White Dog, 1981, Dir Samuel Fuller, 90 min
A few years ago, when everyone was wearing masks, avoiding socializing indoors and refusing to touch hands, I started screening my absolute favorite genre movies on the rooftop of a now very lame art enclave. It started as a cool spot, but ultimately it fell flat after months of petty bickering and a misguided attempt to "democratize" the space. Democratize; what an awful word, when applied to any aspect of creativity.
Decades before this spot was commandeered by artists, it was a sketchy bar that all of the old time drunks of Chapel Hill still remember with great affinity. It was the perfect spot for a bootleg movie series, and when a movie was going, the rooftop felt like a tiny drive-in. Some people were loud. They drank, broke bottles and stumbled in front of the screen. Others were still and silent, enthralled by what they saw on the bleached muslin screen. Just like the drunks remember the bar, the scene was bliss.
The screening series was titled, Mystery Meat, and the rules were as follows: The film had to be impossible to find on streaming, (You Tube bootlegs didn't count). Each screening needed to have a brief essay that offered a lens through which to view whatever strange gem was before us. And the film would to be a mystery, unitl the first frame rolled. It was a lot of fun. Here's the essay from number 4:
Tonight’s Mystery Meat is for true carnivores. I’m not talking about gore, of which there is unfortunately little. I’m referring to the ham fisted message that its director, Samuel Fuller, spoons out like cold chunks of ground chuck. But however coarse the grind, this movie carries serious weight, more today than it did when the film premiered in 1982, given the surreal contrast between Donald Trump’s gnashing of teeth (when his lips aren’t puckered like an asshole) and Ronald Reagan’s deranged but pleasant smile.
The implement of Fuller’s stark message is a pure bred dog. I own similar dogs. They strike fear in some people. This isn’t intentional. They’re gentle souls that just happen to have been bred for the purpose of taking down enemy combatants and suspects fleeing on foot. I’m conflicted by this, because they are two of my closest companions. I melt at the smallest dose of their affection; it's a mere nudge with a wet nose. But they follow German commands. Their nature is to bite. And their circle of trust encompasses very few people. Their cousin, the German Shepard, (the co-star of this film) is nothing if not notorious for being Adolf Hitler’s pet, and for ripping the clothes off of African Americans who rightfully expressed that they were getting the shit end of the stick. In essence, my dogs are symbols of fascism that have been rigorously trained not to strike fear in people. So, knowing the raw power required them to keep in check, makes this film all the more troubling. It would take the bleakest form of hate and terrifyingly little effort to turn my dogs toward their darker nature.
So, who better to harness the darkness, than perky little Kristy McNichol of Little Darlings fame? And who better to guide her than jolly old Burl Ives, country music legend and doppelgänger to Kris Kringle. Their presence in this film is a hilarious, but provocative contrast to the grim truths that Fuller cracks over our heads, with 60’s radical flair and that he delivers with the menacing persistence of a carnival barker.
I met Samuel Fuller, the first time I saw this film. In 1997, White Dog was impossible to come by, even as a bootleg, so I jumped at the chance for a single night screening at The Egyptian Theater, in Los Angeles. After the film ended, Fuller himself sat outside, signing autographs. I stood in line with a bunch of other giddy cinephiles. When my turn came, it was shockingly clear how diminished the man was. He was 85, but looked 100, nearly collapsed in his chair, chewing a wet cigar. I shook his hand, saying nothing. It was soft and cold. He died a month later. He was a showman. A true carnivore.
George Jenne, November 2019
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