Sunday, April 29, 2012

Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men



Although I have never been particularly fond of serial killers nor the American populous' peculiar obsession with them, I spent a good portion of my time last weekend watching a number of films about them. Out of all of these mostly wretched works, only two left any sort of notable impression on me: The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer (1993) and Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men (1989). While The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer impressed me due to its unabashedly exploitative and downright uproarious portrayal of deranged Dahmer, Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men had the total opposite effect on me. Based on a stageplay about Dennis “British Jeffrey Dahmer” Nilsen that was conceived by Lloyd Newson and performed by the DV8 Physical Theatre located in London, England, Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men directed by David Hinton (Strange Fish) is a militantly expressionistic cinematic performance art piece that can barely described as a serial killer flick, at least in any conventional sense. DV8 Physical Theatre, which has been described as 'the theatre of blood and bruises', is somewhat notorious for its ‘unconventional’ approach to dance, using everything from virtual violence to less-than-mobile cripples in their pleasantly peculiar frolic pieces. Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men – a film that begins with four men feeding off of a catchy synthpop track and each other at an aggressive gay club and ends with three of these men laying dead in artful poses – is quite possibly their most infamous yet critically revered work. Featuring not a single line of dialogue nor acknowledging a single character’s name, the film expresses a variety of entangled emotions that surely cannot be properly articulated through the use of mere stagnant words. Shot with black-and-white film on minimalistic yet aesthetically domineering sets engulfed amongst unsettling shadows, Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men is a work that permeates gritty doom and gloom in a strikingly stylized and queerly indefatigable fashion. Had Jean Cocteau taken steroids instead of opium and collaborated with Jean Genet, Jörg Buttgereit and Derek Jarman on a film directed within the seemingly limited confines of a lone soundstage, it would most likely resemble Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men; a work of truly carnal cinematic poetry in motion.



If the real Dennis Nilsen were to watch Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men, I am sure he would be more than flattered by the highly fictionalized portrayal of his homo-cidal antics. On top of featuring four men that one would never mistake for being banal government bureaucrats, none of the actors give off the vibe of a feeble and pathetic introvert that footage and photographs of Dennis Nilsen radiate in a most shuddersome manner. Preying exclusively on the weak, including junkies, prostitutes, vagrants and the like, Nilsen was not exactly a stud of a serial killer and neither were his queer quarry. Sporting bold combat boots and shaved heads (or at least two of them are), the muscular martial men of Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men look as if they could be training for the remaining days of an apocalyptic world war. Of course, these agile brothers-in-arms are not getting ready to attack an enemy army, but each other. Featuring ambiguous dichotomies that blur the line between sex and violence, and love and hate, Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men is a work that examines psychosis and the transcendence of the individual from the organic to inorganic. Due to the exceptionally choreographed and brutishly calculated ‘dance’ sequences featured in the film, every movement in Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men seems quite naturalistic, despite the blatantly theatrical persuasion of the film. It is not until three of the four men are dead that the viewer realizes the line between the normal and abnormal has been irrevocably crossed.  As someone who has always found most forms of dance to be dreadfully insipid and uninspiring, Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men proved to be an exorbitantly dynamic work that can be relished even by those individuals who are not very keen on grown men dancing around like coke-fueled fairies. 



 Using the curious case of cunning coldhearted killer Dennis Nilsen as a mere motif for examining ideas and interpreting emotions about the frailty of human condition in a refreshingly unpedantic manner, Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men is a film that will be more of interest to fans of Leni Riefenstahl and Ingmar Bergman’s work than the typical serial killer fetishist. For those interested in seeing a strictly realistic portrayal of Dennis Nilsen and his crimes, the gritty British horror-docudrama Cold Light of Day (1989) directed by Fhiona-Louise (who committed suicide shortly after finishing the film at the premature age of 21) makes for an atmospheric and endearing yet objective depiction of the mass murderer's odious 'sexual' conquests. In many ways, Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men is the ultimate anti-serial killer flick. Instead of portraying the killer in a typically romantic manner as a charming social Darwinist with a refined taste for blood (The Silence of the Lambs, American Psycho), or as a monstrous killing machine with nil emotions (Halloween, Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer), Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men depicts the deadly manhunter in a state of unmitigated 'nakedness', characterizing him during his most vulnerable and, ultimately, his most human moments, thus bring humanity to the inhuman; undoubtedly, an audacious and perverse premise that is bound to offend an ample number of viewers. Indeed, the film is as visceral as serial killers flicks come, yet Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men does the seemingly impossible by not featuring a single drop of blood. Needless to say, I never expected for an avant-garde dance film to be one of very few works that, in my opinion, successfully playacts the metaphysics of murder, at least of the thoroughly repressed homosexual sort. Not only would I argue that Dead Dreams of Monochrome Men is quite possibly the most importunate 'dance' film of its time, but I would also wager that it is one of the most celestially idiosyncratic offerings of mostly malodorous and depreciated celluloid ghetto that is the serial killer film.


-Ty E

Wednesday, April 25, 2012

The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer



When a film begins with a scene of Jeffrey Dahmer driving around in a convertible as if he is some sort of suave gay playboy on the prowl like the fellows in Gregg Araki's The Living End (1992), you know it is going to be a great one. As I soon found out while watching The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer (1993) directed by David R. Bown and starring Carl Crew (Blood Diner, Ironhorse), not only did the flick prove to be an extremely entertaining effort, but also a notably (but unintentionally) gut-busting one as well, as it puts most genuine horror-comedies to shame with its mundane melodrama and bodacious interracial murder and mayhem. Featuring scenes of devilishly dandy Dahmer calling people “Pigs” (as if he is some sort of horror-film-addicted burnout metalhead), crying like a little girl, teasing a deaf Negro, prank calling his mom, turning Asian boys into zombies, sneering at a prankster priest, and many other wonderful things, The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer is a delectable work of accidental political incorrectness that is not to be missed. Essentially, The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer portrays Dahmer as some sort of ridiculous rebel-with-a- reprehensible-cause that lives in a state of indefinite adolescence and whose belligerent behavior is merely the result of having an estranged mommy and an overbearing daddy. Like angst-driven anti-hero Jim Stark (James Dean) from Nicholas Ray’s Rebel Without a Cause (1955), the Jeffrey Dahmer of The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer is an uncommonly likeable anti-social rebel who loathes his family just as much as he disrespects the institution of law and order. Also, like Jim Stark, Dahmer has a special talent for attracting weaker social degenerates. Of course, unlike Stark, Dahmer is totally disingenuous in his charm as he is a master of deceit who will tell any lie and put on any front just to achieve his remarkably aberrant aims. In The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer, daring Dahmer is as compelling as the most seasoned of carny hucksters yet he has the special natural born advantage of having all-American boyish good looks and a superficially laidback disposition, thus being able to easily deceive and manipulate his prospective victims in a rather unsophisticated manner. Throughout The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer, Jeff lures a variety of gay and not-so-gay men to his domestic torture chamber (aka a scarcely furnished efficiency apartment) under the false pretense that he will pay them between $150.00-200.00 in exchange for agreeing to pose nude for a series of Polaroid photographs. Of course, snapping perverted photos is only mere foreplay for dirty Dahmer as he is a more “hands on” kind of guy. Despite physical appearances to the contrary, Dahmer ain’t no uptight wasp, but an active endorser of multiculturalism and die-versity as he lives in a ghetto and loves ridin’ dirty wit his many brothas of different colors. 



  If any part of The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer does the best job of capturing the film's essence as a whole, it is a scene towards the end of the film featuring our brave homicidal homo hero wearing a She-Devils on Wheels (1968) t-shirt as he murders and snaps photographs of his latest victim. Like the exceedingly gratuitous and pointless films of Herschell Gordon Lewis, The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer is a work that features a wealth of tasteless humor and carnal campiness, except to a deeper, mostly unintentional, and ultimately more preposterous degree.  It should also be noted that actor Carl Crew (who also wrote the film's screenplay) previously starred as one of the cannibalistic Tutman brothers in the low-budget horror-comedy Blood Diner (1987); a pseudo-sequel to Herschell Gordon Lewis' 'pioneering' gore flick Blood Feast (1963). Indeed, The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer features a ‘blood feast’ worthy of a bloodlusting Egyptian goddess, but contained within a seedy slum worthy of two thousand crack-addicted maniacs. Dahmer may live in an apartment full of strong and uppity welfare queens that 'get up in his grill' quite regularly, but his lonely apartment is a distinct lunatic microcosm of his own making, adorned with the scant furnishings of a generic mad man, including abstract skeleton paintings on the walls and a lone kitschy skull on a tabletop. To accommodate the imperative needs of his rapidly decomposing company, Dahmer has a large black barrel containing acid that acts as a substitute room if sorts. Anytime Dahmer wants to grab a quick bite to eat, he merely has to open his freezer, which contains a couple decapitated heads of color and other assorted body parts. When having guests over for dinner, Dahmer never forgets to offer them a mixed drink that he creates with the utmost care, as a lack of hospitality would be most unbecoming for a gentleman of Jeffrey Dahmer’s outstanding caliber. As the viewer soon learns while watching The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer, one would be at a loss to find a host as attentive and concerned with the welfare of his guests than Jeffrey Dahmer. When not entertaining the company of prospective lovers, Dahmer is sitting in a chair all by his lonesome making pseudo-deranged faces while staring into eternity as if he was Bela Lugosi's pothead grandson.  To add to the sensory overload that is The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer, Carl Crew narrates the film with cheesy and mirthfully cliched lines of reflection that are quite typical of ineptly assembled film noir flicks and made-for-television Lifetime channel movies. With sounds and images such as these, it should be easy see why virtually every second of The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer manages to be nothing short of captivating. 



 When considering the film within the context of the time when it was created, it should come as no surprise that The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer was made under the dubious confines of total secrecy. Initially intended as a theatrical release, the film would be cursed into obscurity as a straight-to-video release. Somewhat fittingly, while in prison, Dahmer was violently bludgeoned to death with a broom handle by a racist black man suffering from a messianic complex only a year or so after the release of The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer. Indubitably, in a audacious display of profoundly bad taste, the film concludes with a memorial list of Dahmer’s various victims. It is quite apparent while watching The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer that it was assembled in a hurried manner so as to monopolize on Dahmer’s newfound infamy using cinematic conventions that have more in common with satirical horror-comedies like The Undertaker and His Pals (1966) and the works of Herschell Gordon Lewis than what one would expect from a typical true crime docudrama. Thankfully (but unsurprisingly), The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer was not the last film to offend the families of Dahmer’s victims. In 2002, the American Jeffrey Dahmer biopic Dahmer starring Jeremy Renner was released. Unlike The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer, Dahmer is overly empathetic towards its necrophiliac/cannibalistic subject and portrayals Dahmer as a victim of his authoritarian father’s homophobic tyranny. Lady auteur Kathryn Bigelow was so impressed with Renner’s performance as Dahmer in Dahmer that she decided to cast him as the lead of her Academy Award nominated and six-time Oscar award winning film The Hurt Locker (2008). Needless to say, Carl Crew’s performance as a ‘dashing’ Jeffrey Dahmer in The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer is less than Oscar worthy, but he does bring a certain exceptional anti-social charisma to the role that may have led some audiences from 1993 to believe that one day, like Charles Manson, the self-loathing homo-cidal serial killer would become a cult hero of sorts for disaffected gay youth.  Considering that abnormal Aryan auteur Jörg Buttgereit always opens his films with serious quotes from popular American serial killers, I think he might want to consider making Jeffrey Dahmer the central subject of a potential third Nekromantik film. Although Jeffrey Dahmer is still mostly regarded as the archetype for all things both evil and degenerate, The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer has, rightfully, gone on to obtain a marginal, but vocal cult following. As someone who had the novel honor of being told as a child that I had a strikingly resemblance to a young Jeffrey Dahmer, a film like The Secret Life: Jeffrey Dahmer holds a special place in my heart. 


-Ty E

Saturday, April 21, 2012

Duffer



It has certainly been sometime since I saw a film as intrinsically fucked up as the all but totally unknown British work Duffer (1971) directed by Joseph Despins and William Dumaresque (who also penned the script). The film follows a tragic young man named Duffer, a seemingly kindhearted and selfless bastard boy that has a deep semi-conscious desire to engage in steamy and seedy intercourse with both his father and mother – a dually destructive dichotomy (an oedipal and gay Electra complex if you will) of ailing ying contra yang – but being without a family and a strong independent personality of his own, he divides his time between two radically conflicting lovers: an exceedingly deranged middle-aged queer named Louis-Jack (played by co-director/screenwriter William Dumaresque) and a tacky yet affectionate middle-aged hooker named ‘Your Gracie.’ Duffer is a part-time masochist and Louis-Jack is his ever so clever personal (and oddly paternal) sadist, as the older man is always devising new and inventive methods to test the lad’s mortality, so as to derive maximum erotic pleasure through his malicious pseudo-fatherly endeavors.  Indeed, Duffer has no problem being Louis-Jack's personal dog, but he also enjoys assuming the role of a precious man-boy whose penchant for total amorousness knows no bounds.  Luckily for Duffer, Miss Your Gracie is a tad bit more conventional in her sexual yearnings, as her only demand of the boy is that he should develop better sexual stamina.  Miss Your Gracie also loves to spoon Duffer as if he were her vulnerable infant son. Despite taking it in the pooper like a seasoned poofer, Duffer is quite repelled by loveless lunatic lover Louis-Jack’s violent sexuality, but he rationalizes his passive abuse with reflective lines like (to paraphrase), “I wouldn’t want to deprive him of something that gives him great pleasure.” Quite openly, Duffer admits that he frequents the charming company of pseudo-mommy Your Gracie so as to, “restore my manhood", or so he says. Of course, Duffer has a hard time firmly establishing his manhood due to Louis-Jack’s insistence that he have a baby; an impossible task that the swinish old man thinks he can accomplish by sodomizing the boy until he has thoroughly bloodied his rectum and raped his mind. Being a precariously loyal lad, Duffer takes it upon himself to make Louis-Jack’s ludicrous dreams come true, henceforth culminating in the most despicable, yet sardonically symbolic, of results.  Quite vividly and even viciously, Duffer illustrates the benefits of being a bland breeder as opposed to being an undaunted buggerer.



Throughout the entirety of Duffer, the leading boy reflects on his thoughts and emotions by speaking directly to the viewer via voice-over narration. What makes this particularly disheartening is that co-director/writer William Dumaresque narrated the voice of Duffer and not the young actor (Kit Gleave) that actually played the boy. Admittedly, this was probably for the better as the dirty old man’s overly involved and elaborately detailed (bordering on the fetishistic) commentary adds another imperative layer of distinct aberrancy to Duffer that is destined to shadow the mind of the viewer for many decades to come after watching the film. Indeed, Duffer is one of those rare cinematic works that one would be most inescapably ashamed to show to friends, family members, and lovers, as the film acts as a carrier for what could most suitably described as an incurable metaphysical STD. Simply put, Duffer is one of the most thematically revolting films ever made as it exhibits human beings at their most hopelessly debauched, pathologically-enslaved, and morally unsalvageable, yet it is also an irregularly enrapturing work without any serious contemporaries, aside from maybe Peter Whitehead and Niki De Saint Phalle's inferior work Father (1973).  Duffer is like a collection of case studies from Richard von Krafft-Ebing's revolutionary work Psychopathia Sexualis (1886) come to life, except portrayed in a fashion that totally contradicts the emotional sterility of an objective scientist. Indeed, not only is Duffer a victim of vice, but, as much as one does not want to admit it, so are his two elder ‘lovers’, even the ever so morally and mentally insane Louis-Jack; an unrepentant sadistic sodomite with a keen proclivity towards combining the worst elements of his organ-piercing perversity and cerebral precariousness. After all, it is quite doubtful that Louis-Jack was born a brutish boy-buggering beast (as he certainly does not look like one), but, more likely, as a young boy, he sexually debased in a manner similar to the way he treats Duffer, thus proliferating a vicious circle of hysterical homo-sadomasochism. By the end of Duffer, the boy protagonist has gone from being a sensitive and passive boy looking for love in all the wrong places to de-evolving into a man whose lack of mental stability and newfound tendency towards gross criminality rivals that of his spiritual father Louis-Jack. One can only wonder what kind of life Duffer would go onto live after the film’s conclusion, but it is not a stretch to suggest that he, like his maniacal mentor, could very likely go onto to produce a number of equally perverse protégés. On top of being all but totally desensitized to every sexual perversion imaginable, Duffer – who is not always able to distinguish between reality and his erratic imagination – seems to be on his way to becoming a full blown schizophrenic. Although clearly uneducated, Duffer is a deeper thinker and ghetto philosopher/psychologist of sorts who constantly immerses himself in books as a form of therapeutic escapism. Of course, indulging in literary classics can only sway the irrational impulses of a brain-dammaged mind for so long….



As a reflexive nod to the audience (and probably to himself), Duffer co-director William Dumaresque (as sick fuck Louis-Jack) appears in Duffer as a gutter auteur who directs a number of borderline snuff films depicting his poor boy toy in various exceedingly comprised and devilishly disbarred positions. One can only wonder whether or not Louis-Jack aspires to be the next Paul Morrissey, but his naturalist knack for candid realism and exquisite exploitation is unquestionable. In one particularly odious scene in Duffer, Uncle L.J. simultaneously films Duff as he covers the sleeping boy’s naked body with an assortment of slimy worms. Demonstrating his commitment to creatively degrading his victim from every angle imaginable, Louis-Jack also forces Duffer to watch the edited final cut of his wicked worm-meets-willy micro-mondo movie. Unsurprisingly, Duffer, in his typically insightful forthrightness, is inordinately critical of the dubious artistic merit behind Louis-Jack’s latest cinematic effort. Being Louis-Jack’s greatest fan and most active supporter, Duffer’s articulate criticism cannot be easily dismissed; and neither can this film. Duffer is a masterpiece, but of what cinematic breed, I cannot say exactly, however, it is plainly apparent that it comes endowed with its own deep and diacritic pathology. Amateurishly (but more than adeptly) directed and shot on gritty black-and-white 16mm film stock, Duffer has a look that consummately compliments its themes and images of proletarian sexual perversity. Making the mental defectives of Frank Perry’s David and Lisa (1962) appear like bourgeois brats and the films of Harmony Korine seem ineptly contrived (a certain baby scene in Trash Humpers more than resembles a scene in Duffer) by contrast, Duffer is as authentic as fictional films come in portraying the irreparable dejection and soul-destroying afflictions that often times take hold of economically disenfranchised whites.  Duffer is the sort of film Andy Warhol always strived to make, but lacked the artistic ingenuity and humility to do so.  It is also a work that makes William Friedkin's portrayal of gay leather-bound sadomasochists in Cruising (1980) seem flattering by comparison. The Brits may have colonized and ruled the many citizens of India in the past, but the lives of the untouchable ghetto rats of Danny Boyle’s Slumdog Millionaire (2008) seem inconsequential when compared to the life of perdition that pure-blood Englishman Duffer of Duffer leads. 


-Ty E

Wednesday, April 18, 2012

NEKRomantik 2



As far as great film sequels go, few can compare to the technical and aesthetic innovation of Jörg Buttgereit’s bizarre anti-love triangle NEKRomantik 2 (1991) aka NEKRomantik 2 - Return of the Loving Dead. While the original Nekromantik (1987) film is a masterpiece in its own right, aberrant Aryan auteur Buttgereit was still ‘a-work-in-progress’ as a filmmaker as far as his craft and peculiar Weltanschauung was concerned when he directed the film.  Had it not been for Buttgereit's sicko campy humor, it is somewhat questionable as to whether or not Nekromantik would have the loyal cult following it has today. After reading various negative reviews of Nekromantik 2, one can only come to the conclusion that most people who loathe the film are repelled by its artistic seriousness, slick direction, and lack of cheap schlock.  In contrast to the original film, Nekromantik 2 is an aesthetically and thematically refined work that has more in common with German New Wave arthouse cinema than what one would typically expect from a horror film about a Nordic beauty sharing vital bodily fluids with a notably decrepit and aesthetically-displeasing cold cadaver. Nekromantik 2 essentially begins where the first film left off, with the corpse of scrawny and swarthy untermensch Rob Schmadtke (anti-hero of Nekromantik). Rob may have had problems with the fairer sex when he was living, but as an inanimate carrion, he is quite the passive lady’s man. During the beginning of Nekromantik 2, Rob's green gelatin-coated corpse is most lovingly exhumed and brought home by necrophiliac-nymphomaniac Monika (played by Monika M). Tall and slender, but blessed with more than ample breasts and a delightful derrière, Miss Monika is the virtual Venus de Milo of corpse-fuckers. Not long after finding the lifeless love of her life, Monika reluctantly begins a seemingly conventional (but barely romantic) one-sided relationship with a less than handsome fellow named Mark (played by Brit Mark Reeder) who has a terribly frail frame and bad teeth but is well meaning and genuine in his desire for reciprocal love.  Although he does not know it, Mark is on the losing side of a battle with a corpse for the women of his dreams.  Throughout Nekromantik 2, it is more than apparent that Monika prefers the increasingly rancid and rotting body of Rob to the chivalrous geek charm of hopeless romantic Mark, thus leading to an inevitable, but totally unpredictable, wet climax that more than rivals that of the original Nekromantik film. 



 Until about a week ago, it had been a couple years since I peered my (soon hypnotized) eyes at Nekromantik 2. Like all of my favorite films, Nekromantik 2 has proven to be a more personal and artistically potent work with each subsequent viewing. While the ultimate anti-romance flick, Nekromantik 2 is also an eclectic aesthetic event that features a beauteous buffet of bawdy blasphemy and classy elegance for the eyes and ears. Of course, such seemingly unbecoming beauty has proven to be too anti-climatic for certain  pedigree of quasi-psychopathic and philistinic gorehounds, but that is undoubtedly part of the film’s distinct charm. Jörg Buttgereit has openly admitted to his conscious intention of utilizing humorless artistic pretension as an act of subversion during the production of Nekromantik 2. After noticing a barrage of horror film critics using Louis Malle’s conversation-based film My Dinner with Andre (1981) as a redundant guideline for discerning cinematic banality, Buttgereit took it upon himself to actually watch the film, which, to his surprise, he actually ended up thoroughly enjoying. In tribute to the film horror fiends love to hate, Buttgereit created a mock remake of My Dinner with Andre (as a film-within-a-film) that the characters Mark and Monika go to see upon first meeting each other in Nekromantik 2. In Buttgereit’s micro-version of Malle’s film, two exceedingly ugly and swarthy krauts – a hyper-intellectual mini-mensch with an unhealthy bird fetish and a mostly mute brobdingnagian Fräulein – dine on a variety of exotic eggs at an apocalyptic setting in a most absurd yet frolicsome manner. Nekromantik 2 also features a variety of segments that will leave most artistically-disinterested viewers hopelessly confounded, such as a salamander falling off a coffin in slow-motion and extended scenes of Mark and Monika romping around a scenic amusement park in a strangely wholesome fashion. Of course, such solacing scenes are in stark contrast to images of Monika dismembering Rob’s corpse and authentic stock footage of baby seals being slaughtered.  In terms of theme, Buttgereit has also described Nekromantik 2 as a pseudo-sequel of sorts to his lurid and bestial pre-Nekromantik romance short Hot Love (1985). Like its predecessors (both Hot Love and Nekromantik), Nekromantik 2 features an inordinately complimentary soundtrack that further accentuates the antithetical poetry that is Teutonic corpse fucking art. Featuring musical compositions from Hermann Kopp, Daktari Lorenz (who played Rob in the original film), John Boy Walton, and Peter Kowalski, the Nekromantik 2 soundtrack is indubitably a work of art in itself. Beyond question, the greatest marriage of sound and image featured in the film is a marvelously macabre dream-sequence of Monika M. singing the French-language song “Scelette Delicieux” as a skull orbits majestically in the background. This celestially phantasmagorical scene also features a pianist whose traditional appearance resembles that of the great classical composers that make up Germany’s unparalleled musical legacy.  This scene is just one of the many imperative parts make up the decadent cinematic body that is Nekromantik 2.



 In tribute to Leilah Wendell, very possibly America’s most infamous female necrophiliac, Nekromantik 2 features a reproduction painting created by the real-life corpse-fucker during a scene of avant-garde corpse-fucking. Although slightly annoyed by Buttgereit’s unofficial use of her art, Wendell apparently loved the film, thus Nekromantik 2 has the grand distinction of coming necrophile-approved. Wendell also agreed to act as a ‘creative consult’ for Nekromantik 3; a still unmade film that has lingered in pre-production for over 20 years. Although Buttgereit and his co-writer Franz Rodenkirchen wrote a script for Nekromantik 3 long ago, the Nekromantik director has continuously acknowledged that he has no intention of making a third film unless he obtains independent funds to do so. In spite of having directed a number of documentaries (Monsterland, Video Nasty), TV series episodes (Lexx, Into the Night With…), and a video stage-play (Captain Berlin Versus Hitler) over the years, it has been nearly twenty years since the Buttgereit directed his last arthouse splatter flick Schramm (1994). Needless to say, it would be an artistic tragedy of sorts if the now middle-aged and married filmmaker failed to complete the Nekromantik trilogy, but I remain quite skeptical about the prospect of its actual production. Even if Buttgereit were to never direct a third Nekromantik film, I am still more than content with both of the previous films for quite different reasons. While Nekromantik offers deranged laughs and the seemingly nefarious novelty of crude corpse-fucking, Nekromantik 2 offers a brutal yet strangely beautiful look at romance in an increasingly decaying, neurotic, and intrinsically ethnomasochistic Occidental world. An academic film critic once offered the dubious and predictably politically-correct theory that the corpse-lust in the Nekromantik films acts as a subconscious metaphor for the generational burden modern Germans hold due to their ancestor’s legacy of murder during the Second World War. Personally, I see the corpse-fucking as symbolic of Germany’s (and the rest of Europe’s) inherited fatalistic self-loathing and population decline as a result of the all-encompassing devastation brought about during two very fratricidal World Wars. This suicidal and inorganic post-WW2 phenomenon of ancestor-hatred can be clearly seen in Buttgereit's documentary short Mein Papa (1982); a sadistically cynical (yet admittedly humorous) Daddy-denigrating home-video document of the German filmmaker's father's progressive degeneration leading up to his pathetic death.  In regard to German Conservative Revolutionary Ernst von Salomon's post-WW2 book Der Fragebogen (1951), celebrated (yet once discredited for 'authenticating' forged Hitler diaries) British historian H. R. Trevor-Roper snidely described the German mind as a, "dark, sinister, skeleton-laden cupboard."  Despite the blatant seething hatred embedded within Trevor-Roper's venemous remark, there is much truth in his statement, at least in regard to German art, as expressed quite vividly in everything the Grimms' Fairy Tales to the mystical artistic works of symbolist painter Franz von Stuck to the films of Jörg Buttgereit.   In spite of appearances and opinions to the contrary, the films of Jörg Buttgereit follow in a rich and ancient tradition of Germanic art, although being of the exceedingly and profoundly decadent pre-apocalyptic post-nationalist sort. I don't see it as an exaggeration to state that Nekromantik 2 is an expression of an artist at the height of their artistic prowess and precision.

-Ty E

Friday, April 13, 2012

Castle Keep



I must admit that the prospective of a Gothic World War II flick does sound most appetizing for the eyes and ears, but the successful execution of such an ambitious work is quite dubitable as demonstrated by unevenness of Michael Mann's The Keep (1983), especially if it is directed by someone as seemingly ill-equipped as Sydney Pollack, director of Tootsie (1982); a work featuring Dustin Hoffman in drag. Of course, during the beginning of his filmmaking career, Pollack directed the notably manly Western masterpiece Jeremiah Johnson (1972); a film about an Injun-exterminating mountain-man who is unwaveringly determined in his personal campaign to conquer land, man, and beast. Before ever gaining praise for directing Jeremiah Johnson, Pollack assembled the eccentric esoteric Gothic war dramedy Castle Keep (1969); a film based on a William Eastlake novel of the same name about a squad of American soldiers who squat in a phantasmagoric Belgian castle under the more or less superficial pretense that they will guard it, and its aristocratic Count owner and his beautiful Countess wife from advancing German forces. The setting of the film is during the Battle of Bulge, yet the owner of the castle (and the castle itself) seems many centuries old, which is unequivocally an anachronistic tool symbolizing the old political and physical infrastructure of Europe. Aside from combining conventions from the WWII flick with elements of a traditional Gothic castle tale, Castle Keep is, most importantly, a cinematic death certificate for Europe, albeit a ferociously facetious and flagrant one. Admittedly, I have been hoping to find a film that addresses this critical global power-shifting, but little acknowledged, post-Spenglerian phenomenon for some time now, so I was entirely taken aback when I randomly found this theme in a mostly disregarded war flick directed by Sydney Pollack of all people. Unsurprisingly, Pollack, being a proud Israelite, was ostensibly unsympathetic towards the land and peoples of Europe, most especially those terrible testosterone-fueled Teutons whose accents and affinity for kultur are mocked in a malicious manner that rivals South Park and Family Guy throughout Castle Keep, but that did not stop the filmmaker from portraying American GIs as hopelessly impenetrable philistines who, like islanders that were shipwrecked many generations ago, missed out on imperative cultural and intellectual advancements that were long ago established in Europe.



Upon arriving at the castle they will keep thoroughly occupied like a meth-fueled rapist with a hogtied virginal victim, the soldiers are quite vocal about their absolute disillusionment with the war. One soldier states that they have all already died twice, while another admits he has no idea as to what they are actually fighting for. These opening sentiments set that tone for the rest of Castle Keep, an acutely nihilistic and strikingly idiosyncratic quasi-existentialist work with misanthropic undertones. I would not be surprised if Sidney Pollack had a smug smile and fat joint in hand throughout the production of Castle Keep, as the film has the feel of a culturally refined vaudeville act disguised as European arthouse film. If one were to watch the film without audio it would seem like a totally different film, not too dissimilar from Harry Kümel's dreamlike Gothic castle masterpiece Malpertuis (1971). Thankfully, Castle Keep has plenty of black humor and gorgeous pseudo-Baroque imagery to adequately counter its all-encompassing philosophical and intellectual unpleasantness. Indeed, Castle Keep features an aristocratic buffet of laboriously prepared rotten food for thought, but such morbid ingredients are quite welcome from a film industry that thrives on gross disingenuousness. In the ridiculous realm of Castle Keep, American soldiers indulge in the fruits of the European aristocracy without any actual understanding of these rare cultural treats. Anything these soldiers can’t eat or fuck, they break, including priceless art, architecture, and landscapes. Undoubtedly, Castle Keep and its many absurdist scenarios act as a singularly demiurgic and enthralling analogy for American involvement in the Second World War. Despite contributing to the dissolution of Europe as a the world's most powerful political and cultural entity, and the dismantling of all remaining European empires, to this day, most Americans and American veterans are at a loss when trying to come up with a complex explanation (aside from, "The Japs bombed us!") as to why their nation was involved in an overseas fratricidal quasi-Civil War, nor the political and cultural magnitude of the war’s outcome. By the end of Castle Keep, the castle and its many cultural treasures lay in ruins, as do many of the American GIs, and for what? So one half of European can be occupied by culture-distorting international capitalists and the other half by culture-destroying international communists; two alien powers contra to the continent’s ancient cultural and socio-political traditions. These sort of issues are discussed nonchalantly by the soldiers throughout Castle Keep. In one particularly important, if random (like most of the film), scene, a soldier states, “Europe is dying” and, in turn, another soldier matter-of-factly replies with, “No, she is dead. That’s why we’re here. Don’t you read the newspapers?” Indeed, Europa is dying but the American GIs of Castle Keep are too busy raping her daughters and killing her sons to take much notice, let alone, care.




Despite the quasi-apocalyptic nature of the content featured throughout Castle Keep, these morbid and melancholy movie moments are coated in a certain addictive bittersweet comedic cynicism that distances the viewer from the true grim reality of the content. In the film, countless people are killed in a variety of body-dismembering ways, a civilization’s art is burned like trash to forever disappear from the world, and a continent is all but irrevocably annihilated, yet these surly circumstances are portrayed in a fashion that is ultimately comedic, thus proving that any subject, no matter how deplorable or taboo, can be made hilarious given the right creative mind. Of course, Castle Keep does have is moments of pure and silly comic relief. For example, a bonhomie hillbilly GI literally falls in love with a semi-supernatural Volkswagen Beetle in a scene that reflects the peculiar America redneck obsession with imported wheels. Although two soldiers attempt to kill the enemy car via shooting and drowning, they are no match for the Aryan automobile’s superior Germanic engineering. Even though featuring a wealth of physical slapstick comedy, the majority of humor featured in Castle Keep is contained within its sharp and witty dialogue. The film especially reminded me of William Peter Blatty’s The Ninth Configuration (1980), except it is more coherent and slightly less serious than its sometimes overly spasmodic predecessor. Like The Ninth Configuration, Castle Keep is a military-related work that will most likely leave most genuine military men left dumbfounded with its keen philosophical insights and reflections, atypical tragicomedy style, and all-around ambiguity. That being said, I would love to hear what a couple of real-life American WWII veterans would have to say about Castle Keep, as they are a secondary (with the Europeans being the first) butt of the joke, whether they acknowledge it or not.



It might comes as a revelation to some people, but few people probably know that popular Hollywood director Mike Nichols, director of The Graduate (1967) and Closer (2004), is the maternal Grandson of Gustav Landauer, the Shakespearian scholar and communist-anarchist (if that oxymoron of a political persuasion makes any sense) who became the 'Commissioner of Enlightenment and Public Instruction' for the short-lived and traitorously created Soviet Republic of Bavaria that was created during the so called "German" Revolution of 1918-1919. When indigenous Germans finally recovered the city of Munich and Bavaria state, the communist leadership, which was made up of mostly alien Judaic traitors, was subsequently arrested and executed, including Landauer, who was stoned to death on May 2, 1919. I bring up Mike Nichols grandfather to illustrate the sort of mentality and politics that have dominated Hollywood throughout its existence. The people who run Hollywood are not merely moderate ‘left-wingers’ and kindhearted humanists who want to repair the heart of the world, but individuals who are fundamentally hostile to traditional European culture and morality, as exemplified in everything from their crude Hebriac neo-vaudevillian comedies to their quasi-Trotskyite period pieces.  Although Jewish commentators and academics often boast about their ethnic group's contribution to science and cultures, they pale in comparison to the achievements of Europeans, hence their collective resentment towards European and Occidental kultur.  As the great German-American iconoclast H.L. Mencken once stated, "The Jewish theory that the GOYIM envy the superior ability of the Jews is not borne out by the facts. Most GOYIM, in fact, deny that the Jew is superior, and point in evidence to his failure to take the first prizes: he has to be content with the seconds. No Jewish composer has ever come within miles of Bach, Beethoven and Brahms; no Jew has ever challenged the top-flight painters of the world, and no Jewish scientist has equaled Newton, Darwin, Pasteur or Mendel....The GOY does not, in fact, believe that the Jew is better than the non-Jew; the most he will admit is that the Jew is smarter at achieving worldly success. But this he ascribes to sharp practices, not to superior ability." Sydney Pollack, being of same generation and a similar cultural background (both of their families emigrated from Europe to the United States) as Mike Nichols, most likely shared a kindred personal hostility towards Europe as his compatriots, as vividly expressed in much depth in Castle Keep, a work that is saturated with quintessential Jewish humor. While portraying Europeans as impotent (the Count is literally infertile) degenerates with no future, the film depicts Americans (aside from a mostly misunderstood and despairing white art historian and a uncommonly witty yet supremely arrogant Negro author) as profound ignoramuses who don’t even have the mental capacity to understand that their role in the Second World War will lead to the destruction of their ancient ancestral homelands, and, inevitably, white America's loss of cultural and political domination of the United States.  After all, I doubt most white Americans from the 1940s would have agreed to fight in the war if they knew it would eventually lead to a future mulatto president and a perpetual deluge of immigrants from the third world. The Count of the castle in Castle Keep even calls the American soldiers traitors near the conclusion of the film, a statement these soldiers clearly fail to understand as communicated by their blank stares.


 Castle Keep ends with a literal Holocaust and the castle inflames, which indubitably acts as an allegorical delineation of Europe as a whole after the conclusion of World War II.  Everyone in America knows that, apparently, six million died during World War II, but very few can cite how many Europeans were senselessly slaughtered and what cities and landmarks were inexorably incinerated. While I find Pollack’s political persuasion to be dubious, I must commend him for his refreshing honesty and his brilliant direction. Castle Keep is such an outlandish and solitary work that it is seemingly lacking in flaws. The typical lemming filmgoer will probably criticize the film for its lack of character development and somewhat incoherent plot, but these complaints are basically irrelevant as it is plain to see that Castle Keep is a work where actors (even if they are big names like Burt Lancaster, Jean-Pierre Aumont, and Peter Falk) are used as props for delivering clever dialogue and the storyline is a mere palette for expressing an assortment of ideas and potent imagery. Neither pro-war nor anti-war, Castle Keep is an open-ended work that demands individual interpretation, hence the marginal popularity of the film in the United States. Naturally, Americans audiences detest films that make a mockery of their intellectual ineptitude and lack of cultural refinement, thus Castle Keep will undoubtedly be destined to the same fate as the European films it aesthetically mimics: in the celluloid dustbin of history.


-Ty E

Saturday, April 7, 2012

The Devil Came at Night



I doubt it would be a stretch to say that, since the birth of cinema, Germany has consistently been the #1 producer of top notch and innovative serial killers flicks, especially of the authentically audacious and bloodcurdling, yet artistically merited sort. Whether it be German expressionism (Fritz Lang’s M), the German New Wave (The Tenderness of Wolves), or obscure arthouse splatter flicks (Schramm), few other nations can boast (not that Germany needs nor wants to further the case for their ‘bloodstained’ history) of such truly visceral and intriguing films about bloodlusting cut-throats. Undoubtedly, Germany’s relatively vast history of true crime during and after both World Wars played an imperative role in influencing these films. While some everyday citizens were literally prostituting themselves so as to avert starvation as chaos in the cities reigned during both wars, the circumstances were ripe for German serial killers like cannibal Fritz Haarmann, child/sex killer Peter ”The Vampire of Düsseldorf” Kürten, Carl Großmann, cannibal Karl Denke, Nazi stormtrooper sergeant Paul “the S-Bahn murderer” Ogorzow, and retarded peeping tom Bruno Lüdke to evade the law for a more extended period of time. Despite not knowing how many minutes are in an hour, supremely mentally defective serial killer Bruno Lüdke managed to kill upwards of 51 victims, mainly women, during a 15-year stretch of unrestrained sadism that peaked during the most hectic days of the Second World War. Recently, I had the distinct pleasure of viewing the West German film The Devil Came at Night (1957) aka Nachts, wenn der Teufel kam aka The Devil Strikes at Night directed by Robert Siodmak (Son of Dracula, The Killers); a work depicting Bruno Lüdke’s ghastly homicidal delinquency amid the pandemonium of WWII-era Germany. Resembling parts of a number of great films created before and after it, The Devil Came at Night is like Fritz Lang’s M (1931) meets Roberto Rossellini’s Germany Year Zero (1948) meets Ulli Lommel's The Tenderness of Wolves (1973) meets Oliver Hirschbiegel's Downfall (2004), but it is also an original masterpiece in its own right. In short, The Devil Came at Night is a distinctly delectable work that totally transcends  formulaic genre classification, yet offers some of the best elements from a number genres/subgenres, including the traditional German World War II film, true crime detective story, film noir, serial killer horror flick, and somewhat traditional melodrama. Personally, I cannot think of a more exciting prospect for a setting for a serial killer running rampant than a National Socialist-era war torn German city during a malefic storm of steel. 



The Devil Came at Night follows an apolitical (but highly decorated) military officer turned detective sergeant named Axel Kersten (played by Claus Holm) who aims to profile and inevitably jail a serial killer while somewhat precariously jumping over the many hurdles of the bureaucratic Nazi legal system. After finding out that a low-level Nazi party member is wrongfully accused of murder, Kersten does his research and is eventually led to Bruno Lüdke (who is played in a most impeccable fashion by Mario Adorf); a profoundly idiotic strongman whose savage lack of intelligence is only rivaled by his supremely scant morality. One can only wonder why daft lunatic Lüdke was not conscripted into the Dirlewanger Brigade – a patently delinquent and collectively deranged division of the Waffen-SS that was comprised of mental patients, perverts, and criminals of all colors (including Gypsies and Slavs) – as the strangely proficient daft serial killer may have proven to be a murderous war hero of sorts. On top of being mentally retarded, big boy Bruno is a bodacious braggart who quite eagerly (but somewhat unknowingly) spills his aberrant beans to investigator Alex Kersten. Despite his exceptional performance in implicating and apprehending a much desired serial killer in a hopelessly chaotic and collapsing nation that is facing the very real possibility of absolute annihilation, Mr. Kersten soon learns that if you fail to play by the official National Socialist playbook, there are dire consequences. Despite his lack of mental competency, Bruno quite adamantly cites Nazi Article 51 as an excuse for his gross and unforgivable criminality. Unlike most Nazi-related films, The Devil Came at Night takes a somewhat subtle approach to criticizing the bureaucracy of blood that resonated throughout the Third Reich. Misusing Nazi eugenic ideas, even Bruno, a mentally vapid creature, is able to rationalize his heinous and coldly calculated crimes. To illustrate the absurdity of these laws, a careerist SS-Gruppenfuehrer (‘group leader’) named Rossdorf (who has a striking resemblance to real-life Waffen-SS Sturmbannführer-turned-Muslim Johann von Leers) cites virtually the same argument as deranged dullard Lüdke in regard to the 'genetic' blameworthiness of the killer. 



Although born in Dresden, Germany (despite claiming Memphis, Tennessee for passport purposes), The Devil Came at Night director Robert Siodmak – who was born a Jew – would leave his homeland for Hollywood (after a brief stay in Paris, France) in 1939 due to the rise of National Socialism. During his fruitful career in Hollywood, Siodmak managed to direct 23 films, most specifically a signature style of film noir flicks, including Phantom Lady (1944) and The Killers (1945); which the director earned a ‘Best Director’ Oscar nomination for. After failing to create acclaimed works outside the film noir style (which was apparently unpopular with the majority of Americans of that era), Siodak returned to Europa in 1952 and after directing a couple films including an adaptation of Gerhart Hauptmann's 1911 play Die Ratten ('The Rats'), the auteur eventually completed his post-Hollywood masterpiece The Devil Came at Night. Upon viewing the film, I noticed it had a slightly Hollywood film noir ‘feel’ to it, but I was totally ignorant in regards to the director’s transnational background. Generally, I would be most repelled by the prospect of a Hollywood-ized filmmaker directing a European production, but for The Devil Came at Night, the ‘Tinseltown tint’ works to the film’s advantage. After all, one could hardly think of a better setting for a film noir than the dark alleyways and shadowy hallways of steadily dilapidating WWII era urban Germany, aside from maybe the Warsaw ghetto. Like a typical Hollywood film, The Devil Came at Night lacks any sort of domineering artistry as it is most specifically a solidly crafted work that tells a captivating story, and therein lays its greatest strength. The Devil Came at Night is a gripping and grim flick that, like witnessing a real-life stabbing or fatal car accident, echoes in one’s mind long after the film has concluded. Although lacking the buckets of blood and fetishistic brutality of a modern Hollywood serial killer films, The Devil Came at Night is fundamentally more sinister and compelling. Maybe David Fincher should have taken notice of the German precision behind The Devil Came at Night when he worked on Zodiac (2007) as he could have easily avoided assembling an overly monotonous test in stagnant banality and derelict dillydallying. 



The Devil Came at Night concludes with the phrase, “Wheels shall roll for victory” painted on the side of a train en-route to the hellish, but cold Eastern Front. Essentially, this ironic expression sums up a major theme of the film: the absurdity and futility of stern idealism amongst imminent defeat.  In the end, human bodies roll and defeat ascends. For mere political reasons and beside the fact the Third Reich is crumbling, SS officer Rossdorf justifies his mission to have an innocent man executed. Kersten, who is undoubtedly a more talented and intelligent man, selflessly puts his own career on the line to vindicate the wrongly accused. Of course, the innocent man sentenced to death is undoubtedly symbolic of the Holocaust. Although few will admit it today openly, a small segment of the German Jewish population was actively involved in nation-destroying communist uprisings and war profiteering, but the majority would pay for the sins of the few. During The Devil Came at Night, a middleclass Jewess mentions that her once-respected professor husband died at Auschwitz concentration camp. Clearly, this man was not Kurt Eisner – the once infamous (but now memorialized) Jewish ultra-left-wing journalist that led the Communist Revolution that dismantled the Wittelsbach monarchy in Bavaria – but he was killed just the same due to his mere ancestry. Somewhat ironically, Nazi law worked in the favor of mentally defective Aryan Bruno Lüdke for a period of time. In one particularly humorous scene in The Devil Came at Night, Bruno states, “I’m only Bruno, the retard…I am a mental case. FUCK ALL OF YOU”, after a cop insinuates that he was involved in a theft. Nazism aside, The Devil Came at Night is a work the highlights the universal failure of human law and order and the unintentional destruction it sometimes begets. Nowadays, we give special legal protection to members of‘victim status’ groups because of who they sodomize and the size of their lips, and the entire Occident is beginning to rival Nazi Germany in terms of absurd authoritarian laws. Regardless of politics, The Devil Came at Night was impressive enough on the international level to be nominated for The Academy Award for Best Foreign Language Film, which is not bad for a film that portrays the SS saving the Fatherland from a retarded serial killer.


-Ty E

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Robot Monster


I recall reading some interview with Quentin Tarantino when I was a kid in which he said something to the effect of "If I screen Rio Bravo for a girl and she doesn't love it, it's over" and thinking "You fucking dweeb…if you actually managed to get a something with female sex organs into your lair, you'd show her a John Wayne movie?! AND have the temerity to declare it "over" if such a sweaty, excessively masculine flick doesn't make her swoon?" Having huge Hollwood pocketbooks to bankroll your cinematic mixtapes makes a world of difference- imagine if that deformed dork had never managed to pillage and plagiarize his way to the top- he'd have to be like the rest of us and just be happy vag-titties will tolerate our "hobby", or be eternally grateful to baby-bearers who actually share our passion, regardless of whether or not they like an old Western flick or not. Rio Bravo, man?! I wonder if he made Uma Thurman watch that shit while jerking off all over her toes. I know there is a point to this tangent…oh yeah, Phil Tucker's CLASSIC 1953 film Robot Monster. Now, I'm not saying I'd relent from facebanging a hottie if she didn't share my unequivocal love of the misadventures of fishbowl-headed, gorilla-framed Ro-Man and a small handful of humans in Bronson Canyon, but it would definitely make me sad, and might lead to major resentment over time if she is an informed film geek like yours truly and rests on the tried-and-trued appraisal of Robot Monster as being one of the "worst films of all time." Do any of you lazy fuckwits who resort to laughing at this flick realize that you are just parroting that GOP fuckslut Michael Medved's opinion from his insulting Golden Turkey Awards tome from the seventies? Have you actually seen this MASTERPIECE of economical sci-fi cinema?


Yes, masterpiece, assholes. For all the talk of "ineptitude", and claims that the film's reception drove the director to a suicide attempt (in fact, it was the producers blackballing him from the industry and not being able to get a cut of the million bucks the $16,000 film ended up making at the box office…Variety even gave it a somewhat complimentary review!), Robot Monster is a brisk 62 minute approximation of sci-fi geek 10-year olds playing in a fort before supper. With scant props, locations relegated to a section of Griffith Park that will be instantly recognizable to anyone who has seen their share of B-Westerns and sci-fi cheese, some incongruous stock footage (not to mention surprisingly strong 3-D photography at his disposal), Tucker manages to wring the most of his post-post-apocalyptic scenario, as alien Ro-Man Extension XJ-2 strives to eliminate the few remaining humans left on earth with his Calcinator Death Ray, humans who coincidentally live just around the corner from the cave in which he resides. Said humans consist of a Euro-accented scientist, his frumpy wife, grating son Johnny (the appropriately annoying main character- if a kid is in some late-night channel Z classic, he SHOULD be whiny voiced and Dennis the Menace-lite, dammit…children who can actually act are doomed to drug habits and reality TV, kids who just wince and whinny will live fitter, happier lives, though off hand I can think of plenty exceptions to this nonsensical rule of my own invention, so disregard the last few sentences), equally snot-nosed daughter Carla, older babe daughter, Alice, and a younger scientist love-interest of Alice, Roy. Living in some very slightly decorate ruins that the scientist has rigged so that the Ro-Man can't hear them and thus sniff out their location (despite the apparent fact these remaining humans are immune to his Calcinator Death Ray because of antibiotic serums developed by the scientists). Anyways, Johnny, being an inquisitive little shit, stumbles upon Ro-Man Extension XJ-2, who receives transmissions from his leader (also a dude in a gorilla suit and fishbowl helmet, but with a tesla coil) on a screen and whose Calcinator Death Ray looks for all intents and purposes like shortwave radio equipment, which, when activated, emits bubbles and makes the film stock get all strobe-lighty and reverse exposured. The ruthless Ro-Man is ready to stamp out the remaining Hu-Mans when he catches a glimpse of the fetching Alice and realizes that white, silky Hu-Man skin certainly beats whatever passes for feminine on the planet Ro-Man, and begins to have a change of heart, getting into frustrating, though robotically civil arguments with his commanding officer via telescreen. It is hard not to feel for Ro-Man…he's so patently ridiculous appearance-wise, all his machinery manages to do little more than emit bubbles and stock footage of dinosaurs and earthquakes, and worst yet, he's all alone in a cave and doesn't realize he's only a hop-and-skip away from the Griffith Park Observatory, which features a fantastic view of Los Angeles (looks so much nicer in aerial than slogging around it's crusted-over, syphilitic surface) and a Planetarium show about the Big Bang that is awesome on mushrooms but hard to slog through sober and surrounded by snickering high-school students. The pathos XJ-2 generates are pretty genuine and heart-felt, and, if you're anything like me, he soon transcends his antagonist status to become the true hero of the film, especially after he strangles Johnny's younger sister (kid death, in a fifties flick no less! yes!) and gets his mits on Alice.


I'm not going to go too in-depth about the remainder of the plot (except to say that if you've seen Invaders from Mars, or most any kid-centric sci-fi/horror from this time period, how it ends ain't hard to grok)- it is easy to come across like I'm poking fun at this flick by spelling out the particulars, but anyone who sees Robot Monster with an open heart and a weary mind will find that this film is fun in and of itself, and needs no mocking robot silhouettes (and Joel) to be a perfect affirmation of the wonders of no-budget, high-imagination cinema. The acting, cloying kiddies aside, is miles above other "worst film ever" contenders like Ed Wood's oeuvre or Manos: The Hands of Fate (save John Reynolds incomparable Torgo…a truly great piece of acid-drenched performance ART)- matinee-campy but not unbearably wooden. The location makes the most of the tiny desolate desert environs of Bronson Canyon, and the sparsity of the area and the set decorations lends it a certain air of knowing threadbare staginess that, were it done for a tenth of the budget by, say, the Kuchar brothers, would be shown in museums and praised by effete soy-fiends the world over instead of languishing in the infernal gooch of the bottom rungs of the Internet Movie DataBase. Instead, Phil Tucker is considered worthy of derision (he also directed Dance Hall Racket, written by and starring Lenny Bruce (!), which I'm making a point of watching soon) when Robot Monster has so much of the infectious, genuine SOUL that dudes like the Kuchars want to capture but can't quite nail because they are too hip and "with it" (not a knock on the Kuchars, just an observation- when you consciously try to make "outsider art", it is never quite the same as, say, Shooby Taylor's scatting)


So yeah, when it comes down to it, consider this review a personal ad. If you have firm B's, dark hair (shoulder length at least), tastefully applied make-up, a love of 'challenging' media, a round ass, and want to be the Alice to my cave-dwelling Ro-Man, well, yeah, you're probably too good to be true and are a cutter and will only fuck me because I remind you of your brother or something. Soiled Sinema…maybe not the best place to meet sane ladies. Which is FINE, fuck, goofing on Robot Monster might make me respect people in general just a tad bit less, or goofing on any of the art I hold dear, for that matter, but ultimately, who gives a fuck? Ass-and-titties is ass-and-titties, Tarantino, you insufferable doofus. That any woman has had to tolerate his pathetic pecker inside of her is a tragedy on par with Robot Monster's ridiculous retrospective reception.


-Jon-Christian

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

The Sin of Nora Moran



In traditional pre-globalized puritanical Amerikkka, one would most certainly be at a loss to find genuine expressions of art and themes of moral unscrupulousness in movies. Sure, even to this day, the business-minded Hollywood studios continue to refrain from creating actual cinematic art and large segments of the America populous still keeps their irrational minds firmly encased in a medieval pseudo-Nazarene ghetto, but unconventional cinema has, thankfully, managed to marginally flourish since the post-WWII era as proven by works like Kenneth Anger’s iconic fetishistic masculine leather flick Scorpio Rising (1964) and Vincent Gallo’s feeble foreplay-ridden blowjob diary Brown Bunny (2003). Of course, a handful of American filmmakers were able to create artistically significant libertine works like Alla Nazimova's ultra-campy Beardsley-esque production of Salomé (1923) and the reasonably Biblically-correct homoerotic avant-garde short Lot In Sodom (1933) during the Pre-Code era, but, unfortunately, most of these films were neglected up their initial releases and thus, unsurprisingly, have remained all but forgotten in a mongrelized nation that has always prided itself on its mass-man 'culture' of vile peasant supremacy. Recently, I happened to come across the uncommonly risqué avant-garde crime melodrama The Sin of Nora Moran (1933) aka Voice from the Grave directed by Phil Goldstone. Featuring premarital sexual promiscuity and high-class adultery, gross political corruption, noxious crimes of passion, and all around debauchery and criminality from prohibition era America, The Sin of Nora Moran is a film that is in the highly entertaining epicurean spirit of HBO’s popular television series Boardwalk Empire. What makes the film especially interesting is that it was actually created during the era it portrays, yet, unlike most vintage Hollywood films of a similar but sapless sort created around the same time, The Sin of Nora Moran is distinctly uncompromising in its portrayal of ruling class corruption and rampant societal decadence. On top of candidly portraying the true grittiness and unwavering nihilistic hedonism of the era, The Sin of Nora Moran is an artistically ambitious and potent work that takes a totally transcendent yet agreeably mellifluent approach to storytelling, which has more in common with early European surrealist and arthouse works than the typical Hollywood crime and film noir flicks of that era.



 The Sin of Nora Moran follows a sweet but tragic girl who has suffered immensely and without end during her ill-fated yet relatively far-flung life. Orphaned, raped, exploited, betrayed, and imprisoned, beautiful babyface Nora Moran (played by Banat-German-American actresses Zita Johann) is a lovely little lady who has led a life of grave contretemps, but she remains as darling and dainty as ever during her increasingly accursed personal journey. Essentially, Nora is the archetypical adversary of the typical film noir femme fatale. While most film noir flicks portray the female lead as a conspiring succubus of sorts, Nora Moran of The Sin of Nora Moran is a natural victim who, against her somewhat strong will, becomes a virtual sex doll for men to rape, abuse, and ultimately dispose of. Although a mere quasi-burlesque circus performer trying to survive in an intrinsically ungodly world, Nora finds herself blindly climbing an ethically crooked social ladder and becoming the veiled mistress of a powerful yet disastrously irresponsible governor named Bill Crawford (played by Paul Cavanagh). When circus lion tamer Paulino (played by John Miljan) – a patently malicious man who also happens to be Nora’s personal serial rapist – finds out about the hopelessly star-crossed love affair, he naively conspires to blackmail the governor, but not without fatal results. After the accidental slaying of supreme degenerate Paulino, poor Nora, a selfless girl with seemingly no future, decides to take the blame, thus saving governor Bill and a conspiring District Attorney named John Grant (played by Alan Dinehart) from a career-shattering political scandal and a hot date with the electric chair. The short and sad story of Nora Moran is told from a variety of extravagant recollections and flashbacks-within-flashbacks and narrated by the District Attorney. Predating Christopher Nolan's Memento (2000) and the films of Quentin Tarantino by well over half a century, Nora’s horribly hexed life story is told in a delightfully discordant manner of meticulously deconstructed chronology. The Sin of Nora Moran also features a grim glimpse inside Nora’s calamitous subconscious as she awaits her deplorable and wholly undeserved destiny on death row. Defying the fundamental plot and theme conventions of virtually every Hollywood film ever created, The Sin of Nora Moran is a daring downer that offers no happy endings nor any form of solace for the viewer; a fact the film hints at from the very beginning.



Despite its hyper doom and gloom buffet of murder, rape, and suicide, The Sin of Nora Moran is, in consummation, an abnormally gorgeous go-getter of a film that was lavishly assembled with a broken moral compass and a keen eye for artistic focus, but, of course, it has its flaws.  Being a product of its era, The Sin of Nora Moran does have its share of aged-based thematic spoilage; most specifically, it’s surely outdated and modernly mundane portrayal of sin, which seems quite absurd in our present age of pronounced mass communal devolution.  After all, I doubt the 1930s featured such everyday absurdities as members of the white bourgeois dressing like impoverished ghetto blacks and vice versa, and where even college professor speak colloquially and boast of sexual conquests and the need for violent social unrest. While viewing the film, I often found the District Attorney's stoic and articulate narration to be unintentionally humorous as his once-common manner of refined 'anglophile' speech is now all but obsolete, henceforth linguistically deteriorating into the hooked-on-ebonics nation America is today. Naturally, the delinquent philandering antics of the manslaughtering governor seem quite tame by today's standards as we now live in a country where a recent ex-president and ardent adulterer found great joy in shoving his cigar in a husky Hebrew girl's snatch and where the current president is a literal double-bastard with anti-western Fanonian sympathies. In short, The Sin of Nora Moran is a classy, if somewhat outmoded and very slightly thematically moldy, tale of domestic transgression gone terribly awry. Combined with a spectacular nonlinear technique of mesmeric avant-garde storytelling that is comparable to F.W. Murnau’s masterpiece Sunrise: A Song of Two Humans (1927) and the once-assumed-lost Preston Sturge’s penned work The Power and Glory (1933), The Sin of Nora Moran is an ideally idiosyncratic work that will seem like a recovered lost treasure to any serious and adventurous cinephile.  In a manner of truly brazen blasphemy, Nora Moran, an 'unclean' girl of extra easy virtue, is betrayed and sacrificed for the sins of others just as Jesus Christ was.  Like his fellow Hebraic kinsmen and low-budget carny filmmaker Lloyd Kaufman, The Sin of Nora Moran director Phil Goldstone was mainly a producer and peddler of smut, but he did have his moment(s) of brilliance.  Although, I cannot say that I have seen most of his films (the majority of which seem to have deteriorated in some forgotten studio vaults), which range from obscure c-grade westerns like Montana Bill (1921) to exploitative works about venereal diseases like Damaged Goods (1937), The Sin of Nora Moran is indubitably Phil Goldstone's 'Citizen Kane' (and apparently this little b-movie did inspire Mr. Welles' masterpiece).


-Ty E