The Fixers: Eddie Mannix, Howard Strickling and the MGM Publicity Machine (2005), EJ Fleming.

Bring me either an editor to save this disaster, or some kindling to burn it.  I made a brave effort, but finishing this book was not going to happen.

We have descriptive "facts" repeated differently from time to time:

Page 14:  Laemmle also liked Thalberg because, like him, he was barely above five feet tall.
Page 19:  Thalberg was five foot six and weighed 115 lbs.

Listen, I'm not overly fussy.  I would happily date a man who was five foot six -- but probably not one that was just five feet (sorry).

The first two chapters refer constantly, in an unilluminating way, to the fact that Louis B Mayer and Irving Thalberg superficially had little in common:

Page 25:  The barrel-chested Mayer and the painfully skinny Thalberg were an unlikely pair.
Page 28:  Mayer and Thalberg were also opposites.
Page 32:  Thalberg was the antithesis of Mayer in every respect.

OK, we GET it.  Yes, that's up to thirty-two pages and well into the second chapter.  You may at this point wonder at what point Mannix and Strickling will make an appearance.

Fleming's storytelling skills are lacking and he repeatedly loses sight of the subject of his study, the potentially very fascinating tale of two men paid to make MGM's problems "go away".  Fleming leaps about in time from the twenties to the fifties and back (however illogically), as though events during the end of the studio era decade had an impact on things around the time sound was finally synchronized.  Nothing unfolds:  chunks of biography are barfed up here and there but do not connect with the surrounding text.  Gossip is just dropped on the pages without analysis, the sources unquestioned. This left me suspicious and distrustful of all claims and of the author's ability to accurately transmit any facts.  The tone of the writing sways from respectable to embarrassing.  When I read that Louella Parsons was described as "a bitchy fat doctor's wife" I had to put the book down for good.  I am no fan of Louella Parsons, people, but where was that comma.  With such a sloppy approach to research and writing, I had no confidence that the author could credibly speak about his topic.

McFarland Press occupies a warm little corner of my heart, publishing unpretentious and generally well-researched books on Hollywood history, but knowing that this amateurish creation saw the light of day despite mis-sized fonts for endnotes and other typos leaves me puzzled and disappointed.  Consider the topic of "the fixers" to remain fair game for others out there to tackle!

Convoy (Sam Peckinpah), 1978.

The saddest little birthday present in the world.

Unwatchable!  OK, well, possibly if I were in my PJs eating a hot dog in a drive in.  Otherwise, not.  Ridiculous CB movie based on the hit song by CW McCall. Kris Kristofferson is "Rubber Duck" and drives a big truck with Ali McGraw as a reluctant passenger.  That is, after he leaves his waitress girlfriend at the truck stop wearing sophisticated, well-to-do McGraw's clothes she doled out for free to all the po' folks.  McGraw's perm is monumentally unflattering.  Ernest Borgnine is a sadistic cop out to get Rubber Duck and his trucker buddies as they race through the desert landscape.

Even Ernest can't save this mess.

Now, I love Borgnine's smug, evil grin and bandy walk and I am currently losing the battle in my house to take the TCM cruise in December with 94-year-old Mr Borgnine and fantasy grandpa Robert Osborne (damn it!) but even I had to walk away from this dreck.  During filming, Peckinpah struggled with addiction issues and may have turned director's duties over to others.  The shopping list of failed gimmicks include:  a heavy use of slow-mo during action scenes, badly overdubbed dialogue and corny double exposure effects (below) set to an orchestral soundtrack.  Why are McGraw and Kristofferson not wearing shirts for most of the movie?  It's like Smokey and the Bandit made by grad students.  Ugh!  

The final straw - what is this?!

The Island (1980), Michael Ritchie.

Worst Caribbean holiday EVER!

Journalist Michael Caine tries to bond with his miserable, spoiled son while investigating a story unfolding in the Caribbean:  why are tourist boats just disappearing?  Could it be pirates?  Note to filmmakers:  if you don't introduce any jollity, pirate movies are hell on earth.  Just like your worst memories of summer camp: uncomfortable in every way, from the not-refreshing sleep you wake from to the ever-present threat of possible child abuse and/or starvation.  That's right, I hate camping, tents, the whole kit and kaboodle even if it's in the Caribbean.  Michael Caine gets chained up and married to one hell of a homely woman, while his son is brainwashed by a primitive tribe of inbred Caucasian castaways.  Luckily there's a pretty fantastic ending worth waiting for.  The father-son hug at the end is truly a testament to the unfailing love parents have for their children.  I would have spanked the little bastard black and blue! 

Death Race 2000 (1975), Paul Bartel.

Logan's Run + Cannonball Run -- how did they blow this?  From the high-school art class pencil crayon visuals to the lacklustre finale, Death Race 2000 was a major letdown.  OK, I realize it was made for something like $5000, but was really counting on a bit more levity.  The tone is gloomy and the characters unlikeable.  Sigh!  At least director Paul Bartel hit his stride eventually, making mainstream hits like European Vacation and The Usual Suspects.

Hey, that looks uncomfortable.  I wonder if Simone Griffeth was raised in a circus.