The Watcher

I remember as a young teenager always wanting to see The Watcher. Not for James Spader who I've only recently noticed or Marisa Tomei who redefines the need for a mature and elder sexual appetite but for Keanu Reeves, who I have loved as an A-list Hollywood actor since the release of cybergem Johnny Mnemonic. Following the release of this film, I never payed attention to its video release date and never pursued viewing it until finding a copy at our local thrift store. With top billing of James "Sexrat" Spader as a homicide detective suffering from the removed effects of trepanation and Keanu Reeves as a maniacal and loony serial killer, I felt that The Watcher had nowhere to go but up. Upon viewing I wasn't quite as right as I would have liked to be. What I received in return for a stifling price of .33 cents was one of the earlier seditious gay serial killer films.


As with most games of cat-and-mouse projected in almost every James Patterson "Alex Cross" novel or thriller period, this story involves a serial killer tormenting a subject of a previous crime. With malice and curious man-love as his initiative, Reeves follows the relocation of Joel Campbell (Spader) from Los Angeles to Chicago as he waits timelessly to rekindle his own twisted brand of anonymous, ambiguous homosexuality. After a painful opening showcasing the track that single-handedly killed the 90s, Rob Zombie's Dragula, we are tethered down and forced to watch Keanu Reeves dance around waving his(!) handgun in a shamanistic manner. Not to mention that Keanu Reeves isn't dancing to the song accordingly or the lack of music in the foreground thanks to the third wall set up by this archaic time capsule of dated editing but had they picked any other track over Dragula, the film would have been a lot better off as it brings to mind heavy doses of The Matrix and every Playstation game worthy of nostalgic memories.



The dosage of disturbing affection that was meant to ripple the waves uncorks itself near the three-quarter marker of the film. The scene's composites clue you in on this with the addition of Campbell's psychiatrist as more of a bargaining chip than a pretty supporting actress with no climaxual involvement. Once he breaks into her office searching for the recorded sessions with Campbell and escapes with his masturbatory evidence, he scrutinizes the audio in a jarring fashion while he rewinds and repeats the line of "Do you need him?" The instances of subliminal faggotry only become more intense and frequent. During the showdown in a waterfront building, The Watcher suddenly switched to the thematic innocence much alike that of The Voice of the Night penned by Dean Koontz. As Campbell and Griffin both standoff over the life of an unnecessary female element to their ragtag boy element consisting of vengeance and chase scenes, it was hard not to imagine little Colin and Roy's scuffle over poor Heather at the finale of the very same mentioned book. After all, Griffin would never let a "bitch" ruined the love he has worked so hard for, all those pretty women near or far. The opposition would never have a chance to escalate of Griffin silenced them; after dancing in front of them and embarrassing himself of course.


Throughout his victims, Griffin shows so much compassion towards them before the deed that it becomes an endearing practice, murder, that is. His slayings seems to be so intimate and personable yet disastrous as well. As I expected, Keanu Reeves made for a solid nemesis for the protagonist but I wouldn't codify him as simple as a villain. You see, Griffin's intentions are nothing more than illicit feelings for Campbell but Griffin's demeanor is largely cheerful and curious so it detracts from the actual suspense. Most of the suspense and thrills are actually on fault in part to the chase sequences, only certain ones though. The car chase scene proved to be expertly shot save for the clandestine gas station explosion. As much as the camera weaved through traffic, it couldn't sustain after Griffin lobbed the zippo lighter to ignite the building, killing 3 police officers only to make his getaway in a flaming car.


The Watcher is a self-cynical 90s thriller which spiraled the expectations pretty low for my fluctuating standards. Be that as it may, it proved to be a rather entertaining ride through the eyes of a cloak-and-dagger serial killer and James Spader whining while abusing barbiturates. Even though the effects and editing are isolated in a time of awkward practices in action/thrillers, I find that I'm able to resist slapping judgment on this film on account of its terrible grainy-viewcam that we utilize for Griffin's stalking vision or the abundant negative exposure flashes to insinuate foreboding extermination. Not to be mistaken as a film about the streets, The Watcher is about the possible dangers of homosexuality and a testament to the madness that festers within the eyes of the rich boy hustler that Reeves' has portrayed in several roles spanning his career.

-mAQ

Neighbor

Such a sweet and welcoming face; beauty of that sexual caliber could be no more devious than any of the other bitches of the world, as Gualtiero Jacopetti should have titled La donna nel mondo (Women of the World). Continuing forward with the guise of a flawless clothed body, indie horror welcomes a new gore starlet with America Olivo. She teems with slutty class and a giggle that will melt your heart - and she's a serial killer. And so the ball has been dropped and no heads are turning. I wonder why that is? Oh, it's because this isn't new and worst off, it isn't good. Neighbor aka Robert A. Masciantonio's Neighbor is an awful film and a prime offender of gore-for-the-sake-of-gore. Switch sights to disappointment because this is solid proof that eye candy only goes as far as unstimulated entertainment; eye candy and moving pictures should never be mixed. Just look at the prime examples of D.O.A. - Dead or Alive, Bandidas, Tomb Raider, Onechanbara, Attack Girls' Swim Team vs. Undead, or many of the other countless titles with the mirrored modus operandi. Any film that occupies matter over mind has a general success rate of single digits and proves to be as intimidating and infuriating as the prices they charge for cinema feces.


The film on trial here opens with a beautiful woman listening to music and dancing around a very nice kitchen. She eats a bowl of cereal and presumes her joyous shuffle without an air of menace other than the knowledge of this films primary genre alignment. As she goes upstairs and opens a door, flash to two beyond mutilated bodies tied up in chairs. The woman screams and when the trauma passes, she laughs. Such a tedious opening for a film, and to think Masciantonio actually attempted to "psyche" us out with juvenile playground tactics. Had this been a mind game of a film or implemented in a later stage of story progression, I might had been fooled but we're not in Kindergarten and what I watched was too stupid for words. With the plot in concern, the film adopts a simple tale of a new girl in town who begins a spree of murder that disconnects a tight-knit community of friends. But between you and me, none of this really happens. Almost no mention of her moving into town recently was exchanged between cast, time just churns up into fine dust as the run time is squandered by America Olivo in skimpy clothes torturing dude-bros.


While this rendition of horror might seem appealing, it could only be so to the next Evil Dead memorabilia sporting metal-head who would appreciate something for the effects of violence and brutality towards unsuspecting victims. While I appreciate a nice scene of mayhem and murder as much as the average consumer of oddities, I enjoy it to be wrapped nicely in something called continuity and story archs, not a film centering itself around tits and blood, which we don't get none or much of either. Now to flip planes sharply, America Olivo is a great actress for what she's done. She was beautiful in Bitch Slap however no amount of good looks could have made that film palpable for me and she turns a nice psychotic turn in Neighbor which is presumably a natural talent. Neighbor just isn't equipped with really much of anything other than a circle of guys drinking in a bar planning a party. That's the key set up for the brutal shenanigans to take place, only it never does all in part to "The Girl" kidnapping our lead protagonist and torturing him and his girlfriend to soak up the rest of the time necessary for "feature length." Also, he later presumes he's dreaming during a slow purging from existence in an effort to channel An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge vibes of post-Jacob's Ladder discord.


I find it very discomforting that I can only praise the level of stark violence in Neighbor. I'd really like to be able to proclaim something in this abscessed project to have value or meaning but it's misplaced as a skin flick but doesn't aspire to be anything but cock-teasing on celluloid. You'd think they could fit a nice shower scene in the midst of Neighbor, I mean, with all the scenes of home invasion on display here that equate to little or nothing. Neighbor is a mess of a film; the kind that you are embarrassed to have watched. While some idiots can mistake the context of cruelty and splatter to be "camp", I cannot accept this travesty for something that it isn't - tolerable. While America Olivo is an attractive female who isn't afraid to bare all for us in Playboy, she's just a face - a body composed of tissue, muscle, bone, and fluid who will inevitably perish and rot. She and I will never amount to anything because time destroys all. Neighbor is a pitiful excuse for a horror movie; a two-tone wall of off-whites painted by someone with scarce knowledge of real horror. The revelation that life is precious...and I actually wasted 2 hours of my life on this fetid shit.

-mAQ

Splice

"Species" you might be joking, science fiction film it is, skin-romp hybrid thriller this isn't. Splice comes from the mind of Vincenzo Natali, the minimalist director behind the voracious paranoia of Cube and the ideological wit of Nothing. Splice is his newest foray into films that chronicle the broad aspect of science. Cube didn't so much tackle the theme of science as it was more of an ambiguous and unseen threat whereas Splice hosts Dren who is both worldly and terrifying. Capturing the star power of Adrien Brody as the awkward Clive and Sarah Polley as Elsa, Splice already has two things going for it. Fresh off the high that Predators left me frantically searching for in other studio pictures, it was nice to rewind to him with hair, and emotion. Natali has come along way from his oddball films with singular ideas and it glows transparently as Splice harnesses too many ideas leaving the film with a slight attitude of a bewildered newborn. That is, until the second part of the film.


Starting out, Splice jumps right ship into the fairly mundane zone of the film and normally every motion picture has these, whether they are necessary or not. If judgment came down to brass tacks then I'd choose to be wowed in the end than in the beginning. Being the pessimist that I am, I find more comfort in closings. After the science terminologies are passed around rather fervidly between the married couple, Elsa projects this crazy idea for moving onto the next phase by incorporating human DNA into their "The Mist" inspired flesh beasts with unsurprising results. Viola! The "mistake" is created in an artificial chamber that sports very creative imagery of artificial birthings and goopy sound effects. Once they discover a mutating age ratio amongst the beastchild, the consequential happenstances come out to bite them in the ass. Dren, named after the company for whom they are employed under (N.E.R.D. but backwards), begins to evolve at an incredible rate and becomes increasingly more feminine and borderline aggressive. As far as the tale of Splice goes, lets just say I'm glad this bat-out-of-hell never hits menopause.


Once the fire of passionate yet pretentious storytelling fades, the sinister and wondrous special effects of Splice take heed as the sole proprietor of the audiences attention and will remain so until the controversial copulation scene that had me wincing and feeling like a psychosexual deviant for not turning away. Not only does the CGI of the older Dren look so disgustingly fleshy but her body has been paid strict attention to detail, even so far as down to the terrestrial breasts on her unnatural body. All this was led up to with very critical scenes of masterful suspense and banal foreshadowing which is why Splice hit me as hard as it did, excusing the latter. Had I not cared about this creature or its rotating affection for either Clive or Elsa, I wouldn't have been so damned creeped out by its juvenile affections towards either surrogate. Just watching it spell words with Scrabble letters had me urging to break out of the trance I had been placed in to do something more productive than watching some flustered equality-of-sexes-my-ass motion picture encompassing that awkward "alien" sexuality that the Species series is so known for.


Speaking of psychotic women in film, Splice is one of the more recent contenders. Not only are Elsa's intentions not as they appear, she splits mid-film into a baby crazy bitch whose mind and matter are both disproportionate to what they were at the beginning of Splice. Which is not to say that the ending of Splice came as a surprise, which it did, but could have easily been presumed and predicted well before the finale of this film. Splice is that film that if you venture in with an elitist nit-picking attitude trying to discern true science behind a quasi-creature feature then you'd be sorely mistaken. While not breaking any new ground with the monster mash near the end that invokes memories of Jeepers Creepers 2, however this time with no racial purging, Splice does many things right and these are all brave grounds that Species didn't penetrate. While the seduction was in place, Natasha Henstridge could never compete with Delphine Chanéac's harrowing and childlike sexual demeanor. The problem with Splice isn't so much within the film itself but in the audience. While I admit I wanted to hate this film for its melancholy and disastrous ending, I found this to be the reason why I enjoyed this film so much. It's an affable piece of genetic destruction if I'd ever seen one and it was directed by someone with talent; a fleeting feat indeed. Just don't expect a sing-song ultraviolent masterpiece with this one.

-mAQ

Freddy Got Fingered

Freddy Got Fingered is such a singularly caustic, anarchic pipebomb of surreal tastelessness it is a crying shame many will simply relegate it to the dustbin of recent pop cultural history wherein the rest of Tom Green's career resides. Whatever the merits of Green's love-him-or-hate-him persona, however unavoidable was the refrain of "my bum is on your..." in the summer of '99, whether or not it is fair to blame (or pity) him for the subsequent success of Jackass (which utilized many of the most notable elements of Green's MTV show- parental abuse, skateboarding, and go-for-broke gross-out gags- while in turn dropping the more challenging, surreal aspects in favor of giggly teen boy fauxmoroticism), there is no denying that for a few glorious weeks in 2001, cinema audiences the nation over were treated within minutes of the opening credits of a major studio produced comedy the sight of a man so inspired by a glimpse of an erect equine cock that he stops his car, hops a fence, and jiggles and jerks the massive member with eye-rolling glee. Why does he do this? Why not? Like the early punk anthems that form much of the film's soundtrack, Freddy Got Fingered blasts by on a pure, unadulterated urge to shock with a manic pace that never lets up.


Green directs himself as Gordy, a 28-year old sociopathic manchild who dreams of nothing more than to see his senseless doodles translated into small screen success. Gordy's dad (Rip Torn!) wants nothing more than for Gordy to follow the example of his younger brother Freddy and get a job and move out of the house. In the struggles of wills that ensues we are invited to witness Rip Torn bare his ass while goading Green to fuck him (which manages to somehow be far more horrifying than an earlier scene of Green cutting open and then prancing about in the carcass of a dead deer), the hilarity that ensues when Gordy falsely accuses his dad of molesting said younger brother (hence the title), a cloyingly cute child actor brutalized in increasingly-violent turns of fate, Gordy licking a friend's open leg wound, Gordy delivering a baby against the mother's will (biting the umbilical chord with his teeth and swinging the gore-drenched stillborn around his head to revive it), and a pachyderm sperm-soaked reconciliation between father and son that must rank in Rip Torn's mind as the absolute nadir of a once-promising career.


In Roger Ebert's scathing indictment of a review he rightly recognizes that "the day may come when Freddy Got Fingered is seen as a milestone of neo-surrealism" while going on to add "The day may never come when it is seen as funny." On that count, I would have to disagree- the humor in the film is well-balanced between Green's off-the-cuff weirdo asides, scatological mania, and a more successful go at the politically incorrect humor of, say, a Troma flick. The only reason my laughs were muted throughout was that my jaw was dropping at unprecedented rates, not just in terms of how genuinely disgusting much of the imagery was, but in the utter strangeness of scenes like Gordy rigging a sausage-pulley system to his fingers so he can play off-tune piano, eat breakfast and draw at the same time, or when an attempted blowjob is delayed by the discovery of a piece of umbilical cord duct-taped to his stomach. Werner Herzog fell over himself praising Harmony Korine for the piece of bacon taped above the bathtub in Gummo, but what of the umbilical cord taped to Green's stomach? It's a shame Werner never got a load of this one; not unlike Gummo, this is the work of an artist burning to tell a tale as only he can tell it, a purging of deep-seated weirdness and fantastic imagery that will never be equalled in his oeuvre. Hollywood chewed Green up and spit him out into the made-for-tv children's comedies and reality game show hell we've forged for those who are no longer relevant, but frankly Freddy Got Fingered is as succinct and subversive a statement as the guy will ever make, so fuck it. Why not?


Lastly, one can't review Freddy Got Fingered without mention of Green's love interest Betty (Marisa Coughland), perhaps the most perfect female specimen to ever grace the big-screen: an endlessly supportive, blowjob-obsessed, wheelchair-bound doctor/amateur rocket-scientist who loves nothing more than being beat in her useless legs with a bamboo stick (to orgasm). "But Gord, I don't care about jewels, I just want to suck your cock." Through what mad alchemy did Green arrive at a girl that exemplifies the very ethos of Soiled Sinema?

-Jon-Christian

Rampage

I have had many aggressively nihilistic friends over the years, young men who have a hellish fireball of hatred towards modern America and everything that it stands for. Of course, what young white man with a set of testicles and two functional eyes would not be repelled by seeing the land their forefather conquered be turned into a de-industrialized third world that is looted by parasitic diaspora tribes from around the globe. Take that in consideration with all the violent action films Hollywood is pumping out and one won't be surprised to realize there is essentially an underground unorganized army of very pissed off white men. Most of these young men unfortunately use their pent up unharnessed hatred towards their own self-destruction. A friend of mine once blew up a bomb in the parking lot of Wal-Mart only to find himself sharing a jail shower with a group of Negroes. Why couldn't he have been more creative? German Ed Wood Uwe Boll seems to have some hope for these young men in his new action-packed trash masterpiece Rampage, a film that holds no hostages and offers no condolence to America's happy Hollywood-ending loving audiences.


All of Uwe Boll's improperly channeled hatred for America and Hollywood has been finally appropriately expressed in his film Rampage. The victims of Rampage are the American majority philistine population, the majority of people that will watch it, the film letting the audience know that not everything is alright at Starbucks or the hair salon. The lead "anti-hero" Bill is a young psychopath with a grudge against society that won't be vaporized merely by taking a massive bong-toke. It is apparent from the get go that Billy boy has a secondary manifesting character that is begging to be unleashed on the society as the film progresses. By the end of the film, one realizes that Bill is a lone wolf that only sees himself as a fellow comrade. In a society where alienating anyone that does not believe in the fantastic myth of a multicultural Utopia and the fallacy of world peace, deranged individuals like Bill are only growing exponentially everyday. The questions is who is to blame culturally: Eli Wiesel and Oprah Winfrey or David Duke and Minister King Samir Shabazz?


Despite his slight mental instability,Travis Bickle, the Anti-hero of Martin Scorsese's masterpiece The Taxi-Driver, saw some hope for the world. Even saving a young teen prostitute from a weaselly pimp was at least a virtuous deed. Flash forward a couple decades later and most of that urban vigilante hope is now at the level of the bowels of a New York City sewer. Bill of Rampage is not interested in helping anyone, he's just in it for the money. In America, one can make millions by putting a taser to their testicles on TV for the viewing pleasure of America's barbaric programed audiences. If a jackass like Johnny Knoxville can become rich and famous by degrading himself (as well as degrading his audience), why not just take the money and run whilst unloading bullets? Rampage has a very stupid and generic metal soundtrack that accentuates the films overall feeling of unrelenting pathological hatred. The Taxi-Driver had a beautiful Jazz score (and I hate Jazz) that was able to touch more than one nerve. One only has to follow the historical emotional degeneration of film (from The Taxi-Driver to Rampage) to see the overall deluge of American 'kultur.'


Is Rampage a work of anti-social action-packed art or a capitalist German Anti-American's most repulsive cinematic fart? The film is merely what it is at face value, an aggressive emotional response to an uncertain occidental world. I have no doubt in my mind that Rampage will set some idiot off on a killing Rampage and I would not be surprised if that was one of Uwe Boll's intentions with the film. The world is no longer feeling sorry for the United States, a country that prides itself on unwarranted arrogance and hating any place/people that prides itself on it's cultural achievements. I almost fear that Rampage is an expression of more hideous things to come in America, for there is no evidence to the contrary. Since Hollywood is not interested in expressing American truths (but more interested in covering them up), leave it to an honest hack like Uwe Boll to so glaringly reveal them.

-Ty E

Once Upon A Time In America

Hollywood has plenty of dago wop-fest mafia films, but is certainly lacking in regards to the much more powerful and organized Jewish mafia. Leave it to to Spaghetti Western master craftsman Sergio Leone to make the greatest Jewish mafia (and possibly greatest mafia film in general) ever made, Once Upon A Time In America is as classy as gangster films get, quite the accomplishment indeed. Despite taking place mostly in the young ghettos of New York City, most of Once Upon A Time In America was shot in Italy and Spain. Director and co-writer Sergio Leone spent a lot of time and great detail recreating NYC, a version of the city that looks more aesthetically power than the real city itself. Apparently, Leone used paintings from such iconic American artists as Norman Rockwell as a frame of reference when designing the set for Once Upon A Time In America. Maybe researching art history can be of some value after all.


I have never really thought of Robert De Niro as much of an Italian, but as more of a philistine working-class Jew. In Once Upon A Time In America, De Niro does a brilliant job playing the Rapist Jew Noodles. Noodles is a man who seems unable to truly get close with anyone, including his best friend Max and his life-long love interest Deborah. Of course, Noodles cannot be blamed for his criminal behavior and unconventionally smooth antisocial tendencies, for he is a product of a particular time and place. Noodles has turned into a man already in his early childhood/teenage years, killing an older mafia hood named Bugsby and even stabbing a cop, but those are just the consequences when playing rough. After serving time and getting out of jail as an adult, Noodles is even less emotional towards people in his personal life and more importantly whilst committing crucial crimes. Despite his peculiar form of criminal stoicism throughout his whole life, Noodles appropriately comes to terms with his dubious history in an elegant manner at the end of Once Upon A Time In America, making him a rapist and murderer one cannot help but like. Noodles uses words sparingly, but what the few words he does choose to use tell more than the most revealing of biographies.


The real dirty psychopath Yid of Once Upon A Time In America is mafia mastermind Max. Like many of the top IQ individuals members of his kinfolk, Max suffers from a form megalomaniac madness that helps him to be a real top criminal. Noodles maybe a rapist and killer, but he certainly plays the game of morality more nicely than his bandit buddy Max. By the end of Once Upon A Time In America, it becomes very clear that Max was always a one-man team, just using his partners as temporary tools for personal gains. Unfortunately for Max, he is well aware of his insanity (and well aware of his late Father's) and does not take kindly to Noodles telling him that he is 'crazy.' Crazy is as crazy does, but Max does it fairly successfully, going from a poor Ghetto Jew to one of the richest businessmen/politicians in America. Max is a wonderful symbol for what it truly takes to become success in America, a purist in regards to achieving the much sentimentalized "American dream."


I find most epics to be epically disappointing, films full of aesthetic fireworks yet lacking in solid and rich storytelling. Once Upon A Time In America maybe be the most complete and richly layered story ever told in the form of masterly crafted celluloid. A lot of the great and legendary auteur filmmakers end their careers on a weak note, no longer capable of the same artistic vitality that made them brilliant filmmakers. Sergei Leone is certainly an exception to this unfortunate trend of legendary directors burning out. As a master dictator auteur, Sergei Leone died with his boots on, proving to Hollywood and the world that artistic integrity will always stand the test of time in comparison to mere highly financed technical innovation. After all, who else could have created the brilliant work that is Once Upon A Time In America, one of the most American films ever made directed by a cultural outsider.

-Ty E

Thirst

I've given myself up to Park-Chan Wook and various other Korean masters. After charismatically bringing a manga to life with his mucky revenge thriller Oldboy, he separated himself from the pack by creating not only the greatest adaptation (arguably) of comic-to-cinema but insisted that this entity has an existence past paper thus making Oldboy seem so far apart from the rest of the pile. With his Vengeance trilogy, I have been impressed mostly but I will admit needing to rewatch all three for an overall satisfactory experience but with Thirst, Chan-wook seeks to reset the way the horror and vampire genre are to be digested. Thirst is a brooding vampire noir and I'd like to think the first of its kind. But this slow burning cinematic hemorrhage will inevitably take its toll on your default mood and I assume with this statement that the power of film is capable of moving you to either end of the extremes.


The incredible aspect of Thirst is its multi-format inconsistencies that leap from scene to scene bewildering you with what appears to be embracing every manifestation of these night demons sans the bat metamorphosis. Perceived by me to be an unintentional ode to The Invisible Man, Sang-hyun adorns bandages spanning his entire body for what he doesn't realize to be a deathly allergy to sunlight. From the silent stalking to the coffin sleeping, Thirst spans all incarnations of vampire, save for the glitter variety. The Bandaged Saint's introduction to the screen is what sets this absent priest apart from the other sexually-ravenous Catholic members of the boy-loving kind. After hearing the pleas of a suicidal nurse in the confession stand, Sang-hyeon sighs and suggests to her a diet of sun and anti-depressants and to "forget that bastard who dumped you." Not so much holy as a vulnerable man. Wanting to do some good he volunteers his body as a vessel to play guinea pig to experiment treatment for an incurable disease called the Emmanuel Virus. After dying on the table after an unsuccessful blood transfusion(!), he returns to life softly praying and miraculously healing.


All this leads up to his wild descent into the evil charms of a woman who is just given a tiny bit of power who then executes the lowly priests self-extinction. And thus the true majesty of Thirst is bared to all. In a way it seems despondent towards the cries of gender equality and feminism but as you can so succinctly envision in this tale of fiction coated in non-fiction, things are not always what they appear to be. While the male is really no good but at least strives for less than original sin, it's the female, "Eve", who banishes the immortal Adam to a silent purgatory of relentless emotional abuse. Thirst invokes in me a malicious wrath of hatred towards the promiscuity of women. As far as hypocrisy goes, I've indeed had my fill. The scene with Tae-ju having rough sex with one of Kang-Woo's dinner friends flustered me to no end. One facet of life I cannot indulge into is the whorish behaviors of the female. More recently, I've had to deal with heavy emotional baggage of the same caliber but not quite as fitting. I would strongly recommend you viewing Thirst if you've ever had female problems which applies to most men. Anyone who disagrees with me is a whipped bitch, that's all.


Thirst is composed of select scenes of explosive conflict as the hunger drives and thrives within the unholy only to alternate between takes to a serene and peaceful look into the life of a nocturnal predator. It's not as though these are bad people. It's rather sorrowful to observe this wayward servant of god helplessly try to remain of good intent as he struggles with a condition that his "god" undoubtedly had to create; unless of course he seeks counsel in the open arms of science. Now on to the highlight of the show, sex and blood lust. If Thirst had to be known for one thing, it's the trauma-inducing sex scenes. To watch a vampire unaware of his own strength literally pound a virgin unabashedly while she winces in pain is as awkward as watching those POV porn angles of slapping genitalia.


To its credit, Thirst also is cursed with incredibly realistic sex sequences. This is no escapist view into what sex should be or how it should be. No glamorous makeup, no soft grunts, no magical butterflies in the pit of your stomach. The lavish sequences of lust are raw, crude, and desirable only to those involved which is how sex in cinema should be. When the film finally reaches its forlorn conclusion, silence will swell up in the pit of your stomach which was the case for me and it seems that all of life's problems were solved with the promise of a lovely sacrifice. Far be it from me to exclaim this to be the best vampire film created in a long time but I'd be lying if I didn't admit this is one of the best. It's also rather uncommon for a film to show the truth of the ever-going female decay and how we are powerless against it.

-mAQ