MONDO EXTRAS

"Dialogue and certain events and characters have been created or altered for dramatic purposes." Sharon Tate, on the arm of Andy Kaufman, walks out in front of these words to have a nice big laugh at our gullible expense. The words Helter Skelter jump out in a very design-sense, fake-Flash, very se7en kind of way, but with a low-tech touch. As though someone printed out the words in an easy-to-get font and then jerked them around in front of the camera for awhile.

July 1969, Topanga Canyon. A totally obvious apartment decorated in a certain empty seventies way -- those weird sun-clock-things with the wires and strips of tin sticking out for two feet all the way around, some guitars against the wall. Two gross hippies are smoking and talking about a mysterious Him. I can't tell you what they look like because the close-ups are Biore close. The blond one is totally bleeding from the face in lots of places, which we see up-close in a variety of locales. There is a sweatiness. A girl not unlike Ali McGraw's love child with Bjork sits there smiling emptily and eerily at him, as if to say, "I used to be Spike's girlfriend and now I'm in the Manson Family." (Dude, I just got the sweetest idea for the next Buffy spinoff.) She uses her face muscles to suggest smiling as though to additionally say, "I care about your pain and blood. They do not please me, for you are a child of God. Catamaran liquid email girth bovine squeeze."

Against my advice, the blond guy who has been beaten severely by the other gross hippie is anticipating the arrival of the mysterious "Him," thinking it will straighten everything out. Their conversation seems like an exercise in improv class, and its inevitable conclusion: futile lack of creativity in performance and content. They go round and round about how "He" says the blonde guy owes him money, but the blond guy thinks "He" is going to keep the beatings from continuing, so he wants to wait. Stupid man. Don't wait for "Him," he's totally Charles Manson. The blond hippie keeps ending every sentence with the word "man," thus giving his speech patterns a gritty period realism. The man who beat up the blonde hippie is hard to see with your eyes, because of the extreme close-ups. It's like watching Memento, due to the extreme filthiness of the people, and the off-putting in medias res action they tell aspiring screenwriters is all the rage these days.

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"Dialogue and certain events and characters have been created or altered for dramatic purposes." Sharon Tate, on the arm of Andy Kaufman, walks out in front of these words to have a nice big laugh at our gullible expense. The words Helter Skelter jump out in a very design-sense, fake-Flash, very se7en kind of way, but with a low-tech touch. As though someone printed out the words in an easy-to-get font and then jerked them around in front of the camera for awhile. July 1969, Topanga Canyon. A totally obvious apartment decorated in a certain empty seventies way -- those weird sun-clock-things with the wires and strips of tin sticking out for two feet all the way around, some guitars against the wall. Two gross hippies are smoking and talking about a mysterious Him. I can't tell you what they look like because the close-ups are Biore close. The blond one is totally bleeding from the face in lots of places, which we see up-close in a variety of locales. There is a sweatiness. A girl not unlike Ali McGraw's love child with Bjork sits there smiling emptily and eerily at him, as if to say, "I used to be Spike's girlfriend and now I'm in the Manson Family." (Dude, I just got the sweetest idea for the next Buffy spinoff.) She uses her face muscles to suggest smiling as though to additionally say, "I care about your pain and blood. They do not please me, for you are a child of God. Catamaran liquid email girth bovine squeeze." Against my advice, the blond guy who has been beaten severely by the other gross hippie is anticipating the arrival of the mysterious "Him," thinking it will straighten everything out. Their conversation seems like an exercise in improv class, and its inevitable conclusion: futile lack of creativity in performance and content. They go round and round about how "He" says the blonde guy owes him money, but the blond guy thinks "He" is going to keep the beatings from continuing, so he wants to wait. Stupid man. Don't wait for "Him," he's totally Charles Manson. The blond hippie keeps ending every sentence with the word "man," thus giving his speech patterns a gritty period realism. The man who beat up the blonde hippie is hard to see with your eyes, because of the extreme close-ups. It's like watching Memento, due to the extreme filthiness of the people, and the off-putting in medias res action they tell aspiring screenwriters is all the rage these days.

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