The decision-making process is difficult enough without having to factor in death. When one jump-starts fate in a way that is unnatural and lacking any organic flow, chance becomes almost an innocent bystander in this game called life.

Which is all the usual fancy way to preface our look at this edition of cinematic treasure—lost, found, rediscovered, or otherwise. With a shadow-y narrator whose calling card is the act of whistling while discussing the puzzle and characters of a mystery, or, in some cases, an odd but telling twist of fate, one saw what would surely become an almost dry run of the Twilight Zone program, featured on television over a decade later, in William Castle’s 1944 film, The Whistler.

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Most of the editions of this column have centered upon either lost or found or strange or just plain old fashioned re-discovered treasure. However, there are times when the simple act of sitting down to watch something that might be substantial in some way can have its own kick. And kick it did, as this film is also legendary for being the last that criminal John Dillinger saw before being killed for deeds that broke more than their fair share of hidden promises.

Sifting through a holiday box set of ancient celluloid, I came upon a very early 1930s gem, which featured William Powell, Myrna Loy and Clark Gable. The piece was a quick shoot on a very limited budget, and was not supposed to garner the MGM studio too much money. If anything, the work was yet another in a long assembly line of films to feed the hungry masses during the Depression, specifically 1934, when this fine little gem hit the nation’s cinemas. But funny things happen when one is encountered with a good script that inspires the moment, and the moment did indeed happen with this edition of Hidden Flick, Manhattan Melodrama.

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Sitting quietly, observing, seeking what may have been in the shadows, looking at the distant light with fresh eyes, burning brightly in some faraway future, a vision never quite dying out because it will also offer something new to those that listen to its poignant echo.

Well, that’s all sweet and dandy, but it’s the tail end of the holiday season and we are here to have fun. And in our current Undead Season, the season which follows the demise of the little thing we do around here exposing some primo buried cinematic loot, FUN is the key word right about now as we feast upon just about anything in sight. Dig in, mates.

Indeed. The perennial holiday classics are hitting us from all sides, and one would be remiss NOT to get in on all of the fun (that word again) without jotting a few choice words about yet another bonafide holiday bit of joy that is always played around the house this time of year.

Ahhh…yes, we wheel out that classic which transcends all religions, creeds, cultures, and keepers of public taste, as we take a look at a mid-period Jackie Chan gem, in this wee big ole lump of Merry Chan Master FUN called The Legend of Drunken Master.

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History comes when the mind is awake, and, at this time of the year, it is often difficult to just sit down and think about what has happened, what has almost transpired, and what has not. Often, one gets a fleeting glimpse of what may or may not be true, but it appears more like a dream, rather than some form of historical fact. And, hey, life can appear more active in that sense, anyway. One should be able to breeze through the pages of some spiritual, or cultural, or metaphysical history book, and re-write the pages, insert a new belief, a new idea, a new concept for the future, re-conceiving events to place them into a proper modern context.

Ahhh…such a dangerous game, no?

Which is all a really pompous way to introduce the current modus operandi at hand as we dig into a pair of films for this edition of Hidden Flick, and enter the post-death, maybe even the post-zombie apocalypse version of this little column that somehow could. Perhaps, this is the Undead Season—the one where anything is possible, and nothing, or no one, ever dies. Either that, or we continue to look at old portraits in a new frame—consistently checking to see “did that really happen, or is my third eye, my tricky little mind’s eye, playing games with me/us/it?”

History is a living breathing beast, and, so, we use that pulsating thought to explore two documents released this year, which focus a new light on some rather old subjects, or a fresh perspective on some off-the-radar, hidden thought process. Indeed, this edition will feature the Rolling Stones’ Charlie Is My Darling and Led Zeppelin’s Celebration Day.

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We’re excited to bring back Hidden Flick, our column looking at under-the-radar movies penned by Randy Ray, for a special Thanksgiving edition. 

Sometimes, one seeks answers, asks questions and ponders secret avenues, and the reality is that is the answer—to get your hands dirty in the muck of life IS life. ‘Tis what it is.

Rising from that very dirt, and commencing with life yet again is what it is also about, eh? Murky edges of human history provide clues of progress, but the sands and waters of nature (literally, in some cases), wash over all that has come before, as if nothing really endures.

And so, we move forward, hopefully as one positive, life-affirming unit. And there’s that word again—life. Post-final edition, we find ourselves back with a look at a film by my favorite director, Andrei Tarkovsky. This time, we gather together the roots of family and society and survival and the bitter and blissful and beautiful toll that nature takes upon us all—human, inhuman, god(s)-based, or otherwise—in this edition of Hidden Flick, Tarkovsky’s Zerkalo.

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When Slade Sohmer moved on from running this site in 2008, I reluctantly took the reins having no prior experience in editing or leading a team of contributors. Two days after taking over I was contacted by one of my favorite writers, Randy Ray, who wanted to pen a column about movies for HT. I was so honored and felt that if Randy was interested in writing for us, we must have something special here. Now, four years later, Randy, who quickly became a friend, has filed his last Hidden Flick column. We can’t thank him enough for all his hard work and for believing in Hidden Track. – SB

We find ourselves at the end of our little journey. After five seasons, five special editions, and 80 columns in pursuit of hidden cinematic gems, we close the door on Hidden Flick with a final look at a film that either has some sort of secret truth or weary wisdom. Now, I use the word weary because, in many respects, the films canvassed in this ‘little column that could’ seemed to be about souls that were either at the proverbial crossroads, or burned out.

Burned out. One would hesitate to use that phrase about oneself. However, it is a clear indication of the interest level in life when most of the films discussed seek questions, instead of answers. Because it is the questions that keep us moving forward; whereby, the answers, oftentimes given for some need for clarity, are occasionally not only incorrect, but misleading, as well.

In Michael Cuesta’s 2011 film, Roadie, the main character returns home as a worn-down caricature of himself, desperately trying to maintain his hold on the bottom rung of stardom. He was a roadie for Blue Öyster Cult for 26 years, and now, even that fleeting chance at something bigger, something larger than himself, something truly ROCKING, has died out.

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More than just plain ironic, it seemed fitting that the 2011 film, The Artist, would bring home the Best Picture honor from that outdated beast known as the Academy Awards. Who would have thought that a black and white film, bereft of dialogue, could garner such attention in the 21st century, the century of cynicism and hopelessness and a loss of faith in quality and timelessness?

While films are mired in the technology needed to create them in the modern cinematic era—whether it is IMAX 3-D, or Real 3-D, or 4-D, with its volley of objects thrown at the viewer, or furniture that creates mini-aftershocks, or THX sound, with its blitzkrieg of yakking medieval noises, or the ultimate 5-D experience where the viewer gets physically involved in a film, and shapes the outcome in a new and infinitely-plotted film for all time—the non-James Cameron crowd, wearing its proverbial anti-tech badges, wonders what else there is to view and hear and feel and experience and allow to invade the hearts and minds and souls of a gone generation.

Which is exactly the sort of thing that rubs me the wrong way. If anything, my little Hidden Flicks over the last few years have been a celebration of story over structure, and I sometimes got lost in those metaphysical columns without really understanding what drives a film—it is the visual motifs wedded with audio brilliance coupled with timeless characterizations, which make a piece of celluloid stand the test of time, not so much how it was made, or in what format. Technology drives these images, and it is technology, controlled and manipulated, that, ultimately, drives us, too, whether we want to continue riding this flat line to oblivion, or not.

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[Originally Published: April 19, 2011]

As the scene faded from view, I looked back and saw an enormous tree near the entrance of the obscure place.

Hidden in the seventh and final book in the Harry Potter series, the Deathly Hallows, is The Tale of the Three Brothers. Ostensibly, the short story is about how one cannot conquer, trick or hide from Death. In the end, the piece, expertly written in a tight form by J.K. Rowling, would find its home in two other artistic locales, including a collection, The Tales of Beedle the Bard, published a year after the final novel in the Potter series, with net proceeds benefiting the Children’s High Level Group (CHLG), an organization helping promote children’s rights and enriching the lives of vulnerable young people.

But it is within the sinister, sprawling, and subdued Part I of the Deathly Hallows film, that one finds the other hidden gem amongst a formidable tale of courageous fortitude—a short sequence, a mere three minute-plus animated film directed by Ben Hibon—which is pondered in this edition, as we look at The Tale of the Three Brothers, the shadow puppet-inspired film in Hallows, Part I, and Hibon’s earlier conquest of MTV Asia with Codehunters, in another gaze behind the celluloid curtain in our Hidden Flick series.

Somehow, in my excitement at discovering such a weird and wonderful establishment, I missed its totem-like power.

The Tale of the Three Brothers excels because it stands alone as its own story betwixt the elaborate Potter structure penned by Rowling. Interwoven within her seven-novel tomes is the sense that Rowling also had a few moral and ethical dilemmas she’d love to address, but like any fine fiction writer, she played her cards with subtle grace, always allowing the actions and words chosen by her characters to dictate the flow of events.

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[Originally Published: May 31, 2011]

The old wizard turned away from his creation, and vanished beyond the veil of illusion. One wonders if the world would ever see him again, let alone have any sort of real discourse about his hidden knowledge. As he glanced back one last time in the darkness, there was a bemused sparkling look in his eyes.

John Boorman’s Excalibur came out 30 years ago in 1981. As one previews the current onslaught of action hero films based predominantly on Marvel Comic adaptations, one is apt to look back at the legends of old, especially as this is being written on Memorial Day, a day when our culture celebrates our fallen heroes—in and out of battle.

Excalibur is an excellent feast for the eyes—the battle sequences are superb, and the scenery is both rugged and beautiful—and the ears—the soundtrack is a combination of classic pieces culled from the archives of some of the legendary musical figures of our past, and newer motifs written by Trevor Jones. Excalibur faired well with film goers 30 years ago, but its selection here is more so because of its quest for hidden knowledge, that which can bond and unite a nation, and give it purpose, as well.

Therefore, we extend a warm salute to a film about a hero named Arthur, his wife, Guinevere, his not-so-loyal knight, Lancelot, a wizard named Merlin, and a sword called Excalbur in this edition of Hidden Flick, John Boorman’s classic take on a legendary tale.

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[Originally Published: September 14, 2011]

Inevitably, during our various existential journeys, we seek another earth, another space to explore, we wander amidst the gloom, and ponder it all, and face the reality that some one, some thing, controls our fate. The prospects of what we want to be are somehow always clouded by the ghosts of what we were, right? To change all of that is to see the world through a child’s eyes, a kid-like point of view, eh?

Talihina Sky. Kings of Leon. Final edition—#15, 75 in total—of season 5.

The documentary appears so innocent at first, even in light of the current drunken events which have played out as the band has seemingly imploded due to the abnormal rigors of success and the ever-dangerous life spent on the road, traversing from clubs to big marquee gigs in arenas and, gasp, stadiums. Yes, they may be back, even before Oasis, but does anyone venture to hold their breath? Watch this film, and decide for yourself.

I first saw the quartet in a small theatre several years back, and one could see and hear and feel the passion coming forth from the stage. What was ironic was that I stated in a show review, for either a site or a magazine, I don’t recall, and who really cares, that I felt the band was ready for bigger and more expansive venues. I didn’t really know how that would happen, and no one was more surprised than me that it really DID happen—the Kings of Leon became an arena rock staple, while garnering a fairly large fan base.

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The word family is an odd one as it can mean a genetic link, a gathering of like-minded souls, or quite simply, a pack of living beings that happen to occupy the same space at the same time. Perhaps, no one word can cause such a different definition from so many varying people from numerous cultures. In the end, what one makes of the term says just as much about that particular person as it does about the very word ‘family’.

In our special holiday edition of Hidden Flick, we ponder a film that was made by a comedian as he directed, produced and co-wrote a rather appropriate little statement about family, and the odd path one takes to define its elusive nature, whether through biology or other societal constraints. We sift through the evidence, as always, and we ponder that person of disinterest, that chap that no one bothers to notice sitting in a weird way in the corner laughing away, always laughing.

Ahhh, yes, the wayward comedian in our midst.

Born Joseph Levitch in Newark, New Jersey in 1926, the young Jewish comedian would become Jerry Lewis, team up with Dean Martin as one half of the Beatles of comedy, and ultimately become a solo act that has been unmatched for pure longevity, philanthropy and artistic vigor.

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[Originally Published: March 22, 2011]

- for those who have gone on ahead and for those left behind…

Reeling in the soft reverie of life, one gets caught up in what one should do and what one really must do. Feeling the pulse of everyday existence is not the same as actually having the nerve to seize its primal essence. Sometimes, a film can point the way towards that hidden fact, but, normally, a cinema patron is looking for escapism, not enlightenment.

Trapped within the heavy atmosphere of a samurai- and warrior-laden celluloid landscape, there lurk many other beacons of light amidst the Japanese film archives. Almost hidden, but not quite, is a masterpiece of quiet Buddha-like simplicity wrapped up in an honest bit of deception. And so we walk amongst the years, floating away into this edition of Hidden Flick, a life-affirming and character-driven tale of love and honor.

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The holiday season brings with it many things—friends, food, fun and a whole phantasm of events that seem to bury one in woeful debt, blurred memories, and a nagging sense of ‘what just happened there?’. Ahhh…but we often hear a sound, a faint sound in the distance, and know it to be true—the holidays always begin with a certain event. If you are a longtime music fan, that tradition opens with Arlo Guthrie’s Alice’s Restaurant, strings together some Band magic from The Last Waltz, and well, I’m sure there could be a 26-minute Halley’s Comet in that sweet mix, too. THE sound, indeed.

And that sound you hear isn’t a bowl of mashed potatoes splattered against the wall, or a brandy bottle breaking in the back alley, or even a dessert cart wheeled off the balcony. No, that’s the sound of the Great Beast Itself. Yep—the traditional Thanksgiving Turkey.

We skipped this particular edition last year, but brought the behemoth back in 2011. So get your forks, spoons, and knives out (hell, dig out the snow shovel, too), and get ready for this look at a turkey of the cinematic flavor with a look at Trapped in Paradise. The 1994 holiday film starred Nicolas Cage, Jon Lovitz and Dana Carvey. Ostensibly, a warm-hearted comedy with a fair dash of mild drama and some old-fashioned romance thrown in for good measure, the film was also a flop at the box office, while being scorned by the critics. Which, of course, is all just fine within the realm of Hidden Flick.

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for EMD, gatekeeper to hidden gems

Through five seasons of Hidden Flick, encompassing 75 editions, I searched for obscure films that may be of interest to the cinematically obtuse observer. Along the way, I also found that to seek what was hidden underneath the surface of things can often create another search, another adventure, another truth, and another, and another, ad infinitum.

In this special edition of our little column that could, outside of time and space and any particular season (hey, I’m supposed to be on hiatus, so shhh…), we take a look at not just one, but two films that have recently hit the streets on DVD. One is an intoxicating—literally, in some cases—look at the hidden relationship between humans and plants, and the other explores the hidden zone between reality and cyber space with those who live a vast majority of their life on the net. So, we awake from our Hidden Flick hibernation for a brief look at two documentaries worth checking out for their secret knowledge about some unknown person/place/thing, but should in some odd way. After all, to walk through the Dark Forest of the Great Unknown is the first step towards destroying fear and ignorance (he writes in some sort of wacky George Lucas/Clone Wars way, but, man, after 75 editions, I can quote the Bearded Skywalker even if he almost killed Star Wars).

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[Originally Published - April 5, 2011]

Hidden on the outskirts of town is another nether region, another place where mystery resides within riddles, a place so obscure and strange that one is tempted to call it the Twilight Zone, or the foggy sections of space best left unexplored, or uninhabited. Cars race by with their excited cinematic travelers, eager to drive through the gates. We dig a little deeper into the shadows, ponder the sights, ingest the sounds, eat a pizza slice or two, gulp a soda, catch some clips, and find that this isn’t exactly a foreign place at all, but instead, a friendly little gathering place we call the Rock ‘n’ Roll Drive-In.

The intriguing location has four screens playing eight films each night. At its central hub is a circular snack bar/munchie haven for the ADD-adled, socially-minded sections of the crowd; the key meeting place for cats after a long week of dodging assignments, phone calls and text messages, and a sane hang out to get away from it all. And thus, rolling our cars into view, we begin our special edition of Hidden Flick in this wondrous locale, which is lacking in neither a blitzkrieg of colorful imagery, nor thunderous volume. Films shown are not really hidden at all; some are borderline classics, but what distinguishes this edition is the hidden nature of the drive-in itself—there are no signposts to get there. One just travels along on a cinematic road looking for gold, and suddenly, here we are.

Each screen has a name plastered on a large neon sign at its particular entrance designating its distinct vibe. Screen #1 is labeled After Elvis Only Keith. This screen, on this specifically warm and wonderful evening, is showing the Paris Olympia Theatre appearance of the Rolling Stones on their 2003 tour, which appears in the four-DVD box set, Four Flicks. It is an intimate and intense performance, as the band roars through rare and more familiar material in a venue which harkens back to the band’s 1960s origins.

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