The run of films based in the grimy past of analog technology keeps rolling. This week’s movie is a great example of another horror thriller that explores dated technology in fresh ways. Most flicks that attempt to look back at the 1980s tend to do so through rose-tinted glasses, and focus on the neon and the crazy fashion. Dead Mail (2024) looks back at the 1980s as I vaguely remember them—a drab post office in a small town.
I was born smack in the middle of the 1980s, so I missed the 1970s completely. From what my parents have told me, it was a pretty cool time to be alive and coming of age (they were in their late teens and early twenties throughout the decade)—great music, crazy fashion, pool halls, etc. Even though I missed the decade (and can barely claim to have “experienced” the 1980s, the greatest of all recent American decades), the 1970s were everywhere growing up. South Carolina, like most rural States, lagged behind the pop cultural curve slightly, so the 1970s loomed large in fashion and architecture. Plus, the 1990s saw a revival of the 1970s aesthetic, so the influence of the decade musically, culturally, and even sartorially was a big part of my early years.
Of course, the 1970s had loads of problems, too—crazy inflation; stagnant job growth; a wildly popular bamboozled out of office, followed by a clueless boob; a devastating, unpopular, unnecessary war. It seems that I’ll never escape the Brutalist architecture of the time period, which still dominates the crumbling public buildings of offices of local, State, and national governments. The Lamar Town Hall is a squat, ugly building, facing a squat, ugly U.S. Post Office. While I like the earth tones of the 1970s—call me crazy, but there’s something about burnt orange, dark mustard, and drab olive-brown that I find aesthetically appealing—the decade’s aesthetic was an affront to Beauty, and probably to God Himself. Perhaps wide lapels were the sartorial equivalent of the Tower of Babel—“our lapels will reach to touch the Face of God!” No wonder we struggled under stagflation for so long.
For all its virtues and many, many vices, however, the 1970s possessed a distinct flair, especially when it came to the television talk show and variety show. So when I heard there was a horror film that took place on the set of a fictional late-night talk show on Halloween of 1977, I had to watch it. That film is Late Night with the Devil (2023).
A couple of years ago, I wrote a post entitled “Walkin’,” in which I detailed the pleasures of short walks around town. In that post, I also mused about long-distance walking, and even about its popularity in the 1960s and 1970s. One of my readers and subscribers even noted the construction of The Palmetto Trail, a five-hundred-mile trail that cuts diagonally from the Upstate (the northwestern corner of South Carolina) down to the Lowcountry (the southeastern side of our State’s triangle), of which roughly 380 miles are completed. That trail wends through State parks and towns, offering a variety of landscapes and scenes.
In listening to John Taylor Gatto excessively over Spring Break (and nursing a bad foot-and-ankle sprain), he frequently mentioned stories about famous individuals who completed massive, almost absurd tasks, often with little training. For example, he frequently told the story of a six-year old Richard Branson walking home in London after his mother drove him around for a few hours, and then asked, “Richard, do you think you can find your way home?” When the child responded yes, the mother told him to get to it, booted him from the car, and drove home. Branson (per Gatto) said that after that experience, he was never afraid of anything again, and could face any challenge.
I’m not advocating we drop six-year olds off in the middle of nowhere and make them walk home (my niece is six, and while she is brave and confident, I shudder to think what might become of her if my brother pulled the same stunt). But there is a real need for adventure in our lives. There’s also something to be said for the benefits of taking on and conquering—or even just attempting and failing—a large-scale undertaking.
Lately Hulu’s algorithm—in the bleak future math problems determine our entertainment choices—has been suggesting tower-based movies to me. Yes, it is a genre: films that take place in the claustrophobic confines of apartment buildings, like the 1993 thriller Sliver, starring Sharon Stone and William Baldwin. That flick was so-so, and the character motivations didn’t really make sense, especially the dashing computer nerd Baldwin portrayed, but it was one of several Hulu has recommended lately that depends upon a high-rise for its setting.
So it was the Grand High Algorithm suggested 2015’s High-Rise, a film both set in and an homage to the 1970s, specifically the dark sci-fi flicks of the decade.
After returning from Universal Studios yesterday, I decided to ease back into the week with a couple of flicks. Hulu isn’t the best of streaming services in terms of content, but lately I’ve uncovered some good older films on the platform, and occasionally I’ll uncover some hidden gems.
To be sure, there’s a good bit of garbage, too, especially this time of year, when the budget horror flicks pop up like weeds. I watched 1972’s The Last House on the Left last night before catching the subject of this review, and it was a lurid bit of early 70s exploitation. It didn’t necessarily endorse the violence and depravity it depicted, but it certainly seemed to revel in it. At its best, it was a morality tale about the dangers of the hippie movement and misguided youthful energy; at its worst, it was an excuse to torture pretty girls on screen. I’d recommend giving it a pass.
The second film I watched, however, is one I will highly recommend: 1976’s The Little Girl Who Lives Down the Lane. It stars a barely-thirteen-year old Jodie Foster in a command performance, along with a young Martin Sheen, who must have been about twenty-six at the time.
Congratulations to Laura Loomer for her victory in the Florida US Congressional District 21 Republican primary last night. She’ll now face off against incumbent Democrat Lois Frankel on 3 November 2020. It’s a very blue district, but if anyone can win it, it’s Loomer. Consider donating to her campaign to flip FL-21!
The Democratic Party kicked off its virtual convention Monday evening. They’ve dubbed it “D20,” which makes me think of Dungeons & Dragons. That (perhaps) unintentionally symbolizes the basement-dwelling, anxiety-ridden nerdiness of the modern Democratic Party.
Yesterday’s Rasmussen Number of the Day on Ballotpedia observed that it’s been forty years “since the last meaningful national convention.” That was a reference to the 1980 Democratic National Convention, in which incumbent President Jimmy Carter faced a convention floor challenge from Senator Teddy Kennedy. Carter had enough delegates to win the nomination outright, but Kennedy challenged the convention rules in an attempt to force a floor vote.
Kennedy’s attempt failed, and Carter won the nomination with 64% of the delegates. For the vice presidential nomination, bitter pro-Kennedy delegates skipped out on the vote; those that did show up scattered their votes between various nominees. Nevertheless, the incumbent Vice President Walter Mondale still walked away with nearly 73% of the delegates.
Yesterday morning, longtime Nebraska Energy Observer contributor Audre Myers shared a charming post, “Walking …“—a reflection of the late 1960s and Woodstock. Regular commenter Scoop posted an achingly nostalgic response that sums up the significance of Woodstock to that cohort of early Boomers—it was the last incandescent burst of rock ‘n’ roll’s triumph before petering out in the 1970s (which, I would argue, is when hard rock got good).
The tug of nostalgia is a strong one. I’m only thirty-five, and I already feel it from time to time. Indeed, I’ve always been a sucker for nostalgia, which a psychologist might argue is one of the reasons I studied history. Perhaps. I also just enjoy learning trivia.
Regardless, Audre’s post caught my attention because I have been contemplating the literal, physical act of walking lately (although I often take metaphorical strolls down memory lane, too). I’ve put on a bit of weight in The Age of The Virus, so I’ve taken up walking as a way to complement a regimen of calorie counting (which is more of a loose, back-of-the-envelope calorie guesstimate each day).
I’m trying to get in around two miles of focused walking a day, mostly around Lamar. Although work commitments don’t always make that possible, I do find that simply going about my work results in around two miles of walking in aggregate. I’m curious to see what my step totals will be once the school year resumes, and I’m dashing about between classes, pacing the rows of students, and striding across the boards as I teach.
I’m not a runner, by any means. My older brother loves to run, and has the physique to show for it. More power to him, but I know myself well enough to know it’s not something I want to do. Runners swear oaths to running’s efficacy and delights, but gasping for breath in 100-degree weather with maximum humidity doesn’t appeal to me. Walking at a brisk clip in that weather, though, is at least bearable—once I’ve embraced the stickiness and the sweat, I can go for a couple of miles easily, and sometimes three or four.
Yesterday morning over at the blog Nebraska Energy Observer, NEO’s in-house guest writer, Audre Meyers, wrote a short, fun piece about prepping, “The Neo made me do it!,” in which she extolled the virtues of preparing ahead of time for disasters, rather then getting caught up in the frenzied mobs of panicked shoppers. She wrote about some various and sundry items she needed to top off, including the increasingly-precious toilet paper, because “there are some things I simply refuse to do without!”
In reply, commenter “Scoop” referenced a similar toilet paper shortage in 1973 (and provided a handy link to a piece about the scare in a follow-up comment). There’s even a documentary about it!
With the obligatory hat-tips squared away, let’s dive into this early 1970s TP shortage—one that mirrors our own mania for clean bums. What is it about toilet paper—and the threat that it will disappear—that drives Americans to hysterics?
The Portly Politico 