Death Sentence

What can be said about Death Sentence that isn't already expressed with a single image of a bloody and bruised Kevin Bacon? This image has become somewhat iconic for me granted I've revisited Death Sentence for the third time in under a week. His frail figure wields a shotgun with every intention of retribution in this stunning remake of Brian Garfield's Death Wish series that surpasses everything that Death Wish never really touched base on; loss and godawful sorrow. Death Sentence is one of those ugly films that creates a textured cityscape of characters and chance encounters while playing god who could be very well listening to aggressive metal. Everything that happens in this film drags a wistful Bacon downwards into a cinematic study of the new and improved, definitive "man with nothing to lose." Coming from the tiny director of the original Saw film, James Wan, Death Sentence is a hell of a surprise and covers rusty milieu and bitter flavors en masse.


Regarding the tact nature of his family's demise, I personally have not seen a film that echoes so heavily the feeling of lonesome as Death Sentence does. It was bad enough losing his golden child to a gang initiation trial hosted by a multicultural troupe of degenerates, but once Kevin Bacon strikes back upon the one who sliced his son's neck open, a war erupts instantaneously. The debris and carnage left behind can be tracked back to two key ingredients that throttled the downfall of this bourgeois household; selfishness and vengeance. Had Kevin Bacon not pursued exacting his own brand of justice upon the runt-like Joe Darley, the rest of his family would have been out of harms way and it would have remained the death of one "rich little faggot." So against all psychological happenstance, Death Sentence is a film that is multi-gendered; on one hand, it's a film about exacting grisly vengeance and on the other hand, a film chronicling the moral decay of a once-family man as he becomes exactly what he swore to punish.


Halfway into the film comes one of cinema's most profound chase sequences committed to celluloid since Children of Men. Escaping on foot with his suitcase wildly waving through the alleys of crust and recycled goods, Nick Hume (Bacon) flees through many buildings while being chased by many tattooed and pierced thugs in a suspense-driven pursuit which leads him to a parking garage. Unable to stop the velocity of his body, he crumples into a car setting off its alarm. Taking this idea and systematically using the same survival instinct we later see in the bloodbath of atonement, he zigzags from car to car setting off their respective beacon in a dazzling attempt to hurdle his foes into a state of bewilderment. It's set-ups like these that make me understand that there is still fresh life to be squeezed into these modern action thrillers. Once the game of cat-and-mouse has desisted, Nick Hume retracts from noticeably upset senior VP to an afflicted lamb scurrying home to try and make reparations for what he has done. The cast of Death Sentence is wildly supportive and over-stricken with sympathy which helps the film establish a credible habitat restrained only by the boundaries of film.


As author Brian Garfield said concerning Death Wish and Charles Bronson's portrayal, "vigilantism is an attractive fantasy but it only makes things worse in reality." These words ring quite true when comparing Death Sentence to its creative predecessor. Also quick to jab at the alleged "blood-and-thunder" that occupies the last twenty minutes, I view this scene of extermination as the meat and the potatoes of the film; not as some violence-prone sweaty nerd but as a man who understands pain and these twangs of emptiness. Nick Hume's final stand is one to be reckoned with, both through the confines of cinema and its regurgitated after-effect. This motion picture is not just one of uncompromising entertainment but a film with a cold heart that pumps the very venom of Hume's absent rage into our visions as this "ostracidal" odyssey continues to tread on the sacred ground of a suburban welcome mat.


Coating its grievous nature with a glorifying epic shoot-out scene is exactly what this film needed to do to separate itself fully from the nature of its depression-inciting music video-like scenes of lamenting. Death Sentence, as a collected product, is a mean-spirited sucker punch delivered swiftly to the abdominal. Often presenting a desecrated family amidst the hum of dreary VH1-infused folk ballads, the instinct of a bloodthirsty beast in incarnated among the labyrinthine hallways of the "Office," the crack-den that looks to be what the safe haven would resemble if Abel Ferrara shot up with junk-used needles while playing Silent Hill. A revamped Death Wish starring the ghostly Kevin Bacon using expletive and ghastly violence in order to purge the streets from the flaccid youth? Sign me up for what might be the best recycling of an idea proving justly that remakes aren't always bad. Just take Death Sentence and Last Man Standing along for a wild ride in resuscitating faith in the ultra-violent and macabre and you'll be overdosing on gun play euphoria in no time.

-mAQ

Taxi Hunter

To enlighten those who are just now introduced to Herman Yau's work by way of The Legend is Born: Ip Man, Yau is also the fellow known exclusively in the "cult" circuit as the man who offered us generous doses of greedy-like gore with his two CAT III hits Ebola Syndrome and The Untold Story. Previous to those two Anthony Wong vehicles was what many could consider the precursor to Wong's perfected art of ignorance meets derangement and Yau's eventual transcendence into shocking violence. The film was Taxi Hunter starring Anthony Wong as a workaholic insurance salesman whose wife is expecting a child until a fateful night with a taxi driver that results in her squirmy death via asphalt challenge. This, with other incidents concerning selfish and rude taxi drivers, is what sparks Ah-Kin's (Wong) bloody rampage as he plays with the idea of murder as a tool for bettering society. Well, that's how Yau planned it but Wong only can represent the charitable executioner for so long until the "hero's" development hits a speed bump and leaves us wondering if we really could root for this respectful monster at all.


Unlike the other classic examples of excellence in this particular genre, Taxi Hunter is rated CAT IIB (equivalent to "R" rating) but even without the brutality this remains a film that does not disappoint. If you're familiar with Red to Kill, Run and Kill, or Her Vengeance, then you are aware of precisely what you are getting yourself into; a chop-socky brawl featuring karate cops and ubiquitous violence with that antique HK feel. One recurring theme in these Hong-Kong exploitation pictures that I couldn't help but notice is the inclusion of "Fatty", a character that appears in most everyone I've seen. Whether he is the main character, supporting cast member, or police officer, I can recall scratching my head and wondering whether or not the Asiatics take humorous prejudice to our tubby kinfolk or just plain lashing out at obesity and the disgusting effects of over-consumption. For the matter of repeating thematic elements of film crossing over to similar kind, Taxi Hunter is also laden with jazz-pop lullabies that draw a more-than-savory approach to highlighting and tuning into all moods this film has to offer; tragedy, madness, and the giving spirit.


When Taxi Hunter kicks off into it's second gear, the film takes a curious charge in representing the same methodical structure behind 2006's Korean hit No Mercy for the Rude, in which a hitman only "cleans" disrespectful targets. Another comparable topic is Michael Douglas's stellar role in Falling Down, the story of a man who seemingly had it all until his sanity dissipates. These two films pasted together create the core of Taxi Hunter; which will most likely be seen as Taxi Driver from an alternate dimension. There isn't much to report on Taxi Hunter as it's effortlessly a splendid "revenge" film, if you could call it that. While Ah-Kin denounces vengeance I'm not so easily fooled. His entire murderous charade was using his wife's death as a crutch for the means necessary to expel his rage. Taxi Hunter might be one of my more brief reviews but I still find much to applaud and support as this is a great film that sizzles into an extended car chase scene. Just as quickly as the credits roll, I too will make this my exit strategy from my affliction of pandering braindry.

-mAQ

The Tracey Fragments

After only watching a couple minutes of The Tracey Fragments it was quite apparent the film was a pieced together pile of digital feces, a film for the typical art fag teenage girl narcissist who finds masturbating most pleasurable whilst staring at a broken mirror. The film stars the very bulldyke-like Ellen Page making one wonder whether or not the film would have been better titled as The Tranny Fragments. Like every other repulsive quasi-feminist film I have seen her in, in The Tracey Fragments Ms. Page seems to lack estrogen, daintiness, and pretty much any other trait an attractive member of the female sex tends to carry. In The Tracey Fragments, Page's character Tracey also seems to be obsessed with the fact her bosom lacks a certain voluptuousness that most males seem to appreciate. I am sure the real Ellen Page would not mind having those pesky female breasts removed in real-life.

I am convinced that The Tracey Fragments was made so that special loner art-fag girls can further legitimize their drama queen escapades for their extremely unfortunate yet deserving families. Tracey wants everyone to know that her life is in "fragments," hence the silly over-stylized and pointless fragmented editing style of the film. The editing style of The Tracey Fragments was a sorry attempt by the film's editor to give the film a feeling of sophistication and abstraction when in reality the film is both lacking in substance as well as real-life human emotion. No matter how bad Tracey's life gets in the film, whether she is about to get raped or swiftly humped/dumped by her love interest, it is nearly impossible to find anything sympathetic about her character. In fact, it seems that The Tracey Fragments is a film designed for bourgeois degenerate girls so they can comfortably worship their own imagined victimhood via a super cool Indie flick.

I predict that The Tracey Fragments will inspire many teenage girls who have a thing for androgynous guys who wear eyeliner to dream of being raped and assaulted. Maybe then, after some brutal and traumatizing experience will they feel that they have achieved the attention they so graciously crave. From beginning to end, Tracey continues to wear the same monotone facial expression that makes one question whether or not she has discovered her clitoris yet. America and Canada are no doubt full of many Tracey-like girls, teen drama queens who believe that no one understands them because their parents are more interested in work than talking to them. For some strange reason, I doubt The Tracey Fragments will even fill the emotional void of the neurotic teenage bourgeois goober girl.

Will fragmented Tracey ever be happy and whole? It is doubtful considering her role model growing up as a child was a wussy Jewish father. I guess Tracey's younger brother felt impersonating a dog would be more dignified and honorable than say impersonating his Judaic 1/2 Mensch Father. Although he may have not been featured throughout the film, Tracey's father is central to her character. Girls with weak, effeminate, and unassertive fathers tend to go for the kind of losers Tracey seems to fancy. If anything can be learned from the abomination that is The Tracey Fragments it is that we need more films where white father's takeout criminal "minorities" and other vermin just as Paul Kersey did in Death Wish.

-Ty E

Schoof

Before I review Schoof, I think I'll take some time and address the peculiar genius of its creator. For well over ten years, Giuseppe Andrews has engaged and enraged audiences fortunate enough to stumble upon his microbudget masterpieces. With casts consisting of the denizens of his trailer park home, a video camera, and a budget of no more than a thousand dollars a picture, Andrews has managed to carve out a niche for himself in the post-post-meta, cynical landscape of contemporary cinema. What his films lack in polish or "good taste" is easily trumped by the vitality of his writing and the defiance of his imagery. The sight of a nude elderly man in a hotel room rubbing pork rinds on his penis while simulating sex with an imaginary partner ("Period Piece") might sound like an exercise in shock value, but filmed from Andrews sympathetic perspective it is instead an inspiring "fuck you" to anyone that would rather deal with issues like aging, mental illness, elderly sexuality or the consumption of meat from a safe distance. His dialogue-lewd limericks haltingly delivered by his stable of (brilliant) non-actors akin to a stable of teenage boys in an acid-induced stream-of-consciousness free-for-all is among the funniest you will ever hear. Instantly quotable, rib-tickling gems litter his films. Better still, the lack of condescension that characterizes his work. Like John Waters, you get the sense that Andrews loves his stable of derelicts, junkies, and freaks, and his films are a testament to that love as opposed to a freak show like, say, Gummo which, while not without aesthetic merit, certainly seems to laugh at and not with its white trash subjects.



With this in mind, it is particularly saddening that Andrews recently announced his retirement from the world of film. In an e-mail and website statement chock full of strange new age sentiment, Giuseppe revealed that he is foregoing cinema to concentrate on making music. And while his music is fun and has its moments (if you're familiar with his films, you've heard your share of it), what the fuck?! When again will we have a maverick who finds beauty in the deep-set facial lines of Vietnam Ron or who can wring never-ending hilarity from grown men eating each others farts in a way that doesn't make one feel like a complete idiot? Who can end a film called "Who Flung Poo?" on such a note of pathos that my ex-girlfriend's lip quivered in sympathy?

"gods/goddesses,

i have never talked much about my movie making experience,and the times i have for the most part hide what they were really about.Film (like all other mediums) is an artistic tool for soul-lessons,this medium in particular allows the artist to record visually the outer-life...there in lies the difficulty with it since true answers are found inside.The artist is born yearning to express to others the inner-life even if he or she doesn't realize it when they begin to explore their gifts.I became very frustrated with trying to make film exude what music can do so easily that it would be a waste of time to keep pursuing it.This exiting of the film medium is not sad for me,it is joyous! I'm glad to not be stifled any longer from what i can share with you through music about our inner-life,the outer is obviously a huge part of cinema (even for the greats) and you run into all it's lies,nonsense and agony time and time again (along with it's massive beauty too of course but the other hoops get old.) My soul learned what it needed from this medium and i am grateful for the experience,i beat every addiction,confusion and ignorance through it,and most importantly learned music from it! My greatest joys making the films were when scenes i created gave one of the actors a heightened experience that took them away from their pain,lonliness,& fears for a moment..for me that's why they're important.

i love you, giuseppe"

Anyways, Schoof, while not the best of the auteur's work, marks a major breakthrough in terms of style and ambition. An extraterrestrial curse called "schoof" has descended upon the town. Characters are driven to obsessively jump over Christmas trees, hallucinate attacks from giant hamsters, and sexually molest dolls on live television. As this is going down, two "weekend" cowboys must dispose of the body of a woman who overdoses in their hotel room, whose spirit in turn appears to her ex-boyfriend at the grave of the baby she forced him to abort with the wire coat-hanger he carries on him at all times. Along the way, we are treated to musical sequences, "special effects" sequences, and one of the more charming dildo-naming/reconciliation scenes ever committed to celluloid.



While an outright description of the plot might make Schoof sound like a surefire winner, it is hurt by slack editing and a dearth of memorable dialogue. Whereas a classic like Period Piece or Who Flung Poo barrages the viewer with line after line of scatological delirium and use multiple storylines to keep the momentum going at full speed, Schoof relies far too much on being 'weird' as opposed to 'funny' and the multiple storylines don't connect in a thematically satisfying way. Period Piece, for example, consisted of many different storylines, the result of the film in fact being many shorter works combined (hence the title- a piece consisting of different works from that period in his career), but somehow manages to gel together in such a way that it never really feels like the mix-and-match job it in fact is, as all of the tangents and fragments add up to a cohesive statement about love and sex. Schoof, on the other hand, feels a little too loose for its own good. Sometimes takes drag on a little bit past where they would in a superior film, draining much of the charm from the stilted delivery. The dialogue suffers as there is more effort expended on surreal, nonsensical statements fueled by the schoof curse than on the poetic potty-mouthed diatribes of past classics. Furthermore, I for one was excited from the description to see Andrews work within the confines of a genre film, but for the most part it feels not unlike his other work, only with the addition of some sci-fi asides to set up the surreal goings-on.



What does work? Marybeth Spychalski, Andrews' main squeeze in real life, makes for an appealing narrator and is all kinds of a babe. The low-rent special effects, be it the cut-and-paste "giant hamster", the radioactive shrimp tempura, or an alien battle that creatively uses sound to create an otherworldly vibe, are great fun. Best of all, the movie ends on a musical note that is no doubt indicative of the direction Andrews would soon take in eschewing film in favor of his musical ambitions, as the entire cast join hands to sing the extraterrestrials into submission. It is inspiring, uplifting, and a great end to a so-so flick. Even at his most uneven, Giuseppe Andrews is a talent to be reckoned with. One can only hope his sabbatical from film is short-lived, as filmmakers this intense, inspired, and completely free of obvious influences are increasingly hard to come by in this age of remakes, homages, and ironic distancing.

-Jon-Christian

Predators

The substantial realization that we might never get a decent Predator nor Alien revival has been becoming more and more of a cold reality. After the death of Stan Winston, it just appeared that all hope had vaporized along with any honor that might have still been beating in the Predators ruthless hearts. With word of Robert Rodriguez spearheading a continuation/reboot/remake, I began to feel a little more calm towards the concept. After all, it could never be as bad as either of those Alien vs. Predator films, right? Soon word was handed that Rodriguez jumped from the director's chair to producer and passed the project onto Nimród Antal, the director known for directing Armored, that mediocre bowel movement only saved by Jean Reno. With a credible "experiment" in showcasing African-American poverty and the trials & tribulations of an honest black worker, could Nimród Antal create a film that is fluent with the mythology and the technology of the Predator mythos? Better yet, can anyone sit through the credits of the film without giggling?


Predators opens up blindingly fast with a shot of Adrien Brody's face rippling in the wind as he plummets towards "Earth" at what I'd guess to be 125 miles per hour. After regaining consciousness and swearing rather loudly, he begins frantically beating at this alien device on his chest until the chute deploys at nearly 1000 feet before ground leaving him free-falling through the trees and hitting the ground with a wincing crunch. The screen switches to black and the Predators title block appears. The opening is not only one of the greatest set ups in action/horror history but shocks the participating audience as well. All three times I've seen this film, after the feature presentation snipe plays, the audience is murmuring and gossiping only to be interrupted by the crude sound of wind resistance and flapping cheeks. Everyone redirects their focus to the screen and remains silent for most of the film, only letting out a hearty chuckle at the comedic relief's more important lines e.g. "Fuck you, space faggot!!"


As soon as the cast becomes acquainted with much chagrin, they form an unlikely fellowship and the film hits a very familiar and welcome chord with the paranoia and fear of the unknown that was so arresting in the science-fiction containment odyssey Cube. Predators in fine-print is the rawest nature of Cube injected with Predators only the setting is randomly generated by what could have been a similar engine used in SimCity. This not only creates a new experience from any Predator film we've seen but ultimately makes Predators its own film, not borrowing many likenesses from the sequel and only consisting of nods to the original John McTiernan's action juggernaut and winks to the comics. While the film suffers from the pick-and-kill method of eliminating characters as if they were host to a mundane form of roulette, Predators still features enough surprises to keep your mind vastly entertained. It really doesn't matter if you enjoyed the machismo-ill nature of the original Predator or the street-smart Urban temper tantrum that is Predator 2. If your instinct and taste leads you to either of these two cult favorites then you're in the clear to enjoy the tactful extravaganza that is Predators. If you happen to be a fan of Alien vs. Predator and have no desire to see "boring jungle movies" then you can kindly hit ALT + F4 and do us all a favor.


What you and I doubted about Adrien Brody has been proved to be incorrect. As we'd love to doubt his ability in a science fiction action film, Brody assumes the macho hero role as if he'd been built from the ground up with it. Sure, the body mass in Predator can never be superseded by the cast of Predators but our questionably tasting ethnic marinade is created with Danny Trejo as a monster Mexican degenerate, Topher Grace as a weaselly doctor, and several "can't point my finger on it's" as they pickpocket similar roles or unfamiliar, as if there was an alternative. The way Predators is constructed is quite simple; Antal and Rodriguez takes a formula known to work and installs a nature of gusto into this reprisal as to excite the static youth into admiring something that isn't comparable to Modern Warfare or energy drinks by bringing the war and the energy.


It's been an exciting year for Adrien Brody. This Oscar-winning actor has had 3 different ranges of characters to cover from Predators de facto miniature ass-kicker to Splice's wimpy deviant and finally to The Experiment's struggling musician/activist who gets himself knees deep in Forest Whitaker's shit. Predators is one of those films that struggles to keep the fans happy while sacrificing some of their dignity in the process. There is no doubt in my mind that this may be second or third to Scott Pilgrim vs. the World for pure, unadulterated fun but Predators will be too much for some die hard fans to chew, especially after learning of extraterrestrial boar-beasts being unleashed on our survivors. Predators is its own solemn entity and I appraise its finesse in bringing a new spin on the tale.

-mAQ

A Pact with Lucifer: Otto Rahn and the Quest For The (Un)Holy Grail

Many young American boys (and of course more adventurous girls) over nearly three decades now permanently have the image of Nazis soldiers faces melting all the way down to the skull ingrained in their memories for a lifetime. These Nazis soldiers were on a crusade to find the much desired and legendary Ark of the Covenant in hopes to have an invincible army. This image of death and a literal Holocaust takes place in a fairly popular film directed by Steven Spielberg and produced by George Lucas known as Raiders of the Lost Ark. One could say that these deaths via supernatural ark have become iconic. The melting of a group of Teutonic faces is a much warmer occurrence than the reality of a young man who froze to death on a mountainside near Söll in Austria. That unusual adventurer was SS-Obersturmführer Otto Rahn, whose lifetime of searching would lead to a Faustian pact with The Third Reich and a short life shrouded in mystery.

Although Steven Spielberg and George Lucas have never spoken of Nazi archaeologist Otto Rahn, he undoubtedly comes closest to being a real-life Indiana Jones. Rahn was an artistic man that was obsessed with the history of the Cathars and the suffering they faced during the crusades as heretics. Otto Rahn believed that the Cathars guarded the Holy Grail in their castle at Montsegur located in Southern France. The best evidence of Rahn being an artist at heart is his belief that Wolfram von Eschenbach’s medieval epic Parzival held the key to the mysteries of the Cathars and where they were secretly hiding the Holy Grail. Rahn’s book Crusade Against the Grail is a bizarre work of history that combines poetry, anti-catholic sentiment, and wild speculation for a truly original look at medieval Catharism. Otto Rahn traveled to the Pyrenees region of Southern France in 1931 to complete his research for Crusade Against the Grail which was completed in 1933.


It should be noted that Crusade Against the Grail was published three years before Otto Rahn would join Heinrich Himmler’s sinister SS. Rahn came to the attention of Heinrich Himmler after Gabriele Dechend, private SS secretary of secret(occult) king Karl Maria Wiligut, read Crusade Against the Grail and gave it to Wiligut. Karl Maria Wiligut was impressed by Crusade Against the Grail and immediately informed SS leader Heinrich Himmler of the book. Himmler was highly impressed by the book and summoned Otto Rahn to meet him in Berlin, Germany. At the time of meeting Himmler, France had just denied Rahn his much desired visa. Otto Rahn, to his embarrassment, had also just gotten dropped by his publisher. One could not find better timing for a Faustian pact with a metaphorical devil known as Heinrich Himmler. Heinrich Himmler’s elite SS would give Otto Rahn the opportunity to travel Europe and write in a travel diary which would later become his second (and final) book Lucifer’s Court (1937). Rahn believed that Lucifer was bearer of light and true illumination and his journeys recorded in Lucifer’s Court were mean to shed light on “the ghosts of the pagans and heretics who were (his) ancestors.”


Otto Rahn’s work Lucifer’s Court was made required reading by SS leader Heinrich Himmler for the Nazi elite and higher. One could say that Rahn was responsible for writing part of the gospel for the short lived but eternally remembered Third Reich. The SS also required Otto Rahn to do something that one might consider much physically and emotionally stressful than reading merely about heretics of the past. Rahn was forced to do four months’ military service with the SS-Death’s Head Division ‘Oberbayern’ at Dachau concentration camp, an experience that apparently forever changed the romantic young man for the worst.


Otto Rahn’s personal life would also find him to be an enemy of the Nazi state. Rahn did not do much to hide his homosexuality which would eventually result in the most undesirable of fates. Rahn was caught twice engaged in homosexuality activities which Heinrich Himmler warned him against. SS secretary Gabriele Dechend believed that Otto Rahn was being spied by someone in the SS that was jealous of Rahn. Dechend speculates that on Himmler’s third time catching Rahn engaged in homosexual activities resulted having to “save his honor” via suicide. Surprisingly, the Judeo-Christian propaganda book The Pink Swastika: Homosexuality in the Nazi Party, a work that argues the Nazi war machine was fueled by German homosexuality, forgets to mention Otto Rahn’s sexual persuasion.


Otto Rahn’s mother, who knitted her son a sweater which displayed a lightning bolt similar to that found in the SS emblem, was also found out to be Jewish. The 2001 documentary on Otto Rahn, The Secret Glory directed by Richard Stanley (Dust Devil, The White Darkness), reveals that Rahn was Jewish although he may have not known that until he did his genealogical research for the SS. According to rabbinical law (and of course the Nuremberg racial laws), Otto Rahn was Jewish. It would be very hard to find a stranger and unconventional character as Otto Rahn in the SS. But then again, Emil Maurice who founded the Stosstrupp Adolf (which later became the SS) with Adolf Hitler, also was of Jewish ancestry. Maurice was also apparently bisexual, something you would not expect from someone that was partly responsible for founding the SS. When Heinrich Himmler brought to the attention of Adolf Hitler that Emil Maurice had Jewish ancestry, Hitler responded “in this one exception case” Maurice could stay in the SS. After all Emil Maurice was one of the first members of the Nazi party and one of oldest friends. Indeed, fact is truly stranger than fiction.

Many proto-Nazi and Nazi authors had a much different interpretations of the Holy Grail than Otto Rahn. Nordicist writers would interpret the blood of Christ with Aryan blood which is interesting as Nazi philosopher Alfred Rosenberg would later claim that Jesus Christ was not Jewish (but Aryan) in his best selling book The Myth of the Twentieth Century (1929). Ultimately, Aryan propagandists finally brought forth the thesis that the “Aryan” grail would only begin to shine again with the Nordic races return to racial purity. At the conclusion of Crusade Against the Grail, Rahn stated, “What happened to the Grail, the Occitan Mani?" According to Pyrenean legend, the Grail moves farther away from this world, and upward toward the sky, when humanity is no longer worthy of it .” Instead of finding the grail, Otto Rahn’s escapades led him to a tragic departure from this world and ultimately the destruction of the Third Reich. Certainly, the grail moved farther the earth as Rahn’s life progressed.

Drawing of Otto Rahn by his friend Paul Ladame

Before becoming involved with searching for the Holy Grail and later his fatal decision to join the SS, Otto Rahn had an interest in the art of cinema. Otto Rahn played an extra in the G.W. Pabst (Director of Pandora’s Box starring Louise Brooks) film Westfront 1918 (1930) with his friend Paul Ladame. Rahn and Ladame also collaborated on a screenplay for Drehbuch von Klabund’s marriage comedy XYZ but were unfortunately unable to financial backing for production of the film. Otto Rahn was also hoping to have an acting role in XYZ, a film which was collaboration between a German and French company. Now, the question is when is Hollywood going to make the ultimate Otto Rahn bio-pic? Unfortunately, I think the Indiana Jones series is as close to get as Hollywood will get to a serious film about Otto Rahn. If only there were courageous European director such as Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Pier Paolo Pasolini still living. Then maybe a serious film about Otto Rahn will be made.

Works Cited

Angebert, Jean-Michel. The Occult and The Third Reich. New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., 1974.

Flowers, Stephen. The Secret King: The Myth and Reality of Nazi Occultism. Los Angeles: Feral House, 2007.

Goodrick-Clarke, Nicholas. The Occult Roots of Nazism. New York: New York University Press, 1992.

Graddon, Nigel. Otto Rahn and the Quest for the Grail: The Amazing Life of the Real Indiana Jones. Kempton: Adventures Unlimited Press, 2008.

Hakl, Hans. Unknown Sources: National Socialism and the Occult. Sequim: Holmes Publishing Group, 2005.

Hermand, Jost. Old Dreams of a New Reich: Volkish Utopias and National Socialism. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1992.

Lively, Scott. The Pink Swastika: Homosexuality In The Nazi Party. Sacramento: Veritas Aeterna Press, 2002.

Machtan, Lothar. The Hidden Hitler. New York: Basic Books, 2001.

Rahn, Otto. Crusade Against The Grail. Rochester: Inner Traditions, 2006.

Rahn, Otto. Lucifer’s Court. Rochester: Inner Traditions, 2008.

Rosenberg, Alfred. The Myth of the Twentieth Century. Torrance: The Noontide Press, 1982.



-Ty E

Timecrimes

The leering cover art is what initially grasped me by the collar; a bandaged messianic figure with a haggard trench coat wielding scissors with malicious intent. Sounds almost like a film based on the Clock Tower video game series, doesn't it? Rather than attempting horror, Timecrimes takes the jet-set path to science fiction bludgeoning 12 Monkeys and Timecop into the same hypothesis. While this may sound like a convoluted mess that's hard to distinguish the thematic moral of the story; save the lady or save the world, Hector is the star of an easy to understand time travel movie. A better way to put it is that Timecrimes is an intelligent and engaging film equipped with training wheels. It's a nice departure from being primo mindfuck as I like to mix-match the intellectual trials with the devious entertainment so Timecrimes came as a surprise to me, one that does become slightly frustrating as we watch Hector 3 or 2 replay the same scene from a different vantage.

After I received this film from America's favorite courier service, Netflix, I procrastinated immensely with this film as I didn't see myself fit to sit and stare at a television screen perplexed in what I would consider the most stressful week of my hardly progressed life. I tried over and over to become absorbed in the film and ended up just putting it on pause at an estimated 9 minutes in. The one day I found time to sit and watch this film uninterrupted I discovered that once you reach 10 minutes in, the film ejects itself from the prepositioning phase into a wild world of an unexplainable nude woman and a mysterious bandaged man who loves to stab incarnations of himself which presents itself as the most painful distraction to be presented in time travel cinema. Poor Hector, who knows how long he's been living in this Groundhog Day hell on earth.


Not to bring any spoilers upon you, the nude woman is perhaps one of the better scenes in the film. Not for continuity or presentation, but for the actress's incredible body. Every time she appeared on screen, which was often, I got shivers down my spine. I had no idea that a Spanish dame could be so attractive. Timecrimes gets points for both having someone fill the once empty "useless chick" role but also turning that position into something that becomes a martyr for the murderous instincts lurking deep within one of Hector's personalities . . . or all of them. The bandaged saint and his laboratory accomplice reincarnate themselves as leading roles instead of supporting characters which enhances the swift kick into the genitals that occurs nearing the finale of this never-ending cycle of epochal torture.


Timecrimes is a film that is innocently simple enough for the childlike film goer whose expectations match explosions and swiftly thrown curse words. This momentous occasion in which a film revolving about an intricate plot and repeating consequence that is simple enough for a toddler to understand is why Timecrimes should be essential viewing for those who haven't been implemented the teachings of finer cinema. Not much to say about this film other than it's required viewing of the impartial genre that is composed of the underdeveloped and under-appreciated niche entitled Spanish cinema e.g. Killing Words. Timecrimes is a textbook science-fiction thriller that does just about everything right and in the end, it's simplicity manages to kill the arthouse feel but resuscitates that acclaimed ongoing personal melancholy with its vibrant and lush wooded setting. An environmental surprise that reeks of talent and misery, Timecrimes did not disappoint me for even a minute. Just goes to show that even the most civil of men house a "dark passenger."

-mAQ

The Hustler

Paul Newman maybe the ultimate Hustler of Hollywood, a mischling Judaic with an Aryan phenotype and an assertive martial prowess, he could have been a poster boy for the Waffen SS. In the Hollywood Zionist epic Exodus, Newman even plays a Zionist Jew who fools a British military man into thinking he is a fellow British Aryan soldier. Newman, in his undeniable stoicism, cunningly smiles along as the Brit brags about how good his Jew-dar is and how he could conclusively spot a Judaic anywhere. In the classic film The Hustler, the young Paul Newman goes all out in signature hustling style as a young man who shoots pool better than most of his criminal elders. If anything, The Hustler should have been the name of Newman's autobiography.


I have no interest in playing/watching pool or going to bars, but The Hustler is a film that I could not navigate my eyes away from. Paul Newman plays a cool cat by the named of "Crazy Eddie" Felson, a man that may not be crazy but he surely has an uncontrollable aura of confidence. It seems Crazy Eddie is more interested in beating the best pool players than taking all their money, a character flaw that results in monetary loss for the young man. It is not until Crazy Eddie meets an older con-man psychopath named Bert that he finally learns to hustle like a true capitalist. Unfortunately for Eddie, Bert also likes to hustle his students as long as it results in monetary gain.


Crazy Eddie may be a hustler but he certainly is not the best at hustling the opposite sex. In fact, Eddie's love interest Sarah hustles him when she pays for his food and eventually gives him a place to stay. Sarah is an alcoholic writer who is no doubt Eddie's intellectual superior. Due to her quick wits and flawless intellect, Sarah soon picks up on the fact that Bert is hustling Eddie. The real battle in The Hustler becomes between Bert and Sarah, a duel of psychological warfare that makes the film the intense vintage classic that it is. Out of all the people that Crazy Eddie encounters, it seems he respects his fellow hustler pool players the most. Eddie especially has a soft spot for Minnesota Fats, a fat hustler who despite his fatness has an aristocratic manner.


In 1986, Paul Newman reprises his role as Crazy Eddie in the Martin Scorsese film The Color of Money. In this film, Crazy Eddie no longer has the youthful exuberance that he had in The Hustler. In fact, it seems that Crazy Eddie has taken over many of the character traits of the highly despicable Bert. Now almost elderly, Crazy Eddie finds himself a young hotshot pool player to make money off of. I found this to be a reasonable change as Crazy Eddie's world in The Hustler is destroyed and he has finally learned the way of the beast, but I guess that is what one should expect in a parasitical criminal underworld, for the nicest guys always come in last.

-Ty E

Assault! Jack the Ripper

Successfully blending "ero"-level violence with sexual encroachment alongside the vast fetishistic kingdom as geographically marked by these pioneers of the Roman-porn industry, Yasuharu Hasebe returns from directing the film that marked a trend, Rape!. Hasebe perhaps never thought about the impact or the posterity that would be affected by his works back in the late 70s, the same instance goes for me as I never would have assumed I would have found such a liberating niche of films that encompass many ideas that vaunt about my mind on a day to day basis. Hasebe could be called the visual Georges Bataille of our time bringing to light an often invisible connection between sex, lust, and death. To better suit death as a broad spectrum, murder. Death is an essence that is everywhere; it can appear at any give place or time. We were all created to die, not to live, so why not stalk for personal satisfaction? Hasebe brings these temporal theories to mind with another of his infamous and stunning works of art.


Assault! Jack the Ripper opens inside of a restaurant bakery(?) where, unbeknown to me at the time, is where our two future sadists would meet and become spiritually guided to their deprived enlightenment. Our lead actress is a pugnacious creature who is gifted with an incredibly motivating body but is cursed with a particularly obese face which gives more to her repugnant attitude and appetite. After purposely spilling coffee on a customer's lap after a failed pass, she goes in the kitchen and observes a (what must be mousy) employee work extensively on a cake, prepping it for what appears to be a wedding ceremony. The attention whore breaks silence with eye contact and presumes to drive the blade through his cake, severing the top and sparking the romantic destiny that progresses dangerously in the blink of an eye. At closing time, the evil little afro-troll begs the man for a lift home and harps him until he does. Along the way, they manage to pick up a female prototype of the hitchhiker from The Texas Chainsaw Massacre who rubs cake all over her underdeveloped breasts and slices her wrist open. Trying to flee from the society-inflicted broad, they accidentally kill her and discover an insatiable appetite for fucking hidden just under the cloak of silent sleep.


From this point on, Assault! becomes a dearly departed exercise in psychopathic erotica. Exploring the sexual stimuli featured at the chronological beginning of Tetsuo: The Iron Man, Assault! takes no shortcuts to quenching this man's lust for sex & death. Soon he begins killing for an ulterior motive - hatred for women. After dealing with tubby yelling at him all day and dealing with her sexual needs, it seems he has discovered a new reason to kill; not to fuck but to purge - any and all women. His "cake blade" becomes a phallic extension of which he jams into his victims vaginae and becomes bewildered by this act of carnal retribution on his part. The best films to me are ones that can accept realities and while being fiction, stomping towards these taboos unwavering and that is exactly what Hasebe does. The soundtrack even boasts excellence as we are delightfully treated to a somber Oriental jazz funk that cloyingly humanizes his actions and escape. Should such a man exist with no consequential worries? Probably not but there really isn't a damn thing we can do about it. These evil, awful things happen in the world on a second basis and all we can really do is pray that our loved ones are not affected by the wrath's of the few.


Nearing the end of Assault!, something occurred to me. Not only is Hasebe's Assault! Jack the Ripper a transgressive film in which intimacy is unrivaled in death akin to Georges Bataille's Story of the Eye, but the lead killer's skill transcends bloodshed into something . . . unnameable. In one particular home invasion scene, he makes neat and passion-blazed slices in her pretty abdomen as the struggles and spins against the outside window. Blood trails fleeing from her silk skin, tracing images on the glass panes - Hasebe has turned death into art! Where the killer was once satisfying his hatred for women, now he is applying lacerations to their canvases in what can only be considered fluid performance art. Happiness can he found in even the darkest of places. Hasebe has created yet another excellent film concerning rape with no third party intrusion. Rather than a cops-and-robbers story of a man on the run, this film is strictly interpersonal for its characters and this is such a glorious piece of sleaze you can't help but to cry.

-mAQ

Tekken

Based on the hit Playstation series of the same name, Tekken is a wild attempt at bringing a video game classic to the medium of film with partial success. Taking the babbling insecurity of the Japanese and adapting it to a tale most appreciated by the West is an achievement in itself. Like Speed Racer before it, the idea is taken out of context and reshaped by its copyright holders into something best fit for a motion picture and similarly to that of Speed Racer, the climax is composed of vignettes including flashbacks and inordinate scenes of inspiring power surges through anger and rage, which condone the use of frustration to achieve anything you wish. Cinema separate from the source material, Tekken is a labor of love towards the characters and approaches the fickle topic of costume design quite seriously, staying true to the video game which is more than most can say about their tripe products of capitalist consummation.


Gifted by the power of creative ideals and an adoration (must be) of Escape from New York and Blade Runner, Alan B. McElroy wrote the screenplay for Tekken and also brought us both the stories of retro-revival love-it-or-hate-it Wrong Turn and Halloween 4 which stands as one of the best horror sequels. Taking a departure from the a-typical tournament teir film which was done with poor results in Mortal Kombat and DOA: Dead or Alive, Tekken charges head on into a dystopian landscape in which each continent is owned by a single mega-corporation and provides fighters in a worldwide tournament known as Iron Fist. Jin Kazawa makes his small living acting as a runner for stolen goods; items to be used against the post-dictatorship of Tekken. Several propaganda style posters emblazoned with Heihachi's face litter the post-apocalyptic streets. Remarkably, Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa still makes a living playing the same villainous character (Shang-Tsung and Heihachi) and doesn't seem to be slowing down.


The storyline of Tekken is cleverly articulated and proves to be quite charming in the beginning as it goes as far as to provide growth upon children's fiction into a neo-realist nightmare of a populated purgatory provided by the government we put our trust in. Excluding the budget, the approach to Tekken is taken very sternly. As Jin returns to a trader with smuggled goods to be used in the uprising, he is given "real" currency which he uses to buy goods from a seedy Negro archetyped as a "drug dealer." Instead of offering crack cocaine or "purp," he sells Jin a little baggy of ground coffee in a nice stab at the future of what we could consider luxuries. After this, he decides to also purchase a bar of chocolate and an orange; gifts for his mother and girlfriend. This scene is very important in establishing the very bleak atmosphere and is later used as a crutch for the film once the tournament begins. Nice fight scenes aside, the dialogue is as balderdash as they could possibly get and I found myself groaning aloud during scenes of Jin and Christie. While being endearingly retarded, this romantic entanglement of fighters is best left to nerdy, sweaty fan-fiction.


Taking liberties with the past involvement of Kazuya and Jin's mother, the filmmakers take one more step towards dominant independence while suggesting the Jin's mother was a victim of rape, which tickles my fancy and imagination. Tekken suffers gruelingly from many problems but considering the status of the game and the lack of intellectuals who might play the game, it just seems impossible to enjoy something for what it is. While Internet trolls goad on and on about the pristine quality and enjoyment of Super Mario Bros. or the passe-indulgent Double Dragon, these critical gnats cannot enjoy something that dares to differ from a video game based on sexless Japanese musclemen who grapple and kick into the depths of forever. Tekken is a capital surprise. Presumptions are made but these defenseless expectations have a chance to be smashed right through if you can switch your cynicism off and enjoy a film that boasts wonderful albeit short martial arts action and a nice hopeless atmosphere for the outside inhabitants of this multiverse.


Tekken isn't an excellent film; it doesn't bring anything new to the table but reasonably associates particular interests of the demographic and embraces it. Based on a tournament fighting game whose roster of would-be champions includes bears, cyborg queers, baby dinosaurs, and Satan, I find the negative attitude based around this film to be compulsive and irrational. Given the fact that I might be able to find it within my ice cold interior to view this film again, it definitely deserves a view from anyone who has ever played the game. Tekken's ambition is also its downfall. The fight scenes are too short, too many subplots and character mentions are cemented into the film's lore but make no sense otherwise, Heihachi is crippled from sacrifices that had to be made based on his hair's eccentricity, and most importantly, it just isn't strong enough to exist alongside bonafide entertainment. That being said, I found Tekken to be a wholly enjoying experience and would recommend it to fans of the game. Also, Eddy Gordo is portrayed by "that Capoeira guy" from Tony Jaa's The Protector which acquires the film bonus points for stellar casting.

-mAQ

Don't Be Afraid of the Dark (1973)

Among the made-for-TV horror spectacles that have found their way into very comfortable households includes Don't Be Afraid of the Dark, with Trilogy of Terror as close kin. The original film stars Kim Darby, a tomboy who could "get it", as a reluctant inheritor of a decrepit mansion whose basement study is home to a bricked and sealed fireplace that she insists upon opening. Even after kindly handyman Mr. Harris warns her against the repercussions of mishandling things that are meant to stay the way they are, she does so anyways and seals her and her loved ones fate. For in the bottomless ash pit exists a world of inky darkness as somewhat recently stylized in the obviously inspired Wes Craven's They. Don't Be Afraid of the Dark is a film that not only features a magnificent array of lighting and the lack thereof but also imaginative creepy totems brought to miserable life with camera tricks and stop-motion.


Kim Darby sets the tone nicely as a lush and almost virginal desperate housewife of a workaholic trader who starts the film off as a low-budget vaginal suppository of midlife angst but ends on a bit of a high chord with a drugged Darby being dragged down the hall and stairs as she moans and groans. The perkiness of her breasts and rope really lends to the scene seeming as a spare remnant of a great pinku film. This scene provoked a new fetish for me to pursue; gremlin hostage situations. Just thinking about the ending alone brings to light so many questions. Was the camera recovered? Were there pictures of the creatures on the film? What happened to the house? Don't Be Afraid of the Dark leaves you with many staggering questions and few answers. Even so, the quality of this film is of a special caliber of noxious horror entertainment, even with a criminally short runtime this film manages to accomplish so much given its hindrance as being directed by a fellow known only for directing episodes of classic television series.


Once the demons marked Sally (Darby) to be their blushing den mother, the foul play appears almost instantly resulting in a suspense that continues to rise and never lets up. If anything, this film allows an unconventional look at an unholy obsession with the perfect wife which is also tenaciously appears to be the domineering pseudo-Labyrinth but without a single trace of avant-garde homosexuality. As per usual, the curiously dimwitted nature of a woman is to blame for this supernatural travesty of what could have been a fruitful marriage. This nightmarish concept of deniability is seen in most, if not all, feminist outings of hyper-realized motion pictures of the illicit damsel in distress. The obstacles she must overcome however are more of a terrifying fairy tale rather than a problem manifesting itself on the bounds of reality. This film presents multiple options of anxiety, you can either fear the shadows or fear the dark. Accepting the notion that these beings need just a fraction of darkness to inhabit their hijinx creates ample anxiousness as pitiful Sally slinks through the hallways not noticing that her leg carefully strafes through a minimal pocket of shade which may or not be her last breath. Even lines regarding the party Sally plans in the beginning of the film leads to a disquieting aurora as she states "He said if the place was dark enough..."


Announced recently was a remake of the made-for-TV cult film Don't Be Afraid of the Dark which sparked an outcry from fans of the original as all remake do. After having watched the original and inspecting it at several vantages, I come to the realization that this is one of those sacred safe properties in which the original might have prophecized this by making the history of the house and creatures/gremlins/homunculi pretty vague, tenebrous enough to barely skim the esoteric past of this house that used to belong to several families before all resulting in the same fate. For anyone to be against the remake is a foolhardy excuse to get riled up for the sake of tarnishing the reputation of a film that only a handful of people have seen. Even with the original property taken as is, it still could be about the elaborate dementia a neglected hostess is suffering from; lack of communication and light tricks could lead to a wavering sanity complex.


Sleeping pills are the bane of horror films, constantly getting heroines in messy situations. Notice how men never suffer from this medicated problem? It's always Nancy Thompson who gets stuck in these situations, these asylum settings of fractured feminine identity that really debases the usage of these prescriptions to help the ladies sleep. After viewing Don't Be Afraid of the Dark, it's high time to realize and cope with the understanding that regardless of your elitism towards films of your childhood era, they will be remade in terrifying productivity. Nothing is untouchable and they will find away to lurk in the shadows and steal what you feel is rightfully yours. Don't Be Afraid of the Dark is an excellent ambient horror film that is touching, erotic, wistful, and creepy in its own regards. I couldn't be more excited nor proud for a remake than I am for this one.

-mAQ