Dear Mr. Gacy

 

I used to be friends with a hot young lady (like Soiled Sinema, she has the initials SS) that was pen pals with pseudo-Satanic serial killer Richard Ramirez during her high school years. Being the sweetheart she was, my friend scanned the letters she received from Ramirez and sent them to me online so that I could read them. I immediately realized Ramirez's letters were completely and utterly unintentionally hilarious. Aside from being sub-literate like most Mexican metalheads, Ricky Retardo’s letters were full of childish questions such as asking my friend what her favorite color was. In the film Dear Mr. Gacy, we see the true story unfold of a college student named Jason Moss who starts hustling (for a college thesis) the cunning yet obnoxiously bloated serial killer John Wayne Gacy through via snail mail. Unfortunately for Jason Moss, when you start playing games with big gay Gacy, you’re playing for keeps as the disgusting killer leaves no young man untouched. 

Jason's present to Gacy

I really do not understand the American obsession of worshiping serial killers as Saintly media darlings. After all, John Wayne Gacy has become as popular and iconically American as Hollywood cowboy John Wayne. Aside from torturing, sodomizing, and slaughtering adolescent males on the side, John Wayne Gacy was living his life as an upstanding American citizen, juggling multiples roles (businessman, community organizer, and clown), even taking a photograph with former first lady Rosalynn Carter. For those that hate clowns, John Wayne Gacy also makes the ultimate devil as contrived funnyman “Pogo The Clown.” I found out about Gacy’s crimes as a young child and I have not been able to look at clowns the same way ever since. The only clowns that have horrified me in a similar despicably vainglorious way as Gacy is those horrendous Dago jokesters featured in Fellini’s I clowns (1970). In the humorless words of Morrissey, That Joke Isn’t Funny Anymore in regard to the John Wayne Gacy featured in Dear Mr. Gacy as the man now wears the uniform of a dead man walking. Of course, Gacy has his last young male suitor in mind in this film, even if it is just to get into the college boy’s dangerously inquisitive mind. 

Dear Mr. Gacy was directed by Macedonian director Svetozar Ristovski who cites auteur directors ranging from Robert Bresson to Stanley Kubrick as influencing his own brand of filmmaking. When watching Dear Mr. Gacy, nothing is really impressive about the filmmaking, aside from the dark shades of colorlessness featured throughout the film which compliments the overall dark feeling that this motion picture resonates. Immediately, unlikeable protagonist Jason Moss attempts to entice John Wayne Gacy, sending him erotic photographs of himself (taken by his own brother) and writing the sad sadist clown provocative letters. Jesse’s becomes obsessed with Gacy and ruins his relationships with his girlfriend in the process. Gacy is played charismatically by William Forsythe, expressing the various dimensions (and multiple personalities) of the all-American serial killer. I do not know whether or not it was the director intention or not but near the end of the film, Gacy becomes a more likeable character than Jason. Like Gacy, Jesse has proven that he is willing to screw over anyone to get what he wants. The difference is that Jesse lacks the testicular fortitude to carry out his desires whereas Gacy has gone all the way, hence why serial killers seem to be so well respected by their American admirers. 

Jason Moss and John Wayne Gacy, 1994

Not only did the real-life Jason Moss correspond with Gacy but he also traded letters with other notorious serial killers such as Jeffrey Dahmer and Henry Lee Lucas. Moss came up with the extra cliché title The Last Victim for his memoir as a serial killer fanboy. What makes the title especially cliché is the fact that Jason Moss would take his life years after writing his memoir. This makes one wonder what exactly lead Moss to suicide, the guilt of dealing with God’s unholy men or the weakness of his own mind giving way after being exposed to those with mental aberrations worse than his own. Whatever the reason, knowing the background behind Dear Mr. Gacy makes the film much more interesting but does not save the film from being a piece of subpar sinema. After all, I found Mark Holton (Pee-Wee Herman’s nemesis in Pee-Wee’s Big Adventure) to be a much scarier Gacy in the direct-to-video release Gacy. When it comes down to it, no one makes a creepier cinematic clown than unsweet transvestite Tim Curry. 

-Ty E

Schoolgirls in Chains

  

Schoolgirls in Chains, or commonly known as any of the following: Girls in Chains, Abducted, or Let's Play Dead, is a 70s washout hippie excursion in exploitation and raw film stock. Starring Gary Kent of modest cult fame, Schoolgirls in Chains was adorned with the misleading title for providing verbal titillation, what, with the visual implication of jailbait in bondage, whose ears aren't ringing? The fact of the matter is that Schoolgirls in Chains has reached this low pinnacle of fame due to its parasitic behavior towards already-contrived cinema mechanisms. Such as Hitchcock's Psycho, a strong plot key of mother-ventriloquism was lifted and grafted to this schlocky film all aboard with nudity and Straw Dogs-esque "rape" in which the recipient isn't as unwilling as she might claim. With this and the bungled brother, John, whose mental deficiency doesn't inhibit his potential to select exquisite feminine figures, Schoolgirls in Chains proves to be a quite intoxicating experience in drab film-making. Surely with such lovely ladies on board, the entire production of this burnout can't be neglected, even if the narrative skips around frequently.

Calling out the misleading title for a reason, Schoolgirls in Chains does feature one student, well, at least that's referenced as such, but the near absence of chains is glaring. What instead happens is the abduction of several women throughout the run time. Schoolgirls in Chains surprised me with such. I figured that the introductory bombshell would be the pivotal character in the film, the seductress to these men's perversions. Would you imagine my shock when our heroine's backside is loaded with buckshot in non-typical meta-horror fashion. Her gorgeous, lifeless body slung on a fence, just mere feet from a road with passing automobiles. Frank is the chieftain of the household. Both he and John are victimized by "Mother's" cruel intentions. In a flashback scene referenced in Adam Sandler's The Waterboy, Frank's mother goads his fiancée with tales of how he still wets the bed. She then proceeds to alert the lady that the reason why her and Frank haven't slept together is because of the incestuous affair going on between the two. Such a shame this wasn't highlighted with a steamy vignette of motherly love. That would have driven the effect of the finale out of the park instead of on dusty VHS shelves. 

Once the female student is introduced, we get a full taste of the victims below in the shed/cellar and the games John enjoys playing with his real dolls, his sex toys, if you will. Rough cuts of leapfrog, hide and seek, and the knife-power-play of doctor are all at John's service. His character is perhaps the most humorous of all included. While Frank's fate was disguised well as vengeance was anticipated, the power of malice is really captured in John's brain-dead antics. It's these films of motherly discretion towards the evils of women that really causes waves through the male psyche - as was the case with the recently viewed Deranged. Once the student's teacher notices his extra-credited scholar of after-school lust is missing, he follows up on a lead which winds him up at this house of degradation. Meanwhile, Frank is bedding down a piteous woman in his mother's sun room. This scene turns from violation to an obsessive love quickly. After being dumped back in her dungeon, the sickly victim adjacent to the lover expresses her distaste for promiscuity - "Did you enjoy that? . . . Looked like you did." While Schoolgirls in Chains isn't groundbreaking or fashionable in any regard, it's still an exemplary piece of midnight cinema with a generous amount of nudity. Asides from the dated atmosphere, I can sense the effects of drug usage on the director Donald M. Jones' taste buds. What self-respecting director in the era of free love didn't binge on psychedelics? Especially ones that mastermind such smut as this.

-mAQ

The Being

Director Jackie Kong has created several horror films in the 80s but none of them are as synonymous with the terms "horror" and "bad" as The Being is. Hearing nothing but abysmal backtalk towards the DVD release of this film, I had to admit to myself that the poster art was quite impressive so I set out to queue this film just to witness how awful The Being really is. While unanimously maligned but far from under-produced, The Being is a film of filth, as its small Idaho town, Pottsville, hopes to stamp out. A dirty, unshaven detective discovers that the nuclear dumps scattered around the United States might not be as safe as they claim when a slime-covered creature begins terrorizing the townsfolk in traditional horror fashion. The set-up of The Being might seem familiar to you and that's because the schematic was lifted from Jaws. Juggle this: A quiet detective of a small historical town discovers a danger in the community and alerts the mayor, only to incite rebellion from the codger. After several more fall victim to whatever is out there, the mayor then hires a government specialist to debunk all rumors surrounding the event. 

The Being might not be strong in either the monster's regard or the gore scale. There is an impressive decapitation in a drive-thru movie theater but that's about as violent as The Being gets, but for a purpose. Later in the film, it's heavily implied, never authenticated, that "The Being" was once a young boy named Michael, whose private hang out was near the dump site. To accompany this is the excellently eerie scenes of the boy's mother, walking the streets at night calling out her lost son's name. This lucid interference of creature feature provides a depth unknown of such a monster film. But this isn't the last of the morose MILF, no, she's later "greeted" by a group of neighborhood bullies. A young boy is pressured to sneak up her door step and slap mud on her pane glass window. It's such a tragedy, The Being. We also glimpse a first person perspective as the creature slinks upstairs, glances at his troubled mother in some psycho-slumber, then it visits Michael's room to allow the camera to wave from left and right. You'll know when the Being is nearby as it leaves a radiated slug trail. Quite disgusting if you ask me. Which brings to mind, you'd think the scientists would wear gloves, at least any form of protected gear when handling this poisonous matter.

As I explained, never confirmed but quite obvious, The Being concerns the typical (when applied) scared beast - the metamorphosis from human to an unsightly condition. Of course the creature is scared and at times it shows through the thick "B" skin of Jackie Kong's debut horror lampooning environmental injustice. To announce the co-star worthy of top billing, Martin Landau plays scientist Garson Jones. Landau's commitment to the film tips the scales in favor of the craft of acting as "Rexx Coltrane", the pseudonym for William Osco, also director Jackie Kong's ex-husband, dilutes the film with his general uncleanliness. For further trivia, William Osco was convicted in 1991 of fraud with a maximum sentence of 51 years in prison. Perhaps "Mortimer Lutz" wouldn't have been such a repulsive character had he not been creeping on the attractive diner waitress or live by his lonesome in a seedy trailer. However, the fact that no evidence exists of him bathing probably would make up the better half of his unpleasantness. 

The Being isn't the inane, tacky film you'd accredit it towards. Definite tongue-in-cheek humor is applied with zeal - for instance, the scene of the building condemned by the Christian community. Fear of hedonism for a massage parlor to take residence was reverberating throughout the uppity religious folks. What better way to combat sin than to advocate sin, in this case, arson. After a trio of men break in to set fire to the establishment, the ringleader finds a Playboy magazine. After ogling it for quite some time, he stashes it in his jacket. He never gets a chance to masturbate though as he is soon thereafter passed final judgment by the ravenous little boy's toxic conscious. With dashes of surrealism as indicated with Lutz's dream sequence, The Being isn't as mundane as you'd been lead to believe. While I'm not advocating the DIY horror boom and the willingness towards Karo Syrup, The Being is quite intelligent at times and is consistently entertaining. Coming from the same mold as Jaws, The Being didn't inspire my childhood as much as Jaws did (Writing quick shark attack tales laden with breasts & blood), but this film is certainly undeserving of the slander it has been subjected to since day one.

-mAQ

Skin Gang

I finally got enough gall to watch a film by gay punk auteur Bruce LaBruce. After all, when I found out the film Skin Gang was about a bunch of queer-bashing Neo-Nazis who brutalize and gang rape a bourgeois race-mixing fag couple, I felt the film may reach a new extreme in total libertinism. Despite all the brutal buggery and explicit sexual deviancy featured in the film, the so called gay community mostly condemned Skin Gang, proving that the deranged ultra-macho masturbatory moving picture had to be doing something right. Showing his blatant abhorrence of political correctness, when questioned about the “Neo-Nazi stuff” featured in the film, LaBruce stated, “I personally think that ninety percent of current gay pornography is sort of fascist anyways.” Skin Gang is certainly the kind of film that Adolf Hitler’s strong arm Ernst Röhm (whose SA "Storm Battalion" militia provided Hitler with crucial protection up until Hitler took power in Germany) would have enjoyed watching whilst drinking a couple of beers with his Gay comrades after a day of beating up Jewish Communists.

Since most so called “progressive” bourgeois liberal and cosmopolitan types seem to think highly of themselves due to being proponents of pacifism, equality, peace, and other fantastically absurd pseudo-virtues, what better wake up call for them than being gang raped by a brigade of Neo-Nazis? After all, their pathetic belief that homosexuals are victims is destroyed as they become the victims of stormtrooping sodomites. When a person realizes that the vast majority of interracial rape victims are white women raped by Negro men, what better poetic justice for the impotent and totally effeminized white liberal male than to be brutally buggered by a battalion of boneheaded bootboys that radiate martial prowess. The skinheads in Skin Gang are a segment of the gay community that gay rights advocates prefer didn’t exist and Bruce LaBruce flaunts these men off in a way that makes the sadomasochistic fascists featured in Kenneth Anger’s Scorpio Rising seem tame by comparison. Of course, Scorpio Rising is more about fetishistic art whereas Skin Gang is essentially hardcore pornographic skinhead-ploitation. 

During the beginning of Skin Gang we are introduced to a young skinhead who worships Adolf Hitler’s tome Mein Kampf (My Struggle) with his cock. Bruce LaBruce certainly has a uniquely sadistic scene of humor when he shows this young skinhead engaged in an erotic one-man struggle before unleashing “liquid white power” via his own personal warhead (which resembles a German helmet). This scene starts out quite humorously with the song “They Saved Hitler’s Cock” by the punk band The Angry Samoans being played in the background. I doubt Bruce LaBruce is any type of Nazi purist or sympathizer as a copy of Mein Kampf was surely desecrated by the young skinhead. Although Bruce LaBruce portrays the skinheads in Skin Gang as absurdly idiotic barbarian Hitlerites that literally jack-off to the Nazi gospel, it is obvious that the gay auteur finds this extremely erotic. 

One of the major themes (probably the only theme in the entire film) of Skin Gang is the homo-eroticism often inherent in male bonding. Whilst attempting to give his Aryaness a good teutonic pounding, a young skinhead named Reinhold just can’t seem to find the same excitement he does when hanging and banging with his fellow bootboys. Due to her blonde beauteous Barbie doll intuition, Reinhold’s aggressive lady becomes irritated by his lack of enthusiasm when robotically manhandling her. Reinhold’s byrd even yells in his face “don’t fall asleep on me” during sex as a nude Negro Mandingo hangs ironically on the wall behind the physically joined but emotionally detached couple. It is not until his racist rudeboy comrades show up that Reinhold seems finally excited. In camaraderie, Reinhold and his buddies immediately start insulting the token female. Enraged by her lack of sexual fulfillment and out of jealously of his male comrades, Reinhold’s girlfriend starts calling the gang of skinheaded goons "closet-cases" and "fags." Of course, Reinhold promptly takes hold of the situation and throws his skinhead bitch (and her worthless belongings) out into the street, surely a hilarious scene showing male physical supremacy at the most fundamental level. Despite being Neo-Nazi skinheads, the only scene that could be interpreted as anti-Semitic is when the Neo-Nazi chick complains, “Who do you think I am, Monica Lewinsky (the most infamous of Jewess whores),” in reference to semen that has landed on her less than lady-like apparel. 

Skin Gang may be a work of low-budget fiction but right-wing homo-eroticism is making its way into the mainstream. Artist and writer Jack Donovan (also known as Jack Malebranche), formerly a reverend in The Church of Satan, wrote a controversial work Androphilia, A Manifesto arguing against the effeminacy and feminism as promoted by the gay mainstream. With Androphilia (meaning “a love of men”), Jack Donovan advocates that homosexual males actually act like males (as opposed to sexually introverted “males” with female souls) and hang out with heterosexual males, something that seems to scare effeminate gays and bulldyke lesbians. After all, for all the talk of “homophobia” by the gay mainstream, what these people seem to be most afraid of is males with testosterone, no doubt the true “homophobia.” Pansy gay males (well, maybe not Bruce LaBruce) feel threatened by masculine gay men as do estrogen-deprived Femi-Nazis. After all, if there is any negative feeling that the typical heterosexual male has for effeminized gay males, it is a feeling of disgust and repellence. To call this disgust of dainty gays “homophobic” is just another display of stereotypical gay narcissism. 

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Bruce LaBruce has also shown his disdain for the gay mainstream. In an interview, LaBruce stated, “I’ve been held back as much by homophobia within gay culture, probably more so than by straights. Certain elements of the gay press and politically correct elements of gay culture have not held me back directly, but they’ve ignored me or tried to pretend that I don’t exist.” Surely, Skin Gang features those masculine gay males that Hollywood wants to sanitize and exterminate from existence. After all, for all the talk nowadays about persecution experienced by gays during the Third Reich, Hitler’s rise to power could not have happened without his loyal homosexual SA warriors Ernst Röhm and Edmund Heines who put their lives on the line just as ancient gay Greek warriors did before them. Although I found myself forwarding through many “scenes” in Skin Gang (I wish I watched the re-edited softcore Skin Flick edition instead), I found the film to be a provocative and daring assault against political correctness, even if it is hardcore gay porn. It is not often that you see a group of Neo-Nazis raping a Negro and yelling “Let’s get primitive, Afro-boy” and “Fuck the Monkey.” 

-Ty E

The Afterman

From the depths of Belgian cinema comes a strange post-nuke cult sexcapade, The Afterman. Directed by Rob Van Eyck, The Afterman is what I'd imagine Carlton Mellick's novella, Razor Wire Pubic Hair, to be stripped of its futuristic and blasphemous overtones. Inside my own circuit of friends is a long-lasting joke that anything with rape, I'll condone. As true as this has turned out to be, I wasn't prepared for the molestation within this near-silent classic. The Afterman is no exception of rape as it features sexual assault that titillates, not in erotic conventions such as nudity. No, nudity has nothing to do with the arousing spectrum The Afterman embraces. Opening to a bearded man, mute and feral, having just had sex with a frozen corpse, whom I believe to be a lover in past, The Afterman quickly thrusts our "hero" into a situation of forced physicality. In fact, everything about The Afterman is forced. When a computer timer slowly ticks down, the man, who can no longer read or write, begins to panic. After this, we assume that this bunker he's been holed up in evacuated him to survey the condition of the earth he once grazed.

Misleading theatrical poster.

After several minutes, the man notices a small group of men at the top of a nearby hill. Excited to see other lifeforms, with animation even, the man greets them with intentions of communion. Thrown to the ground and pinned, the man, our lead character, is raped by a group of men. Already The Afterman establishes itself as a film that doesn't concern nor care for any of the characters within. A brash and unspeakable odyssey of sex with-lasting, The Afterman is one of the few films I can say takes no prisoners. After this event, which would scar any self-respecting male, the man continues his journey. It seems without any social construct, the idea of rape has vaporized completely and what's left is nothing more than that of a canine searching and subduing a bitch in heat. This oversexed Dystopian film is bold with crisp sound effects, almost deafening against the silent backdrop of a mysteriously plagued Earth. As with most conventional post-apocalyptic films, the condition is never described or prescribed.

Stumbling upon a patch of farmland, our lead witnesses a sullen, bruised woman bending over and tilling the soil for what crops the climate could possibly let thrive. As she is bent over, a husky bald man glances for his wife. Noticing he is alone, he approaches the beauty and lowers his pants, forcing himself upon her in a scene that rivals most pornography. With the same flair as Women In Prison films but hardcore compared to the rather tame lesbian antics, The Afterman provides exciting smut, degradation and experimentalism in the same package. It's a film you can endorse because of its maverick roots and a film you'll find yourself hiding in your closet for the contents are a divine mélange of hyper-sexuality that hits home, well, for me it is. The minimalism of The Afterman is also intoxicating. Van Eyck proves that digitally destroyed settings are not necessary for a tale of absence. But in this simplicity is a tale of bizarro-kink, proven by applying its deviant standards to all forms of fetishism, whether religion takes hold of ones head to force fellatio or man/women - man/man rape grips your fancy.

Soon the woman demonstrates Stockholm Syndrome, or the breakdown of key psychological components of the same, and accompanies the overweight man as he journeys towards oblivion. After housing in a shack, a cult of sex-crazed maniacs bludgeon the man, who has proven himself a pussy, and the woman abducted to their lair of sexual humiliation. While spying, the man notices the bizarre actions of these degenerates which includes and is not limited to, throwing a woman bareback onto a dining table and slathering her body in gravy and stringy meat. Surely The Afterman is before its time and would more likely be appreciated in any civilization other than ours. After escaping into a religious sect of occultism(?), forced sodomy is had, much to my shock, and the couple is on their way again. This key scene of Monk cock sucking brings Bataille to mind while I mentally revisit the Story of the Eye. In a world gone mad, this couple demonstrates the necessity for some sort of foundation. A world without morals, without laws, is a scary world indeed. This unlikely coupling of beauty and beast softens the blow of what is left up to the imagination. The only negative aspect I can slander The Afterman with is its jumping significant periods of time with no indication whatsoever. Surely this is a world my cock would benefit in, but would my mind reside comfortably? The Afterman provides these questions and leaves the answers up to you - society or sex?

-mAQ

Miracle Mile

 

Miracle Mile is many things: a comedy, a romance, a tragedy. But what it is mostly is a testimonial of the stupid things we men do for women. This very similar approach to looming catastrophe was utilized in the neo-Kaiju film, Cloverfield. Following the same schematics, Miracle Mile/Cloverfield is about the discovery of impending disaster, whether synthetic or organic, and a twerp who vows to himself to venture into ground zero in hopes of reuniting and escaping with a woman they love. In Cloverfield's case, the woman in question is the erotic, exotic Odette Yustman. In Miracle Mile's, we get . . . Mare Winningham sporting a mullet. Both films are starkly similar and both feature a helicopter crash near the same fraction of run time. Miracle Mile unravels like an 80s-controlled game of Perfection, meaning that regardless of what happens, shit's gonna pop. With such a drastic turnabout in tone, Anthony Edwards portrays quirky, obsessive Harry, a suit and nothing more. At least, until he answers an idly ringing phone outside of a diner. The frantic voice on the other end at first mistakes the number for his father's. Realizing his error, he issues a warning of a missile launch and then gunshots echo through the telephone lines. Harry then decides that he must retrieve a woman that he recently fell in love with . . . after their first date. 

Opening on a cheery narrative is what creates the jolting effect of Miracle Mile. L.A.'s peaches-and-cream, regardless of current crime rate. When the phone is answered and fate rears its ugly head, the tone of Miracle Mile turns tar-black and characters are introduced only to do atrocious things, like burn two cops alive after their near-discovery of stolen car stereos. This character's name is Wilson. Wilson's trade is a street vendor, that jive-talking Negro who breaks into cars and rips out head units for quick cash. After being hijacked by a frantic and bleeding Harry (oh, how the tables have turned), Wilson demands to pick up his sister before the supposed Armageddon. Returning later in the urban response to the legacies of Bonnie & Clyde, Wilson departs as a hilarious and researched African archetype - a deadly stupid creature. This attempt to humanize the "cop-killer" was an effort too late. As previously mentioned, the film is essentially a countdown, alike to the previously reviewed Proto-nuke film, Ladybug, Ladybug. 

Approaching from every possible angle, Miracle Mile is a strange oddity of action. Opening with an ugly romance between suit and beast, the fangs are eventually bared. Upon traveling to the woman's apartment, he discovers her drugged in her own bed, victim to her own Valium. Wasting no time, he picks up the grotesque ginger and places her in a shopping cart, scurrying them both out of the apartment plaza. It's at this awkward stage of cinematic puberty that Miracle Mile suffers the most grievous of wounds. What once was an interesting take on the bourgeois and the effects of mass hysteria is eventually transformed into a romantics crisis control babble. To further spread the leak of quality, the race against time turns into an aggravating escort mission. Say what you will but this couple's fates are sealed due to the insolence of Julie. Against his panicked orders to stay still until Harry finds a helicopter pilot, Julie is later seen wandering the streets, hassling passer-byers. This amongst other incursions is the death of Miracle Mile. As if an end of the world situation isn't stressful enough, we have to deal with the ignorance of a tramp.

Don't misconstrue my negativity as shrugging Miracle Mile off. There is much to enjoy about Miracle Mile, whether it be the slap to the face - the facade of felicity stripped as the news of impending disaster creeps, or the excellent musical composition by Tangerine Dream. Only in the later scenes does the exciting effect of hysteria become a problem for Harry. With cocktails and weapons, the citizenry attacks bistros and electronic stores, looting and creating visual anarchy for our greedy cinematographer. Time being a luxury they don't have, these civilians of L.A., particularly those on Miracle Mile, begin to revolt and riot, which creates the last glimmer of cinematic marvels found in Miracle Mile. I don't dare dispute the effect of the climax on those cinema goers in the early autumn of '88. However, to today's standards of bleak and nihilistic film fascination, Miracle Mile stands to me as a cheery time capsule of squandered proportions. 

-mAQ

The Junky's Christmas

Who better than old man junky William S. Burroughs to tell Christmas stories to young children around the Christmas tree? In the miserable Christmas claymation short The Junky's Christmas, elderly WSB narrates that opiate-withdrawing tale he originally wrote for his book Interzone. Despite being recently released from prison, the junk sick animated anti-hero (Danny) of the short film is determined to bring joy to his veins with a shot of opium. Indeed, The Junky’s Christmas at first may seem like an ode to opiates but it also contains the special Christmas theme that it is better to give than to receive. Danny may spend all of the film trying to score junk in the most absurd and pathetic ways but by the end of The Junky’s Christmas he has celebrated the true meaning of Christmas. 

As a child, I especially enjoyed watching vintage stop motion animation Christmas specials like Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer. Now older and much more pessimistic, I find it very hard to feel the Christmas spirit no matter how many old Christmas films I try to watch for nostalgias sake. Instead of Santa Clause, I was hoping that I could at least meet St. Nicholas’s evil comrade Krampus this year. It was not until I watched The Junky’s Christmas last night that I even remotely felt in the mood for Christmas. After all, the short film features the animation I loved as a child without the fantastically optimistic messages that most Christmas films contain. I may not be able to relate to Danny’s homelessness or Junk sickness but I can certainly relate to his nihilistic winter solstice.

After running a bunch of pathetic scams in hopes of getting the opiate kick he needs, Danny finally obtains a small amount of morphine by faking face Neuralgia to a kindly but suspicious doctor. Not only does Danny finally have the junk he needs for the Christmas Nacht but he also has a couple bucks to spend on a hotel room. Distracted by the sounds of a young man in pain from kidney stones in a room nearby, Danny visits the pain and bedridden unhappy Christmas boy. Feeling sympathy for the boy and being in the junk sicken Christmas spirit, Danny kindly plays doctor and gives the boy his only opiate pain reliever for the night, thus doing his good X-Mas deed of giving instead of receiving. No doubt an Angel was watching over Danny as the junky receives an immaculate fix from the heavens above. For a story written by William S. Burroughs, The Junky’s Christmas is surely one of the most optimistic pieces that Beat Sage had ever written. At the conclusion of the short, William S. Burroughs joins his family which even put me in the Christmas spirit. 

-Ty E

The Last King of Scotland

The Zionists that run Hollywood certainly have a keen talent for producing fictional works (presented ambiguously as fact) demonizing their enemies and influencing Americans to hate these notorious Anti-Zionist figures. Virtually every American has an irrational hatred of the Austrian painter with the Charlie Chaplin mustache from a lifelong bombardment of propaganda via Judaic Hollywood but not as many people are familiar with a charismatic dictator from Uganda known as Idi Amin. Who better than master Uncle Tom actor Forest Whitaker to grossly caricature Idi Amin in the Hollywood Zio-Bio-Pic The Last King of Scotland? After all, Whitaker proved his affinity for playing peculiar Negro perverts when he acted as a British soldier who enjoyed the company of a racially/sexually ambiguous tranny in the film The Crying Game. In The Last King of Scotland, Hollywood goes all out parodying one of the greatest independent leaders that Africa has ever known.

Nelson Mandela and Lithuanian Jewish Communist Joe Slovo giving the clenched fist salute in front of a Bolshevik Hammer and Sickle flag.

Everyone knows that one is supposed to glorify former president of South Africa Nelson Mandela as a sterling example of humanism and peace. After all, he won The Noble Peace Prize in 1993. Of course, Hollywood loves Mandela, especially since the Terrorist organization African National Congress (ANC) that he was part of was masterminded by two Communist Jews, Albie Sachs and Yossel Mashel Slovo, the kind of anti-Nationalist leaders that the vaudevillian swindlers that run Hollywood adore. On top of giving the clenched fish salute to the iron and sickle flag of bolshevism, Mandela blew up white South African civilians by utilizing (with his Jewish buddies) his talent for terrorist bombings. After all, if you are anti-European/anti-white and pro-Jewish, you fit in perfectly with the peace-loving humanists that run Hollywood. On the other hand, if you’re black and promote black self-determination (without Jewish handlers), you’re surely an enemy of Zion as was Idi Amin. 

Idi Amin’s greatest achievement as president and military leader of Uganda was his ability to completely nationalize Uganda and destroy foreign influence from the East/West. Of course, Jews being the ancient rootless cosmopolitans that they are, hate any nation that does not allow them to take over their monetary system. Out of interest for an independent Uganda and the countries financial welfare, Idi Amin decided to expel Israeli military advisers from his country and even had plans to wage war against Israel. In fact, in the documentary General Idi Amin Dada: A Self Portrait directed by Barbet Schroeder, Idi Amin explains that he had to kick the Israelis out of his nation as they were attempting to bankrupt him. Of course, in the Hollywood film The Last King of Scotland, Idi Amin’s nationalizing of Uganda is presented as an act of irrational and despicable racism. For all the condemning of racism Hollywood does, it surely does not want the black man to stand on his own two feet but to cripple him and “pick him up” with special Kosher blessed crutches (at the cost of the evil European/Euro-American, of course). 

In the film The Last King of Scotland (based on a novel written by English author Giles Foden), Idi Amin finds his top adviser in the form of a young Scottish doctor in his early twenties. After all, what better way to discredit a true Black Nationalist leader than having a fictional second-rate Brit (a Scotsman, not an Englishman) acting as the true brains behind Idi Amin’s militaristic regime. The Idi Amin featured in The Last King of Scotland is such a buffoon baboon that he thinks that he is dying as a result of drinking too many beers and popping too many aspirin. Naturally, The Scottish doctor soon realizes that Idi Amin’s pain will soon be expelled via a bomb of flatulence. I do not think Hollywood has even gone as far as presenting Adolf Hitler in such an impotent and pathetic scenario as Idi Amin is in whilst passing bad gas in The Last King of Scotland. Maybe the quasi-bolshevik filmmakers behind the film were thinking about Uncle Adolf when they were making The Last King of Scotland as the Austrian Wagnerite did have a problem with flatulence in real-life. 

Not only does the Scottish doctor advise Idi Amin on the most imperative issues surrounding Uganda but he also enjoys coitus with one of the dictator’s many wives, surely the ultimate insult to the super pimp of Uganda. When Idi Amin finds out one of his many Negress wives bedded a white devil, he has her body so mutilated that the scene could be best described as The African Chainsaw Massacre. Of course, just as the Zionist media has portrayed Idi Amin as a cannibal with no evidence whatsoever, they have also portrayed him as a wife mutilator in The Last King of Scotland. Unlike the rumors regarding Idi Amin’s love for dark meat, it has been factually proven that the Israelis have engaged in organ harvesting, international sex slavery, and the intentional radiation poisoning of their own children (or at least the "second-rate" Sephardi Jews). Quite fittingly, The Last King of Scotland concludes with the incident at Entebbe airport where Idi Amin allowed a Palestinian hijacked airplane to land. Like all Hollywood films regarding World War II, The Last King of Scotland lets the audience know that Jews are special victims when Idi Amin gives freedom to all hostages except the Israelis. The film closes with the Zionist Braggart text: “Forty-eight hours later, Israeli forces stormed Entebbe and liberated all but one of the hostages. International public opinion turned against Amin for good.”

The Real Idi Amin and his feelings on World Jewry

Despite being a film that is supposed to carry an anti-racist message, The Last King of Scotland is surely a film that attempts to exploit racial feelings, especially in white males. The viewer is supposed to identify with the fictional Scottish protagonist as he progressively experiences Idi Amin’s sadistic Negro barbarism. The real Idi Amin made no lie of his racial chauvinism but unlike Red Saint Nelson Mandela, Idi Amin was never canonized as a fighter for peace and tolerance. Despite blowing up white people left and right, Nelson Mandela has been glorified for helping to end apartheid. Of course, Idi Amin attempted to end apartheid as well, only it was the one that the Zionists have been running murderously against the Palestinians (who, according to Zionists, don’t exist) ever since they started occupying Palestine. If Hollywood only had the opportunity teach gentiles one lesson, it is this: European/White Institutions = Evil/Must be destroyed. Jewish supremacist/Anti-Nationalist Globalist institutions = Good/Peace. Idi Amin stood up against Zionist supremacy/global homogeny and despite his regime collapsing long ago, his enemies have concocted a cinematic trophy in the name of his defeat. Personally, I will always think of Idi Amin as the Negro Hermann Göring, a charismatic man with valuable principles flawed by his own eccentricity. 

-Ty E

The Exterminating Angels

Not at all the Luis Buñuel film of the near-same title, The Exterminating Angel(s) is Jean-Claude Brisseau's somewhat-biographical film in response to his arrest with charges of imposing women to masturbate in his presence as part of his auditions. In the film, our lead character François commits to exploiting women for the sake of art, or France's long standard of art for the sake of women. Right off the bat, I was immersed in this film for its blunt portrayal of women, even so to the script. As I quote one auditionee, "We're all a bit weird. A bit sluttish too." Let this women speak for the gender, will you? As François begins auditioning for a film (film within a film) exploring transgressive sexuality, The Exterminating Angels takes no time to dive headfirst into the shallow pond known as female sexuality. Certain desires all let be known, such as being fucked by strangers, gang-bangs, and other perverted desires branching from the central theme: anonymity. Eventually, several women get too attached to the director which is a cause for problems. I suppose clitoral stimulation and voyeurism is a quick mix for obsessive love. 

Brisseau subversively reveals himself to be a bit of a narcissist after transforming what should have been an otherwise seedy character into a Casanova. Audition after audition, which translates into a ridiculous amount of on-screen masturbation, frustration builds for François as his marriage is clearly on the rocks. Nights are spent in hotel rooms with other women in hopes to achieve artistic enlightenment. François is stupidly chasing the end of a rainbow in his futile quest. The sexual resentment soon reaches a simmer of which he unleashes upon his wife, providing the only bit of humanity this two-dimensional character has. These results of which I had been patiently waiting for are explosive, and to think I had began to doubt our character's sexuality. If The Exterminating Angels is based around loose fact, let it be known that the portrayal of the selectiveness of the female orgasm seems concise. To continue the reign of egotism, two characters are introduced who are hinted to being "the Exterminating Angels", two female apparitions who supervise his actions. When fate spreads that cruel grin towards François, one of these angels of death admits that she too, has fallen in love with our director. Such a vain boy you are, Mr. Brisseau. 

The director surely fancies himself a provocateur. While his actions can be overtly analyzed as a footnote to create the art, one can only bring to mind that [hilarious] news story not too long ago where a man traveled door-to-door, offering up free breast exams. Brisseau allows very little to take away from the erratic and irresponsible taboos of the female wunderkind. Angles prefer to remain stationary as women are pleasing one another, giving the film a sense of strict pornography - a film about the orgasm more than the struggling director. The biographical context is limited to only this, altering the outcome into a scene of brief and phony violence. Call the cause & effect retribution if you will, but high-brow art this isn't. The sexuality on display is rarely erotic and quite tedious. If I wanted to watch legs splayed in an uncomfortable fashion, I'd search for amateur pornography. The Exterminating Angels neither shocks nor humbles. My hopes were far broader than what I had in store. Included with the film are negative connotations towards lesbianism. Within, several lesbian characters are established. The foundation for their love is built off lust and not understanding. The only emotion displayed is channeled straight through their vulva. No brain chemistry required, The Exterminating Angels is a rather disappointing film concerning the destructive tendencies of women, in this case, cockroaches, as they slobber and hunger to reach their peak. This film simply proves that it's lurid to a fault. Not to mention the terrible pacing and mechanic voice-overs spouting prose before each scene - truly, madly, pretentious.

-mAQ

Riki-Oh: The Story of Ricky

This is one film that doesn't need any sort of introduction but I'll relay one for those folks unfortunate enough to have not seen this splatter classic. The Story of Ricky is an unusual tale of a psychotic behind bars who quickly establishes himself as somewhat of an anti-hero. Where he had reason to murder the gangster responsible for his girlfriend's death, this reason does him no good behind bars in a maximum security prison ran by a sadistic warden and a gang of four villains, each with their own specific eccentricities and styles. Like most prison films but lacking in the department of male rape. With a wacky disposition of murder and subpar kung-fu, Riki-Oh is comic adrenaline concentrate. The film has enough sense to embrace a comedic aspect of the violence. Had it not, this film would have sunk with the low-budget German splatter trash pouring out of their country by way of bigs boys with little dreams.

Advancing on a tier-type ladder is what leads Ricky to triumph. The standard progression of "boss battles" bridges the gap of narrative and flashbacks to create something animated with quirk. Lam Nai-choi has done his homework indeed. Basing off of what is the Westerner's approach to action films with unbelievable bad asses, the quota is met with both the ingredients of a protagonist that bleeds and the invincible hero trope. This is on display during the fight with Oscar, but one of the Gang of Four, when Ricky's tendon is severed with a blade. Standing statuesque, he slowly raises his arms and proceeds to pull his tendons out to tie them together, successfully giving him mobility in his arm again. With the simple formula of "best of both worlds", there is simply nothing to not love in this minimal epic. Being adapted straight from a manga of the same name, Riki-Oh is an excellent adaptation worthy of every meter of notoriety earned.

Interestingly enough, Riki-Oh was the first film to receive the CATIII rating for its violence, and not sex. The world of exploitation over in the East is strictly dominated by perversion and not dismemberment, as us Westerners advocate. To see a nipple is obscene, but for ruthless bloodshed, enjoyment will be had. This hypocrisy is why I normally traverse to indulge in film. I am one of the few who prefer complex eroticism and lewd fetishism to the beheadings and bludgeoning. Riki-Oh, of course, is the exception. Being completely void of any sexuality, Riki-Oh manages to entertain and amass enormous respect from me for the grossly nostalgic effect it has on all. Even to strangers of cinema is Riki-Oh endearing and charming, in that gross syrupy way. Simply, The Story of Ricky is short and sweet. The pacing is quite efficient as well as to never skip into the plane of mundane. If you're reading this, most likely you've seen this gem. If you haven't, I recommend doing so immediately as you'd be hard pressed to enjoy any other such lunacy as much as this.

-mAQ

Combat Shock

"Bloody" Buddy Giovinazzo is one of the few directors to have created something so wildly foreign to Troma's usual assortment of tits and bugs. Rearing its ugly head at impoverished communities and the First Blood motif: "...fighting the war at home", Combat Shock, alternately American Nightmares, is a mean sonuvabitch that embraces pockets of nihilism all about its post-Vietnam squalor. Blatantly inspired by both Taxi Driver and Eraserhead, Buddy G. sought to mix thriller and nightmares in this piece of hatred. One can't tell whether Buddy G. was one of the few seething Italian directors with allegory's to spit or if it was the drug-addled production that turned the film into the raging A-bomb that it is still to this day. What's for certain is that Combat Shock appears timeless as unemployment and homelessness continues to steadily rise as our economy comes crashing down all around us.

Obviously the most pertinent discussion would involve me bringing to light the ode to Eraserhead with the deformed infant. A victim of Agent Orange, the baby sports what appears to be two separate eyelid membranes and instead of a cow fetus, Buddy G. resorted to the neater alternative of a puppet - gently coated in what I could assume is baby oil. After the frustrations and nagging of his wife finally take their toll, along with the babies auto-tuned whines, Frankie grabs his jacket and does the same thing he presumably does every day: take a stroll. But on this curious day, the events that transpire eventually become worse and worse, leaving Frankie in a state of despair with no foreseeable escape. Coming straight from the library of Troma left me hesitant to view this film. While Troma stands for independent horror, they also are responsible for putting cameras in peoples hands that needn't be producing motion pictures. There's only so many flatulent lesbian scenes I can sit through before I start to wonder what the fuck happened. Safe to say, Combat Shock is the best piece of work Troma ever put out. Cannibal: The Musical can kindly dismiss itself as meandering dross. 

One point worth noting is the vibrant and "wacky" soundtrack. For some odd reason, Buddy G. acquired the world's most peculiar score to accompany his dismal diatribe. Funky percussion and Casio jams echo through the streets as Frankie strolls past chaos during a "junk-sick dawn." Running into loan-sharks who conduct a child prostitution ring leads us to believe Combat Shock will go down the easy route of fulfilling some vendetta towards society as popularized in Taxi Driver, but alas, nothing of societal worth is to be found. A key unveiling also happens to be the very fragile spirit of Frankie. In a strange turn of events, we witness with voice-overs and images projected onto his disturbed face the real truths of what occurred in Saigon and what became of the victims of the village massacre. Combat Shock is precisely what it's known for: gritty nihilism and a bleak climax. Apart from the negativity, Combat Shock also manages to be a comedy of sorts. The free-falling Frankie is host to some of the most unfortunate events. Add in scenes of brief mingling with rabid Junkies and you got yourself a strange portrait of the seedy underground. What Buddy G. created was certainly an unhappy number but if this didn't boost Troma's credibility, I don't know what could. 

-mAQ

Black Swan

Darren Aronofsky needs no introduction: he released the stylized anti-drug PSA, Requiem for a Dream, and the somewhat docudrama, The Wrestler. To complete his lunar cycle of self-destruction is the release of Black Swan, a film of which I am having a hard time understanding how, and why, a film of this artistic ingenuity has been funded - but thank god has it. Two viewings later and this film, a documentation of a spiritual meltdown, still stuns me with the sinuous performance of Natalie Portman as Nina/White Swan and the elusive Black Swan, that we can assume resides within all of us. As Thomas (Vincent Cassel) explains to Nina, the White Swan is hers naturally, but in order to channel the Black Swan, cowardice must be examined in order to completely let oneself go and this is the premise of the film. It's really all about the mental manufacturing of stress and the debilitating effects of rivalry, save for being placed in a position of instability. Aronofsky made sure to film Black Swan almost behavioristically, with cameras placed over shoulders to highlight the bustling life of a professional dancer from the ever-watchful eyes of the looming architecture. 

Inciting the events is the forced resignation of aging ballerina Beth (Winona Ryder), leaving a position for a new star to headline the Company's "visceral" re-imagining of Tchaikovsky's opus, Swan Lake. Being the ambitious, sheltered, girl she is, Nina Sayers leaps for the chance to be the new Swan Queen. Thomas accepts after being introduced, violently, to Nina's dark side. An act of blind faith if I'd ever seen one. From this moment on, characters are introduced and boundaries are pushed. Not only for Aronofsky's budgeted ballet horror film, but for the characters as well. Nina begins to see past her mother's crippling mental condition when the recently-turned debutante meets with friend/fantasy/rival, Lily (Mila Kunis). From here on, what is documented is a massive crisis of both beauty and identity. In lavish scenes of vanity, we witness horrifying acts of body horror that would make one Mr. Cronenberg cringe with absolute horror. For me, violence is almost second nature in film. I watch a film labeled horror/thriller and I expect ample scenes of brutality. But nothing could prepare me for the holy grail of squeamish activity - cuticle and nail savagery. I consider Black Swan to shelter my only instance of a breaking point. These are things that are to be a forbidden in horror. Not to lower Black Swan to something as simple and to-the-point as horror, but to crown the new princess of terror - Black Swan is the ladies Jacob's Ladder.

Black Swan is a film that has been garnering immense praise recently and it is very obvious as to why. Not only is the tome of film-within-a-film altered to become play within performance, but both instances of double mediums are equally entrancing. The performance of Swan Lake is captivating and profound, in part to the incredible sound featured in Black Swan. For instance, the fluttering feathers and the scratching and clawing of the swan vying to escape. Not only the debut of Swan Lake, but Nina's psychological breakdown is marvelous as well. Her fractured female mindset becomes almost nerve-shredding because unlike most female characters, I sympathized. First hand do we witness the eventual evolution into a whore, the name branded after meeting and fucking (implied) a stranger at a bar. This transformation from late-bloomer princess to a die-hard diabolical slut is all in part to Lily's intervention. It's when this catalyst enters the equation do we see that it most always appear to be women who convert their familiar into debauched "deadgirls".

Juggling many traits of erotic thriller, horror, and even a Lifetime channel presentation, Black Swan will undoubtedly garner many comparisons. From Repulsion, Jacob's Ladder, and Mulholland Dr., Black Swan rises from the expectations and emerges its own beautiful beast. After long wait, Black Swan marks the birth of an abnormal terror, the likes of which I haven't seen. But with this terror comes unabashed beauty and artistry. I'm having a damn hard time finding something I don't love about the film. From casting Vincent Cassel as debonair womanizer to Natalie Portman's authentic acrobatics, this is Aronofsky's best work to date. The final act alone would leave Matthew Barney blushing as Black Swan takes real performance art and splices it with daft surrealism and self-possession. Another critical aspect is Black Swan leaves few points left to the imagination, while ambiguity is something to be heralded, the blunt display of psychological pressure turned trauma is met with satisfying computer animation. Fuck Inland Empire, Black Swan is the definitive tale of a woman in trouble. The film also thankfully skips the angst stage and swan-dives straight into the heart of madness which is great considering Portman's track record for Teen Choice Awards.

Appealing to women, Black Swan successfully takes an art that I haven't been formally introduced to, and breathes excitement and majesty into. Another selling point is the blatant femininity, the never-ending quest for perfection. Having dealt with unstable women (which of them aren't?), I find the portrayal of women's vanity as a selfish and fatal consequence relieving. This masterful generalization of the deceitful female psyche debunks the age-old rumor that women are made with sugar & spice, everything nice. Nothing sweet about this fantastical delusion, Nina Sayers is at odds with the world and we can't figure out why. Once Nina casts off the maternal blanket that has been smothering and oppressing her for her whole life, the berserk bad-girl breaks free to finally let go in the heat of art, for art. Again, having viewed Black Swan twice, I find my willingness to revisit the world of bulimia and backstabbing alarming. I can only give so many kind words to Black Swan before the endearing comments become redundant as I fear has already occurred. If you're anything like me and you take dashes of surrealism and complexity with your cinematic fables, Black Swan is soon to be your favorite film of the year. Add the brevity of a mental breakdown and elements of melancholy and you have Aronofsky's masterpiece. I was enchanted, were you?

-mAQ

L'immoralita

It certainly seems to help reviewers pad their writings of "cult rarities" by dubbing any European film sleaze, no matter the content within. By pushing the bounds of propriety and/or expressing something considered "obscene" or vile, these daring directors are thrown to the sharks along with what is perceived as a snub to good taste. L'immoralita is a film considered as such. Featuring a scene of sexual activity between an 11 year old girl and a child-killer, L'immoralita has been crucified due to this and labeled as an example in sleaze, which it is not. To further put into perspective, it would appear Luc Besson took several cues from this French romance to intersperse throughout Leon. Opening with a wide-ended shot of our fugitive, Federico, holding a young girls corpse, L'immoralita begins without a hitch in slowly establishing our character, anti-hero, if you will. He swears by his innocence yet retains the same absolute hypnotic effect when a young girls body is presented.

Fleeing from the police, wounded, Federico stumbles upon a young girl, Simona, and charms her into hiding out in the garden villa. Their relationship at first is budding and teasing to what will result in freak outs, death threats, and a bizarre love triangle including Simona's promiscuous mother, Vera. Once the village slut discovers her daughter's secret, Vera pulls her god-given veins of manipulation to ensnare and blackmail Federico in a boiling plot to off her wheelchair-bound husband. To cite comparisons, L'immoralita looks and feels exactly the way that Maladolescenza did, and not even for the nudity of the youth. Both were shot with an unequivocal eye for playground romance and shedding of desires. The averse sexuality that is included seems almost natural, the way spying on her oversexed mother leads to the almost-hereditary skill of laying down and humbling men into domination. This is what Simona has known her whole childhood. While young, she understands fully how to control these men, how to feed and fuel them and this is what makes her so deadly.

To stitch together scenes, Morricone's score is applied gracefully but at times creates outlandish and side-showy results. That's not to say that, by its lonesome, it's not an excellent composition to a peaceful setting with no interruptions. The "poisonous" Simona takes condescension with her absence of innocence, including the hunky-dory symbolic bird aviary revisited after the metamorphosis from girl to woman is complete. Seems all a female has to do to gain rite of passage is commit large and great acts of deceit and betrayal. Fascinated and dense, Federico certainly underestimated the tiny terror which leads him directly into a web from which he can't escape. Voyeurism has always been an unhealthy fetish of the great taboos. Direct links are consistently met with vulgar tendencies and strange and frightful urges unearthed. L'immoralita is simply a turn based system of sexual hypnosis. The dizzying rate of which lovers quarrel and alliances are severed comes as a shock to me from a film I hadn't heard of until recently. Even the ever-slow implosion of the bourgeois family is a manageable task for this French oddity. Even the rarely visited reclusive father figure, with his escapist tendencies to dwell on weaponry and target practice, becomes a sympathetic character of which pity is felt for. L'immoralita is a film that brings up critical points to "sexual repression" and provides insight into the notion that some children don't possess innocence. As for Vera's maternal manipulation, I'd like to believe the cervix doesn't nullify the honor system, in which case, Federico is screwed in more ways than one.

-mAQ