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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.
Comments
A very fitting tome.
When I met him/Clifford at "The Box," they claimed Shaun Costello had directed Dominatrix Without Mercy, but when I told Michelle that I'd spoken to him earlier that day and he had told me he hadn't, she "corrected" herself saying "No, he only wrote it." Even though the on-screen writing credit was clearly Jason Russell.
My sympathies to the surviving Sleazoids.
I dedicate that picture of you groping me to Mr. Landis since he brought it up more than once in one of his email rants!
I will give this a read again later once I've had some tea and woken up.
One thing though. Bill did put out that Joel Reed one-off. You can find Joel refuting it all over the net and in emails to anyone who cares.
Bill became a huge part of my life in film as well and for that I will always think of him with fondness. This is just a free form rant inspired by your informative take Mike. Not sure if it adds anything but more noise.
Bill played some of my 35mm prints at the Sleazoid fest and that Music Box series. My Bill memories however start in the 80s after reading the mindblowing Milligan article in Fangoria and becoming obsessed with Milligan (and Bill). When I eventually got the Sleazoid companion from Pandemonium's Jack Stevenson it was like some sort of exploitation holy grail. I remember Jack S being amazed that I wanted to learn as much about Bill as possible. I couldn't explain the reason for the fascination but he kindly provided some interesting (and now obvious to everyone) back stories that were intended to put me off but only ignited my interest. I eventually met Bill a couple of times over the years and we spent some time walking to some NYC haunts with Bill providing a ghostly travelogue. We ate Chinese food and we talked about films and prescription drugs. I also met Michelle and their daughter Victoria when she was very young. The Sleazoid Film festival (part 2) was put on by the talented Joel Sheperd in SF. It was attended by David Naylor from Alpha Blue Archives and Flesh Gordon's Bill Ziehm and assorted flotsam and jetsam. It was an unusual experience for various reasons that I wont get into here. I eventually hooked Bill up with a good friend in Austin and he did a series for his book there too. When I asked my friend how Bill enjoyed his visit they said he talked about you. Oh what did he say I asked. He said that Bill said I was a drug dealer! I thought it pretty amusing but it also confirmed what I had been feeling about Bill for a few years. That both he and Michelle's incredibly insular 'them vs us' mindset had increased their paranoia and bitterness to form an altered reality where everyone had a secret agenda against them.
Mike is totally correct about their burn ratio with all they encountered. I graciously supplied prints for them to use and never received one thank you. It was just expected. I was another person that had something they needed. It's a weird feeling to be used by your idol. Its simultaneously humiliating and liberating. It's freeing as you finally can severe whatever emotional connection you had with the person and eventually achieve some sort of closure.
I really do wish Michelle and Victoria the very best in the future. What is disquieting is that I see from some recent posts that she's got some issues about how her writing may have been perceived (or lack of) by others. In one obit she mentions several times how she co wrote everything. It just seems a bit unnecessary to even bother with that sort of public declaration, even if true. It's more than strange to think that his daughter will eventually read all about her Dad on the net. the good the bad and the ugly.
Ultimately I like to think a flawed character like Bill would never have left an impression on people if he was just another film nerd. Bill was affected by cinema in a way that very few are and thankfully for us, he managed to eloquently articulate his sprocketed life.
I hope there's some spectral variety photoplays that screens exploitation for eternity. And somewhere deep in the haze of smoke and shadows is Bill - sitting quietly in the dark with reflections of sex and violence flickering on his eyes.
RIP Mr Sleazoid. Play that funky music white boy.
ps - Josh's book is excellent. Completely Seconded. But a great companion is Samuel Delaneys account of his sexual awakening on the deuce. Its even grittier and more memorable than Bills and Josh's in some ways.
This is the most information-rich description of the man I have ever read, and that's after reading most of his writings. There seems to be a big disconnect between how he saw himself and how others did.
Anyway, a very worthwhile read, showing what sets Bill's writing miles apart from the common Psychotronic-model of film criticism that's less personal and much less of an assault on the reader. He was a very important creature and a big influence among ranters, film geeks, addicts, masturbators and dirtbags. You nailed it, Harris.
I am *surprised* [well - not really] that, in the mention of Bill's reading at Quimby's, you did not mention I was there.
I think Bill was a little worried that perhaps, I might attempt to steal the spotlight from him. One of the other guests asked him about me. I think the reply was, "A pornographer of some stature." But I had no intention of doing such. After all, the reason I was there was to publicize that the next night at the _Twisted Spoke_ tavern, I was going to show "Flash Pants" on VHS. I had synopses of the movie. (OK; I picked that movie deliberately when I learned about the reading.)
I didn't go to Exit for the after-show. I wound up at the Artful Dodger tavern, which had just announced it would be closing in three weeks.
I really believe I never had a bad experience with Bill. I was at the showing of "Dominatrix Without Mercy" at the Music Box Threatre as well. (I had to *_counter-program_* it the next night. Ask me off-line and I'll let you know what I did.) He did not seem *that* out of it.
Anyhow; this is a great piece. Thank you for sharing it with us.
By the way, is anybody really sure that Landis is dead? I just keep finding the same incestuous links on-line and nothing, apparently, in the “legitimate” press. (Let not the sons suffer the iniquity of the father.)
I lost contact with him, and it's sort of interesting to see, over 25 years later, that he became his own fantasy in some ways. Probably not quite my idea of what life should be like, but it was his... good for him. I had always figured he'd settle into some kind of suburban typical life with a nagging wife and a mortgage.
The one thing I remember us saying to each other over and over again as a bit of a joke was 'Death - It's bigger than life.' Guess he now has the chance to experience that fantasy also.
It was really interesting reading these comments. A lot of people had similar experiences with both Bill and Michelle. Like some of the writers above, I loved, loved,loved Sleazoid and read my battered copies over and over again. He created a mythology out of his environment; like many great writers, he made the world he wrote about his own, so that it was impossible to experience Times Square - at the time or in retrospect- without thinking of Bill and his unique world view. It was funny, sad, horrifying and, as noted above, that last issue, as he was drifting into big time drug abuse, was haunting and very powerful. I wrote Bill a letter when I saw, years later, that he was reviving Sleazoid and he got in touch with me, very gracious and pleased at my remarks. From then on we were sporadically friendly and I got to take some of the roller coaster rides described above- late night phone calls that veered from vitriol (not usually directed at me) to appeals for emotional support during one or another of the tough situations or lonely exiles that his unsustainable lifestyle had led him into. He told me several times that he'd rather die than quit drugs, and I guess this was true. I was sorry and disappointed at times that my conversations with him were so trying - they often reminded me of sessions with patients (I'm a therapist), when I would like to have been talking about movies, the old days on Forty Second Street, etc. To know Bill at this time was, of course, to also know Michelle, and to be even slightly enmeshed in their world was, of course, to sometimes say or do the wrong thing and end up the target of intense scorn and usually shut out for several weeks or months. When they moved to Chicago and then broke up, I found myself wishing that Bill would just clean up and get his act together, if only, as I told him several times, so we could all have some more Sleazoid.
Yeah, he was a colorful character and could be hell to get along with. Not to be too clinical about it, but between Bill and Michelle you had an ample supply of drug fueled paranoia and borderline personality on display. But what a great, incisive, entertaining writer. I wish he had been appreciated more. Yeah, he could be a fuck up, but it drove me crazy to hear him struggling to find and keep temp office jobs to support himself. This was Bill Landis, for Christ sake; considering the awesome and awesomely indulged non-talents on offer every day in our cultural life, it might have been nice if someone of Bill's caliber could have gotten some more play, support and appreciation.
Well, what is there to do now but put on "Confessions of a Pyscho Cat" or some Euro slice of S&M sleaze, light a blunt and say a prayer for Mr. Sleazoid.
I agree about Sleazoid Express the book being bit of a let-down (for all its inaccuracies, I prefer the oddly exciting Anger bio). As with many books based on great zines, some urgency has been lost in the change of format. Each legendary Deuce theatre has its own chapter but the attempt at reproducing the theatrical experience is not as involving as it should. Often the grindhouses feel like framing devices for the movie reviews of Landis and Clifford, with plot summaries going on and on.
In the final phase of his career Landis was of course Familyman Sleazoid and it's understandable he was unwilling to continue the one-man mondo (s)exhibitionism which topped the original run of S.E. The old issues also make me laugh out loud with their urban gonzo sociology and irreverent joie de vivre. The revamped S.E. is somehow more claustrophobic, with fewer "locations" and the focus being more in the past. I think the movie taste of Landis was very American, but as a critic he grew appreciative of "dubbed imports" and even started to cover European arthouse classics in his ultra-personal style (the reviews sometimes being really about the mental baggage he brings to the movies). I loved the Joel M. Reed special issue, it's one of the peak achievements of the Landis & Clifford team. Cantankerous yet compulsively readable, I guess it was the last Sleazoid Express printed publication (I'm not counting the Wicked Die Slow monograph) and ended Bill's writing career on a rebellious high note. R.I.P. Quiet Man.
Hell, what's the difference, I never got my orders when he was alive,
Sending money to Landis and Clifford was always a dicey proposition, with the buyer usually getting robbed.
I will miss those "Unhinged" letters from Clifford, tho. What a fucking bitch.