Father Flickers

After church on Sundays, our family would go directly to my mother’s parents’ house for brunch--Grandma and Grandpa only lived a somewhat long walk from our own house, and their home was a second one for me. On one of these Sundays, my Grandpa, the former bank vice president and erstwhile inventor, sipped on his afternoon martini as Dad and I regaled him with raves about an amazing movie we saw the previous night: Prisoners of the Lost Universe, a no-budget sci-fi comedy populated with multidimensional claptrap, cavemen, albinos, flintlocks, digital watches, and Richard Hatch.

Hey, we have taste.

I owe Dad a lot. I mean more than my existence (Mom had something to do with that, too, ya know). He taught me independence, introduced me to the joy of reading, shaped an athlete out of me against all odds, bestowed a goofy sense of humor, helped me learn to take people as they come, and many, many other little things. But most of all, he shared his love of silly movies.

On Saturday mornings way back in the hazy 1970s, he’d come and join me to watch the Looney Tunes. I originally thought he was making sure I didn’t pick up anything fun to imitate; I already had received the “Only Superman Can Fly” lecture after they found me using my bed as a landing pad. But no, Dad wasn’t duly fulfilling some unwritten parenting law to protect his child; he was coming down to watch because he loved Bugs Bunny and Co. just as much as me. Sometimes, he’d even stick around for the martial arts movie in the afternoon, simply ’cause they were almost as silly as the cartoons (“Hey, why don’t they attack him all at once?”). Even today, when I go home for holidays, I bring along my Looney Tunes box set, just in case we have some free time to watch.

So, when cable finally arrived in our household complete with HBO and Cinemax, Dad and I found heaven. Back then, the movie channels scrambled for anything to fill in their schedule around the 3 or 4 major films they showcased. That’s when we first discovered The Beastmaster, The Ice Pirates, Yellowbeard, and countless post-apocalyptic Road Warrior knockoffs. I witnessed my first PG-rated movie, then my first R. It didn’t really matter what we watched, only if it was silly, fun, a little off-the-wall, and exciting. You know, goofy guy stuff.

That appreciation for the odd and little-known grew in me. When video stores began spreading throughout the town, I loved to browse through, finding some interesting looking flick most likely bearing an Embassy or New World logo. Later on, I discovered New German cinema, wuxia swordplay adventures, ghost stories, silents, Japanese anime, classic romantic mysteries--all adding to the wealth of westerns, b-movies, and fantastical silly fun Dad and I discovered together.

Today, in my DVD cedar chest, Return of the Killer Tomatoes sits comfortably right next Alfred Hitchcock’s Rebecca, which sits right next to Young Frankenstein, which sits next to Rock and Rule, which sits next to She Wore a Yellow Ribbon, which sits next to The Brother from Another Planet. I’m often surprised when I’m asked if there are movies I don't like admitting I own. It’s a strange question--why should I be ashamed of movies I like? A conceit exists within film fandom, a conceit that extends to literature as well: The idea that a story can be less worthy of another simply because of the kind of story. Science fiction literature often is ignored by “serious” readers and critics, so an author like Gene Wolfe, who perhaps is the best living American writer today, can be left unknown, then forgotten. For years, Kurt Vonnegut fought against that sci-fi label for the same reasons--he felt his work deserved better, that it was more than “just” genre fiction. Only Slaughterhouse-Five changed academia’s minds, and only after they had missed Mother Night and Cat’s Cradle.

The same goes with film. Every year’s movie releases are divided between the summer blockbusters and the Oscar hopefuls in the fall. One is mindless entertainment, the other important cinema. Where the idea the two had to be separate is beyond me.

The point is, and always has been, to tell a good story. Just that, nothing more, no matter if the eye-candy is blinding or the soapbox’s call is clarion. If a film doesn’t have compelling characters imbuing a well-wrought narrative, if a story does not draw you in, does not create laughter or tears or adrenaline or just simple joy, then any entertainment is absent, the film a failure.

That’s what Dad taught me about movies, whether he intended or not. The importance isn’t in the inner meaning, or the subject matter, or the genre, or even production quality. The importance is in the entertainment--the modern day, silver-screened equivalent of ancient storytellers, mesmerizing their audiences with imagination, humor, and humanity. No matter how serious or silly.

Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day. And I promise to bring McLintock! this time.