Pawn Stars: the most real, fake-real reality show on television.

As far as real reality television goes, nothing even comes close to The First 48. Crime is grim and senseless, and the things brought to light during the course of any given episode are often too real. The next tier down is the "can you believe how effin' crazy my job is?!" sub-set of reality TV. As cool as it is to watch people drive trucks on ice roads, or fish for crabs, or dig through crazy people's piles of crazy person stuff (either American Pickers or Hoarders--your call), Pawn Stars is king of the shitheap. The ratings don't lie. #1 show on cable many times over. And if the measure of a shows worth is the strength of its spin-offs, American Restorations is the Colbert Report to Pawn Stars' Daily Show.

The show is highly consumable. Lots of great reality conventions--money, arguing, deal making, likable "regular guys"--but the beauty is these conventions are balanced with one foot in a passable reality. Pawn shops are actual things. It's an ingrained part of our society rich with cultural cache and connotation. What is the moment like when you look a loved one in the face and say "I pawned it"? We're post-Craigslist now, and selling stuff in a matter of days, or even hours, takes Internet-level effort. A pawn shop is for when you need money now. Not now, like thirty minutes ago. Then you take that model, add Vegas, and set-up cameras. I know, this should be the most despicable and sneering drama on television, but filtered through History Channel's production sieve, she shines like a goddamn dime.

The items featured are the pillar of the show. Both a platform for impromptu history lessons, and catalyst for steamy doses of old school haggling, the variety of items passed in front of the guys never ceases to absolutely stun me. For every "who ever even heard of such a thing?" moment, the Pawn Stars seem to have some anecdote or factoid to validate any bizarre item's existence. For those things even deeper still in the cut, the Pawn Stars have a brood of experts at their disposal. You name a specific type of nerdery, Rick and company will find you a nerd. When the gun expert, Clark county museum guy, or chin-bearded historical auctions guy rolls in, brace for an elite level knowledge drop.

Tangible history lives in each item placed on the counter. The Pawn Stars and their experts exorcise the context from a relic, weave a magic shroud of historical import, and then slap a figure on it worth half of what they'll sell it for. It's the best parts of Antiques Roadshow, but instead of some sepcualtive auction value, these people walk out with a handful of cash into skeezy ass Las Vegas. As far as a central idea to grip the viewer goes, it's air tight, but no matter the fake-real sheen used to coat each episode, the second, and more compelling story still teems beneath the surface.

I saw an episode with a polite minute or two on a solidly grey, khaki wearing, reform hippie out to sell his collection of concert posters. He had a stack of vintage psychedelic San Francisco prints with Summer of Love cliches beaming from each sheet. The bands and venues featured were pantheon and the condition was impressive. Bear in mind, this guy was out getting weird on the scene in 1967 San Fran. He still had the presence of mind to not only collect these posters, but get them home from what ever crash-pad/love-in he might stagger out of come daybreak. That alone is worth a thousand bucks.

Already knowing retail was $8000, he wanted $3500. He left with $2125. The twenty-five, a token of hollow victory. Knocked down to half of his asking price, resigned to concede, he pushed for a tiny amount more just to have the last word.

The deal done, they interviewed the aging Hippie outside. A thin smile found its way out from his mustache. Eyes tight behind his glasses, he said "I'm gonna be sad to leave 'em here...but I am moving on with my life." I am moving on with my life? Those are words rife with implication. Is he finally sober, the selling of the posters a symbolic funeral for  his rock'n'roll life time and cocaine sweet tooth? Perhaps it's some shrewd third wife intent to break a man of something he loves just to assert her station. Maybe he's terminally ill, and the ephemeral nature of things we carry with us revealed, he's shoring up his resources to disappear into a beautiful, far-off place. Any which way, the potential for realness is hard to quantify.

The up against it guy, yelping outside the store, his antique pistol worth a fraction of what he paid. The woman selling her grandmother's jewelry, and stumbling head-long into a small fortune. The waitress given a turquoise and silver dancing Indian statue by an elderly regular. The guy who rubs his hands together and says "I already got plans for this $6500," like it's a ten spot he found in an old suit jacket. The scope of circumstance leading up to the sale, and the labyrinthine web of possibilities opened up after, is downright provocative. It's the sort of reality so pungent, the fake-real construct in this case is not to manufacture reality, but to dilute it.

Pre-Camp, or Future-Camp

Real Steel finally comes out this weekend. Even today, I feel tremors from the rush of zeal as the trailer bludgeoned me and I thought "this is a thing that actually exists." This will very quietly be my favorite movie of the summer not named Drive. The trailer promises not only some sort of high stakes robot fighting league, but both pieces of dialogue "You got nothin' left," and "You're a bad bet," delivered with the hyper sincerity that makes my crap sensor tingle. And Hugh Jackman is gonna make good with some kid? Forget about it.

So sure...I work a little material now and again, and I delivered the above diatribe to a film loving friend the other day. He leaned back for a moment, cocked his eyebrows and asked, "Are you being ironic?" Yeah, a little, but sometimes I like a movie that knows it's just a movie. Maybe it's low brow, and my ticket stub goes toward the ever reverberating pablum machine that makes Hollywood great, but...I love crap. I watch a Statham film with the reverence one invokes when they visit the Hagia Sophia. I would trade in a hectare of moody indie dramas for one more installment of Final Destination.

You can't make a B-movie on purpose. A B-movie has nothing to do with budget or cast or genre, it has something more to do with ingenuity, irrational confidence, pervasive good-badness, and a lack of execution. There are still bad movies--tons of em--and great films, but B-movies fill some slight space in between. Sometimes it's a great idea brought to life with meat hands. Sometimes it's one masterful sequence or unforgettable visual effect. In this case, it's the "He was in what...and it was about what?" moment forty years removed from an actors relevance. These movies serve as a quiet bedrock of modern cinema's identity. B-movies are the corpses harvested to make great films. Ask Quentin Tarantino and the mountain of money stuffed in old VHS cassette covers he sleeps on every night. I bet it's with chicks, too...hot ones. At least hot-ish.

Old B-movies enjoy the benefit of nostalgia's allure. The throw back poster art and over the top story lines excuse the shoddy craftsmanship and clumsy narratives. Badness becomes the new measuring stick of quality. The film becomes its flaws. Take the 1968 Otto Preminger crapsterpiece Skidoo. Skidoo is...oh man...it is not good, but Jackie Gleason--yes, that Jackie Gleason--takes LSD. Harry Nilsson does the soundtrack. Mobsters and Hippies intermingle. There's a rape joke. Oh, and the movie also happens to be Groucho Marx's last film...let that wash over you. She's a deuce all the way around, but aren't you curious? Aren't you glad Skidoo exists?

In the moment, in 1968, the movie is despicable. A tragic, unfunny film with a bunch of washed up Hollywood memories trying to pose as a hip counter culture drug romp. This is a year that boasts films like 2001: A Space Odyssey and Rosemary's Baby. India was in a cinematic golden age, and Europe and Japan were rippin' shit on the reg. In the winter of '68, I believe I would have deplored this movie. On principle. I can't prove it, but my gut--and my need to make my pointless argument--say otherwise.

40 years later, the first time I saw the film, things were different. As I said to my self, "Jackie Gleason was in what...and it's about what?" the film earned its pass. Skidoo was charming and some far away emblem of another era's misguided notions. Shades of Hollywood long gone in a film so absurd it takes on an endearing, almost naive, quality. What was once born from a bloated Studio flop, came out on the other side of nostalgia as must-see-movie-nerd-cool. Time's elixir can transform even the steamiest turd into campy, kitschy fun, but what of that freshly laid dook?

Well, this is my hope for Real Steel. I want to witness the pre-camp/future-camp flash point. The film could be just good enough to be forgettable. It could be just bad enough to be terrible (I'm looking crazy hard at you ROTPOTA...like I wanna punch you in your face). But, if the feel good hokum is strung taught, the cliches visible from the first five minutes, and the visual effects set to be the blue screen and stop motion laughable to a future era, it could be just bad enough to be great. A relic for tomorrow's cinefiles to gleefully accept for what it is, crap. It remains to be seen if this picture has stuff enough to rise into the cannon of B-movies, but I'll lay a ticket stub on that chance.