PULP PROPHET White-maned, white-suited, his omnipresent cigar cocked at a jaunty angle, Sam Fuller, encountered in Parisian exile, briefly stilled the stream of consciousness that usually rushed across his gravel-bed larynx. He was searching for something he rarely offered in his movies--a neat summarizing idea. "That's it," he finally offered. "A director takes a song, a lyric, and makes a symphony of it. Does that make sense to you?"
Yeah, but not in Sam's case--unless you thought of him as a sort of Charles Ives, drawing on the vernacular only to subvert it with a big, blatting off-key note. Like the...
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