Death of a Grindhouse Great

Requiem for a Heavy Breather: Bill Landis, 1959-2008

Sleazoid Express creator Bill Landis was a pioneering publisher who really did change the world (for the better), an endlessly imaginative writer with evocative/provocative powers on par with the giants of literature, a performer in hardcore films during theatrical porn’s Golden Age and a projectionist who worked Times Square’s glorious toilet-bowl theaters during the climactic final gushes of midtown Manhattan’s high grindhouse era.

At the same time, Bill Landis was also a miserable junkie, a hyper-paranoid head-case, and a world-class pain-in-the-ass with an ability to irritate others and alienate himself like nothing I’ve ever witnessed in the form of a grown man.

Everyone I have ever known to personally cross paths with Landis -- and I do mean everyone -- had it end with threats, insults, resentments, weirdly fabricated diatribes, psychotic phone calls at all hours, and, ultimately, an outspoken commitment to never deal with him on any level ever again.

And now Bill Landis is dead, at age 49, from a heart attack.

I miss him already. And I always will.

The news reached me via iPhone the day after Christmas. I was pissing in a movie theater bathroom. Coincidence? I then followed the story along all the appropriate Internet destinations: Mobius Home Video Forum, AV Maniacs, Video Watchdog, Alamo Weird Wednesday, Dread Central,and Fear of Darkness. It was inspiring to see that Landis’s passing even made it to IMDB.

For the unfamiliar: Bill Landis created the Xeroxed fanzine Sleazoid Express in 1980. It mixed reviews of the exploitation films playing New York City's famed 42nd Street row of grindhouses (with occasional visits to downtown gems such as Variety Photoplays) along with you-are-there accounts the author’s sexual and chemical misadventures in and out of such dank dens of lethal hedonism.

Over the course of six years, Sleazoid Express expanded its scope, including looks back at trash-movie treasures. Later on, Jimmy McDonough, a genius, also joined the masthead. He went on to author definitive biographies of Russ Meyer and Neil Young, along with the single greatest cinema-related book I’ve ever read, The Ghastly One: The Sex-Gore Netherworld of Filmmaker Andy Milligan.

In the midst of this, Landis found a professional outlet for his ominsexual obsessions, working as porn actor “Bobby Spector” in a glandful of boner fide X-rated movies before the ultimate smut conquest of home-video. Years later, Ladis detailed his porn-star experience brilliantly in a Village Voice cover feature that is impossible to read and remain unmoved by.

The final edition of the first run of Sleazoid Express is a monumental achievement: a stream-of-consciousness recap of Landis’s ever-deepening descent away from B-movie fanaticism and whirlwind sex, and smack (pun intended) into hopeless narcotic oblivion.

This issue (so filled with "issues") deserves to be published as a stand-alone book and, as I suspect McDonough did the heavy lifting in terms of getting it all down on paper, perhaps the current best-selling author could make that happen (let's all ask him to by clicking here).

Landis subsequently disappeared from public (if not pubic) discourse for the next decade. In 1996, he wrote Anger: The Unauthorized Biography of Kenneth Anger. His book on the larger-than-lust underground film legend is fitfully interesting, but mostly scattershot and unsatisfying.

It may not even be necessary to note that the bio prompted practicing demonologist and all-around crackpot Anger to foist a curse on Landis, which the author occasionally acknowledged when suffering what does seem like a supernatural run of bad luck right up until his demise (including an apartment fire and multiple broken bones).

A few years later, Landis resumed publishing Sleazoid Express in conjunction with his wife, Michelle Clifford.

The new issues contained long write-ups of specific films and filmmakers, mainly extreme cinema icons such as Mike and Roberta Findlay, the Amero brothers, the Ilsa and Olga franchises, Pets with Candice Rialson, Pasolini’s Salo, Last House on Dead End Street, Let Me Die A Woman, Bare Behind Bars, The Beast, and The Candy Snatchers.

A single edition dedicated to Bloodsucking Freaks and its director, Joel M. Reed (with whom Landis had a typically calamitous relationship), never materialized.

Clifford produced her own title, Metasex, which focused on vintage hardcore porn and the milieus in which it flourished and festered. It was every bit the equal of the revitalized Sleazoid, with numerous contributions from Landis himself.

Also not to be missed are the couple’s pieces written for the video company Alpha Blue Archives on the history of European sex cinema, 8mm loops and, most spectacularly, the crime-ridden, heavy-kink NYC porn dynasty Avon Films.

At long last, mainstream media took notice and Simon and Schuster brought forth a proper book Sleazoid Express: A Mind-Twisting Tour Through the Grindhouse Cinema of Times Square. By virtue (or, more accurately, vice) of its mere existence, the tome is indispensable.

As a reading experience, though, the Sleazoid book is a letdown -- not enough atmospheric spelunking into the times and places (and people), way too many way movie reviews that run way too long and are laden with way too many details, way too many of which turn out to be factually off-the-mark (the definitive take on the topic remains Tales of Times Square by Josh Alan Friedman, which was recently expanded and reissued by the heroes at Feral House).

By all means, though, buy Sleazoid Express in book form and read it and savor the good parts and, just for kicks, count how many times you stumble across the words "tenderloin" and "velour."

Happily, the book secured Landis and Clifford considerable above-ground visibility, which they parlayed into hosting exploitation movie screenings in various big cities.

They got another boost from the Quentin Tarantino-Robert Rodriguez bomb Grindhouse (2007), scoring interviews in Time Out NY, composing an inspired piece on old-school 42nd Street food fare for The Hungover Gourmet, and curating a memorable midnight-movie series at the Music Box Theatre, in the couple’s newly adopted home city, Chicago.

Somewhere along the line, they sired an offspring to whom they referred, naturally, as “Baby Sleazoid.”

I’m leaving out a lot, such as Bill’s contributions to the SoHo News and New York Rocker, and Jimmy McDonough’s chilling dedication at the beginning of The Ghastly One (“For Landis: Arriverderci”).

But I didn’t know the man. Not really. Only sort of, and only in quick passing. But what an impression he made. I could never possibly un-know that.

Some background on me: In 1991, I commenced publishing a ’zine titled HAPPYLAND which documented my comings-and-more-comings in what was left of the half-past-dead trashpit moviehouses and open-window peep-shows of Times Square, as well as skunky bars and back-alleys all over the city.

Immediately, HAPPYLAND drew comparisons (from The Village Voice, from Factsheet Five, from countless drunks at Downtown Beirut) to Sleazoid Express.

The thing was, although I’d read about Sleazoid Express endlessly, I had never seen an actual copy of it. HAPPYLAND’s inspiration was The Gore Gazette and my alcoholic/assoholic role model was its publisher, Rick Sullivan (be sure to click that last link).

I had subscribed to The Gore Gazette off and on since I was in the eighth grade, after reading a profile of Sullivan in the New York Daily News that contained ordering information (I just realized that the Daily News is what also tipped me off to The Psychotronic Encyclopedia of Film. I’d venture that Wednesday columnist The Phantom of the Movies lay behind these exposures).

By the time I graduated high school in 1986 and was regularly venturing into places that peddled incendiary literature, Sleazoid was kaput.

Thus my first hands-on encounter with Landis’s writing didn’t occur until the late-’90s, second-wave Sleazoid onslaught, when I snapped up every available issue – for the insane cover price of $10 a pop – from the sorely missed See/Hear.

At first glance, I fell in love. I was honored and humbled to have ever been mentioned in the same thought as Bill Landis. And I wasn’t even reading his best stuff!

During a spell of unemployment, I started chatting with Michelle Clifford online. We were both fans of the Ron and Fez radio show. Landis emailed me once to proclaim that he didn’t like comedy or comedians or comedy radio shows, although he had some affection for Don Rickles’ first album, Hello, Dummy! On that, he and I could agree.

When I finally secured a job editing yet another slap-mag, I offered writing work to Landis and Clifford, with repeated caveats regarding how long this publisher took to pay freelancers.

You might wait six months or more to get the first check, I explained, although once you were in the system, the downtime would only be between three and four months usually (it’s tough to mourn the demise of print media with battle-hardened memories like this).

Mr. and Mrs. Sleazoid composed their pieces and they were okay, mainly because I was a fan. They had to be entirely rewritten to fit the tone of the magazine, but I didn’t hesitate to quickly process the paperwork to make sure they’d (eventually) get paid.

After some time passed, the emails started. Understandably, they wanted to know where their check was. I apologized and explained again (and again and again) that it would be a long wait and that it was out of my hands and on the desk of our money man, waiting to be signed.

Patience, alas, was not a Sleazoid virtue.

Bombastic threats, maniacal phone freak-outs, and off-the-wall emails ensued non-stop. At one point Landis and Clifford individually, in separate dispatches, referred to me as “The House Nigger of Pornography”; i.e. – “You sit on the porch of the plantation saying, ‘Massa has it hard!’ You are The House Nigger of Pornography.”).

Stress-inducing to be sure, but not utterly devoid of charm. Less tickled was the payroll department, at whom the Sleazoids were directing relentless hellfire.

When the check finally got dispatched, I received two unforgettable missives.

The first came from Landis, who informed me that I was lucky because he knew terrorist tactics that he could use to ruin the company’s credit and put us out of business.

The second came from the Head of Accounting, who decreed: “Under no circumstances are you ever to employ William Landis and/or Michelle Clifford as independent contractors or in any other role whatsoever, ever again.”

Remarkably, after all this sturm und drang, Clifford asked about contributing to another magazine under the same corporate umbrella, one run by women.

Even if I were to discard the Prime Directive from The Suits, Michelle had boasted to me about once overturning a desk and slapping a female editor in the face previously. I therefore replied that I could not put her in touch with anyone else with a desk to turn over or a face to slap.

Boy, was I the Even Bigger House Nigger of Pornography after that gaffe.

The many, many Sleazoid emails were too upsetting and depressing at the time for me to save (how I wish I had them now). The best aspects were the odd, nonsensical accusations Landis lobbed.

“I know all about you, Selwyn Harris,” he once wrote. “I heard about you in that delicatessen with the two dominatrixes, showing off, thinking like you were hot shit.”

Now I am a man who has endured severe addictions to drugs, alcohol, and all manner of sexual compulsivity. Innumerable is the under-$20 relief I have purchased in peep-show booths, doorways, and behind dumpsters. I have known (well) the loving touch of the transgendered. Public nudity, obscene exhibitionism, and uninvited voyeurism all play major roles in my ongoing journey. Professional sex providers have ranked high among my friends, personal and otherwise, for years.

But, for the life of me (and for the death of him), I have absolutely zero clue as to what Landis could’ve been babbling about. Was I once strutting around arm-in-arm with a pair of doms while picking up Rolling Rocks and roast beef heroes? I wish I was that cool!

Suffice to say, that kicked the dirt on any active give-and-take between the Sleazoids and me. Then, by freak coincidence, all three of us (four if you count Baby Sleazoid) just happened to move to Chicago.

I became aware of the mid-western Sleazoid relocation when I was stunned to see Landis scheduled to do a reading at my beloved Quimby’s Book Store. I had only ever experienced the great man’s hyper-New-Yawkese via the telephone, and I never had a great idea what he (let alone Clifford) looked like. This reading became the most important occasion of my life.

The Quimby’s event was hosted by cigar-puffing pro-wrestling nut Rocco Malce (publisher of the great grappling 'zine Clawhammer), and attended by two chunky Goth chicks, an impressive array of miscreants assembled by me that included Count Rackula, Meg McCarville, Alix Lakehurst, Miss Julie Fabulous, and almost no one else. For every sane reason, I chose not to identify myself.

Landis was small, skinny, pop-eyed (indeed), and volatile. He hobbled around and wore a fanny-pack from which he extracted one 120mm cigarette after another. He chatted up the Goth chubs (“Where’s the party tonight, girls? Exit? Where’s that?”) and took phone calls (ignoring Quimby’s cell ban) from an irritated Clifford who “could not make it this evening.”

He read from the most recent issue of Sleazoid Express, droning boring details from some French S&M film. Still, he was mesmerizing. Then he took questions, almost entirely from me.

“Could you comment on your relationship with Jimmy McDonough?” I asked. “Would you ever consider working with him again?”

“No! No, I would not!” Landis snarled. “No. Fuck Jimmy McDonough. He’s nothing. Fuck him. I heard he dedicated a book to me. I didn’t read it. I would never read it. You know, he came along late to Sleazoid Express and never really wrote anything. He always overstates his involvement. But let me tell you this about Jimmy McDonough [eyes darting around, on the lookout for danger] – Jimmy McDonough likes to take his girlfriend and photograph her in lesbian situations. That’s his thing. Fuck him. Fuck Jimmy McDonough.”

“When you were working in Times Square, did you ever cross paths with Josh Alan Friedman?”

“Fuck Josh Alan Friedman! He’s a punk! Fuck him. Let me tell you this about Josh Alan Friedman. There used to be a drag queen bar on 44th Street and he’d go in their and all the ladies would go [waving his fingers and doing a high Minnie-Mouse-voice]: ‘Oh, hello, Josh! Hi there! Toodle-ooh!’ So make of THAT what you will!”

What I make of that is that these allegations were fished from the same koo-koo pool that provided Landis with my doms-in-the-deli story.

It went on like this for a while. Landis eventually shot me a cock-eyed glare and said: “Somebody’s been doing his homework.”

After pleas from Rocco and me that Landis write more, the event wrapped up. My friends all shelled out ten bucks for a Sleazoid and Bill signed them graciously. Then he was gone. Maybe to Exit. Who knows.

I finally laid eyes on Michelle Clifford about a year later when the Sleazoids hosted a series of midnight movies at the Music Box, beginning with Pets.

Naturally, Baby Sleazoid was there, too, and she seemed like a bright, sweet kid who just happened to be running around the public showing of a sick sex film in the middle of the night.

With a motorcycle jacket and air of no-nonsense-taking, Clifford came off as a impressively tough, early-’80s-style New York rocker broad.

She gave her husband a booming intro: “Ladies and gentleman … the LEGENDARY … BILL! … LANDIS! … creator of the LEGENDARY … SLEAZOID EXPRESS!”

Thunderous cheers and applause followed. From me. The hipster kids drawn in by the Grindhouse hype were at first puzzled, then amused, and ultimately annoyed by the Sleazoids' very long, very involved ramblings that delayed the movies and started up again after a bunch of vintage trailers.

I went back each week and the same thing happened, only the crowds got smaller and their antsiness got more pronounced.

Friends of mine on the Music Box staff also grew to dread Landis’s arrival exponentially. He insisted on free candy. One time I heard this exchange at the concession counter.

“You got any CHAW-klit?”

“Yeah. What kind?”

“Hmmm. Milk CHAW-klit.”

Reports cropped up that Landis and Clifford would no longer host the films together and, in subsequent one-off screenings, they alternated nights.

Maybe they split up as a couple, maybe not. What may be telling is the final post on the Sleazoid Express website while Bill was alive that declares: “Detante [sic] has been reached between Bill Landis and Michelle Clifford. The printing presses will roll again. Email us for payment options. And expect an upcoming issue of Sleazoid Express soon.”

Sorry to dash everbody’s expectations.

Among those blistered by Bill Landis’s bile was Hollywood horror siren and frequent McBeardo model Nekromistress.

This impossibly beautiful, impossibly appealing sexbomb who boasts impossibly spot-on passion for and knowledge of extreme horror, vicious 70s porn, and all things retro-scuzz somehow invoked the wrath of Landis.

Nekromistress once shot up from a table while my sweaty fingers were still beneath her shirt so she could go make out with Jamie Gillis in public. Clearly, she is not the type to rub rough-and-tumble sex-berserkers the wrong way.

Regardless, Landis relentlessly besmirched her all over the Internet, once lambasting our darling Nekro for “not knowing the difference between getting groped by a celebrity and a jerk like Mike McPadden.”

I love Bill Landis for what he gave the world. But I’d still like to give him this image to carry with him through eternity.

Arriverderci.