The Parking Lot Movie is a documentary about a singular parking lot in Charlottesville, Virginia. The film follows a select group of parking lot attendants and their strange rite of passage... See full summary »
The banality of crime. Two young men, Dignan and Anthony, walk along talking about "Starsky and Hutch." They're on their way to burglarize a house. After, they go to a café, play some ... See full summary »
Shut Yer Dirty Little Mouth! Conflict! Love! Hatred! Alcohol! Pathos! San Francisco, 1988: In the roach-ridden Lower Haight district, at a Pepto-Bismal-pink dingbat apartment house on 237 Steiner, two grievously alcoholic middle aged men fight their nights away. Their unquenchable rage is fueled by mutual madness and copious amounts of vodka from O'Looney's Liquors. (Meanwhile, oblivious to the human drama only a block away from his tenement at 510 Haight, regular O'Looney's patron Richard Von Busack guzzles his $3.99 a six-pack Lone Stars and dreams his hopeless dreams of success in the high-stakes world of weekly journalism.)
Meet Raymond (Gill Gayle), aka "Little Man", and his lover/flatmate/drinking buddy Pete (Tim Burton regular Glenn Shadix). The two squabblers fought with such gusto that the police were frequently called in; worried about potential homicide, their furious yet amazed neighbors tape-recorded the fights. These tapes became an international underground hit sensation. Working from the stage play "Shut Up! Little Man," based on the tapes, Robert Taicher directs this story of two men caught by a dark gravity that the sane will never understand. Unless the sane person's name is Samuel Beckett. It's a pity that a couple of LA-based exteriors turn up in this quintessentially San Franciscan story. Still, Shut Yer Dirty Little Mouth is a tribute to its magic source material.
Taicher uses blackouts to recreate the "greatest hits" effect of Ray 'n' Pete's knock-down drag-outs. The profanity is plentiful, but the actors humanize it all. Gill Gayle's furtive, ugly chuckle and Mr. Magoo squint makes one feel a little protective, especially when he faces down the Jackie Gleasonish fury of the hulking Shaddix, crowned with a p*ss-yellow wig.
Maybe listening in on these two puts you a few steps above those vicious rich kids who pay winos to fight each other. But Ray and Pete obviously didn't care who heard their quarrels, and Shut Yer Dirty Little Mouth! demonstrates how art can preserve memories of even the most misspent lives.
Though so much has changed, O'Looney's still stands. And knowing the Haight, more than a few of the people who laughed at these comic arguments will be joining Pete and Ray in the Alcohol of Fame before too long. As for Ray, his immortal words have often come to me over the years when watching Ron Howard epics, or teen slasher films, or looking at a hasty painting, or hearing a moaning maudlin pop song, or reading a Wall Street Journal editorial: "I love people. I love the world. I love life. But I sure as f*ck can't love a piece of sh*t."
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