I had seen “Gidget” in 1959, but my first real surf movie was Bruce Brown’s “Waterlogged” in 1962. Other than Saturday matinees, I had never before attended a movie without my parents. That all changed when my sister’s boyfriend, Larry, took me to the Pasadena Civic.
The spell hit before I got out of Larry’s car. In the parking lot were gremmies dressed in Army jackets and combat boots, smoking cigarettes and leeching money. A tribe of skateboarders rolled down the sidewalk on clay wheels, doing turns and handstands.
Then, in the lobby, I saw Mickey Munoz, the first famous surfer I had ever seen in person. He was a mere three feet from me, but I never considered walking up and saying hello. You simply didn’t do such things to a deity.
Filmmaker Bruce Brown narrated. It was silent, and great respect was shown while he commented on each wave. Once the first big waves hit the screen, however, chaos ensued, and the auditorium was drowning in hoots and whistles. Bottle caps were flicked, and popcorn boxes showered the screen.
It’s quite the cliché, but this film really did change my life. Right then and there, I vowed to be a surfer for life and ride big Waimea Bay. Those of you who know me know which of those two vows I broke. While “Waterlogged” was stunning, it was a mere warmup for Brown’s 1966 masterpiece, the yet-to-be-equaled “The Endless Summer.”
Real surf movies didn’t have Hollywood’s budgets, actors or those corny close-ups of Moondoggie in straw hats, balancing on a mattress while the wave they’re supposedly riding plays in the background. Once I saw real surf movies, I could never take Hollywood’s version seriously again.
Perhaps because it was done by real surfers, Tinseltown nearly got it right with John Milius and Denny Aaberg’s 1978 offering, “Big Wednesday.” There were moments in that film that struck the right chords, while others were decidedly off-key.
While Hollywood never gave up, I really wish they would. Honestly, if surfers were a racial minority, we would be up in arms over their portrayal as dopey, monosyllabic knuckle draggers.
By the mid ’80s, video cameras were omnipresent, and anyone with a few hundred bucks and a tank of gas could be a surf filmmaker. This resulted in some hardcore surf action and some very bad technical quality. Young surfers didn’t really seem to care, as these were basically used as training films. Surfers watched and then rewound Tom Curren’s section until the tape broke.
The current state of the surf movie is in flux. The good news is that the genre is in a storytelling phase. I had the pleasure of witnessing it last Saturday, at the opening of the 15th annual Oceanside International Film Festival (OIFF).
While all five films I saw were entertaining, I got literal chills from “Frostbite.” The opening scenes deliver some of the most chillingly on-edge surfing ever captured. “Ceibo” had a strong environmental message while revealing the threatened magnificence of surfing in Ecuador.
Hey, I don’t mean to make you feel you missed out! OIFF continues showcasing surf cinema, documentaries and narrative films at the Star Theatre, through Feb. 28.
You may not want to spend six hours in a theater, but there are some brilliant films coming up, and the big screen is where you want to see them. Then, stick around to question the film’s creators.
Saturday (6:40-8:30 p.m.) crowns the week with the awards ceremony and Q&A with award-winning director Catherine Hardwicke at the Star. The surf movie is back, and so am I. It is requested, however, that all gremmies hold on to their bottle caps.
To learn more about OIFF, please visit osidefilm.org.
