By CP Staff
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
By Ed Huyck
Last March, while The Pianist director Roman Polanski was receiving a standing ovation at the Oscars, a man 2,000 miles away sat planted firmly in his seat. Lloyd Kaufman was offended. One wonders what on earth could offend the cofounder of Troma Entertainment, a company whose pictures include Redneck Zombies and Surf Nazis Must Die. "We should not be giving ovations to a director who violated the chocolate canal of a 12-year-old girl," crackles the voice on the other end of the line.
Then Kaufman falls silent--a rarity from a man whose mile-a-minute rants sometimes recall Zero Mostel in The Producers. The mogul realizes that he has crossed the boundaries of decency. He apologizes, then quickly corrects himself. Scratch the word girl, he says, and substitute a more politically precise term: gyno-American. The distinction is important for Troma's upstanding image. "We're the moral conscience of the industry," says the distributor of Fag Hag and Fat Guy Goes Nutzoid.
The weird thing is, Kaufman may not be kidding. Take his new movie, Citizen Toxie: The Toxic Avenger IV, screening this week at the St. Anthony Main as part of a 30th-anniversary Troma retrospective starting Friday. The fourth installment of the Toxic Avenger superhero series, which remains Troma's calling card, Citizen Toxie hammers taboo subjects such as abortion and mental disability with a fearless crudeness not seen since John Waters's early films. A borderline-comic scene that copies the pickup-dragging death of James Byrd is appalling by any imaginable standard of taste and decency. And yet it must be said that Kaufman may have been the first filmmaker to address this national trauma openly in a fictional feature, with its racist vehemence and ugliness laid bare. If it pisses off viewers, Kaufman wants them pissed off--for the right reasons.
"What's appalling--the scene or the crime?" Kaufman asks during a phone chat from Troma's New York offices. He uses the example of his late friend, filmmaker Samuel Fuller, whose attacks on internalized American bigotry sometimes got him branded a bigot. "He did a movie [White Dog] about a dog that people trained to be racist, and for that people called him a racist," Kaufman says. "He was ahead of his time. There's nothing courageous about making Schindler's List 50 years after the Holocaust. When 100 percent of the people agree with something, that's not the time to do it."
There's no danger of anyone agreeing with 100 percent of what Troma does. The typical Troma film is a fire-hose spew of drive-in essentials: jiggling jugs, spilling guts, leering fat guys, geysers of unmentionable fluids, and fart noises amplified to sonic-boom decibels. But it's a brew with a devoted following. Quentin Tarantino, Peter Jackson, and Gaspar Noë are avowed Troma fans, and the Cinematheque Française has feted its films. Now Kaufman means to infect the populace with Make Your Own Damn Movie!, a guide-to-filmmaking book that tells wannabe directors how to exploit friends, family, and unsuspecting crew members the Troma way.
"There are very few books about moviemaking written by people who make movies," says Kaufman, who'll share secrets from the book at a "master class" at St. Anthony Main on Saturday at 5:00 p.m. (He'll also be on hand at the theater to introduce many of the screenings during the retro's first few days.) The full week of Troma trauma ranges from Joel M. Reed's indefensible Bloodsucking Freaks (screening Saturday at midnight) to Kaufman's own bid for Miramax tradition-of-quality approval, Tromeo and Juliet (August 24 and 27). In the latter, Troma improves upon the tame original with head-rippings, hot femme-on-femme sex, and a hero who happens to be a horny mutant squirrel. If you were a film-school geek, whom would you want to follow--musty old Shakespeare, or the guy with the squirrel suit?
"I lecture often at universities," Kaufman says, "and students ask the same questions. How do you raise money? How do you sell your movie? How do you market it, when the playing field is no longer level?"
The last point especially raises his ire. Independent filmmakers had more access to theaters in the early '70s, when Kaufman and his Troma business partner Michael Herz were Yale undergrads. Their first successes, raunchy sex comedies such as 1979's Squeeze Play (Friday at midnight), thrived in the wild and woolly days of competing indie theater chains and pre-consolidation cable. Now that a handful of "devil-worshipping conglomerates" controls all the avenues of exhibition, Kaufman argues, independents can barely get their films in theaters, let alone meet skyrocketing promotion costs.
"Under the Nixon-Reagan-Clinton axis, all the laws that protected audiences from cartels were destroyed," Kaufman says. As consolidation continues, he expects only indifference from current FCC Chairman Michael Powell. Nor does he count on help from his old Yale classmate, one George W. Bush. "I should've joined the Skull and Bones when they asked me," Kaufman laments. "I'd probably have more money."
That leaves Troma no choice but to use the guerrilla marketing, outright hucksterism, and utterly daft promotional opportunities outlined in Make Your Own Damn Movie! No niche market is too small. When the city of Kabul was liberated and its movie theaters opened after years of Taliban repression, what showed up overnight? A gift box of Troma's finest, courtesy of you-know-who. At the recent Cannes Film Festival, amidst the blue-badge scavengers and preening celebs, Kaufman could be found stalking the Croisette with his stable of deformed superheroes and busty starlets in tow.