“Mitchell” is Stupid and Wonderful. Also Boring and Mercifully Short.

“Mitchell” is Stupid and Wonderful. Also Boring and Mercifully Short.





The erotic highlight of “Mitchell” — Linda Evans’ back (above left); Mitchell drinks Schlitz while sitting on a couch (top right) that matches his sport coat (below right).

If you’ve never seen Andrew McLaglen’s 1975 film “Mitchell,” starring the immortal Joe Don Baker, then you must drop everything and find it. Preferably the version available on one of those “50 Godawful Movies for $7” box sets, which are so badly produced that the titles are too fuzzy to read.

Mitchell is a renegade Los Angeles cop who goes after the bad guys and spends a lot of time getting in and out of cars. He also drives cars and crashes cars. And dune buggies.

He has a magic sport coat that matches his sofa, a fine-looking hooker (Linda Evans) who comes over when the plot needs goosing, and he can hit anyone or anything at any range with any gun.

“Mitchell” is an hommage du fromage, with scenery-chewing performances from John Saxon ( who was always getting in Jim Rockford’s pomaded hair) and Martin Balsam, who must have needed the work.

And there is musical commentary by the great Hoyt Axton, a man who had no peer when it came to rhyming “June” with “spoon.”

A CACA classic.

Three coils, with the automatic one coil deduction for no nekkidity, not even Linda Evans’ butt.




Who Killed the Chauffeur Again?

Who Killed the Chauffeur Again?

I’ve owned “The Big Sleep” forever, and read the novel umpty-ump times.

And I’ve always been confused by the plot.

It didn’t matter.

I dug out the DVD the other night and realized there was an unreleased, earlier version on the flip side of the disc.

Maybe I watched it before, but if I did, I didn’t remember it.

According to a comparison between the unreleased and released versions, the changes were made — mostly — in order to beef up Lauren Bacall’s scenes with Humphrey Bogart.

In particular, they cheesed a scene with Bacall in a weird veil, for no apparent reason.

But the big change is a long scene in the district attorney’s office. It’s not the most exciting thing in the world, but it does go a long way toward making the story more comprehensible.

It’s worth a look



Last Brookie Roundup of 2017

Last Brookie Roundup of 2017

This was in late November. Deer season, hence the orange clothing. The brookies were sluggish and responded best to the more garish offerings — the squirmy worm in particular. I was using a Cabelas 6 1/2 foot, 4 weight glass rod, which are typically about $69 plus shipping and as such an incredible deal. I also have the 7 foot 5 weight and just ordered the 5 foot 9 inch 3 weight. All are three piece rods.



Catch and Revive

Catch and Revive







housy bow sept 24

On the plus side, the Housatonic River Trout Management Area is running a little below 200 cubic feet per second, which means the wading angler can get to a lot of spots normally accessible only by boat.

But the low flows, combined with the unusually warm and sunny weather, mean the water temperature is getting into the 70s by mid-day.

So while it’s a lot of fun to go out and catch the feisty rainbows the state stocked a couple weeks back, they take a fair bit of reviving, as I found out on Sunday, Sept. 24.

It might be best to give the trout a rest until this hot spell breaks.

All this and the Famous Lorna Doone Coach!

All this and the Famous Lorna Doone Coach!



Drop everything and find “Naked As Nature Intended,” a 1961 nudist film by the immortal Harrison Marks.

It has cows, ducks, Stonehenge, girls in Capri pants and the Famous Lorna Doone coach.

Personally, seeing Pam, Jackie and the gang encounter the Famous Lorna Doone coach is a real highlight of my career as a important and influential film critic.

The one thing this flick is a little light on is nekkidity.

But hey — we get to see Tintagel! (The legendary castle of King Arthur, you oaf.)


Everybody’s an artist

Everybody’s an artist

Amazon Prime, aka The Eternal Wellspring of Utter Crap, for some reason was pushing something called “Space Boobs in Space,” which looked like it might be okay, if redundant.

As opposed to “Space Boobs in Arkansas,” I mean.

Well, it’s an appallingly amateurish mess that appears to have been shot on someone’s phone.

If you can make it past the 10-minute mark you win the Gunga Din Award.

“Space Boobs in Space” is not to be confused with “Space Babes in Space,” which I think is a porn flick.


space boobs

Only game in town

Only game in town

The Housatonic River in Northwest Connecticut had just gotten down to a wadeable level in the trouty areas in the week before the Memorial Day weekend.

Then, naturally, it rained.

In these circs. the wading angler can a) fish somewhere else b) take up another hobby c) try the stretch of the river between the dam above the Great Falls and the Falls Village hydropower facility.

Whatever is slopping over the dam is the flow. That in turn means that warmwater species can be found in the scoured out pools and runs — smallmouth bass, bluegill and what some insist are crappies and others maintain are rock bass. All I know is they are green and have bassy mouths and panfish bodies.

The footing is on smooth rock and pretty treacherous. The other day I watched casual hikers, one after another, slip and slide around. I tried to warn them. They didn’t listen.

Hardly anyone fishes here, let alone prowls the falls armed with a Tenkara rod. The competition, if any, comes from Latino guys up from Danbury and using enormous salt-water spinning rods. They tend to kill everything they catch, but they don’t catch much.

They’re cheerful and always curious about what I am doing. I try to explain it’s probably not a good idea to eat fish from this river — who wants to be the guy who grills up the one smallie that somehow ingested a chunk of PCB?

But they don’t speak much English, and my Spanish is slightly less than rudimentary.

And so the long day wears on.

So I spent the better part of a week exploring this area. I found the Lagoon of the Lost and a pool with some stranded fish in it.

I tried to catch them but they were busy setting the world record for spookiness.

I found some beer cans.

I tried a three-fly rig of Stimulator, Cahill nymph and isonychia nymph on a jig hook — on an eight-foot Tenkara rod — and it worked.

As did Momma’s Bathrobe (aka the mop fly), poppers, streamers, bushy dry flies, anything with rubber legs, and Wooly Buggers.

You could fish this river, anywhere on it, with nothing but brown Woolies in various sizes and permutations and catch something every day.

Because in the final analysis, you never really know what’s on the other end of the line around here.