The End of the Beginning

To begin with, I apologize.
I know this column has become one big ponderous history lesson, but it’s only because there’s so much background to cover, so many stories leading to the big moment, the fateful day that kicked exploitation cinema into the spotlight, into its all too brief golden age before hardcore porn and mainstream horror stole its thunder.
You have to finish your salad before you can get to the main course, after all…
But I’m happy to report, this is the last bite of salad.

1967 was a big year for the movies. With a little high profile help from Antonioni and MGM, who released his film Blow Up in spite of a denial by the MPAA, the Hays Code finally, mercifully, bit the dust. Although it was replaced by a rating system that grew more and more restrictive over time, the first few years of chaos were exploited mercilessly by filmmakers everywhere. And no one did it better than our friends in the grindhouse. For the next five years, an unleavened stream of sex, gore and brutality would pour out of drive-ins and inner city cheapo theaters, and into the eyes and ears of an America hungry for something different.

But for now, let’s take one last look at the repressed America of before, America on the verge of explosion, a time capsule of 1967 L.A., courtesy of Peter Perry and Harry Novak, and one of the strangest and shortest lived phenomenons of pre-grindhouse cinema: Mondo.

It all started in 1962, with Mondo Cane (A Dog’s World), the first of a string of quasi-documentaries depicting all manner of strange happenings around the world, but was really just an excuse for nudity and violence (mostly against animals), kind of a cheap freakshow for shock starved audiences. A number of other Italian Mondo films were released in the mid-sixties, followed by some more well known American imitations, notably Mondo Balordo, Mondo Freudo, and Mondo Bizarro.
In 1967, Peter Perry, Harry Novak’s infamous shadow director, decided to actually put his name on something, and to turn the Mondo genre on it’s head, by directing and producing Mondo Mod, a not entirely accurate, but thoroughly entertaining portrait of the budding pre-hippie scene of late sixties L.A.
And it covers everything, from the old standards of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, to motorcycle racing, motorcycle gangs (Perry evidently really liked motorcycles - about 40 percent of the movie is taken up by these sequences), surfing, student protests, and Karate (or Kara-te), all narrated by DJ Humble Harve, and lensed by Laszlo Kovaks and Vilmos Zsigmond (can you give me a holy shit!?)
The narration is appropriately somber and sincere, reflecting an obviously deep concern (coupled with respect) for the Groovy Youth of America, and the backing music is fucking ridiculous (played by a band billed only as The Group - seen, in their zit-laden glory, headlining the Whisky on a very slow night).
The only truly fantastic moments in the film are the staged ones. A self-confessed acid head is interviewed wearing a purple velvet mask to conceal his identity, after which the concerned interviewer delivers a stern warning against LSD abuse, while the camera floats dreamily (thanks, Laszlo!) over a half naked Japanese woman in a simulated acid trip.
Later, we get to ride along with an Outlaw Bike Gang as they have an impromptu party in the grass, complete with dope smoking and some make out action that carries the slightest overtones of potential gang rape (there’s only one girl in the scene, so…), after which the gang ATTACKS THE CAMERAMAN! Dangerous stuff, indeed.
We are carried out of the movie in the best scene of all, the “typical drug pad”, complete with graffiti covered walls (with slogans to the effect of: Acid is Groovy, etc.). A blond girl dances in the center of the room, all vacant eyes and red sweater. Another rubs herself against the wall at the back of the room. Another girl sits on a pillow with a disturbingly clean cut black guy playing what, at first glance, appears to be a bongo, but turns out to be a snare drum. The somber narration continues for a moment, as the members of this quaint little drug party stand in unison (almost as if the director told them to. Hmm…), and all begin to dance in a circle around a small candlelit table. The angle changes, The Group does their thing once again, and they begin to quietly disrobe. We hold our breath, waiting for the nudity, of which there has been none so far. An arm reaches for a bra strap, unclasps, and… Darkness. The End.
A fitting disappointment, a fitting end to the most frustrated period in American Cinema, to 37 years of repression and stunted stabs at revolution. It is here that we can finally say goodnight.
So goodnight, Mondo. Goodnight Roughies. Goodnight Nudie-Cuties. Goodnight Drug Scare Films and veiled sapphic references. Welcome to the New Age.

Welcome to the Grindhouse.