Back To Hollywood Boulevard

"Joe Bob Goes to the Drive-In" for 7/9/90

cutline: Former porn star Ginger Lynn Allen demonstrates the soul of her new serious acting style in "Back to Hollywood Boulevard"

By Joe Bob Briggs

Drive-In Movie Critic of Grapevine, Texas

You know the problem with TV talk shows?

I was thinking about this recently when Larry King was interviewed by Johnny Carson on The Tonight Show. It was the day before Jane Pauley went on David Letterman's show (not to be confused with Deborah Norville's appearance on Letterman the week before). And I was thinking to myself, "I haven't seen an interview with a talk-show host this good since Dan Rather did the two-parter on Late Night With Bob Costas. In fact, I'd like to see Bob Costas interviewed on Geraldo to see if maybe he agrees with me."

Of course, Geraldo might not want to have Costas on right now, because Connie Chung just went on The Arsenio Hall Show, The Tonight Show, and Late Night With David Letterman, all in the space of three months, and if Geraldo had Costas on, it might look like he was settling for him because he couldn't get Connie Chung. Of course, he could always book Maury Povich, but that would be too much like the two-parter that Bob Costas did with Connie and Maury.

And that reminds me of another interesting thing. Three nights after Connie Chung appeared on Arsenio Hall's show, Arsenio Hall appeared on the Face to Face With Connie Chung special. It was such a coincidence, don't you think? That's maybe a one-in-a-million shot, that they would both be booked on each other's shows in the same week. Wow, that's one for Ripley's, isn't it?

As Diane Sawyer said, when she was interviewed on Live With Regis & Kathie Lee, an interview is a very hard thing to get these days. Barbara Walters had to work months before she broke down the resistance of Bryant Gumbel, who went on 20/20 to talk about the Today show.

Other guests are much easier to book. According to the Associated Press, Tom Brokaw, Linda Ellerbee, Mike Wallace, Walter Cronkite, Jane Pauley, Ted Jennings, Ted Koppel, Pierre Salinger and Kathleen Sullivan have all appeared on Later With Bob Costas. But can you imagine how long it took to track down that many celebrities and get them to talk in front of a camera?

I'm really sorry that I missed my chance to see Bob Costas interviewed on CBNC's The Dick Cavett Show. Maybe Dick asked him how he does it so well.

And, come to think of it, isn't it about time somebody interviewed Dick Cavett?

John Chancellor, Sam Donaldson and Maria Shriver all did Letterman this year. So did Tom Brokaw and the ever-popular Connie Chung.

Fortunately, there are some talk-show hosts who have the guts to book the really controversial guests. This year Joan Rivers moved her talk show to New York, and on the very first segment, she introduced . . . Phil Donahue.

Of course, she had to. Phil had had her on his show just a month before.

I think I know what's happening here. Everyone in the universe has already been interviewed. It's over. We're talked out. All that's left is for these yahoos to finish talking to one another, and then maybe we can all get some rest.

Speaking of showbiz cannibalism, I had to give "Back to Hollywood Boulevard" an automatic four-star rating for having the foresight to a) put me in the movie, b) without having any REASON to put me in the movie, c) in a scene that makes no sense and will confuse everybody who WATCHES the movie. Of course, this must be a Roger Corman picture, proving once again that Roger, the king of the drive-in, knows that they don't call em exploitation movies for nothing.

Actually, this is one of those movies that you can't watch until you know the stories BEHIND the movie. It's a sequel to "Hollywood Boulevard," which was made in 1976 when a producer named Jon Davison made a bet with Roger Corman that he could make a movie in ten days for $50,000, which would make it just about the lowest budget film in history. And then they did it. Two young directors, Joe Dante ("Gremlins") and Alan Arkush, made the movie, starring Candice Rialson as a young innocent girl who comes to Hollywood and gets a job working for Miracle Pictures ("If it's a good movie . . . it's a Miracle!") And they took a whole slew of cheap Roger Corman movies--women-in-chains, stewardess movies, gangster flicks--and they took out all the expensive stuff like crowd scenes and car chases and explosions and nudity and cut the old footage into new scenes they shot themselves with whatever cast they could throw together. And it came out and became a sort of cult classic, with performances by Paul Bartel, Mary Woronov, Dick Miller and other famous low-budget stars.

So, about 12 years later, after Roger Corman has made a hundred more movies, he turns over all the old footage to three of his NEW proteges--director Steve Barnett, producers Chris Beckman and Tom Merchant--and they do the same thing all over again, but this time with Ginger Lynn Allen, the former porno queen, as the sweet, innocent Hollywood newcomer, and Kelly Monteith as the crazed European director.

In other words, they threw a bunch of junk at the wall and saw what stuck. My kinda movie!

Sixteen breasts. 122 dead bodies. Nekkid women from outer space. Deadly exploding wind-up toy dog. Virgin sacrifice. Lasered tourists. Exploding bamboo. Exploding house. Exploding yacht. Exploding plane. Exploding copter. Four motor vehicle chases, with five crash-and-burns. Gratuitous Joe Bob. Drive-In Academy Award nominations for Blake Gibbons, as Murray the loudmouth assistant director, for saying "Battle maidens to the set, please!"; Kelly Monteith, as the foreign director who keeps screaming "They are ruining the aura of my scene!" and objects to having a rock band do a music video in the middle of his jungle battle; Steve Vinovich, as the producer who tries to get Glotz tomato juice into every scene, for saying "I don't think a little thing like minor tissue damage should get in our way"; and Ginger Lynn Allen, for being such a great actress that she successfully portrays a VIRGIN.

Four stars. Joe Bob says check it out.

JOE BOB'S ADVICE TO THE HOPELESS

Victory over Communism! The Parkway Drive-In in Winnfield, La., is still packing em in by the hundreds from all over central Louisiana, because Mike Smith, who runs the Parkway, knows in his heart that the drive-in will never die. To discuss the meaning of life with Joe Bob, or to get free junk and his world-famous "We Are The Weird" newsletter, write Joe Bob Briggs, P.O. Box 2002, Dallas, TX 75221. Joe Bob's Fax line is always open: 214-368-2310.

Dear Joe Bob,

I'm so excited!! What an honor to be nominated for a Drive-In Academy Award! I am now starting my campaign.

What do I have to do to win? Now, don't get too excited by that question; it does sound a little open-ended, doesn't it? But I have decided I need that "Hubcap"!!! So what should I do? Should I run adds in Variety and Hollywood Reporter? Or should I have a big billboard on Sunset? Or should I have a huge Hollywood party and serve sushi? Or should I wear some cute little sexy outfit and come on your show and talk about it?

Well, you tell me!?

I really need to know my next move so I can get on with my campaign. I'm putting myself in your hands. So please guide me to the top of the heap.

Sincerely,

Catherine Carlen

Hollywood, Calif.

Dear Catherine:

Since you're the only person who has ever shamelessly BEGGED for a Drive-In Academy Award, I have to think about this.

With the millions you received from starring in "Chopper Chicks in Zombietown," I'm sure you could afford at least one tasteless self-promoting ad in the trade papers. Naw, that's no good--I don't READ the trade papers.

I know! All it would take is for you to come on Drive-In Theater and recreate the immortal moment where you say "You're the Sluts! Try and act like it!"

This was, as we all know, a moment in motion picture history when . . . well, it was a moment in motion picture history.

Dear Joe Bob,

Your interview with Mr. Golan confirms it without a doubt: as a humorist you are right up there with Rabelais, Stephen Potter and New Yorker cartoons.

What do you think about homosexuals? Am I the only person in the world who is not homosexual?

Your free-wheeling views are right down my alley. Give it to me straight.

Sincerely,

Harold V. Bell

Oklahoma City

Dear Harold:

Just when I was gonna ask you for a date. (Sigh.)

Dear Fellow Movie/Video Fans:

The Fallen Angels are a service, support and social group set up by and for those individuals "excommunicated" from various religious sects.

Among our various service and social groups is a division of The Couch Potatoes (Lodge #250). Unlike other lodges we are more interested in alternative, fringe entertainment (adult and horror videos in particular).

Many of our members have expressed an interest in your organization and its services. Being this as of such, if you could please send any and all information about yourself, membership and the possibility of The Fallen Angels forming its own division of your group, we would be very grateful.

Sarah Berger

Couch Potatoes Division

Fallen Angels

Southington, Conn.

Dear Sarah:

Before I send you any information, I have to know the answers to the following questions:

Will you become slaves to the All Knowing One?

Who is the All Knowing One?

Dear Sir Joe Bob Briggs,

Groovy, dude, you're kind of like (in my opinion) Dave Barry with somewhat of a brain.

If you're interested, I am 15 years old, born Sept. 30th, 1974, in some Colorado Springs hospital, Eisenhower. I was born about three months early and they thought I was going to die so they drove me to another hospital, Memorial, where they had the ability to make more babies survive then at Eisenhower. I'm entering 10th grade at Widefield High School (you've heard of it, right? Ha Ha!). So far I've managed A's but we'll see if it lasts 'til twelfth. If you read this, I'm believing that you are being bored so I'll shut up in the scribbleatory sense.

Thanks, Beav. You're welcome, Wally.

Diana Beatty

Colorado Springs, Colo.

Dear Diana:

You're THE Diana Beatty? The Diana Beatty from Widefield? I'm flipping out.

I was born at Parkland Hospital in Dallas, which is this place they take babies if they don't give a flip.

I'm sorry, Wally. That's okay, Beav.

Dear Joe Bob,

Don't you agree that the only way retarded people should be allowed to view movies is at drive-ins--gagged and bound in locked cars?

I know this sounds uncharitable, but if you'd experienced what happened to me last week in Stockton's Royal Four Theater . . . well, let's just say you wouldn't be feeling too kindly toward United Way.

Ten minutes into a screening of "Miami Blues," a group of six unaccompanied retarded persons clamored into the sparsely peopled theater--spilling popcorn and Coke in their wakes--and plopped themselves across the aisle from me. Before she'd settled her big butt into the squeaky seat, the fattest member of the gang--a balding woman wearing a neon pink pup tent--leaned toward me and yelled:

"HAS THE MOVIE STARTED YET!?"

This, in spite of the fact that Alec Baldwin was larger than life on the screen, strutting around like a peacock while he put the screws to a wimpish Hare Krishna. Needless to say, I got up and moved to the first row. But that wasn't the end of it. Not on your life!

Thirty minutes later--at the point where Baldwin is plowing his hooker girlfriend's fertile field on top of the kitchen counter--one retard sniggered and started screaming, "PISTOLA! PISTOLA!"

Before I could turn in my seat to see what was happening, the entire group was chanting, "PISTOLA! PISTOLA!" "PISTOLAPISTOLAPISTOLA!"

Baldwin was going faster than a carny on a cigarette break, and the sound track was building to an ear-splitting crescendo as six hysterical voices bellowed out the Italian word for pistol. I tell you, it was positively mindboggling. Maybe the geeks were confused about what it was Baldwin had been concealing in his jeans during the first half of the film.

I shudder to think what might have happened if, instead of "Miami Blues," the movie had been "Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer" (!)

Of course, my Stockton experience doesn't top the one my mother had last year in Troy, New York, when she went to catch her idol--Patrick Swayze--in "Roadhouse."

Mom was the lone occupant of a downtown theater--and had just gotten comfy in her seat with a box of malted milk balls--when two retarded women came in and sat on either side of her.

Too scared to move, poor Ma sat through 93 minutes of beer guzzling, nudity and mayhem, punctuated by the untiring running commentaries of the two spastics who growled, "ARGHAGRARAAA!" every time Swayze took off his shirt to flex his pecs or mumble a four-letter word.

I guess what I want to ask you is this, Joe Bob. Do you know of any FBI data on the phenomenon of retards running amuck in American movie houses? I mean, do you think I should bring automatic weaponry with me next time I go to a bargain matinee?

Yours,

Angel Camp

Valley Springs, Calif.

Dear Angel:

I shouldn't have started the "Pistola" thing. It seemed funny at the time. I was out of control. Can you forgive me?

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