Pauline Kael's I Lost It at the Movies, the 1965 book spanning her pre-New Yorker work from 1954-1965, is generally
understood to be the critics first collected volume. Following Kael's death in 2001, references were found in personal papers
to a small press volume predating the publication of I Lost It, though no copy was located in Kael's personal collection.
After several years of scrambling and red herring sniffing by film historians, Kael obsessives, and rare book collectors,
a handful of copies (three in total, two complete, none in better than VG condition) have surfaced. Going Down On the Movies,
(according to indicia) published by Trap Street Press, 1960, collects various Kael juvenilia, scattered previously published
reviews from KPFA radio broadcasts and pieces from magazines (City Lights, Holiday, McCall's, etc.) not represented in I
Lost It, even a small collection of screening notes and capsule reviews handed out to patrons of the Berkeley Cinema Guild
in the late 50s.
The two copies of Going Down to enter the marketplace were snatched up at four-figure
prices (on AbeBooks for $1200 and a tense eBay auction closing at $3650). Luckily, one fell into the hands of a rare bookseller
in Los Angeles, who has graciously allowed a digital scan of the cover, and photocopying of the following excerpt. Special
thanks to Blue Room Books of Los
The Exploding Kinetoscope proudly presents Pauline Kaels review of Plan 9 From Outer
Space, reprinted for the first time since 1960.
With the unfancy plainness of a nightmare being reported by The March of Time, anything goes in "Plan 9 From Outer
Space", so long as it is weird, shuddery, sexed-up and antisocial. Martians [sic] with a taste for the sensual (they wear
satin pajamas, their space-aircraft carrier shaped like a mammary gland... one is named Eros) and distaste for Earthly violence,
resolve to end the arms race. Along for the ride, and part of that Ninth Plan, are marching ghouls who handle the dirty work
they're freak-cartoon parodies of lives no one ever lived: a vampy wastrel beatnikess, a rasping butterball Swede cop, and
Plan 9 From Outer Space is set and shot in the corners of Los Angeles where most movies would not be caught dead;
the far-ends of choked boulevards where traffic wears out; the dollhouse suburbs of Burbank; subterranean studios which house
pasteboard sets; painted cloth backdrops indicating skies and lumpy rugs serving as grass. The matter-of-fact presentational
style of director Edward D. Wood Jr. is so honest and unglamorous that the homemade anonymity of the sets seems to be a point
unto itself. Wood also wrote the swozzled script, which keeps throwing out corkers until they finally pile up into something
like thematic unity. There's a satirist's glee in the movie's conundrum about violence and military secrets, and before you
know it the American heroes and the hostile spacemen have swapped places; the visitors have come to halt the progress of advanced
weapons before we blow ourselves away, but their deadly Plan 9 is like beating a dog for chasing squirrels. Everybody's wrong,
but its hard to hate them for it; its an evolutionary and political stalemate. A little scaredy-cat cop (Wood mainstay Paul
Marco) rolls up his sleeves, climbs into a grave and groans "Why do I always get hooked up with these spook details?" Hamlet,
gravedigger, and Stan Laurel rolled into one. The human scale is always dragged back into it. A compassionate colonel tells
us that "Then they attacked a town. A small town, I'll admit, but nevertheless a town of people. People who died." We're all
eventually hooked up on spook detail. One hopes that future doomsday comedies will have the guts not to hammer the jokes to
the wall, the sophistication not to drown the horror in cynicism or sheer scale. Whenever the movie paints itself into a political
corner it drops the brush and levitates over the wet floor: a square-jaw reacts to a (hypocritical) pacifistic alien's speech
by popping him in the mouth.
The kitsch has handily been drained out of the material in advance thanks to the spare, rawboned style. In a brainstorm
of flying saucers, misty cemeteries, walking corpses, plastic skeletons, and cadaverous vampires, Wood keeps piling up the
spook show gimmicks until they achieve a kind of loony grandeur. The picture isn't overly fat (and it runs 79 minutes), but
it's maybe a little crazy. Wood is like a carnival barker doing a last push before closing time, but when you climb into this
ghost train, the insides aren't all hype, but crisp, chilly, and fresh; the spirit of Nouvelle Vague hangs about this spookhouse.
Though the camerawork offers no pyrotechnics, Wood slices Lugosi's death scene short when the old fellow is splattered by
a speeding auto, the shot cuts off with his consciousness, a life compacted into ten seconds of smelling a flower and being
creamed by an unseen Packard. In the middle of languid scenes, the jump cuts bounce us to unexpected perspectives. With clever
miniatures and a bizarre but striking eye for stock footage, Wood places his spaceships over freeways and television studios.
Nowhere particularly photogenic, just someplace real.
Plan 9 also merges the threadbare, daily life reality of Hollywood (the neighborhood, not the fairyland) and Burbank
with the wooziest, spookiest dreamworld since The Mummy. In that film, Karl Freund's camera caressed every crease in
Boris Karloff's makeup, as if his cadaverous cheeks were dusted with fragments of ancient broken hearts. Edward Wood slides
into a similar thick, fever-dream pool for all the spook stuff. His ghouls shuffle toward us out of a black velvet void, or
appear in their weird Gothic glory in the middle of tatty suburban bedrooms. And like in so many very bad dreams, everyone
screams and flinches and motions to escape, but doesn't seem able to run. The way the young lady playing Lugosi's wife (Vampira,
the film hostess from television and a sex kitten, sure, but with a dead rat in her mouth) moves her body, we cant be sure
she was alive in the first place. In the clammiest scene, a rotund police detective rises from his grave, and the darkness
swirling around the hole makes his whitened visage into a morbid, grimacing moon.
Burly Tor Johnson plays Inspector Clay as a giant in body and spirit. He's one of those fellows that was built for underlings
to scurry beneath and hang by their fingernails from his every word. The big man gives off erotic energy like an oil drum
on fire, even when no women are around. When he laughs off danger, chuckling to a pal "I'm a big boy now, Johnny!," we half
expect Johnny to sigh don't I know it! Johnson looks so fierce among a cast of scrawny beat cops that we imagine no force
in the rest of the movie could tangle with him: this guy could eat two of those flying saucers for breakfast. So when the
most magnetic character in the picture does, in fact, meet his match, nothing could be tenser. Maybe no death on the screen
has had such emotional wallop since The Passion of Joan of Arc. Thankfully, Johnson isn't entirely out of the picture
after this: his white-eyed creep is a walking case of the heebie-jeebies.
Plan 9 never loses that sexiness, though it admittedly decreases once Inspector Clay goes mute (he becomes
less a villain than a beautiful, melancholy bear, befuddled and forced by captors to maim enemies). When appealing hero Jeff
Trent (Gregory Walcott, who shone for a brief moment as an MP in the dismal Mister Roberts) heads off on military mission
and says goodbye to his wife, Paula we start to roll our eyes because its the sappiest of scenarios, lovers parted, the warrior
going off to battle. We're expecting fake feelings, false nobility, unwarranted nobility, maybe all three. But the music starts
purring strange lazy draubs of Martin Denny style jazz, Paula coos to Jeff that she's intending to maul his pillow as a substitute
lover. Its very probably the wiggiest, earthiest expression of libidinal heat between married people ever put on screen. The
Trent's job in any other movie would be as bloodless good citizens; Wood and his actors make Jeff burn at his center with
righteous indignation (at anyone, everything), and Paula is flush with good humor. Between the Trents, Inspector Clay and
the shouty little monkey cop Kelton, the Earthlings are a rowdy, worthy crew to go up against the whacked-out spacemen and,
for that matter, their haunted, soulless dead slaves.
The movie is a whole funfair midway full of interesting folks. Among the aliens, Dudley Manlove plays the funniest,
Eros, as a big soft baby, always raging, petulant, or sleepy. When he rants about the logical conclusion of the human arms
race--a hair-raising vision of a sun-exploding bomb--Manlove's apoplexy blows off the screen, making the whole idea of 3D
movies look superfluous. As Eros' boss, John Breckenridge marshals a queenly regality he's somehow swishy and sinister and
a lot of fun. As he explains the science of how the dead will be animated, the details ring authentic, but The Ruler yawns
through it like the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland.
Presiding over the other characters, 'famous' TV personality Criswell narrates, sometimes on screen, and he sounds
mournful and despairing. His eyes look off into the netherworld distance. He warns of Death the Proud Brother, of time and
fate and doom locked in confusing dance, and even insinuates that some of these screen devils may follow us out of the theater:
"Perhaps, on your way home, someone will pass you in the dark, and you will never know it... for they will be from outer space,"
he says, the perfect parody embodiment of this age's anxieties: Space Race, invisible agents, privacy violation. Almost all
of Cris's speeches have some knockout idea buried in the poetry. Wood, the screenwriter, uses him like a Biblical prophet
coming down from Mount Lee, to articulate his most lyrical themes.
Plan 9's greatest trick is one I don't think we've ever seen on a movie screen: Edward Wood turns hokey kid's
Poverty Row stuff into something genuinely freaky; he doesn't try for glitz and fail, neither does he wallow. Its easier to
say what Plan 9 is not than what it is. The movie spins like a Hula Hoop, gyrating between slightly stoned slice-of-life
skits, inspired blood-curdling shrieks, grungy reality and--we may as well go ahead and say it--the strangest dreams expressed
on film since Dreyer, or maybe Méliès. Waking up from the dream that is Plan 9 From Outer Space we're stupefied for
a second. What just happened? Criswell asks us the impossible question: Can you prove it didn't happen?
NEXT: Cabin in the Woods: Slasher-Films, and Meta-Horror
Acidemic Journal of Film and Media, #8, 2012
C. 2013 - Acidemic Journal of Film and Media
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