Michael Heagle
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Michael's Musings on Mostly Movies

On "Max Headroom"

2/29/2024

 
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Here's a paper I wrote in school. The year is 1987 or so...



In his article Who Programs You? The Science Fiction of the Spectacle, Scott Bukatman proposes that we live in the era of the blip, that we have become a blip culture. This is perhaps nowhere more true than in the British production of the original movie, Max Headroom. The politics of the blip culture are already firmly entrenched in the philosophy (or lack of philosophy) that makes up postmodernism. In this essay, I aim to get a grip on the greasy entity postmodernism, and see how its ethics have found their way into the sadly unsuccessful American television series that followed the original film Max Headroom by Rocky Morton and Annabel Jankel.

Max Headroom is perhaps the first and last of the truly postmodern items to make a flash of an existence in American broadcast television. All that has followed is postmodern by default only -- as some critics state, the surface gloss of all mass media, being simulacra without origin, are in themselves postmodern. Only MTV and its spawn retain a postmodern attitude today, and even that has become and endless loop parody of itself. In the postmodern age, media software doesn't die, it just gets reused. And reused, and reused. Ad nauseum (literally).

The world proposed in Max Headroom is the manifestation of theory, of Marshall MacLuhan made fact. In it, telejournalist-cum-adventurer Edison Carter is recreated as data in order to replace him as on-screen talent, reborn into the program or artificial intelligence named Max Headroom. This simulation of simulation (a TV celebrity made from a TV celebrity) is at the heart of the film. It is the schizophrenia of the postmodern condition made literal. Edison survives his run in with corporate- hired punks, and the computer "child" double Max escapes the lab -- as Max is a direct read-out of most of Edison's brain material ("people translated as data"), there are now two similar but different Edison Carters running around. Max is Edison, and Edison might be more like Max than he thinks, for Edison is as much a "talking head" as the disembodied Max is. In a later episode of the American series, Edison is confronted by a young boy who proclaims, "he does look like Max Headroom." Edison replies, "no actually, he looks like me," and does a Max-like smile. Which is more real, the real or the simulated? Edison, Network 23's highest rated journalist, is now capable of getting twice the air time, for like McLuhan explained, our post modern technological capabilities function as the "extensions of man." (Kuhn, p.197)

The Max/Edison duality is made even more schizophrenic by the presence of Theora Jones, his "controller," back at base. Id, ego and superego become evident in the trinity: Max is the Id, seeking humor as pleasure and reveling in the trashy tropes of "twenty minutes into the future;" Theora is the ego, trying to keep both Max and Edison in line; and Mister Carter is the superego, out to punish wrongdoers as self-appointed voice of society. As Vivian Sobchack puts forth, "throughout the last decade, even our bodies have become pervasively re-cognized as cultural, commodified, and technological objects." (Sobchack, p.237) All of these are true of Edison Carter. When he is reincarnated as Max, he is remade in a completely technological form, a form which is commodified (Max becomes the hot property of Big Time television when his CPU is given to Blank Reg) almost as much as Edison is ("he is our best known reporter. His show is top rated prime time, he satellites globally"). Edison and Max are products "'constructed' and 'replicated...' a 'self' always (re)produced and projected as an image available to others." (Sobchack, p.237) And though Edison has a life off camera, seen in his relationship with his coworkers, his corporate bosses, or his enemies, it is the TV story that counts. Getting it on air makes it valid, real, better than reality... As Bukatman says, "television... due to its mass penetration and continually functionally national and global networks, is not to be seen as presenting an image or mirror of reality, but rather as a constituent portion of a new reality." (Kuhn,p.196-7)

In terms of its post modern surface, Max Headroom excels at excess. Back in 1987, the American series was costing about a million and a half dollars per episode to produce, a figure that comes into focus when you examine the show's style. Like Blade Runner, Max Headroom is ready to "accept or embrace trashed out, crowded, and complex urban space," to embrace pastiche, the "nonhierarchical collection of heterogeneous forms and styles from a variety of heretofore distinguishable spaces and times." (Sobchack, p.227, 230) It's mise en scene is comparable to and inspired by Blade Runner, for it is a child of the BladeRunnerian ethic: fill the 21st century space with the clutter of two previous centuries. The world that Max inhabits is "a thoroughly commodified culture," evidenced by the brand name corporate stranglehold of companies like Zik Zak (an embodiment of late-eighties Jap bashing, just one of the series' culture flaws). The "new" is turned into instant junk -- ratings control the spending habits of the corporations, which control the spending of billions of viewers. As a result, the Network 23 board of directors plays their game much like Wall Street did in the eighties, buying and selling, changing programs and policies in split seconds to keep up with the constant input of data from consumers who are changing channels.

This commoditization has taken on new levels, however. In the original film and in several episodes to follow, there is a fringe element in the society who make their money selling human body parts stolen from the dead or dying. Breugel and Mahler, for example, listen to police band radios to get the jump on the nearest fatal accident, and cash in their finds at Nightingales Body Bank (through the night depository window, no less). It is this new commoditization that defines Edison's role in the pilot for the series: Breugel and Mahler dispose of Edison in this way, and when Theora finds him, she finds his definition. The words "HEAD, MALE" appear on a body tag affixed to his ear, once again illustrating the underlying principles of TV news anchors as meat.

Max Headroom is also an illustration of cultural recycling, of intertexts at work. The character Max began as a hip, cable TV talk show host, proceeded to gain a series and become spokesperson for softdrink megacorporation Pepsi -- tell me that's not grounds for election to the hall of cultural landmarks of the eighties. Edison's persona is not unlike previous journalist incarnations from cinema history. Not only does he have his girl friday, but he's mad as hell and he's not gonna take it anymore. It's a globally-potent Marshall McLuhan character with the patience of a drugged out Geraldo Rivera. It is as if 60 Minutes had gained a maniacal autonomy and had access to everything (and if Edison is a rebellious 60 minutes reporter, Max must surely be part Andy Rooney, part C3PO/R2D2). The choice of call numbers for the most powerful station in town (or is it the world?) is Network 23, which comes from a song title by German electronic music group Tangerine Dream, whose style has in many ways effected both the look and sound of science fiction, and the socio-cultural dogma that is cyberpunk.

Crucial to the understanding of Max Headroom is the problematic concepts of media in the information age. It is interestingly post modern how, in the series, at least one reference was made per episode about how TV works. Not technically functions, but how it works as a powerful business and the key socializing force in today's society. When it couldn't fit into the plot, they would allow Max a soliloquy at the end of the episode, at which point he would bash the network, the advertisers, or the program planners responsible for allowing the show on the air.
This is probably why it didn't last very long, for in it's kitschy postmod way, Max was stealing the pleasure out of an essentially pleasure producing medium. Viewers who were aware of what they were doing with TV (and what TV ritually did with them) could laugh, but those who watched it because it was the only thing on until Cosby said to themselves, "Hey, this cocky computer guy is telling me I'm stupid! That's the last time I watch this lousy show."

It is Max Headroom's suicidal self reflexiveness that made it years ahead of its time, challenging the very forces that created it (much as Edison did from episode to episode). It subscribed to the theories put forth by Frederic Jameson of "aesthetic populism" and took it to new heights. Not only was the "'degraded' landscape of schlock and kitsch" beautified and given life, but made valid as high art. Society in Max Headroom's era seems to function according to the same ideal that Jameson's words suggest, but unlike much of the dark-future science fiction of the 1980's, the power base is peculiarly democratic. The masses have a say: billions of TV users, though they may have lost the right or the will to vote long ago, they've gained (or kept) the right to vote for (other) celebrities. Ratings are as good as the voter's vote, better financially. In addition, control does not rest solely in the hands of the corporate power elite, or in the power circle of media giants like Network 23. Blank Reg and Dominique seem to be doing alright with their pirate television station, Big Time. Big Time, a kitschy, one-man MTV run by an aging, sixty-year-old punk rocker (the ultimate post modern symbol!), is capable of making a play in the ratings war with the help of Max.

Like most cyberpunk cinema, Max Headroom neither embraces nor condones technology. It uses it. Society is still hyperconsumerized, so it still needs stuff, toys, tech. Technology is not feared, and usually not awe- inspiring either. We as viewers might enjoy seeing Theora control vidicams and securicams from her greasy terminal at Network 23, but Edison mostly takes it for granted. Reg and Dominique are split on whether or not to be amazed or disappointed at the enigma that is Max Headroom's CPU, and Grosman is just put off by Bryce Lynch's irritating combination of childishness and technobabble. Grosman on Lynch's creation, Max: "Max Headroom! What the hell? Goddamn it! Get that babbling clown off the screen. Kill it... It is a computer generated geek!" Tech is just there, it is both user friendly (as is Max) and deadly (which brings us to the nasty problem of Blipverts).
At the heart of the original Max Headroom is Blipverts, an advertising tool designed by Bryce Lynch which enables 30 seconds of advertising information to be compressed to five seconds. An unusual side effect is that it causes slothful viewers to explode. It is precisely the "bombardment by these 'short, modular blips of information,'" as Scott Bukatman defines as the soul of blip culture, that is at the heart of Max Headroom. (Kuhn, p.196) Information jammed into small spaces is ever present in the story. Max himself is victim of information overload, for he thinks so fast he stutters, glitches -- he is an artificial intelligence simulacra, spewing forth data (quips, wit, one liners) and mugging for the eternal camera as fast as his speech processors will allow, sometimes faster, a collection of the speedy "pseudoevents" proposed by Jameson (Sobchack,p.237). Edison Carter has done what we all have in the blip culture, albeit literally: "the human subject has become a blip, ephemeral, electronically processed, unreal." (Kuhn, p.196)
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In the tradition of post modernism, there is an air of pessimism at work here, though sanitized. All is not without hope: Carter and Max continually win out against evil in the series, with varying degrees of success. People can at least afford color TV's, even if they cannot afford housing, and someone like Reg (a "blank," unemployable and nonexistent) can afford ratty telecommunication equipment. Still, Breugel and Mahler sell dead bodies, advertising can blow the skin off people's heads, and one's buying habits are utterly controlled by faceless corporate entities. As Arthur Kroker and David Cook state in their book, Panic Encyclopedia: the Definitive Guide to the Postmodern Scene, "Max is living out a panic conspiracy in TV as the real world. His moods are perfectly postmodern because they alternate between kitsch and dread, between the ecstasy of catastrophe and the terror of the simulacrum... Max Headroom, then, as the first citizen of the end of the world."

Some Thoughts on Star Wars After A Few Years Absence

4/10/2022

 
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Some thoughts on Star Wars 77 (after not seeing it for a while, decided to check it out at 5am this morning on Disney+ after seeing some HD clips)

Been resistant since the Special Edition -- turns out there were only about five or six egregious shots and one or two sound cues that should have been left alone.
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The entire Jabba scene excluded in that math, we shouldn't go there. Also Huttese is full bullshit, "crispuh" for "burned up" and jokey stuff like that.

Tendency to have every Dewback screaming in every shot they appear was one of the few big irritants for me. When they were majestic, barely moving lizard hulks they inspired the imagination.

Tattoine is really the best. Between sandpeople, jawas, rusty droids, the original cantina, the back streets of Mos Eisley, that perfect docking bay 94, the doors on the buildings, the mysteries unanswered.

As I recently mentioned, C3PO never looked as good again. His level of physical damage in the Death Star is perfect.

Death Star corridors never seemed repeated. Very cleverly arranged.

First half rescued by 3P0 and R2D2 relationship/banter. Also Alec Guinness's looks at Han Solo are really priceless. Silent burns, each one, but never hatred. Call it "sophisticated bemusement."

Public displays of affection are common. Obi Wan claps Luke's shoulder outside the Jawa ruin. Han pets Chewy, and leans on him. Leia touches Luke's back delicately after Kenobi's death. VERY GOOD.

All of the added Millennium Falcon shots are truly great. The couple of added X-wing shots in the death star fight are great. But the original shots of the tie-fighters-versus Falcon aerial battle after the escape are truly transcendent pieces of model work. That long-lens stuff of the TIEs skimming past the Falcon are works of art.

REALLY fucking hits the ground running when the three leads are together and never lets up. THIS was where the magic was. As funny as the droids are, they're just props. Leia and *young* Luke and Han is where the magic resided. Replicated in Empire, lost when Luke gets serious (thanks Yoda).

Synthesizers and Saxophones Interview -- Part 2

3/31/2021

 
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Who is the intended audience for the book?
 
When I got out of college I moved to LA for a bit, and picked up a copy of Michael Weldon’s Psychotronic Encyclopedia of Film. It’s a huge compilation of capsule reviews of “Drive-in” style movies, and as a result of reading that book, I made my first feature film and haven’t looked back. I hope that somebody stumbles on this, sees some movies that they wouldn’t otherwise, and become strangely inspired to make their own thing the same way I did. Art is self-perpetuating, and who knows what would come of watching a double bill of Dirty Dancing and Howard the Duck, or The Lost Boys and Breakfast Club? Either way I think I’d watch the lovechild of those in a hot second.
 
Do you have any favorite parts of the book?
 
I was able to write about a couple of things I feel really strongly about. Queen’s music for Flash Gordon – it was the first cassette I ever got, I had that thing memorized. I got to write about Purple Rain, probably my favorite soundtrack album of all time. I got to spread the love about some lesser known films that I admire, like Alex Cox’s Straight to Hell that stars a ton of English musicians, and Streets of Fire, a kind of retro-50s-gang-movie-meets-MTV flick.
 
What’s next? Do you think there will be a second edition, and what would you like it to contain?
 
The next thing I’m going to do is a book on the horror films of 1988. Because of the horror boom in the mid 1980s, following successes like Nightmare on Elm Street, there were something like 70 horror films released that year, and tons of them are great. I was in college at UW-Milwaukee and obsessed with horror movies around that time, so it’s another dip in the well of nostalgia for me. Now, with DVD and Blu-Ray and occasionally streaming services, you can find quite a lot of these things and watch them. For Synthesizers and Saxophones, I actually found myself buying some of the films on VHS via eBay just to get good-looking copies, though, which sounds really backwards. 
 
Why are your memories of synthesizer music so strong?
 
I was raised on 60s and 70s music – my dad listened to The Beatles, The Eagles, Steve Miller. Synth solos in 70s songs were always the strangest part of the tune – Heart’s “Magic Man” kicks in with that thick Moog thing for a moment and it takes it into another world. But when the 80s rolled around I finally had my own music. I distinctly remember the eerie experience of hearing Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall,” then the slightly haunting early songs of The Police like “Spirits in the Material World.” They were slightly cinematic. Then music videos hit and those specific pictures and those specific songs were permanently melded.
 
Like every kid of that era I loved Star Wars, but somehow Flash Gordon spoke to me even more – the operatic Freddie Mercury vocal, the soaring Brian May guitar, the satin jumpsuits and art-deco models. Between cinema experiences of that era, and songs playing on the radio, and the MTV-like music video anthology shows on Saturday morning TV… We were immersed in it, it was the sound of my adolescence. And it’s still some of my favorite music, and people working today in that retro sound still capture some of the magic of it.
 
What is it about the music industry and the movie industry that made this a worthy subject for a book?
 
The music industry seems so splintered now – and “pop” kind of seems absent from the landscape. Certainly, the number of great hit songs that debut in mainstream movies is much lower than it was when films like Flashdance and Footloose appeared, with albums that stayed in the charts for half a year. Best you can hope for is an 80s song trotted out as an ironic joke – or like the new Captain Marvel, where the whole soundtrack is 90s tunes because it’s a period film.
 
The book goes into the economic motivations that brought pop music and movies together. MTV was big, pop music had become a big money maker with the now-affluent teenage set who would not only buy the records but the entire Madonna-wanna-be ensembles. The 80s didn’t invent the rock and roll movie, but with the advent of cable and VCRs new markets opened up and producers saw dollar signs.

But, pop music and movies had some kind of a falling out. They just don’t make it like they used to. Take Ghostbusters: when was the last time you sang the title of a movie? In the book there’s a Billboard chart from 1985 where the top three songs are occupied by movie songs (St Elmo’s Fire, Power of Love from Back to the Future, and Tina Turner’s song for Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome). Has that happened since?

Total media synergy before that was a buzzword. It was starting to be more and more common then, I can think of one other example from The Last Dragon where a martial arts movie basically stops to show an entire DeBarge music video. But the thing was produced by Berry Gordy, basically the godfather of Motown, with an eye on the music’s bottom line.

Typically the reverse was true – MTV ran tons of songs-from-movies where the music video was the footage of the artist intercut with scenes from the film. Then you couldn’t help but see the financial motivation – or not! Maybe the music was wholly inseparable and aesthetically linked to the content at the molecular level! When those were good, they were great. Look up Billy Ocean’s “When The Going Gets Tough” from Jewel of the Nile. We needed Danny Devito, Michael Douglas, and Kathleen Turner singing backup in a white tuxedo! It’s sheer exuberance at its best. Or the cameos in the video for “Ghostbusters,” or all the music videos that Freddy Krueger was in. I love and live for movies, the only thing I like just as much is music. Put those together with a sense of humor and I’m in heaven, man.

Synthesizers and Saxophones Interview, Part 1

3/31/2021

 
Writer Michael Heagle answers some frank questions about the making of his book, Synthesizers and Saxophone (2019)

What was the “ah-hah!” moment that made you decide to write the book?


The book started innocuously enough. I caught myself watching and re-watching the 1984 breakdancing film Breakin’ and its sequel, the infamously-titled Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo. I approached them non-ironically, just enjoying them for the dance work and as a snapshot of a particular period I was fond of. I was listening to the soundtracks, seeking out posters and lobby cards and autographs and other memorabilia but I found there wasn’t really a book on the subject – my usual go-to for collecting on a movie subject. So I said, “how hard could it be?” and wrote a short article about them, then added one of the other films from that short-lived trend – Beat Street. Soon I found there were even more of these that I hadn’t heard of, and the book escalated from there. You add early Rap movies and suddenly you have a chapter – but not quite a book.
 

What was the creation/research process like? How did you gather materials and piece everything together, even having to “cherry-pick” what you used?  

The most dangerous thing was that every piece of research led to another film, and another and another. Scouring YouTube for interviews on one film suddenly had me discovering dozens of other movies, some just sitting there in their entirety. I quickly realized I had seen almost nothing from this decade except the hits and the occasional, accidental B-movie. But it was a great revelation. I loved the films of the period, and the knowledge that there were still hundreds of bad and hilarious things I hadn’t seen? That was like discovering a $100 bill in a jacket pocket.
 
The idea of leaving things out of the book was a practical decision – I didn’t want to spend more than a year on the project, nor for it to balloon up to some impractical length. By putting it through the certain criteria, I was able to edit myself before I got into trouble. Was the film a traditional musical, where people broke into song? If those songs were in a 1980s idiom, it went in. So, a disco film like Xanadu or Can’t Stop the Music, which came out in 1980, didn’t make the cut, but something like Earth Girls Are Easy or the ridiculous Voyage of the Rock Aliens was in. A film where an aspect of the music business was shown, like Krush Groove, is the perfect movie for this book – you’ve got essential artists like Sheila E and Run D.M.C and Fat Boys and The Beastie Boys performing in it, so it’s a movie and it’s pop music and you’re off and running. Is Madonna in the movie – yes? Is it Shanghai Surprise, where it’s set in the 1940s and she doesn’t sing any songs – it’s out. 
 
I also just tackled things I thought would make the table of contents sound funny and compelling, so you have a chapter about songs in action movies called “Songs for a Muscular Activity,” and “Danger Zone: the Importance of Being Kenny (Loggins).” Maybe the best one is “Modern Earth Girls that Desperately Want to Have Fun.”


Were there any challenges/writer’s blocks?
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It was easy and it was fun, but mentally strenuous. I’d pick out a few movies to work on for the week, watch them with a notebook and jot some ideas down, kind of get a synopsis and movie review sort of take on the material, then take a day to research the music and write the chapter. So every movie in the book only took a day or two, and maybe a little time to go back and make sense out of it. 

The challenge was working exclusively with second hand sources – it would have been a lot more fun to sit down with Giorgio Moroder for an afternoon, or chat with David Lee Roth about his failed attempt at making a “Diamond Dave” feature film right after he left Van Halen. Maybe the next one will have more firsthand interviews, but this one was at a distinct disadvantage – John Hughes, Prince, David Bowie – a lot of these guys aren’t around anymore. Being outside the entertainment industry and working out of the Midwest instead of Los Angeles makes it harder, too.


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Four Writing Lessons from John Carpenter's PRINCE OF DARKNESS Screenplay

9/1/2020

 
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Efficiency in storytelling is like any other art form. Take music, for example. Some really sparse songs are fantastic, sometimes you need 48 tracks of overdubs.

When it comes to screenwriting, I would say I try to take after my filmmaking idol John Carpenter. It's a classic, ultra-sparse Hollywood style of show don't tell. Here's four ways JC (working under the nom de plume of Martin Quatermass) shows his skill at keeping things tight in the screenplay for 1987's PRINCE OF DARKNESS. Read the Screenplay Here

  1. You must describe in order to provide the picture, but not in the way that prose does. The screenplay opens in something called INT SENTINEL'S BEDROOM - NIGHT which is then described: "A tiny bedroom. Priest's cell. Spare. Moody shadows from the window. A large cross on the wall." This is reporting the facts of the room. Only two opinions in there, "spare" could be up for debate and "moody" is a matter of opinion. Prior to that he says that there's "dark electronic music." Sort of a note to self, but anybody who's seen a Carpenter flick will know what he means. So break that up and you see he's got the whole room in two lines, and also even suggests a pattern of cutting with the short jabs of sentences. "Priest's cell" makes a comment about the guy's existence -- prisoner of God or prisoner to his sect and his secret about the Devil -- as well as being physically descriptive. Two words. He reminds the cinematographer it's a horror film: "moody shadows." He reminds the art department to get a cross for the wall. And we're out.
  2. Pictures equal words. If it's something we'd recognize with little effort, spend little effort. Same script: EXT UNIVERSITY CAMPUS DAY "An idyllic campus. Charming ivy-covered buildings. STUDENTS stroll the grounds." We've been there a million times. Also this is the character's Ordinary World so we want a sense of normalcy, and we got it. It takes as long to read that sentence as the shot would be held on screen. Now if you want to draw out an establishing for pacing purposes, you could. say right after a thrilling scene you want to bring the reader back down, you could take an extra word or two.
  3. Tell departments what they need to know. Later the church is described "immense. Gothic. Its spires sweep upward into the sky." It's a wish list for the location scout. Who wasn't able to find that because there's no abandoned Gothic in Los Angeles. But you have shots and tone. Suggests a low angle looking up, for sure, without saying it.
  4. Get the characters across fast. Carpenter calls Donald Pleasence's character PRIEST. He's described as "PRIEST, 50's." Probably knew he was going to cast him. Plus, what are you going to describe, the black outfit and collar? He's a priest. If he didn't know who he was going to cast, he'd probably have to try harder. "Brian Marsh, 24, a graduate student in physics, newly arrived on campus, walks down a sunlit courtyard carrying an armload of textbooks." My inclination would be to leave out "newly arrived on campus" because we can't see the past -- or can we? What does a newly-arrived student look like? It's outfit, action, demeanor.. .Lots in one phrase.

​I'm inclined to put the exact effort necessary on the page. It's a document to get you to the screen, not a stand-alone work of art. It's like fancy fonts on an architectural blueprint. Or, it's like putting expensive aftermarket spoilers and stuff on a shitty import car. I want my screenplay to be a 71 Plymouth Barracuda. Just a monster under the hood. In short -- make the "What Happens" be so amazing that it doesn't require embellishment.
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