Electric Boogaloo: The Wild, Untold Story of Cannon Films

I remember pretty clearly the Cannon Films logo and its distinctive loud crashing sound accompaniment that introduced so many films I watched on video in my teenage years in the 80's. I never really thought too much about it until now, having seen this wildly entertaining documentary about these B movie mavericks. A few years ago I saw another similarly fun documentary about specific genre films, Machete Maidens Unleashed, a film also helmed by the same director Mark Hartley. Well, he sure has a knack for these things because this one follows a pretty similar template where we get to hear anecdotes from a large selection of people who were involved in the making of these flicks and, better still, many clips from a wide ranging assortment of the crazy, fun and stupid movies that Cannon became famous for. They were run by two Israelis Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus (neither of whom appeared in the documentary deciding in true Cannon style to make their own documentary on the subject simultaneously).

Their main decade was the 80's where they unleashed a huge number of low budget movies from horror to sexploitation to action and dance movies plus a whole lot in between. They were mainly known to be purveyors of schlock entertainment and with good reason as, despite releasing some acclaimed films and working with some important directors such as John Cassavetes and Jean Luc Godard, they were in the main responsible for straight-ahead genre pictures. Their films have a refreshing absence of any political correctness whatsoever and often feature copious amounts of nudity and violence, quite often at the same time as in the case of some notorious films in their catalogue such as Death Wish II (1982). Other times they featured laughably bad special effects like can be seen in Hercules (1983), some were blatant bandwagon jumpers like the hip hop dance film Breakin' (1984), they also released the notoriously sexy Bo Derek vehicle Bolero (1984) which so outraged MGM who had set up a distribution deal with them, they released the very silly sequel The Texas Chainsaw Massacre 2 (1986), while some of their output simply defies description like the extremely strange and silly musical The Apple (1980). They made many Charles Bronson and Chuck Norris vehicles; they discovered Jean Claude Van Damme and Dolph Lundgren and gave a platform for cult directors like Tobe Hooper to make movies. Things only started to go wrong in 1987 when they began to over-reach themselves and spent multi-millions on three box office disasters - the Sylvester Stallone film Over the Top which was about...arm wrestling; the superhero movie Superman IV: The Quest for Peace which was very expensive for them but not expensive enough to execute good enough special effects resulting in a laughable film; and finally Masters of the Universe, a film based on the popular 80's toys. So there is a dramatic story arc to this, which helps it function as a narrative but in the main it works so well simply because it is chock-full of entertaining clips from an array of movies and has some funny observations from the people involved. For any B movie lover this really is a must. And what's more, you are guaranteed to be led to seek out a few new flicks off the back of it.

ELECTRIC BOOGALOO: THE WILD, UNTOLD STORY OF CANNON FILMS is a documentary that does exactly what it says on the tin. That is, to celebrate the wild heydays of Cannon Films, a 1980s production house who put out some of the biggest, silliest, cheesiest, and most effects-fuelled films of that decade.

It's a rise-and-fall tale, brought to live via copious clips and lots of interview footage with various stars, directors, and producers who were involved with the films themselves. Thus for a cinema fan - especially somebody who's seen a lot of the films, like myself - it's a real visual treat. The film is a celebration of the Golan and Globus approach - which is to churn out film after film, hoping one or two of them will be a success - and the eventual hubris which saw the company's downfall. It's constantly funny as well, which really helps.

In Tim Burton's Ed Wood, a cheapshot movie producer snorts at Ed's desire to create art on a shoestring. The irony is, of course, that however artistically credible he imagined himself, Ed Wood made junk anyway. There's a sweet spot where good intentions, lack of talent, and thriftiness meet, and Cannon Films regularly found it. The Asylum's mockbusters might be keeping the bad movie dream alive, but can you imagine a modern mini-studio greenlighting the likes of Superman, alongside Death Wish, alongside Shakespeare?

Cannon was set up in the 1960s but rose to prominence/notoriety in 1980 when it was sold to Israeli cousins Yoram Globus (the money man) Menahem Golan (the would-be moviemaker). This is where Mark Hartley's breakneck documentary joins the sordid story. Talking heads – directors, editors, and actors – provide snappy anecdotes and bitesized insights into the passion and incompetence of two upstarts who, for a time, upset the Hollywood establishment. And then spent $25m on an arm-wrestling movie.

Though remembered for Chuck Norris nonsense and some seriously ropey fantasy and sci-fi (Tobe Hooper's Lifeforce will make you question the value of cinema), at their peak Cannon were bashing out nearly 50 films a year. This left room for 'proper' movies from the likes of Franco Zeffirelli and Godfrey Reggio; Cannon even bagged an Oscar for Best Foreign Film at their mid-eighties peak. But for every Company of Wolves or Barfly there were five Charles Bronson Z-movies, so Cannon will always be remembered for the balderdash, churned out chiefly to take advantage of the burgeoning home video market.

Indeed, this is the perfect Eighties trash story, beginning with The Happy Hooker, the strangely apt story of a European prostitute coming to the US and sticking two fingers up to the Hollywood elite. The party ended with Cyborg in 1989, a Van Damme oddity which has little to do with cyborgs and whose creative failure rests partly on the shoulders of Albert Pyun, who would later find cinema's comic book nadir with his mouth-dryingly terrible Captain America. Cyborg was built with bits of Masters of the Universe, which gives us a clue as to the state of Cannon's finances at the turn of the decade. A brief 90s relaunch provided nothing of interest.

Perhaps there's a three-hour version of this documentary which delves into more depth and supposition about the essential culture clash that meant Globus and Golan failed spectacularly, time and time again, to grasp the mood of the nation they adored. But then the film would lose its briskness and humour, and Hartley's superb Uzi-editing would go to waste. It's a shallow documentary about men with shallow dreams, and it's enthralling for it.

The only real art to emerge from Cannon were exceptions that proved the rule. That rule being: Make 'em quick and make 'em cheap. By the time the bloated excess of Masters of the Universe was vomited into the multiplex (I recall that particular disappointment sorely) audiences expected more. Hartley's film may ultimately overstate the influence of Cannon – although with a new Terminator movie potentially about to join Jurassic World, Avengers, and Furious 7 at the top of the year's box office, the business model that spawned five Death Wishes and three Delta Forces does seem disturbingly prescient.

The name Cannon Films is an evocative one, bringing to mind synonyms like schlock and cut-rate, and it's a well-earned reputation for cheapness. The story of two Israeli guys with a passion for making movies is a noble one, although their questionable business decisions tend to undercut that enthusiasm. Still, their rise and fall make for interesting documentary material, and that's part of what makes "Electric Boogaloo" so good.

The other reason is the testimonial side of things. Rounded up before the camera are a wide-ranging group of people that have had dealings with the studio, and each and every one of them is eager to opine on such a reckless outfit. I can only wonder what venom Christopher Reeves would have in store were he still us today, and I would like to have heard Stallone's views after "Over the Top" (good or bad, can't tell). Chuck Norris is a glaring omission, given his 5-picture deal with them . . . or is he merely content with how it all turned out? But there's the ever-charming Catherine Mary Stewart and the surprisingly mocking Alex Winter offering their input, and both are amusing. There's a lot involved in this; it's really a varied roster.

This is a hugely entertaining movie that moves at a brisk pace and is funny throughout. A lot easier to sit through than most of Cannon's movie's, that's for sure.

Highly recommended.

8/10

Informative and enjoyable documentary about the rise and fall of Cannon Films, a beloved part of my youth. Cannon made many cheesy and low-brow movies and this doc covers most of them and, yes, insults them...a lot. I admit as a Cannon fan it bristled a bit at first but I know that their films were, more often than not, trash. But they were also, more often than not, entertaining trash. The tone of the documentary is lighthearted, with many people sharing their funny anecdotes about the crazy antics of Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus (particularly Golan). There are some nasty jabs here and there, with the Most Sour award going to former MGM exec Frank Yablans, who pulled no punches in what he thought of Cannon's output (Mr. Yablans passed away shortly after this was released). Most of the talking heads are behind-the-scenes types but there are many actors and directors also interviewed, including Molly Ringwald, Catherine Mary Stewart, Alex Winter, Franco Nero, Dolph Lundgren, Richard Chamberlain, Franco Zeffirelli, and Sybil Danning. Not a lot of time is spent on many of my favorite Cannon movies but that's to be expected given the amount of films they had to cover in the time they had. They did an admirable job of covering the major Cannon films and they told the story of Golan-Globus well. The ample use of film clips is appreciated, as is the brisk pace. I think it's something every Cannon fan should see, although be warned if you're sensitive or protective about their films you may be put off by some of it, such as "Bill S. Preston, Esquire" acting as though he has a leg to stand on commenting on Charles Bronson's acting ability. Minor annoyances aside, it's a fun look back at Cannon with some interesting trivia for those who may not be familiar with what went on during the making of some of their favorite '80s B movies.