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Shadows & Light: Journeys With Outlaws in Revolutionary Hollywood
[i]Shadows and Light[/i] illuminates the "reel" revolution that started in 1960 with director John Cassavetes' work. It is written by writer/director, actor, stuntman, special effects guru, production manager Gary Kent.An officer in this revolution, Kent compiled credits on over one hundred motion pictures and won several major film awards. This book is Kent's homage to the artistic, talented makers of magic, who began on the bottom of the dog-pile making biker flicks and nudie cuties and today find themselves on top of the Hollywood heap. The book is filled with memories, reminiscences, inside information, heretofore unknown facts, anecdotes and photos accumulated over forty-some years in independent, outrageous and courageous cinema. Kent provides a glimpse into the mystery of preparing stunt, action and special effects sequences without resorting to computer graphics and offers an inside take at the making of some favorite motion pictures, from concept to release.The books features stories of William Shatner, Ann-Margret, Brian De Palma, Bruce Campbell, Ed Wood, Charles Manson, Frank Zappa, Duane Eddy, the Hells Angels and others.
422 pages, Paperback
First published July 14, 2009
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
March 29, 2010
Loved this book! So full of humor, heart and wisdom... all while making shoot-from-the-hip films in the midst of a Hollywood revolution. Gary Kent is a treasure of experience, wide insight and compassion.
August 23, 2010
Lots of film geeks love to hoard shards of bizarro trivia and arcana. Hell I can probably recite the complete filmographies of Kroger Babb and Susan Tyrrell if you pressed a tenner into my hand. But prior to 2009, the name "Gary Kent" would've stumped me. Yet here he is, the world's wittiest and most articulate stuntman, C-movie actor, and all-round raconteur telling you like it was in sixties Hollywood, when everyone's brains was getting rattled by gunsmoke, breastses on celluloid, and beardos on hogs.
This memoir is banged outta the saddle and rolling in dust -- neither ego-driven nor gossipy, but filled with the strangest cast of characters: Coleman Francis, Jack Nicholson, Linda Lavin, Katherine Helmond, Chuck Bail, Vic Tayback, Gary Kurtz, Max Julien, Ronald fucking Reagan, Warren Oates, John Cassavetes, Jack Elam, Richard Rush... And all in the service of a hand-to-mouth world of cinema that existed all too briefly but and remains practically a lost continent of groovy movies. Ever hear of 'The Black Klansman'? Or 'Satan's Sadists'? Gary was in those flicks -- among others -- and they represent a nameless exploitation genre that even the savviest of us have yet to mine.
Here's what Kent says during a particularly breathless sideline possibly involving Steven Seagal: "Remember, what we are celebrating here, in this book, are the independent filmmakers, gnarly, obscene, obscure, foolish, yes, but a magnificent testament to the freedom and daring of art without consensus, without committee, without numbers that add up to a perfect ten."
Even more important -- since he shifted back and forth from actor to crew -- is his celebration of the strange rituals and smells and sounds of film making, the workers, the characters, the buzz and invention of the whole enterprise: "Under unusual and frequently impossible circumstances, they make raindrops, teardrops, forest fires, plagues, snow in July, Easter in August, and day into night. They create shadow and light, call up ghosts, and pierce the veil of eternity. They carry within their trucks and trailers, their dirty bags, pouches, kit and kaboodles, the stuff necessary for the weaving of dreams." Yes! And yes, this book was not ghosted, in case you're scratching your head about a poetic stuntman waxing awesome on the page.
Leaving aside all this, the author, despite his beefy good looks and career of onscreen bigotry & rape & second unit genius, is one of the most thoughtful and witty dudes you'll ever stumble over in the Hollywood memoir business.
For instance. I've seen (and been) lots of scribblers wrestling with the dubious legacy of Charles Bukowski, but Kent just nails it in this book: "Bukowski was an unpleasant drunk, a womanizer, a homophobe; unshaven and unbathed; an abusive leftover from the Beat Generation. He was as ugly as a mummy with its wraps off. He was not only constantly commode-hugging, knee-walking plastered, he was also prolific, and frequently brilliant as a writer. Much of his work was a lot of garbled wordage, but some of his works are exquisite pieces of literature. L.A. embraced him for thirty years. He chronicled for us the winos, the people with broken dreams and threadbare hearts."
Just a great memoir, read it for fun and profit, AND you'll get some movie recommendations in here like you ain't never heard before.
This memoir is banged outta the saddle and rolling in dust -- neither ego-driven nor gossipy, but filled with the strangest cast of characters: Coleman Francis, Jack Nicholson, Linda Lavin, Katherine Helmond, Chuck Bail, Vic Tayback, Gary Kurtz, Max Julien, Ronald fucking Reagan, Warren Oates, John Cassavetes, Jack Elam, Richard Rush... And all in the service of a hand-to-mouth world of cinema that existed all too briefly but and remains practically a lost continent of groovy movies. Ever hear of 'The Black Klansman'? Or 'Satan's Sadists'? Gary was in those flicks -- among others -- and they represent a nameless exploitation genre that even the savviest of us have yet to mine.
Here's what Kent says during a particularly breathless sideline possibly involving Steven Seagal: "Remember, what we are celebrating here, in this book, are the independent filmmakers, gnarly, obscene, obscure, foolish, yes, but a magnificent testament to the freedom and daring of art without consensus, without committee, without numbers that add up to a perfect ten."
Even more important -- since he shifted back and forth from actor to crew -- is his celebration of the strange rituals and smells and sounds of film making, the workers, the characters, the buzz and invention of the whole enterprise: "Under unusual and frequently impossible circumstances, they make raindrops, teardrops, forest fires, plagues, snow in July, Easter in August, and day into night. They create shadow and light, call up ghosts, and pierce the veil of eternity. They carry within their trucks and trailers, their dirty bags, pouches, kit and kaboodles, the stuff necessary for the weaving of dreams." Yes! And yes, this book was not ghosted, in case you're scratching your head about a poetic stuntman waxing awesome on the page.
Leaving aside all this, the author, despite his beefy good looks and career of onscreen bigotry & rape & second unit genius, is one of the most thoughtful and witty dudes you'll ever stumble over in the Hollywood memoir business.
For instance. I've seen (and been) lots of scribblers wrestling with the dubious legacy of Charles Bukowski, but Kent just nails it in this book: "Bukowski was an unpleasant drunk, a womanizer, a homophobe; unshaven and unbathed; an abusive leftover from the Beat Generation. He was as ugly as a mummy with its wraps off. He was not only constantly commode-hugging, knee-walking plastered, he was also prolific, and frequently brilliant as a writer. Much of his work was a lot of garbled wordage, but some of his works are exquisite pieces of literature. L.A. embraced him for thirty years. He chronicled for us the winos, the people with broken dreams and threadbare hearts."
Just a great memoir, read it for fun and profit, AND you'll get some movie recommendations in here like you ain't never heard before.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews