into the middle of one doozy of a standoff. At first, it seemed like Sheriff Lebeaux was gonna be nothing more than your average redneck lawman (after all, he is duck hunting when we first meet up with him), but slowly, as the film progresses, the character becomes more complex.

Another dilemma arises when Claire points her pistol in anger at Darla during a particularly heated moment. I was all like, get that gun out of Darla's face, you hillbilly skank! Despite the fact that her head is filled with paint fumes and sautéed poppycock, Darla was able to win me over through her dedication to gaudy fashion (lots of slit-heavy gowns), and, of course, her overall babeiliciousness. It doesn't take a genius to figure this out, but while Linda Kozlowski was busy portraying Claire as a bit of a buzzkill, Annie Potts is secretly plotting the course that lead Darla to come off as sympathetic by the time the bullets (and tank shells) started to whiz through the auditorium.

You could say my favourite characters were Rascal Lebeaux, Darla, and, if I had to choose a third, I would probably have to go with either Dennis Burkley's Big Joe or Anthony Geary's Stonewall, as they were genuinely likeable, but not dicks about it. Besides, you gotta love a guy (Big Joe) whose idea of revenge is to blast two pricey pairs of cowboy boots with his trusty shotgun.

Lampooning televangelism is a little like shooting fish that have placed in a smallish container; they're an easy target. But Pass the Ammo, however, casts a wide net when it comes to its mockery. Ridiculing the corrupt machinations of local politics, the power of "Big God," redneck vigilantes, corn-fed reactionaries, and the scourge that is groupthink, writers Joel Cohen and Neil Cohen have fashioned a script, one that features the line, "they're gonna butt-fuck the preacher on TV," that seems to spare no-one.

video uploaded by tcfan123

Special thanks to Russ for not only introducing me to this movie, but for providing me with a copy of it.

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