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Plmypton mounts a Hollywood satire in the style of Singin' in the Rain, spinning tales from the golden age of Hollywood, from Clark Gable's legendary bad breath and the resultant inability of actresses to kiss him to the studio continuing to film Saratoga after the death of Jean Harlow by employing lookalikes and creative compositions that blocked out her face. But unlike Singin' in the Rain, Plympton's story ranges all over and misses the mark.
Guns on the Clackamas is constructed like a documentary, with an unctuous host in the James Lipton manner named Nigel Nado (he roams the Clackamas forest location and oozes bilge like 'the leaves on the trees pulsate with creativity'), filming a documentary on the making of a western called Guns on the Clackamas. The thin story thread is Nado's attempt to interview the Howard Hughes-inspired producer of the film, Holton P. Jeffers Jr., and getting continually rebuffed. Instead, Nado interviews the cast, the director, the public relations guy, the accountant, the hair dresser, and a cadre of flunkies, who tell the tale of the disastrous production of Guns on the Clackamas. The disasters run thick and fast. The original heroine, foisted upon the picture by a bratwurst magnate, stutters. Photos are taken with Jeffers in a compromising position with his dog (the press agent looks at the photos and remarks, 'Could be any of a dozen producers I know -- they all look the same in that position'). And then the Grim Reaper visits the set: The hero dies from an infestation of itching powder, then the entire cast joins him, everybody keeling over from tainted macaroni salad. Nevertheless, the show must go on and the western is filmed by propping up the corpses in chairs. But even after that there are problems. The director points out that although the actors were now easier to work with they were 'getting real gamey and the flies became a problem.'
Taken in short You Tube snatches, Guns on the Clackamas could appear funny but taken in total Guns on the Clackamas is just not believable. Singin' in the Rain and This is Spinal Tap are set in believable worlds. But the western shot in Guns on the Clackamas couldn't be more unconvincing, with phony dialogue and cheap studio set ups.
Satire needs a basis in reality and Guns on the Clackamas does not make you believe for one instant that what you are watching has a possibility of happening, and without that the film cuts audience loose, making the audience wade through the semi-professional acting to pick up any stray moments of humor as a restorative. There are a few amusing moments -- a montage of the heroine trying to kiss her halitosis-afflicted leading man; a janitor giving advice on amortizing the film's profit potential; an effort by the crew to raise money for the film by shooting hidden footage of the heroine getting undressed in her dressing room, dubbing in Swedish dialogue and marketing it as a porno film called Ovulating Girls of Oslo. But not enough to string a film together.
The DVD features a few extras: Plympton being interviewed on Portland Today, footage of Plympton at the Independent Feature Project, and a collection on punch lines for a duck joke ('A guy walks into a bar with a duck on his head...'), which are the last words of the lead actress of Guns on the Clackamas before she drops dead of food poisoning.
Click clack moo.
