Angel, Angel, Down We Go

Wigs galore: Jennifer Jones and Holly Near

Robert Thom's Angel, Angel, Down We Go is such a piece of unbridled kitsch that it's pretentious awfulness is mesmerizing. This 1969 AIP rockploitation flick was unsuccessful in its initial released and was recycled a year later as the double billed Cult of the Damned; a desperate attempt to cash in on the publicity generated by the Manson murders. AIP wanted a follow up to Wild in the Streets which had been a good revenue generator for the schlockmeisters in 1968. Cynthia Weill and Barry Mann were again commissioned to create songs and they responded with another yeoman's effort that mimics the stylings of the current fave rave bands. As with Wild in the Streets, the soundtrack is a better value than the film itself.

The film's genesis lies in an unproduced play that Thom had written. He was able to graft the facsimile of a hip and dangerous rock act onto the existing material, but seems to have had little sense of youth culture of the era. His pop references (Mama Cass, Nancy Sinatra, The Lennon Sisters) are a little behind the times. The play and film focus on a dysfunctional and ultra rich family. Dad (Charles Aidman) is a closeted homosexual, at odds with his vain and needy missus (Jennifer Jones). Daughter Tara (Holly Near) has just returned from finishing school and feels fat and unloved. Luckily, Mom and Dad throw her a wingding and she meets the film's raging id, uninhibited singer and swinger Bogart Peter Stuyvesant (Jordan Christopher). They meet cute in screwball fashion and Bogart proceeds to deflower Tara in a setting that harkens to Le Dejeuner sur l'herbe. The sex scenes have zero romance. Bogart's idea of pillow talk is "You've got bad breath. I dig it." Tara meets the rest of band and they go skydiving as a bonding ritual in a scene that presages Point Break. All of this clutter is intercut with allegedly arty pop collages made expressly for the film. It starts out antically kooky, but is soon dispiritingly repetitive.      

Jordan Christopher

Angel, Angel We Go Down unspools as a Dr. Frankenstein's monster on which you can discern the stitches. The dysfunctional family plot hearkens back to the expressionism of Tennessee Williams with Bogart the film's Stanley Kowalski. Needless to say, I think Thoms' play is third rate Williams, on a level with Lillian Hellmann's Toys in the Attic. The film is staged like a revue of variety skits with the usual penny ante production qualities favored by B Westerns and the youth tripe of the era, such as The Monkees, Good Times, and The Magic Christian. Ms Jones' costumes, including a sheer mu-mu, are quite heinous. The film features a parade of atrocious and ostentatious wigs. There is a queer and camp element, again like Williams, with more male nudity than female. Other films pilfered include The Graduate, Valley of the Dolls,  and Teorema. The latter dictates the remainder of the picture's alleged plot as Bogart seduces Tara's Mom and Pop.

The film's best musical number is the title track which Christoper belts while aping Jim Morrison's bare chest and leather pants look. He was a handsome dude and has a pleasant voice, but can't dance and doesn't project sexual energy. Other numbers mimic Donovan, The Byrds, and Eric Burden. The most insipid number is the post-coital ballad Christopher sings to Ms. Jones, a pallid Lady Jane rip off. Why no one got the bright idea to let Lou Rawls or Holly Near sing a song instead of Christopher is beyond me. Rawls, a stylish crooner, is the film's token Negro, akin to Richard Pryor in Wild in the Streets. For those not familiar with her musical career, Near, after taking off her Hollywood warpaint, became the most successful lesbian singer-songwriter of her era. Way better than Robin Flower, if no Ferron, as I recall. Angel, Angel, We Go Down's few promising moments center on Tara's unhappiness with her zaftig figure, but the film soon loses any semblance of focus. I can't recall another Hollywood feature that centered on a plus-sized gal until John Waters' Hairspray released in 1988. Ms. Jones retains her dignity, Mr Aidman does not. Roddy McDowell is bare-assed for those keeping score and also ill-used. He plays a variation on his gay sprite in Lord Love a Duck without any good lines. 

I know now that if I fall into the hands of a foreign or domestic terrorist, I could withstand any torture knowing that I was able to giggle my way through Angel, Angel, Down We Go without going mad. I will admit it is not a dull film and is memorable, but for all the wrong reasons. My jaw was on the floor as I was watching it, but I will never forget, try as I might, Angel, Angel, Down We Go.