Usually, the pairing of Robert Blake and a weapon wouldn’t be a case for chuckles. But this poster for the (unheralded?) 1980 (caper?) film Coast to Coast, directed by that Hollywood workhorse (and The Taking of Pelham 123 director) Joseph Sargent, is just a clear shotgun blast of larfs. Put aside the weird plasticine illustrations of Blake (who looks actually more perturbed here than he ever did on trial) and once-upon-a-time comedy mainstay Dyan Cannon (whose stiff, shiny legs would have one initially assume this was a teaser for Mannequin 3), and just take a look at that tagline: “Either way, he’ll get it in the end.” It’s the most ominous teaser since the title of creepster Joe Brooks’s If Ever I See You Again . . . . Let’s suss out this mystery, shall we?
Judging by Blake’s precarious positioning, I can easily imagine one way Blake might “get it in the end” . . . that would be, to put it delicately, a shotgun blast to the testicles, which would, due to the angle, probably shoot a gaping, bloody hole through his entire body and out through the top of his head.
But this is, apparently, a PG-rated affair. So how else might he “get it in the end”? By falling in between those two massive trucks on the highway and getting squashed like a bug in the road? Still too violent.
Cannon looks mischevious—perhaps her nutsoid behavior (she does seem to be instigating a merry cross-country misadventure) will lead to his demise? That must be what the writers of this poster intended. If he doesn’t get a hole blown through his crotch area, he will end up inextricably, sexually linked to Cannon for life, which, in all likelihood, would be tantamount to . . . getting a hole blown through his crotch area. So, to sum it up: Women = Shotgun blasts to the testicles. Huh, this turned out pretty straightforward, actually. Bonnie Lee Bakley might have a different story to tell, though.
What tot or teenager of a certain generation wasn’t tantalized by this naughty number? When I first saw this poster for 1991’s sensitively titled Whore (it should come with an explanation point, like Oliver!), I didn’t know who the hell Ken Russell was (and I still kind of don’t) and Theresa Russell was not that chick from the Nic Roeg movies, but rather that dead-eyed lady from Black Widow and Physical Evidence (not the Kent Jones collection but the low-simmer Burt Reynolds vehicle). With her narcotized come-hither glance, given from that dingy bed seemingly perched in the middle of a back-alley urban wasteland, Whore‘s whore was a sweet and salty prospect indeed, promising the thrill of sex but seemingly without the, you know, sexiness. The black-bordered coldness of this scenario was what was most appealing and appalling—just where was Theresa Russell planning on taking me?
My memories of this film (or rather, this poster, as I still have never seen the actual movie—watching it might dilute the vividness of this one sheet) are however linked with a different iteration than the one you see above. Upon its release, apparently the film’s very title was shocking enough to warrant its censorship in certain papers. The solution? To stick a haphazardly placed stamp over the title that read: “If you can’t say it, just see it.” This always sent me into giggle spasms, not just because of the cute turn of phrase but also because I wondered who it was addressing. If one was offended by the title, why would they choose to watch the film? And if they did, what lessons would they learn? Either way, surely Whore had something to teach the world, even if nobody, alas, was listening. Maybe one day I (and the world) will catch up with Whore, surely marketed in 1991 as the antidote to Pretty Woman, hence the tagline “This is no bedtime story.” Maybe I will learn its lessons. Or maybe I’m just the king of wishful thinking.
Like the Mount Rushmore of posters for movies starring minor crossover singer-actors, this weird-beard extravaganza is grandiose in its hirsute horribleness. The sweaty bandanna, Kris’s shit-eatin’ grin, those headphones connected only to each other rather than any noticeable music player—it’s smokey-mountain surreal. More confounding: if this isn’t a film about Siamese twins, where exactly are their bodies?
What?! Spanish auteur Bigas Luna’s Anguish, starring Zelda Rubenstein and Michael Lerner?! From 1987? In which Poltergeist‘s own Tangina apparently collects the eyeballs of her fellow city-dwellers and glues them to her wall like a uniform key-rack? Yes, apparently before making those Spanish-language faves Ham, Ham and The Tit and the Moon, Luna roped the oft-exploited Ms. Rubenstein for this ghastly bit of business, and to add insult to injury, made her wear a ratty old shawl that in this poster takes on the weight of football shoulder padding. Unlike many of our woebegone posters of the week, this one seems to have its imdb supporters, and we won’t say we’re not intrigued, but we’re also a bit turned off by mean little Zelda’s tight-lipped stare and odd hand gestures (what is she reaching for?). Nevertheless, I’ll give the final word to a Netflix subscriber review (and no, it’s not yet available from them): “The film rapidly slides into a grade ‘Z’ horror wannabe. The little lady from ‘Poltergeist’ with the “nails on chalk board” voice hypnotizes her wimpy son into cutting out people’s eyes. I don’t know why and I don’t care. When the film begins to influence the audience in the theater, I lost it. In complete ‘Anguish’ I turned this stinker off. Please don’t mistake this for anything but a waste of film. YOU’VE BEEN WARNED.” But wait, another Netflixer begs to differ: “You are not a true horror fan unless you’ve seen this movie.” Color me embarrassed.
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