Over the past 30 years, Memphis comic book artist, sculptor, and filmmaker John Michael McCarthy, aka Mike McCarthy, has taken self-mythologizing to a level few others have matched, often weaving elements of his compelling personal history into fantastic scenarios drawn from the B movies, comics, and pop icons of his youth. That’s especially true of what’s arguably McCarthy’s greatest work, the film Teenage Tupelo, released in 1995 by Something Weird Video.
Ostensibly telling the tale of a young, buxom single mother’s odyssey through Tupelo’s underground, circa 1962, as she comes to terms with an unwanted pregnancy, it’s chiefly an homage to the low-budget flicks (think Roger Corman or Russ Meyer) that captivated young McCarthy as he grew up in Elvis Presley’s hometown, echoing those films’ visceral impact via Darin Ipema’s pitch-perfect, mostly black-and-white cinematography and a sizzling soundtrack by surf rock-crime jazz kings Impala.
The film became a cult favorite in the ’90s, championing the burgeoning garage aesthetic of that era. No prior knowledge of McCarthy’s personal history was needed to savor the raw shock of the film’s visuals and sounds. Its staying power was confirmed in 2020 when Portugal’s Chaputa Records revived Impala’s soundtrack on vinyl, then again last May when the film was remastered and released on Blu-ray. But if the latter’s bonus director’s commentary hinted at the many layers of influences behind the film, that was nothing compared to what came next: a coffee table tome which publisher Fantagraphics Books describes as “a mammoth volume dedicated to one of the last underground sexploitation films of the 20th Century.”
With more than 300 generously illustrated pages, this would be a monumental tribute to any film, yet in this case, beyond honoring McCarthy’s vision, it’s a tribute to the entire Memphis scene of the ’90s. The fact that it’s a compendium of “essays, reviews, articles, and interviews” rather than a single narrative is actually a strength, as the book offers many voices, some from the era, some looking back in hindsight. Impala’s Scott Bomar, for instance, writes movingly of recording with the legendary Roland Janes. There are also reminiscences by the star of the film, D’Lana Tunnell of Texas, and the three supporting actors from Memphis, Kristen Hobbs, Sophie Couch (Christine Gladney), and Dawn Ashcraft (who most Memphians know as McCarthy’s wife at the time, Kimberly Ashcraft). These essays — and accompanying photos — are especially “revealing” as the four women describe McCarthy cajoling them into performing topless, and the spirit of gonzo transgression in which they did so. One might thus consider both the film and this book as bold shots across the bow in the “free the nipple” movement.
The introduction by the Commercial Appeal’s John Beifuss sets the context perfectly, and the Memphis Flyer is well-represented with writings by Greg Akers, Chris Davis, Susan Ellis, John Floyd, Andria Lisle, and yours truly. Also on display is a letter by McCarthy’s biological father, Terry Blair Carr, published by the Flyer in 2008, though no one knew of that connection at the time.
And that is where the personal, emotional heart of the book resides. Most of the essays are by McCarthy himself, and while many of them, bursting with wordplay, concern the process of indie filmmaking, the director, an adopted child, also delves deeply into the private family history that obliquely inspired the film. As he ruminates on the parents who raised him as well as his search for his biological parents, the book becomes a profoundly moving detective story. A further essay by Tunnell, in which she reveals that she too was adopted, resonates with this, marking both the book and the film as expressions of very heartfelt histories.
Part of the mystery and allure of these histories is where they overlapped with the mythic realm of Elvis Presley, and his presence throughout the book lends the proceedings an epic glow. The result is a rich tapestry woven from the families, friendships, fetishes, and fandom of the last century in the land that McCarthy calls “Mythissippi,” but also in Memphis itself. And, as a celebration of the latter, the milieu in which McCarthy’s vision took root, this volume is unparalleled. Far from being mere vanity projects, the film and the book are emblematic of an evolving community. As Bomar writes, “if I were to stumble upon a time machine, I would dial in Mike McCarthy’s Memphis, TN, in the ’90s.”
