This summer marks the 10th anniversary of the movie Singles, writer-director Cameron Crowe’s light-‘n’-fluffy love letter to Seattle and the striving, sincere young adults therein.

At the time of its release, it was the victim of a Warner Bros. marketing campaign that emphasized the suddenly-hot local bands in its audio background (the soundtrack CD came out months before the film did), rather than the characters or plot(s). When it turned out to be a frothy tale of six dating-scene survivors, only one of whom was a musician, certain audience expectations were shattered. Nevertheless, it had a respectable theatrical run and remains a decent-selling video title.

It’s also the rumored unofficial inspiration for the Warner-produced sitcom Friends. (Check-list the similarities: A sextet of dreamy looking young Caucasians, representing a variety of serious and artistic careers, all of whom hang out at the same coffeehouse, most of whom live in the same apartment building that inexplicably has a couch in its front courtyard, and who head into and out of assorted romantic entanglements, sometimes with one another.)

According to the “grunge” stereotype popular in the national media of the film’s time, young Seattlites (especially those involved in the rock scene) were alleged to be listless, rootless, directionless slackers. Crowe saw something quite different: Aware, ambitious moral-decision-makers who want to take charge of their lives, to make a difference in the world and to experience ultra-ecstatic true love, but who are (to varying degrees) thwarted by an urban society that wants to stick them into confining, unfulfilling roles.

Campbell Scott (the film’s real male lead) plays a state transportation planner who’s staked his whole up-n’-coming career on a proposed elevated-rail project he calls the Supertrain, bound to resolve rush-hour jams, slow down suburban sprawl, and create a more Euro-like urban community. (Any similarity to currently hyped elevated-transit proposals is purely coincidental.)

Scott’s main affection object, played by Kyra Sedgwick, has some not-completely-identified job trying to stop water pollution.

And Matt Dillon’s messy-haired musician character is shown by film’s end to be the most courageous of the lot. He systematically, indefatigably works on getting his girlfriend bac, just as he works on getting his musical career off the ground. His no-compromise stance toward realizing his dreams makes him a heroic ideal to which the other characters can only try to emulate.

That said, Singles remains a fairly dumb film. The gag scenes and plot complications are way too predictable. The drab lines and situations given to the characters mirror the drab life-destinies they’re trying to escape. But it gives its characters far more dignity than so many later mating-n’-dating comedies.

And, of course, local viewers l love the many geographic inaccuracies (Sheila Kelley’s character bicycles from south Lake Union across the Fremont Bridge and into the Pike Place Market in successive shots), the now-gone sites (RKCNDY), and the now-gone cameo players (Wayne Cody, Layne Staley).

PLAN 9 FROM OUTER SPACE is, you must admit, a funny, briskly-paced, and entertaining film, no matter how ineptly it was made. A truly bad film is dull–no, worse than dull, intolerable. Thus, I approve of the reasoning behind Maxim’s recent “Fifty Worst Movies of All Time” list. While it includes some fun-to-watch mistakes (Can’t Stop the Music) proven to bring joy to audiences at bars and house parties, it’s essentially composed of unwatchable big-budget bombs such as The Postman and Batman & Robin.

Now here are accurate descriptions of some of the Warner Bros. cartoons you’ll never see on TV.

Trio is a tertiary cable TV channel, originally formed as a US outlet for Canadian and British drama series. Late last year it became part of the USA Networks stable, which a few months later was acquired by Vivendi Universal. One of the new management’s first modes was to schedule Uncensored June, a month-long package of “Viewer Discretion Advised” movies and documentaries “Presented Unedited and Commercial-Free.”

The program block premiered Wednesday night. Uncensored turned out to be so heavily censored as to be a joke–or a pathetic publicity stunt.

The opening offering was Art and Outrage, a documentary recap of the ’80s-’90s “shock art” genre and the vehement politicians and preachers who unwittingly helped make it such a hit. Interspersed among the valiant speeches by freedom advocates denouncing American prudery toward the human body were still shots of the artworks in question. Any image areas containing genitalia, breasts, or sexual positions was obscured with digital blurring, superimposed big red dots, or both. The same thing happened an hour later with The Last Temptation of Christ. They’re gonna show Last Tango in Paris on Thursday–any guesses as to what’ll be left of that film when they’re through sanitizing it for our protection?

Other cable channels carried on basic or digital-basic tiers have had no problems showing nude scenes now and then (the Independent Film Channel, the History Channel, even A&E on occasion). One would like to imagine that Trio, under new French ownership, would be at least as uninhibited. But apparently non.

First came the highly unofficial Star Wars Un-Premiere Party, Thursday at the Rendezvous (which is still open despite a little kitchen fire last Tuesday, thank you). Singer Cheryl Serio was the most elegant hostess, accompanied by our ol’ friends DJ Superjew and DJ EZ-Action.

Among the audiovisual attractions displayed on the video projector: Mark Hamill’s appearance on The Muppet Show (above), the 1978 Star Wars Holiday Special (a truly bizarre spectacle indeed), and something billed as a Turkish language version of the original film but was really a whole different movie (a hilarious sword-and-scandal adventure) that happened to incorporate SW spaceship shots, with the SW producers’ apparent authorization.

ON SATURDAY, the 22nd anniversary of the Mt. St. Helens blowup was celebrated by Cheryl Diane (above) and three other singer-songwriter acts in Diane’s fourth annual Eruptive Revival cabaret. As you may recall, last year’s edition was cut short by that nasty fire at the Speakeasy Cafe (still a charred-out ruin today). No such mishaps marred this year’s show at the Cafe Venus/Mars Bar, thankfully.

SUNDAY AFTERNOON, the University District Street Fair was underway again, as tired and worn-out as I’ve always remembered it being. The products displayed at the “crafts” booths were barely distinguishable from those displayed in the smarmiest tourist “fine art” stores of LaConner. The food concessions were no different from the elephant ears and kettle korn sold summer-long from Puyallup to Ellensburg. The assorted musical acts tried to grab passersby’s attention, but (at least the acts I saw) failed to overcome the cloudy-afternoon ennui in full smothering force.

And, of course, the booths only temporarily hid the dozen or more empty storefronts along the half-mile strip known to all as The Ave. The city thinks it knows just what to do about the retail ennui–a construction project. To the City of Seattle bureaucracy, every problem is solvable by a construction project.

But it’s hard to imagine anyone other than a bureaucrat imagining that wider sidewalks and prettier street lights will draw non-student shoppers back from the malls; not while the daily papers continue to smear The Ave as A Problem Place with Those Problem People.

And as long as there’s no money to do the right things for the throwaway teens (often banished by middle-class parents over not fitting a proper upstanding image) but plenty of money to do things against them (police harassment schemes that only make things worse), this situation won’t change.

ON A HAPPIER NOTE, Sunday evening brought two of my all-time fave cartoonists, ex-local Charles Burns and still-local Jim Woodring, to a singing session at Confounded Books/Hypno Video.

You’ve gotta check out Woodring’s newest, Trosper. Painted in bright pastel colors you can eat with a spoon, and printed just like an old Little Golden Book, it’s a wordless, utterly engrossing little tale of a cute little elephant who just wants to have fun, in a world seemingly bent on frustrating him. It even comes with a CD by one of our fave neo-improv artistes, the incomprable Bill Frisell.

…(after Kevin Seal, natch) claims the recently assassinated Dutch politician you’ve read about wasn’t really as right-wing as international media accounts allege. (Other Dutch commentators and analysts, as you might expect, disagree with the ex-VJ’s assessment re: the politician; and insist the politician was almost as reactionary as the US newspapers would have you believe.)

…reviews a new book about today’s up-‘n’-coming miniature art forms, including film clips and trailers, websites, and even banner ads. (The book being reviewed is apparently not yet available Stateside.)

…to the memory of LInda Lovelace, whose topsy-turvy life (now ended with a car crash at age 53) pivoted around her status as the first woman to become an above-ground celebrity for appearing in an explicit sex film.

Hardcore porn on theater screens, and pubic hair in magazines, emerged in 1970-71, which meant the media became obsessed with sex at exactly the same time I did. (But by the time I was old enough to legally view hardcore films, they’d already started to become the formulaic tripe porno videos are now. I preferred softcore, and still do, because it was more attractive to look at and gave me female characters to fall in love with, not just female physiques to hunger for.)

Lovelace’s post-porn memoirs were believed by conservatives who’d never read them to be righteous indictments against the whole genre of sex films. The books could be more accurately described as tales of a personal abusive relationship with a controlling husband-manager and his small-time-hood cronies. (I’ve never heard anyone invoke the marital ordeals of Ronnie Spector or Tina Turner as a pretext to condemn the entire institution of pop music.)

Her private troubles and triumphs aside, Lovelace will forever be the first real Sex Star. There had been famous upper-class courtesans thoughout history; some of whom performed in live sex shows at discreet venues for the decadent rich; there had also been “stag reel” hardcore films screened surreptitiously in private clubs and homes. But those women were still perceived all too often as “fallen women,” unfit to be mentioned in polite society. There had been famous nude models and dancers in North America and Europe for decades, but these were women who proudly displayed themselves with an essence of decorum and dignity. The early-’70s porn queens, in contrast, were shown doing the full down-‘n’-dirty, to the point of total out-of-control mindless ecstasy (or at least imitations of it), in garish color images projected ten feet tall. And for doing this they were marketed as not just respectable ladies but as admirable goddesses.

If you remember that this had never been done before in anything even close to “mainstream” American culture, you might more easily understand how it would rile a lot of people–not just political conservatives but also many progressives and feminists who’d traditionally equated women’s empowerment with rising above such tawdriness. You can also imagine how, when Lovelace had left both the relationship and the business, she could have identified the two as interchangeable incarnations of extreme ickiness.

Nowadays, porn is just another corporate, LA-monopolized entertainment enterprise. There’s also a more “respectable” (though almost as formulaic) parallel genre of woman-friendly “erotica.” (There’s even a whole consumer trade show of middle-class-couple oriented “sex-positive” seminars and merch sales in Vancouver this weekend.)

In her last published interviews, Lovelace claimed to have come to terms with both her porn and anti-porn careers. She said she’d never found anything wrong with being or looking sexy, that she didn’t advocate censorship but simply “awareness,” and that the best sex she’d ever had was in an ongoing relationsip with a guy she liked. She’d finally become an ordinary woman who’d found her peace with the world.

…to two of the greatest names in 20th century comedy–the original Bedazzled schmuck and the first funnyman of U.S. television.

…Ghost World creator/co-screenwriter Dan Clowes, predictably lost. But that’s OK really. At least that nephew of the guy who wrote the 20th Century-Fox fanfare finally won one.

FOLLOW THE GROWING SNOWBALL of media-biz layoffs at The Dead Zone.

A HIGHLY LITERATE tribute to the Spokane-born master of animation, Chuck Jones (found by Fark).

…Feb. 21 after 51 years. It was the first shopping-mall cinema in the U.S. Its design “modernized” and toned down the old prewar movie-palace look, but still emphasized going to the movies as a special experience, with a huge screen and other amenities intended to emphasize the differences between cinema and TV. With over 1,000 seats, it had become Seattle’s largest remaining single-screen movie house by its end. It was finally done in by multiplex competition, long-planned redevelopment plans at the mall, and by the bankruptcy-forced retrenchment plan of its current operator, Loews Cineplex (formerly Cineplex Odeon). The chain had let the Northgate lapse into decay for over a decade; many seats were broken, the carpets had been ripped out, the interior walls had stains and holes. But at its peak, as a flagship of the locally-based Sterling Recreation Organization circuit, it housed the local-exclusive first runs of many blockbusters, and gave many lonely suburban kids a glimpse of life’s more glamorous possibilities.

…89, was a Spokane boy who became the world’s most influential director of cartoon shorts. (And, as everyone knows, it’s really duck season.)

THE OSCAR NOMINATIONS came in this morning, and that literary action-adventure epic Lord of the Rings snatched the most preliminary honors. No matter what you think of the film’s achievements, it’s a semi-sad occasion because its success means more bucks go into the undeserving pockets of Saul Zaentz. The minor media mogul didn’t have a direct part in making the new Rings film but still profits from it. That’s because he owns all the film and merchandising rights to the Tolkein characters. (He got those rights when he funded Ralph Bakshi’s failed 1978 animated Rings.)

As we’ve noted here previously, Zaentz is infamous as the record label mogul who cheated Creedence Clearwater Revival bard John Fogerty out of his royalties and song rights. In a particularly sleazy misuse of the Creedence legacy, Zaentz recently leased Fogarty’s antiwar anthem “Fortunate Son” for a “patriotic” blue-jeans commercial. (The song’s re-recorded with vocals that fade out before the harsh messages start.)

You’d expect the company he left behind, which loves nothing more than to stage all-star tributes to itself, would make a big deal about the old guy’s 100th.

We could go on about the ironies of a guy whose name became synonymous with fetishistically squeaky-clean entertainment, who worked and smoked himself to death at age 65. (And no, he’s not frozen somewhere.) But there are more interesting things to ponder about his contributions to world pop-cult, for good and/or ill.

The first thing to remember is Mr. Disney began his career in Kansas City. Anyone who saw last year’s PBS Jazz series knows KC in the ’20s was a rollicking center of official corruption, wide-open nightlife, and the closest thing to race-mixing you’d get in the pre-WWII upper midwest. Disney’s early studio films (many of whose artists came to LA with him) clearly reflect the brash jazz-age aesthetic of old KC.

But his studio style changed, and for specific reasons. His first niche was in animated short subjects, a “block-booked” aspect of the movie biz that offered a steady income (as long as you didn’t spend more than you expected to make) but little or no chance at the big money available on the feature side. To become anything more than a big fish in a tiny pond, Disney embarked on a multi-year strategy.

First, he made sure (after losing the rights to his silent-era star Oswald the Rabbit) that his company would wholly own everything it produced, no matter who financed or distributed it. At first, that allowed him to produce his shorts at a deficit and make the profits from the character merchandising, . Later, that led to today’s Disney company being one of the most aggressive promoters of copyright expansions.

As Disney strove to have the slickest, biggest-budgeted films in the cartoon field, his artists had to phase out the charmingly aggressive behavior and barnyard humor of his earlier shorts. Mickey Mouse was given eyeballs with pupils and ears that had sides and backs. Multi-page memos circulated among the staff, detailing how the studio’s star characters would move and react in different story situations. The studio also made one-shot cartoons without recurring characters but with increasingly elaborate production values.

The latter films were warm-ups for Disney’s big move into animated features, his ticket into Hollywood’s big leagues. Whole books have been written about where and how the Disney features departed from the original stories, toning down the healthy horror aspects of fairy tales in favor of an ultimately scarier “wholesomeness.” That helped make the films marketable around the world forever. Their specific unreality made them placeless and timeless. (The studio’s WWII-themed shorts were pulled from release, even in historical-context presentations, years ago.) And every feature introduced a new cast of merchandisable characters to be endlessly cycled through toys, T-shirts, record albums, lunchboxes, comic books, etc. etc. From the financial backwaters of the cartoon-shorts market, Disney had forged one of entertainment’s greatest profit machines.

But Disney was a lot more than just an aggressive marketer. He put cash, passion, and careful planning into every aspect of his spreading empire. His theme parks (and his unbuilt, original EPCOT model community) were total-immersion experiences, clearly showing the hand of someone used to devising 90-minute movies one frame at a time. He remained a tinkerer, a basement inventor with a whole lab of “Imagineers” to perfect his concepts.

The movie side of the Disney empire has had its ups and downs since Walt’s demise. Currently, its in-house animated features have been overshadowed in commercial and critical acceptance by the computer-drawn films supplied to it by Pixar. While Walt did more for the craft of drawn animation than anybody, he undoubtedly would’ve loved the possibilities of digital characters walking through hyper-realistic, pseudo 3-D spaces. He was a computer geek who lived before computers as we know them existed; so he had to channel his obsessively-detailed mind into other disciplines.

Indeed, perhaps nobody in the entertainment industry was as simultaneously adept at the creative, mechanical, and business sides of his trade. I can think of only one such multi-skilled exec in any industry today.

But somehow, I doubt there will be coffee-table books 60 years from now capitalizing on the public’s continued fascination with MS Windows 3.0.

(This article’s permanent link.)