Glad to see that Eric Jonrush's "The Spoils of Babylon" has finally gotten out to the wider public. Sure, it's been available for years on the collectors' circuit, on shabby VHS dubs from shady dealers at shadier fan conventions, but now, finally, it can be seen in its original fidelity and quality.
Which really isn't that much better.
There's a reason why certain projects get released, and others remain on the shelf, whether that shelf be in an air-conditioned film vault in a major movie studio or in a pawn shop. SOB is a case in point. And apparently, Eric Jonrush has reached that point; desperate, pining for former glories. A sad, obese old man draped in tent-like garb, swilling mid-priced wine and flirting with waitresses one-third his age. We see this much in the recorded introductions to the episodes of this mini-series.
I actually had not ever bothered to track down any of those low fidelity bootleg tape versions, usually made from a single, unauthorized broadcast on an Indonesian cable channel in 1987. But, I must admit, I was curious.
Though I had not read any of Jonrush's source novels, I had seen several of his potboiler films. Those were all much better than SOB.
I frankly wallowed in the cheesiness of "The Barbarian Hordes," his Roman A Clef expose of his time working in the advertising industry on Madison Avenue, in retrospect an amazing precursor to "Mad Men." TBH had the distinct advantage of being written by a direct eyewitness, but the distinct disadvantage of being written without any talent. It's a nutty conflation of The Man In The Gray Flannel Suit, Darren Stephens from Bewitched, and the worst parts of The Fountainhead, without any of Ayn Rand's subtlety. And, yes, lots of sex scenes thrown in.
I stood in awe of his most widely seen film, "The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of," the sweeping, star-studded epic about the early days of the Hollywood studio system. Most famous for its bizarre casting of then current stars playing stars of the past. (Kate Jackson as Mary Pickford! Tom Selleck as Charlie Chaplin!)
I spent weeks trying to puzzle out the complicated wonders of "The Aubergine Conundrum," his police/spy/detective/murder mystery/courtroom drama: equal parts Perry Mason, The Maltese Falcon, and Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In.
But those productions had notable advantages over SOB: they were produced by major studios and had decent budgets behind them.
Though SOB (the novel) did show up on the bestseller lists, it wasn't the kind of runaway hit that has Hollywood beating down a writer's door. And with only three television networks at that time, the available slots filled up fast, especially for tent-pole productions like sweeping, multi-part epics.
Jonrush, seething to get SOB made, could not take the rejection and put up his own money to complete the production. His caviar tastes and baloney budget forced him to cast little known actors, including his then-wife, Laureigha Samcake, and low profile soap opera hunk Dirk Snowfield. Samcake is way out of her depth, but she tries her best. She's even out-acted by the mannequin playing Lady Anne. Yes, in one case, Jonrush's limited budget meant that for one role, he could not afford to hire an actress, only a voice over artist. Only Samcake's endless fashion parade of ever-changing wigs keeps her afloat. Snowfield is not much better, with his accent that wanders more than Jack Kerouac and his Bob Dylan hairpiece.
The decision to use scale models for sets rather than stock footage is a curious one, especially when it is discovered that a crew of Old World craftsmen was flown in especially from Switzerland to construct each model by hand out of thousands of matchsticks, which Jonrush paid for in Krugerands.
Believe it or not, the writing is actually the least awful thing about SOB. After a while I started getting into the story and the relationships between the characters. Would Devin wrest control of Morehouse Conglomerated from Cynthia? Would that little twerp Winston get what was coming to him? So many questions, and so little wine to find the answers.
Why doesn't anyone try to film romance novels anymore? Here you have the response to that query, in full color. Advisable for Jonrush completists only.
Which really isn't that much better.
There's a reason why certain projects get released, and others remain on the shelf, whether that shelf be in an air-conditioned film vault in a major movie studio or in a pawn shop. SOB is a case in point. And apparently, Eric Jonrush has reached that point; desperate, pining for former glories. A sad, obese old man draped in tent-like garb, swilling mid-priced wine and flirting with waitresses one-third his age. We see this much in the recorded introductions to the episodes of this mini-series.
I actually had not ever bothered to track down any of those low fidelity bootleg tape versions, usually made from a single, unauthorized broadcast on an Indonesian cable channel in 1987. But, I must admit, I was curious.
Though I had not read any of Jonrush's source novels, I had seen several of his potboiler films. Those were all much better than SOB.
I frankly wallowed in the cheesiness of "The Barbarian Hordes," his Roman A Clef expose of his time working in the advertising industry on Madison Avenue, in retrospect an amazing precursor to "Mad Men." TBH had the distinct advantage of being written by a direct eyewitness, but the distinct disadvantage of being written without any talent. It's a nutty conflation of The Man In The Gray Flannel Suit, Darren Stephens from Bewitched, and the worst parts of The Fountainhead, without any of Ayn Rand's subtlety. And, yes, lots of sex scenes thrown in.
I stood in awe of his most widely seen film, "The Stuff That Dreams Are Made Of," the sweeping, star-studded epic about the early days of the Hollywood studio system. Most famous for its bizarre casting of then current stars playing stars of the past. (Kate Jackson as Mary Pickford! Tom Selleck as Charlie Chaplin!)
I spent weeks trying to puzzle out the complicated wonders of "The Aubergine Conundrum," his police/spy/detective/murder mystery/courtroom drama: equal parts Perry Mason, The Maltese Falcon, and Rowan and Martin's Laugh-In.
But those productions had notable advantages over SOB: they were produced by major studios and had decent budgets behind them.
Though SOB (the novel) did show up on the bestseller lists, it wasn't the kind of runaway hit that has Hollywood beating down a writer's door. And with only three television networks at that time, the available slots filled up fast, especially for tent-pole productions like sweeping, multi-part epics.
Jonrush, seething to get SOB made, could not take the rejection and put up his own money to complete the production. His caviar tastes and baloney budget forced him to cast little known actors, including his then-wife, Laureigha Samcake, and low profile soap opera hunk Dirk Snowfield. Samcake is way out of her depth, but she tries her best. She's even out-acted by the mannequin playing Lady Anne. Yes, in one case, Jonrush's limited budget meant that for one role, he could not afford to hire an actress, only a voice over artist. Only Samcake's endless fashion parade of ever-changing wigs keeps her afloat. Snowfield is not much better, with his accent that wanders more than Jack Kerouac and his Bob Dylan hairpiece.
The decision to use scale models for sets rather than stock footage is a curious one, especially when it is discovered that a crew of Old World craftsmen was flown in especially from Switzerland to construct each model by hand out of thousands of matchsticks, which Jonrush paid for in Krugerands.
Believe it or not, the writing is actually the least awful thing about SOB. After a while I started getting into the story and the relationships between the characters. Would Devin wrest control of Morehouse Conglomerated from Cynthia? Would that little twerp Winston get what was coming to him? So many questions, and so little wine to find the answers.
Why doesn't anyone try to film romance novels anymore? Here you have the response to that query, in full color. Advisable for Jonrush completists only.