And God Spoke (the Making of...) Reviews

By the filmmakers' admission, ...AND GOD SPOKE was conceived as a SPINAL TAP for commercial cinema, and it holds up well in comparison to Rob Reiner's cult classic. Director Arthur Borman, working from an idea that virtually writes itself, offers a knowing lampoon of the movie business that is close to note-perfect, from grandiose vision to production nightmare to opening night. ...AND GOD SPOKE is a faux behind-the-scenes documentary that purports to recount the making of a fictitious Hollywood epic. The film within the film, also called ...AND GOD SPOKE, is a misbegotten religious spectacle; it's the dream project of director Clive Walton (Michael Riley), a Spielberg manque in a UCLA gimme cap, and producer Marvin Handleman (Stephen Rappaport), a clueless self-promoter who masks his greed with lofty phrases from the auteurist lexicon. They've collaborated on a long string of Grade-Z exploitation pics, including "Nude Ninjas" and "Dial S For Sex" (in which a woman is stabbed to death with a cordless phone). Now, as they try to mount the crowning achievement of their careers, they marshal every film-school cliche and transparent rationalization imaginable to convince themselves and others that they're doing the Lord's work. The crew includes an inept cinematographer who cherishes the light meter that "Sven" gave him ("He said, 'You need this more than me'"); a tightly wound British production designer who builds an ark too big for the soundstage doors; and an enormous chain-smoking editor, who likes to bow-hunt grizzlies in his spare time. We also encounter a writer with 2,000-page script and a thousand-yard stare ("I didn't write this script; God wrote this script through me"), as well as a battle-axe casting director with a Selma Diamond growl ("I hate to be the one to tell you, but we're not gonna get Brando"). The production itself is a fiasco. Eve turns up on set with a snake tattooed from neck to pelvis. To play God, Walton and Handleman cast an unknown ("I mean, God is, like, the great unknown, right?"), who rambles through stories of tripping at Zeppelin concerts. Skipping ahead to the Jesus scenes, they discover that they have just eight disciples ("It's theologically fraudulent!"). When the studio finally pulls the plug, Walton and Handleman manage to raise enough money to shoot without permits, but the pressure soon begins to take its toll. Finally, when the producer insists that Moses (Soupy Sales) run his lines while clutching a six-pack of Coke ("God has given us these his commandments ... and this exciting new cola beverage"), the filmmakers blow up at each other, and Walton storms off the set. They reconcile after a disastrous screening for investors, and vow to finish the film themselves. They four-wall it at a single theater in a strip mall, and The Hollywood Reporter savages them. They hire religious zealots to picket the film, to no avail. Cut to nine months later, at a midnight screening with a line around the block. ...AND GOD SPOKE has become a cult smash, and the filmmakers are treated as conquering heroes. A final title card reads, "To date, ...AND GOD SPOKE has grossed over $42 million. They are working on an adaptation of The Iliad." Needless to say, ..AND GOD SPOKE is really two films. One's a well-informed satire of the movie biz that goes for belly-laughs in the broad style of Mel Brooks; the other's a sly, perceptive parody of the "Making of ..." genre. The true hero of the latter film is cinematographer Lee Daniel (Richard Linklater's cameraman on DAZED AND CONFUSED and BEFORE SUNRISE), who loads the look with rack focuses, telephoto zooms, hand-held jostling, and all the other hallmarks of in-and-out, down-and-dirty, guerilla filmmaking. Much of the insider humor will be lost on lay viewers, but it's a must-see for anyone who's ever screened a work print while staring at a 16mm projector and praying that the splices hold. (Violence, nudity, profanity.)