Ultramegalopolis

H.L. Mencken, one of America’s greatest critics and commentators, once wrote, “A home is not a mere transient shelter: its essence lies in the personalities of the people who live in it.” To add to what Mencken said, I think that different regions and cities also personify the spirit of those human beings living within them. In Larry Wessel’s voyeuristic epic documentary Ultramegalopolis (1995), one is exposed to the various subcultures of conflict in the director’s home city of Los Angeles, California; a world where sexual perversion is the norm, cults of collectively schizophrenic Negroes think they are the true ancient Israelites, white proletarian bastards are brought up by father-less father figures like Charles Manson, Hispanic taggers are the most genuine of artists, and where 1960s ideals of peace and loved have mutated into a malignant metaphysical cancer that has completely consumed the souls of its inhabitants. Charles Manson and his estranged pseudo-family may have been imprisoned for over 40 years, but their legacy of magical bloodlust lives on in the hearts of every Los Angeles native. If you’re one of those dangerously optimistic individuals that happens to be a tad bit dubious of America’s cultural and economical decline, just insert a copy of Larry Wessel’s Ultramegalopolis into your dvd player and your mind will be made up within 2 minutes time, as the documentary reveals the most hidden cavities of L.A. in a somewhat pornographic manner.  Thankfully, unlike a lot of documentaries, Ultramegalopolis is a fairly objective work that does not wallow in philistinic sentimentalism and sickening social commentary.

Essentially, Ultramegalopolis is a comprehensive collection of cultural case studies that were assembled in an audacious and unabashedly politically incorrect manner by Satanic documentarian Larry Wessel. Indeed, I would even goes as far as saying that Wessel is the Jean Rouch of Satanists due to his seemingly instinctive knack for documenting quasi-anthropological ethnographies in a most daring and hands-on manner. Ultramegalopolis might be a cinéma-vérité film created for and by sinners, yet the subjects of documentary are certainly more depraved than the most wacky and weird of Satanists. The documentary features a miserable microcosm where all respective natives featured in the film have something socially muculent and malevolent seeping through their glaringly tainted auras. In the maniacal metropolis, Christianity is at best dead and pimping itself out via porn shop parking lots while the devil cryptically leads the city's citizens into a world of self-destructive vice and crime that often pays. During the beginning of Ultramegalopolis, the viewer is introduced to a convicted felon named Andrew who shared a prison cell with Charles Manson. This individual – who is quite sympathetic towards his messianic ex-cell-mate – had the distinct pleasure of witnessing Manson’s hair in flames after a rival prisoner poured paint thinner on his head and sadistically set it ablaze. On the post-industrial wasteland streets of Los Angeles, illiterate schizoids and self-appointed messiahs of the vagrant variety unashamedly ramble on endlessly in hopes of attracting hopelessly apathetic pedestrians. Also featured on the streets of L.A. are crude pseudo-carny freak performers and musicians that provide ordinary citizens with unwanted soundtrack for their bitter end of days. In fact, these street performers fittingly act as the unhinged score for Ultramegalopolis. If you’re one of those individuals that feels art is the product of a certain race’s/culture’s collective unconsciousness, you will be thoroughly alarmed after witnessing the schlock street art featured in Ultramegalopolis. As featured in the documentary, loco Latino’s use the concrete ruins of urban decay as their choice medium for creating poetic graffiti. If a person were to have watched Ultramegalopolis when it was first released in 1995, it would be no surprise to them that California has been virtually reconquested by mestizo Amerindians. Los Angeles, California may contain Hollywood, the land of manufactured dreams, but in the real L.A., phantasms are of the nightmarish variety. After watching Ultramegalopolis, I couldn’t help but wonder why there haven’t been a plague of killings in the tradition of Helter Skelter or the hedonistic derangement featured in the early hidden Hollywood of Kenneth Anger’s Hollywood Babylon. Whatever the future has in store for L.A., I wouldn’t be surprised if resembled the collective mass chaos and destruction featured in Zombieland (2009), except with real starving cannibalistic humans in a state of indefinite bloodlust instead of comedic undead zombies that were invented by a hack screenwriter. Ultramegalopolis is just another example as to why I wouldn’t be surprised if Charles Manson were to live long enough to see his prophecy of an apocalyptic race war fully realized.

 If you have an interest in viewing a real-life Spenglerian pandemonium, Ultramegalopolis makes for an engrossing daydream document of delirium-inducing audio-visual derangement. Even those rare individuals that tend to be repelled by a pessimistic spirit will find themselves debauched and morally neutered after watching the film. After viewing Ultramegalopolis, I felt even more disconnected from the thought of ever visiting Los Angeles. I don't think it would be a stretch to say that the documentary is like a virtual prequel to the apocalyptic neo-nazi pulp novel The Turner Diaries, but, unfortunately, Ultramegalopolis is an authentic documentary of gritty and mainstream media ignored truths. For all the derogatory and disdainful portrayals of rural America in Hollywood films, they seem like childish pranks compared to the undeniable third worldization of Los Angeles. I think that director Larry Wessel might want to consider creating a sequel to Ultramegalopolis as the moral and cultural fiber of L.A. has only furthered deluged with unsettling debasement and all-encompassing decadence since he originally released the daunting yet strangely delightful documentary. Although the decline of America (especially American cities) is out in the open for virtually everyone in the world to see, very few people are willing and perceptive enough to confront such a less than ideal reality. With Ultramegalopolis, Larry Wessel gives the viewer a window into a manmade world on the break chaos and inevitable destruction. On top of everything else, Ultramegalopolis is jocular work of exceedingly eccentric entertainment.  For more info on the film, checkout Larry Wessel's official: www.wesselmania.net/

-Ty E

Sucker Punch

I regret to admit that my impulsive curiosity suckered me into watching Zach Snyder’s lobotomizing celluloid drool Sucker Punch. I have never doubted Snyder’s lack of vision as a filmmaker, but I had to see why even fans of the mind numbingly mediocre would-be auteur found Sucker Punch to be an absurdly loathsome and abundantly abominable cinematic affair. I see Snyder as the Michael Bay of fantasy/adventure films, as both directors seem to believe that the quality of a film is judged by how many expensive explosions, sterile CGI special effects, and corporate-packaged-action-packed scenes are contained within a movie. Just when I thought that Hollywood couldn’t get anymore thoughtless and stylistically repugnant, Sucker Punch appears from the lowest nether regions of Hollywood to contaminate American minds . Snyder has described the film as follows, “though it's fetishistic and personal, I like to think that my fetishes aren't that obscure. Who doesn't want to see girls running down the trenches of World War One wreaking havoc?” I, for one, have never had an interest in seeing beautiful gals fighting on a battlefield for such a scenario is undoubtedly innately ludicrous, but I do concur with Snyder that many Americans, especially those of the pathetically undersexed and irredeemable fan-boy variety, will find many of their favorite masturbatory fantasies in Sucker Punch. However, I have never met a man with a drop of testosterone who enjoys seeing women waging war and “kicking ass” in movies, for such a scenario is only palatable to those who have never even considered engaging in a real fight. Like Tarantino’s embarrassingly fetishistic flick Kill Bill, Sucker Punch is a film for those impotent fan-boys, who want to have their own pussy and eat it too. Of course, when it comes down to it, few things are more patently pathetic than combining two rightfully unrelated fantasies (being able to “kick ass” and obtain hot chicks) in the wacky way that Sucker Punch does. After all, throughout all of human history, it has always been men who have risked their lives in battle to obtain the respect of the woman that they desire. I could understand the appeal of Sucker Punch if it was marketed solely to martial lesbian bikers, but it is nothing of the sort (although, I suspect many carpet-munchers derive a grand source of sensual pleasure from the film). I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if a militant lesbian terrorist cell decided to use Sucker Punch as a recruiting video. Not only are the females characters in Sucker Punch portrayed as fierce and masculine warriors (despite their scant outfits), but the weak males in the film feature negative character traits (lying, conspiring, manipulating, etc.) that are most often associated with the fairer sex. At the most fundamental level, Sucker Punch is a relatively dry wet dream for hopelessly emasculated and deracinated males of the Occident. If I didn't know better, I would have assumed the film was directed by an erratic eunuch from France.

 If one wants a glaring example as to why Hollywood’s hyper-postmodernism and the Americanization of the world are two vile and highly contagious diseases that need to be cured with extreme and unwavering prejudice, one just needs to watch 5 minutes of Sucker Punch. Equipped with regenerated Teutonic soldiers of the undead persuasion and cutesy deranged girls who throw kicks and punches in a state of retarded brick-wall ecstasy, Sucker Punch is a film that transports the viewer to a world of nonsensical escapism and feeble farcical fantasy. After watching the film, I felt as if I was a dupe in a cinema-induced lobotomy experiment conducted by the infamous culture-distorters of Hollywood, but that would be giving Sucker Punch too much credit. Not since I erroneously viewed James Cameron’s Rousseau-esque neo-noble-savage-nightmare flick Avatar have I been astounded by a film’s sheer ability to degrade the viewer via nonsensical-state-of-the-art--special-effects and an unimaginative imaginary realm of infantile delirium. I must admit that Sucker Punch only reaffirmed my belief that the Occidental world is on the brink of an irreparable catastrophe of world shattering proportions. Sucker Punch also strengthened my assumption that the unfortunate citizens of the United States will be ultimately stunned and equally unable to cope with said disaster for such an emotionally and culturally hollow film is an undoubtedly a reflection of the average Yank’s prideful ignorance of the world as a whole and disdain for what is organic (be it art, kultur, spiritual beliefs, etc). To think that American soldiers are supposedly valiantly fighting in the Middle East and North Africa to bring Islamists the freedom of watching films like Sucker Punch is not exactly a reassuring feeling. Zach Snyder should have stayed in the zombie film world because he certainly has little understanding of live human beings aside from the most archaic of human instincts and emotions. Zach Snyder may think he is the next Fritz Lang (German era) or Federico Fellini, but his films are thematically and intellectually less complex than the early scat films of Balti-moron auteur John Waters.

Every time I decide to give the latest Hollywood lackluster blockbuster a chance, my seething contempt for such films generally multiplies yet Sucker Punch stirred a distinct sort of disgust in me that I haven't experienced before. If human beings manage to escape from nuking themselves into oblivion in the next century or so, one can only wonder what future film theorists and historians will have to say about films like Sucker Punch. Despite the hatred that is directed towards anything related to Nazism, film critics almost unanimously agree that Leni Riefenstahl’s landmark masterpiece Triumph of the Will is one of the greatest achievements of film history yet I doubt anyone will have anything good to say about a film like Sucker Punch. Of course, future generations will surely think to themselves regarding the film, “No wonder the United States collapsed and entered a state of malfunctioning technocratic chaos comparable to no other time in human history.” The greatest tragedy of contemporary American cinema is that despite being a time of twilight in the west and total transformation of the world as we know it, Hollywood continues to stay adamant about producing films as dull and intrinsically worthless as Sucker Punch. I can only assume that if the United States were to breakout into a scorched-earth-style race war, Hollywood would neglect to refrain from producing sensational smut and misleading works about naively hopeful race relations. Despite the fact that America has been engaged in a war in the Middle East that has virtually bankrupted the country and thrown many everyday citizens into life-destroying turmoil, Hollywood has only pumped up their cretinous reign of celluloid terror. If you also had the terrible misfortune of viewing Sucker Punch, just pray to Wotan, JC, Muhammad, Morrissey, or whoever you worship that Hollywood’s days are numbered because the last thing the world needs is another film like it.

-Ty E

Attack of the Giant Leeches

A review in chapters.

-mAQ

Blond, Blue Eyes

When it comes to the cinematic ingredients that I consider most imperative when creating a great film, I have always found directors to be more consequential than actors. Even as a young child, I was cognizant of what a Tim Burton or Steven Spielberg looked like, although I didn’t exactly know what a film director was. Of course, there have always been certain actors that I have admired, but they are few and far between. One of my favorite actors is Dutchman Rutger Hauer; an actor probably best known for his performance as alpha-replicant leader Roy Batty in Ridley’s Scott Blade Runner (1982). Despite seeming like a distinctly evil robot killer for most of the film, by the end of Blade Runner one is ultimately surprised by Batty’s final display of noble empathy and forgiveness. For the final scene in Blade Runner, Hauer improvised his performance in the form of a visual poem instead of using the long and drawn out speech that was originally intended for the conclusion of the film, henceforth dreaming up what is arguably the most potent and memorable scene in the entire movie. If there is one thing that all of Hauer’s performances have in common, it is the eccentric and unconventionally complex nature of the characters he plays.  Like the fictional characters he has portrayed in nearly one hundred different films, Rutger Hauer is an enigma of sorts who finds no pleasure in having his personal life advertised to the entire world. In the documentary Blond, Blue Eyes (2006), Dutch filmmaker Simone de Vries followed Rutger Hauer around the world and interviewed the actor about his successful career as an international film star who – unlike most mainstream actors – refused to whore himself out to the glorified pimps that run Hollywood. During Blond, Blue Eyes, Rutger Hauer allows fans to enter a more personal and intimate side of his life, but as one can expect from a documentary about the somewhat secretive actor; the viewer shouldn’t anticipate something in the vain of an episode of MTV's Jersey Shore where a glorified Guido micro-mob masochistically exposes their grand philistine pomposity and animalistic vulgarity. After all, Rutger Hauer is a stoic Nordic Dutchman of Frisian descent and not a shameless exhibitionist, thus his emotions are in check and collected throughout most of Blond, Blue Eyes.

One of the things that Rutger Hauer reveals in Blond, Blue Eyes that I was most glad but unsurprised to find out is that he essentially “played himself” for his role as the Dutch sculptor Eric in Paul Verhoeven’s Turkish Delight (1973); a film that deservedly won the award for Best Dutch Film of the Century in 1999. Despite his internationally critically acclaimed performance in Turkish Delight, Hauer’s parents found the performance to be quite dubious due to the various scenes of nudity featured throughout the film and neglected to appear at the premiere of their son’s highly revered film. In fact, the only part of Blond, Blue Eyes where Hauer seems somewhat depressed is when he discusses his parents; both of whom left all of their children in the care of nannies during their childhoods as they were more interested in their own self-centered careers. In fact, Rutger Hauer’s father was a failed actor of sorts, thus, I don’t think it would be a stretch to say that he was more than a tad bit jealous of his son’s early success. As Rutger Hauer describes in Blond, Blue Eyes, he originally had no pretensions of expecting to make acting a legitimate lifelong career for he found such a goal to be ultimately unrealistic. Of course, Hauer ended up being one of the greatest – if not the greatest – Dutch film star to have ever lived. At the very least, Rutger Hauer is the most popular Dutch actor in film history. Personally, I see Hauer as the Dutch equivalent of Swedish actor Max von Sydow, as both European actors proved they were competent at playing leads in everything from Nordic arthouse flicks to mediocre mainstream Hollywood movies. As you learn in Blond, Blue Eyes, Hauer has always been repelled by the petty politics and socially-synthetic nature of Hollywood. According to Hauer, if you accidently turn your back to the wrong person at a party in Hollywood, your acting career could very possibly end then and there. Due to his aversion to Hollywood and its unwarranted airs of insider superiority, Hauer chose to maintain his main home in his homeland of the Netherlands. Not only has Hauer stayed true to his ancestral roots, but he has also managed to stay wholly committed to the woman that he has been married to for the greater part of his life. For an odious club that prides itself on sexual depravity, decadence, and deceit; Rutger Hauer is surely an odd man out in Hollywood, but that is because he has integrity as an actor and as an individual. 

Anyone who is a fan of Rutger Hauer already knows that he is an extremely private individual, therefore, it will be no surprise that the documentary Blond, Blue Eyes is not exactly a totally revealing portrait of the dignified Dutch actor. Still, the documentary does offer the viewer a side of Hollander Hauer that has been yet to be revealed before. As is no surprise to most of his fans, Hauer has always desired to play serious roles but also enjoys playing the occasional goofy role and has been also known to play undesirable roles just to pay the rent. It is revealed in Blond, Blue Eyes that for most of his career, Hauer filmed “behind-the-scenes” footage of the movies he acted in. Although I am sure most of his fans (myself included) would love to see that footage, I doubt Hauer has any interest in releasing it, as he keeps it tucked away in a Hollywood apartment closet. Contrary to seeming like a deadly serious individual, Hauer has a giant statue of Mickey Mouse standing in his home. I don’t know about most Rutger Hauer fans but I was extremely happy to see Dutch actor as the lead in the sadistically sensational pseudo-Grindhouse trash flick Hobo with a Shotgun (2011). If Hauer were to never act again, his reputation as one of the greatest actors of the post-World War II era would be guaranteed merely for his role as Roy Batty in Blade Runner alone. As Hauer candidly discusses in Blond, Blue Eyes, he improvised the iconic and unforgettable pigeon scene at the conclusion Blade Runner, which is indubitably one of the greatest scenes in cinema history. In fact, if that undeniably indispensable scene were to have never been included in the film, it is doubtful that Blade Runner would be regard as the neo-noir science fiction masterpiece that it is today. In my opinion, Hauer gave his greatest performances in his lesser seen films with Paul Verhoeven (Turkish Delight, Soldier of Orange), but of course, that is to be expected of most moderns films that were not shot in the English language. Anyways, I am excited to see whatever Rutger Hauer has in store for the future. Admittedly, it would quite nice to see Rutger Hauer and Paul Verhoeven collaborate on one more film together. 

-Ty E

Violent Shit II

 

Germans are so misunderstood. Their polarized and complex identity easily rivals the schizophrenic and more accepted Japanese culture. In reviewing Violent Shit II, I can't help but comment on the seedier, darker dynamic of German cinema. You can't learn everything about a group's culture from watching one film, but you can learn how some of how it ticks. And I think watching old school, SOV German gore porn is a great place to do this. The plot is simple: The son of the killer in the original Violent Shit must kill people to sexually satisfy his aging mother. What follows is a story worshiping bloodshed, the hatred of humanity, the sick preservation of physical dominance and the degradation of women... all with a joyful intensity. It can be nauseating, but it has a camp aspect that mocks the attitude it seems to be glorifying. This is what elevates it from something like the August Underground films. At one point the killer is carrying a corpse singing "I am the Greatest, I am the Best" and the film ends with goofy, blood-soaked outtakes and rainbow-colored titles! The film is mostly a loose collection of gritty, fetishistic murder sequences, but told with a furious lack of artistry and pretension and sporting a bizarre, complex psychology that makes it a supreme B-Movie in my book. I actually hated this film until watching it after Giuseppe Andrews' similar work "Period Piece". Violent Shit II is a fun, confessional, dirty little movie made for no one's entertainment but its filmmakers, and it works.

After WWII, the Germans, Japanese and Italians seemed compelled (out of guilt?) to showcase their darkest, most savage motives in their cinema. I think it's admirable that they never sugarcoat or downplay their sexism, shallowness, racism, rudeness or more moronic nature. If America had a voice this honest, we could address these issues openly and intelligently. This brutal honesty is what gives German art/entertainment their uniquely beautiful edge. It teaches me to be at peace with the dark animal nature and immorality that exists in everyone. Violent Shit II seems to be celebrating this and mocking this when the killer beheads a Japanese warrior a'la the Baby Cart movies and quips, "You were good, but I am better... I am Karl the Butcher... Junior!" (cue opening theme "VIOLENT!SHIT!"). The killer, Karl the Butcher Jr. (perfect name) is a great slasher character. He's a tall psycho with a body like concrete and a crude Iron Maiden mask. Karl Jr. has to be one of the first collage-type characters created to wear his influences on his sleeve, which is now common in a post-Tarantino world. He jokes like Freddy, looks like Jason and takes a sensual pleasure in his evil deeds like Leatherface. What is really charming is how the killer spends so much time belittling and taunting his victims. There can't be a more verbally abusive horror character out there, even if he's not the most clever or eloquent. My favorite bit is where Karl blasts a man's head apart and groans, "Bullseye, dickhead!"

Violent Shit II is a film you can put on, turn on MUTE and then play your favorite angry, vile or decadent piece of music. It's pure visual splendor: non-stop horrific simulated murders in grainy VHS detail with the occasional absurd subtitle like "Bye, Chubby. Say Hello to the worms". Violent Shit II is not really a slasher film in classic terms. It's more of a homemade work of video art. If John Waters was a younger, sexually repressed, heterosexual German, he might make films like Violent Shit II. I enjoyed Violent Shit II. Why? Because it constantly entertains. Its sensibilities should be so foreign to me, yet they hit home HARD. Of course I can only recommend it to very few types of film-goers: fans of lofi/low tech cinema, gore-hounds and the most cynical and nihilistic lovers of splatter. As poorly shot, sloppily edited and badly acted as it can get, Violent Shit II does what any good film does: It keeps you glued to the screen AND reminds us we are alive. 

-Q

Sex Wish

 

It seems the golden age of pornography has finally caught up to me this month. What, with all these mid-70s roughies that have found their way of falling directly into my lap. Following Sex Wish was The Intrusion but to discuss that gem would be best saved for another time. Sex Wish was directed by Victor Milt under the pseudonym of Tim McCoy and starred at least two prominent adult stars, Harry Reems (best known for Deep Throat) and Zebedy Colt. What should be quite obvious of Sex Wish is that it is a pornographic rendition of the classic vigilante film Death Wish. What shouldn't be obvious is how of quality the film actually is and the lengths of extremes both male adult stars traverse to prove that they have other talents aside from 'dropping loads'. Opening with a soapy bathtub massage, Ken (Reems) writhes in pleasure under the commissioned hands of a committed fiancee as he discusses his vacation (business and pleasure) when the topic changes to that of geisha girls. "Uhh, yeah! Most everything they say about those geisha girls is true!" A fun fact of Sex Wish's would be that this nod to geisha girls and Ken's trip is later made into its own little adult film tentatively titled Harry and His Geisha Girls. The possibilities of the canon could be endless, if the character reprises a similar past. Whether or not it was an influenced notion or an actual predecessor is unknown to me but fun to imagine, be it as it may. The act of foreplay turns into erotic conquest and then changes locations within the apartment frequently, ending with them on the floor. A charming aspect of Sex Wish isn't the graphic penetration but rather the incredible chemistry the two lovers share. I found it to be a bit odd that I was so interested in the idle banter and pillow talk. Following the course of action required by the title, Ken's exit from the premises rebounds with Zebedy Colt's entrance, severing Ken's happiness. Ideally, Sex Wish could serve as a document to the Night-Walker's intimidation of female sexuality. Being a notable gay adult star, Zebedy Colt is no stranger to depravity and arts considered taboo. Directing the infamous The Farmer's Daughter the same year that Sex Wish saw release, it can be seen as obvious that both lent an air of inspiration to the opposing role. Playing both rapist and father of a daughter in the span of a year, Colt proves vividly that no role can be too above his charisma. Just take Sex Wish in account, where Zebedy Colt channels retardation exquisitely as he coos for mother and punishes women for teaching dirty tricks to her sweet boy.

 

Whether or not masturbation is your muse, Sex Wish is a marvel of plot-driven pornographic detail. Reems' mourning seems to resonate awfully sound with the male species, if not being a bit too comically poetic. Ken soon slips down the slippery slope of uncommitted sexual encounters realizing that the greatest salve is the anonymous embrace of the common whore (duh). After subsequently taking a drunken crawl from melancholy to bedding down two hookers, Ken begins a sporadic crusade of searching for the man last seen in his complex with a cane and briefcase. Partitioning this with a tender and well-shot and scored scene of lovemaking - Sex Wish then throws something that was never evident in Paul Kersey's world of urban rot - passion. With Ken and his lovely neighbor offering each other both their bodies and a bed (supplied by the latter), the two quickly succumb to one of their most primal instincts. One of the more memorable scenes for certain, Harry Reems' character shows that there is much more to covet than satin sheets or canopies, although the film itself is guilty of utilizing these with a lucid intention. Perhaps it was for a princess effect lost amidst the muck and depravity. Further emphasizing Zebedy Colt's "killer" performance is the use of what sounds to be wailing theremin, creating a suffocating atmosphere, especially when you take in account the obscene ways Colt brutalizes his victims, whether it's using a dildo for a vaginal thermometer or the alleged cut scene of Colt forcing a woman to eat the severed genitals of her lover. Pure speculation though, but I wouldn't be surprised as he is caught castrating a Negro. Moments of fleeting brilliance and a touching and obsessive conclusion are afoot in Sex Wish. It is a must that you see it through to completion, otherwise it's memory will be awash with tedious sexual encounters. This is a porno, after all. Although it was born of this nature, there does exist, behind the curtain, a reason and a means. Sick and twisted? Of course. If you stumbled in on Sex Wish searching for any sense or sort of decency then your disappointment will be your own betrayal, not the film's. For what it is worth, I greatly enjoyed Sex Wish and I cannot wait to track down more featuring Zebedy Colt.

-mAQ