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Page 1 of 2 As I mustered the forces of tardy, meandering inspirations inside me in preparation for this article, success was achieved on two fronts:
1) I remembered to dip the rim into the salt before pouring the margarita.
2) A startling conclusion was reached!
In my head, Bruce Campbell Land is a place of the Ford and Wyoming Drive-In, late night geek gab-fests, elusive VHS tapes, flickers of solitary glee and a whole hell of a lot of wishing and hoping. It is not – and this was a shock -- a place of fornication. The paper umbrella embellished straw slipped into lime-flavored margarita goodness, only to freeze mid-stir, as the montage of notable Campbell, Raimi and Co moments arrived at: Wow. I’ve never experienced a sexual fantasy involving Bruce Campbell.
But how can that be?! Doctor Frankenstein, himself, could not have put together a better looking man – and Campbell can work a crowd as deftly as one of those Korean popper chicks; yet, all that self-deprecation-chased ham raises an irresistible suspicion of a blushing, bashful boy lurking beneath the uberconfident exterior. Standing in shorts, in a gymnasium as Coach Boomer in Sky High… well… did ya get a load of those man-gams?
So, how is it, then, that my mind and fingers have not wandered during a Smitty (Hudsucker Proxy) freeze-frame?
No sugar for you, baby. | I conclude three reasons.
First:
Years ago, after a few awkward moments and excruciating conversations while my cheeks burned in tomato hue, the hard lesson of refraining from entertaining naughty thoughts of people I know was eventually gleaned. Of course, I don’t know Bruce Campbell – but consider the math: I’ve seen around forty Bruce Campbell movies. The running time of Evil Dead 2, alone, was eighty-five minutes. Gratuitous repeat viewings of some of those films easily compensates for shorts included in the tally.
Now add hours whittled away on Campbell’s books. And his website. And all that television (from Brisco to Burn Notice)…
I’ve spent more time exploring Bruce than I have certain whole romantic relationships. Don’t think me shafted for it, though. The Campbell mythos is weaved with its own brand of starry-eyed romps. Other people, in other places, might well draw inspiration from the man and his compadres, but I’m left to wonder if those notions could be anywhere near as resonate as they are for a gal in Michigan. Very near to where I grew up – in the maze of Detroit suburbs – The Brothers Raimi, Bruce Campbell, Robert Tapert, Scott Spiegel, Josh Becker and friends/actors/any gullible soul in the vicinity, began the laborious task of carving out their world. How, exactly, did a group of Three Stooges fans make a mitten their oasis? They thrust The Chin in front of a Super 8, and through the force of sheer will, made things happen. |
Well, that’s the Cliff Notes, anyway (give a gander to Campbell’s "If Chins Could Kill" for a more thorough scoop).
Hollywood is oozing with how-they-got there anecdotes. There’s Spielberg’s mashing of classes to maximize studio gofer time. Trey Parker and Matt Stone slept on couches while peddling Cannibal: The Musical (only to end up funding a burrito dinner for Troma’s Kaufman, while being verbally slapped with the reality there wasn’t any money in cannibal musicals – but at least it would be released). This person slept in a car, serendipity smiled that one while he walked a dog – interesting, yes, but hardly as rollicking as the Campbell and Co stories. As Campbell explains on Josh Becker’s website (http://www.beckerfilms.com/bruce2.html), his first filmed role was that of King Creole in a junior high class project. In tennis shoes, and a sheet turned toga, Campbell’s film life began.
Some people don’t get it. Worse, some people get the Boomstick part, and little else. How to explain Campbell love? How does one explain an adoration for the Marvel Universe, or snow globes? Indeed, the many players – each of their details – their innerworkings, how the paths cross, align, divert… it’s not just Evil Dead – it’s like an elaborate chess board, complete with slap-stick sounds, where checks are two-fingered pokes to the eye, deflected with a vertical palm.
Armed with a Super 8 camera and an endless supply of salvation army prop and wardrobe finds, a rag tag mix of fellas decided to make movies. Then they decided to make a big movie – boasting a budget, actors, a set! A grant was grabbed, but it wasn’t enough. Suits were donned, along with serious faces and heartfelt pleas. What other backstory is enriched with the espionage and stealth that surely accompanied happening upon a little known jewel in the independent film maker’s arsenal: dentists are remarkably receptive to funding horror films. I’m not talking one dentist. The minds behind Evil Dead were able to convince multiple dentists into ponying up for the project. | 
At home in his trailer... no one does classy like Bruce does classy. |
I was a bit young for viewing Evil Dead when I did. Something my mother did not consider when birthing daughters nine years apart was that the tag-a-long syndrome was an informal thoroughfare to exposure of movies, music and books nine years earlier than planned for the youngin’. It seems Evil Dead blasted into my brain from one of the towering screens of the Ford and Wyoming Drive In. I could be mistaken, but either way, the impression was larger than life. The following night was spent lying awake in my cousin’s bed, thoroughly freaked by perceived similarities between the Holly Hobbit wallpaper and Ellen Sandweiss’s possessed heckling. Ended up slipping out of bed, in the dead of night, and ringing up my parents to come and take me home. Even then, though – even while teddy-clutching and sleep deprived, I was hooked. Lied my ass off as to my reasons for the phone home. I knew the film would haunt me for many nights to come; but I also knew… I had to see more.
A couple of years later, I spied a listing for a showing of Evil Dead 2. Begged my sister to take me, but she was one of those… what do you call them, again… seventeen year olds? It took nothing short of a precise mixture of martyr-speak and blackmail to land a ride to the drive-in. And it was even better than the first one!
But while I imagined there to be a group of people somewhere in the world whose sole ambition in life was to churn out Evil Dead films, here’s what I didn’t know: A) The boys behind Evil Dead weren’t hardcore horror film fans, and B) They hadn’t been sitting on their laurels between those two flicks.
Evil Dead was a means to an end. Horror – good horror, successful horror – can be made on a low budget, with a cast of unknowns. Comedy is a bit stickier. For instance, a dilapidated shack in the middle of nowhere would, at the very least, have to be better lit for comedy. That wasn’t in the budget. Campbell and Raimi simply have comedic souls. It shows through their work. Whatever it is they’re doing, I always feel they are guys one could have such a good time with, it’s fun just watching.
Granted, in no retelling of events does Evil Dead sound like it was fun to make. No crash course offered by a film school could possibly compare to the reality of being in a remote cabin, with equipment and actors in hand, in over your head with investors to satisfy. Who knew Plaster of Paris burned when applied to flesh? Further, who knew it removed eyelashes? By the time Stephen King graced Evil Dead with his seal of approval, and the film was off and running… and it was time to change up scenes of rape by possessed forest for some good vibes.
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