Hope everybody had a great Easter weekend. Here's Crowder's tribute to director Bob Clark who passed away last week. Oh, and the story about eating pizza at Mr. Gatti's in August is true. I remember it vividly.
I’d be lying if I sat here and tried to call Bob Clark “one of the greats” or some hyperbolic awards-show bullshit like that, but I also can’t in good conscience downplay the effect he had on my life with his two best-known (and best) films: Porky’s and A Christmas Story.
In 1982, Porky’s single-hairy-palmed-handedly ushered in the era of the Teen Sex Comedy, my favorite genre of film—yes, I like horny adolescents even more than zombies (for an excellent piece on the movie’s impact and progeny, see this week’s Entertainment Weekly (I got a free subscription with my Papa John’s pizza, so some slack would be appreciated)). But even more importantly for me, Porky’s symbolized everything that was awesome about growing up and being allowed to see rated-R movies. Not that I knew what was actually in the movie; I just knew it had sex. Not that I knew what sex really was, but I assumed it had something to do with boobies. So Porky’s was synonymous with boobies. It still is. Porky’s is the sexiest movie title ever. And it refers to the obese owner of a strip club. I didn’t even like boobies when I was 4 years old. But that fucking movie was always on HBO and I wasn’t allowed to watch it. My siblings were, though, and I have vague memories of trying to sneak into the living room and see those boobies, even though they probably would’ve repulsed me if I had been successful.
I never saw the movie in its unedited glory until sometime in high school. By that point I had seen many of its imitators, and the mystique of the original had long worn off. Aside from the tacked-on anti-Semitism subplot with D'Annunzio from Caddyshack, however, the movie didn’t disappoint. It was a similar experience to watching The Graduate for the first time, in that myriad pop culture references suddenly made sense (though admittedly not as many). The dick-through-the-peephole gag is eternal. Tell your children.
Years before I got to see Porky’s, I did see another Bob Clark directorial effort: 1983’s A Christmas Story. There was a stage in my life (I believe I was 9) during which I watched this movie every day.
Every. Fucking. Day.
And it was the middle of the summer. I’m pretty sure my 10th birthday party involved buffet-style pizza and a viewing of this film at Mr. Gatti’s. In August. There’s a reason this movie has gone from minor cult classic to twelve consecutive showings on TNT (TBS) on Christmas Day: It’s perfect, and it’s for everyone. The balance of kids’ innocence and inherent assholery is astounding. Current kids identify, while obsolete ones wax nostalgic. Even my old-fashioned mother no longer insists on the obligatory It’s a Wonderful Life viewing come yuletide; she’d rather watch something entertaining.
A large part of the success of the film is due to Jean Shepherd’s narration (the only other person I know of that has brought his own written word to such vivid verbal life is Robert Evans), but Clark’s direction cannot be over-praised. Who else could have coaxed such a rich performance from The Dirt Bike Kid? Casting Darren McGavin, the man best known as Kolchak the Night Stalker, in a rare comedic role was nothing short of inspired. And just for the hell of it, I’m going to give Clark all the credit for the Yosemite Sam profanity. Never has a PG family film been so suggestively obscene.
On Thursday, April 5, 2007, the world did not lose a legendary Hollywood great in an auto accident on the PCH. It did, however, lose a filmmaker whose influence on America’s youth went beyond boners and BB guns. Sort of. R.I.P.
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