by Eric J Baker
I always crack up at Shaun of the Dead when Ed (Nick Frost) tries to kill a zombie by throwing an Electro record at it and Shaun (Simon Pegg) shouts, “Hey! That was the second album I ever bought!” No matter how forgettable the recording, music lovers will always elevate their early favorites to legendary status. In my case, though, no rose-colored glasses are needed. The first album I ever bought is a certified classic.
It must have been around 1979. I remember carrying my 10 bucks into a ratty box car of a music shop called Graymat (perhaps the worst name in the history of stores, at once evoking a drabness and a laundromat), selecting my vinyl, and plunking the cash on the counter. The manager was a chunky, stone-faced guy with all the expressiveness and charm of Darth Vader. He intimidated the hell out of me, so this coming-of-age moment was tempered by a case of jangled nerves. I was sure glad to be out of there with bag in hand.
by Eric J Baker
It has been quite a busy week here at Pure Film Creative. Our style guru, James Tuttle, went on location to file a report from sweltering Manhattan, covering art, theater, and fine dining in one devil-may-care swoop and, at the same time, showing us east-coasters what good hair looks like. Meanwhile, our ringleader James Killough’s Marcus Bachmann post went homo-viral, drawing more traffic than Buddha’s birthday in Seoul (Seriously. Have you ever been to South Korea in May? You can’t turn around without hitting your head on a paper lantern).
My role in all this was to sit back and go, “Hmmm,” which was a lot more work than it sounds. Because it means I was thinking. I was thinking that PFC is ostensibly an entertainment, culture, and arts Web site, in that order, yet politics has been poking its repulsive head out of the sewer quite a bit here lately, like an outtake from the imaginary remake of C.H.U.D. (For real, Hollywood. Get on that remake already). Although Tuttle has been keeping it real, Killough and I are guilty of milking the Bachmann name for all it’s worth in clicks. So, for me, no more bat-shit crazy congressional reps or their self-loathing, closeted gay husbands after today.
by Eric J Baker
Editor’s Note: This marks the 100th post on the PFC blog, which wouldn’t mean much if this were TMZ with a dozen fluffy gossip posts an hour, but a PFC piece requires a lot of TLC to create. It’s only appropriate that Eric Baker take this honor because it is he who kicked us over the 4,000-views-a-day mark on Friday with his Duran Duran story. — James Killough
We were talking movie directors here the other day (actually, I was talking movie directors and Killough was like, “Yeah whatever, Baker—shut the fuck up—I know”) and Roman Polanski came up, not for his movies but for his marriage to Sharon Tate. The Polanski-Tate union suffered from the dreaded Billy Joel-Christie Brinkley syndrome years before medical science had even identified the disease, which occurs when an ugly, talented man marries a beautiful, possibly talented, but who cares, she’s a goddess, woman. And Sharon Tate was a goddess.
You may know that Tate was murdered in 1969 by Charles Manson’s gang and that Polanski went on to perpetrate a sexual act against a 13-year-old girl in the mid 1970s.
Since the posting of last week’s Baker Street column, in which I pointed out that the English are the worst bunch of people on the planet and that William Shakespeare wore clown shoes, I have been inundated with hate mail and threats from across the Atlantic. While it’s true I said England has contributed nothing of value to humankind other than some good pop music, can’t the English be happy that I said they have some good pop music?
I’ve been called a git, a wanker, a prat, a nancy, a wally, a tosser, a twat, and a knob by my parents since I was born, which has made me overly sensitive to criticism. Fortunately, the English are noted for being polite, so their hate mail usually starts with a compliment like, “I say, chap, bloody good show giving us what-for last week,” before moving on to point out the inadequacies in my story.
For example, I apparently neglected to give credit to England for producing some noteworthy film actors over the years. Sir Laurence Olivier was mentioned, as was Sir Ralph Richardson. Dame Judi Dench. Sir Mick Jagger, for his role in Freejack (1992). Dame Kate Beckinsale, whom I just knighted myself so we can pretty up the images around here.
Speaking of girls from England called Kate, Ms. Middleton seems to have won approval from my female friends (which are legion, as you suspected).
By Eric J Baker
Anyone who has seen a Mel Gibson movie knows that the English are pure evil.
In Braveheart (1995), King Edward the Utter Bastard spends his days raiding Scottish villages and his nights raiding Scottish panties, much to the chagrin of one William Wallace. Not to be outdone, a total rotter named William Tavington shows up in The Patriot (2000) to burn down a church full of parishioners during the early days of the American Revolution. And who can forget The Passion of the Christ (2004), in which the usurper, King Richard III, locks Jesus in the Tower of London so he can take His place at the right hand of God?
I think it was Posh Spice who said, “With great evil comes great invention.” Or maybe it was me. I forget. But it’s true, is it not? The Nazis invented rocket engines. The Soviets put the first man into orbit, Yuri Sputnik. That kid invented Facebook. Given that Great Britain is the hub of all that is wicked, it’s no wonder the English are responsible for some of the most game-changing inventions in human history, like…for instance, the… the…um…