One-man-picture

I know I can't do this book justice, but with only one other review, I'll take my best shot.

I have read several celebrity autobiographies, but this one is by far the best. What a life! His father was half Irish and half Mexican. His mother was illegitimate and half Mexican and half Indian. He was conceived while "both" of his parents were fighting with Pancho Villa. He lived in a dirt-floor shed. His father became a migrant farm worker in the U.S. and later got a job at a studio. Quinn's father's arm was nearly torn off by a panther that Quinn had befriended. These are only some of the highlights in just the first 39 pages.

Quinn was originally planning on becoming an architect, but Frank Lloyd Wright sets into motion a serendipitous chain of circumstances, which leads to Quinn becoming an actor instead of an architect.

This book is much more than the story of Quinn, or even the film industry. Through out his life, Quinn seemed to come into contact, or into bed, with everyone that was anyone: anywhere. While still an unknown-unknown, he was in the frequent company and advice of such people as John Barrymore, Error Flynn, W. C. Fields, John Steinbeck, William Saroyan, F. Scott Fitzgerald, and William Faulkner. During this time, he married Cecil B. De Mille's adopted daughter, which resulted in a 20-year-conflict between Quinn and De Mille. Having De Mille as a father-in-law actually harmed Quinn's career.

Quinn tells of a clandestine meeting with Howard Hughes at 2:30 AM on Mulholland Drive and Hughes arrives with 3 cars. Quinn discusses his 3-year-old son drowning in W. C. Fields' swimming pool. Time and space cause me to only try to wet your appetite.

After reading this book, it's hard to tell if Quinn was playing Zorba, or if Zorba was playing Quinn. By the way, even the dance Quinn does at the end of this movie is a very interesting story.

As with all great books, it unfortunately didn't last long enough.

I really enjoyed this book by Anthony Quinn. At first, I was put off by the way his thoughts jumped around, but in retrospect, I realize that this was just his way of getting his point across, and I became mesmerized by his thoughts and the disparity of his early years. Mr. Quinn did not flower his book with how great he was, or even sound like a celebrity, in the description of his life. In his early years he was very poor, and really let the reader feel his thoughts on his poverty, and how he fought to stay alive. It is a great example of coming from a life of nothing, with seldom having food to eat, to become a great actor, artist, lover, and family man.

Although he would never receive accolades as a husband, he truly loved his family. He mentioned several times, his grief at the death of his son and the loss of father.

He made many friends along the way, and treasured every one. Not caring whether they were paupers or kings.

In 1983, we had the pleasure of seeing and meeting Mr. Quinn on Broadway, in Zorba the Greek. We had invested in several of his paintings and sculptures, and was invited to a party for him at the Helmsley Palace in New York City. We were really impressed with his ability to encompass a room with his presence, while giving every person a piece of his persona.

This book is excellent reading, which keeps the reader waiting for his next thought. The world will truly miss this great man.

I picked this up wanting to read about the guy's experiences at the movies. Which movies did he like? Which ones did he not like? What does he have to say about the current movie going experience?

What I got was a book that is just a little too high-concept for its own good. In most of the 52 chapters, Murphy teases the reader with a list of movies he saw that week - but then he very rarely says a thing about those movies. Instead, he talks in one chapter about crappy movie seats, or in another about theater food - you see, each chapter has to have its own movie theater related theme. What this ends up being is just a lot of kind of boring fluff filler when what I really wanted to read was what he thought of "Legally Blonde".

That said, there were some amusing moments - like when he sneaks in an entire Thanksgiving dinner in a heavy coat (with tons of sewn-in pockets) or when he takes 6 different women (on 6 different nights) to see "Serendipity" (which he didn't much like - thanks for telling us Kevin!).

Not bad to check out from the library - but I wouldn't keep it on my shelf.

As Kevin Murphy recounts his movie-a-day filmgoing year, I was afraid the story might start to drag somewhat, or that he would feel the need to review every film he saw. Instead, I got drawn into a book that, while relatively long (about 350 pages), was still intelligible, and enjoyable both in small doses and in longer, more concentrated, readings.

Murphy divides his epic, sensibly, into 52 week-long essays. The films he sees that week inform the topic of his essays, but seldom *are* the topic. Instead, we get interesting, and highly personal, looks at all different aspects of the filmgoing experience, ranging from travelogues to Italy, Finland, or Australia, to a few hours working at a multiplex theater, to meditations on genres like kung fu, fantasy, or horror films. There are also insightful and well-informed meditations on the state of American filmgoing, the impact of the multiplex and the near-demise of arthouse cinemas, and a useful chapter on the difference between film reviewers and film critics. There's an awful lot in this book, and it's nearly all good stuff.

Kevin Murphy clearly knows and loves films, and he is a fine writer. A comparison with the two books by his former MST3K colleague Michael J. Nelson (who makes a brief cameo in this book) might be in order: I found both of Mike's books really funny, but frankly haven't found myself in a big hurry (yet?) to go back and re-read them. Kevin's, on the other hand, isn't intentionally funny "humor writing," but still has a lot of entertaining stories, asides, and turns of phrases. And I could see myself re-reading it a lot more easily.

I waited impatiently to get a copy of this book (in part -- I'm obliged to say it -- because I loved Tom Servo), and it definitely paid off the wait. Film fans and MST fans both will, I think, come to the same conclusion.

If you're a fan of MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000, if you like to go to the movies just a little TOO much, or if you find the phrase "a lake of urine on the men's room floor" funny, 'cause it's true, you need to read this book.

Kevin Murphy, the voice behind the wise-crackin' gumball machine with soul, Tom Servo, for more than a decade on MYSTERY SCIENCE THEATER 3000, has finally come forward to reveal the man behind the puppet.

With A YEAR AT THE MOVIES, Kevin Murphy reveals himself to be: a.) a movie nut (of course), b.) a little bit of a curmudgeon, unafraid to voice his opinion, c.) an excellent writer, capable of capturing on the page the minutiae of any given experience in a way that truly makes the reader a part of it all, and d.) an avid hater of Adam Sandler and Rob Schneider and everything they stand for.

In A YEAR AT THE MOVIES, Kevin Murphy sets out to watch a movie in a theater with an audience every single day, for a whole year, and then write about the experience. And Kevin isn't just satisfied with going to the local cinemaplex down at the mall. Sure, that's part of the experience, but so is finding and tracking down the world's smallest theater, the world's only theater made completely of ice and snow, the art house theaters, the foreign theaters, IMAX theaters, theaters at the Cannes Film Festival, etc.

Every part of the movie-going experience is lived, breathed and sometimes humorously, sometimes poignantly dissected on these pages. If you're fan of movies, if you're a fan of life experience (and, ironically enough, that's what most movie-goers are chasing), you've got to get this wonderfully funny, and surprisingly affecting book.

Kevin Murphy is a true fellow citizen of celluloid and patron of popcorn, and if you're like me, you'll see enough of yourself reflected in these pages to make you feel like you were along for the whole crazy ride.

That "Gods of Death" [is] a sensationalist puff-piece written like a very slow spy novel.
There is a lot of speculation over the validity of snuff films and while there's certainly a possibility that they do exist Mr. Svoray doesn't present a very compelling argument. The one thing he NEVER acheives is to convince us of a worldwide underground for this stuff. More to the point, he actually acheives the opposite with his bumbling investigation, which is convince the reader that snuff films are not so much an industry unto themselves but rather an isolated occurance.
Throughout his investigation he askes the reader to accept a lot without giving us any real incentive. The "I know it doesn't look like much but you'll just have to trust me" method is the main device that is employed throughout this book.
While you certainly won't find any meaty informative value in this book one might be so inclined as to read it just for morbid curiousity, especially in the light of recent movies like "8mm", and I can tell you in all seriousness that it falls flat in that avenue as well. "Gods of Death" [is] more or less like a pulp spy novel. The only problem is that it is too dreadfully paced and full of macho bravado to even entice the most desperate spy novel geek. And as it pertains to its main character, Mr. Svoray, he tries to put himself over but instead comes across like an irredeemable [idiot].
While I'm certain that some reviewers are of the skeptic camp I'm also sure that there were a great many more that were like myself who went into it with a "show me" attitude. I was willing to accept a possible theory as long as there was sufficient evidence to back it up. Needless to say, there wasn't. As it seems "Gods of Death" makes its entire case on hearsay.
If you are waiting for an intelligent and believable look into the world of snuff pornography I suspect you'll have to wait a while longer. If it's just perverse entertainment you're into then rent "8mm". It's more enjoyable and ultimately more realistic than Yaron Svoray would have you believe.

Israeli Yaron Svoray, the man who exposed Nazis in "In Hitler's Shadow," this time searches for "snuff" films, filmed records of actual murders. Though there is an aspect of journalism here, the book reads more like a spy novel, albeit not an especially well-written one. Because of the thriller-esque nature of the book, saying whether Svoray actually finds a snuff film would, in a sense, give away the ending, and I will not indicate whether he is ultimately successful.

What I will say, however, is that the existence of actual snuff films has been a topic of much speculation. Many view such films as "urban myths," stories that many believe are true but are not. Others, particularly anti-pornography feminists such as Catharine MacKinnon (who is mentioned in the book), seem to have an abiding faith that such films really do exist. The existence of actual snuff films would do much to support the sex-violence link of pornography and to support the arguments of many feminists. But the issue is not of concern merely to feminists; certainly any rational person should be disgusted if snuff films do exist.

"Gods of Death" is Svoray's search for such a film, and it is a search that nearly costs his life and finances. Svoray recounts accurately (one presumes) the many dead ends and false leads he encountered, and therein lies part of the problem with the book. From the very first word of the book, there is one overriding question: Did he find an actual snuff film? The answer can be summarized in a single word (either yes or no), but the answer is a long way off. The book, therefore, reads like a frustrating tease. No doubt Svoray felt that way himself throughout the process, but it bears mention to note that part of the art of journalism is sifting out the extraneous details. The story, therefore, becomes less about the existence of such films and more about an obsessive search for them.

One thing that the book does make clear is that if such films exist, they are indeed very hard to find. To this extent, Svoray at least implicitly discounts much of the urban myth in that the extraordinary lengths to which he went indicate that the average person would not be able to find an actual snuff film.

...this endeavour narrowly avoids plummeting to Earth.

As it is, it's just not all that good. By all means, do not pay full price for this book. Like the other reviewers, I will not spoil the 'ending', and I will also say that there is hardly a shred of evidence or compelling presentation to make you really believe this is all true.

It's not investigative journalism. It's not entirely schlock, but it certainly is not the compelling story as promised by the slipcover.

The story is littered with all sorts of events, but not a shred of documentation; he even states that he avoids a lot of truth by changing names, places, times, events. Sadly, this also destroys what little credibility the story has. Even the name-dropping he does, doesn't carry much weight (and you'd think Robert De Niro's name would carry some weight, no?)

It's not a waste of time... but it's not the gripping story that one hopes it would be.