Assault! Jack the Ripper

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


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


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


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

-mAQ

Tekken

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


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


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


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


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

-mAQ

Don't Be Afraid of the Dark (1973)

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


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


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


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


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

-mAQ

Dolph Lundgren is The Killing Machine

Parallel to the release of the super-sized fast food sandwich we know as The Expendables, Dolph Lundgren retitled his courteous family-man/contract killer crime epic from Icarus to Dolph Lundgren is The Killing Machine. While this may look well on paper, this scraps the only semblance of a serious notion towards duplicating A Bittersweet Life in parts and Taken in others, in favor for an expose worshiping this real-life bad-ass. What we get is what we hoped for (we being classic 80s Dolph fans), not much akin to Dark Angel or Universal Soldier, Icarus is the very similar stoic combat-grizzled Soviet who has it out for whoever is wronging him. Owing almost the entire screen time to other films who have done this before and to a better advantage, Icarus never ceases being an anti-intellectual statement and a violent popcorn piece that gives you a merit badge in villainous ways to dispatch your foes. I may never look at a bench press again. Thanks for that, Dolph.

The bizarre thing is that while I do not condone the title switch it does seem to benefit from it, quality wise. Watching this film under the guise of Icarus prolapses the tale into comical austerity from which it never recovers being a DTV film for its own sake. However, as Dolph Lundgren is The Killing Machine, some nostalgic protective aura enshrouds the film giving it that root-for-utter-destruction edge that it needs to survive the continuous landslide that is direct to video sales. Under the moniker of both titles, the film still presents the superfluous tale of a father who has never been there for his family . . . because he assassinates "marks." Struggling to juggle his family and work life proves to be too great for Icarus (Dolph) and he finds himself the target of an old comrade for which penance and comradeship is not enough. Mix in random spices of post-KGB Russian conflict and you got yourself a translucent, yet enjoyable film capable of combing the cheese romance from Commando and creating a hybrid with some gruesome key scenes of cheek-ripping and face-crushing Dolph at his elderly physical peak.


As the film progresses, the producers, I assume, decide to barrage us with thinly conceived narration from Dolph explaining in pseudo-enlightened prose that he has to redeem himself amongst other contrived soliloquies. Upon hearing that he originally intended for his character to be a villain akin to his excellent role as Gunnar Jensen in The Expendables and that his producers denied his request due to sales, It occurred to me that Dolph is a mere puppet to his financial backings which must be a reason in declined quality. Dolph Lundgren was permitted 18 days to complete principal photography and didn't approve of the producers cut, which is what we are viewing. Had Mr. Lundgren has his way, I'm sure we'd all be enjoying a fastidious ode to what Dolph Lundgren really wants to convey with his villainy; a meditating crime tycoon who indulges in the very savagery that made him so prominent as an 80s action star who achieved critical success with his video rentals.



Icarus has several things on its belt, I'll admit. With the exceptional acting chops of the Stefanie von Pfetten (who is also a smelting pot on the eyes) and Lindsay Maxwell whose supple nipples must be the size of a "baby's fingernail", the film boasts strong female and male performances rounding out with a surprise role of Bo Svenson as the past come back to haunt Dolph. Icarus isn't a great film but its entertainment value is worth its weight in gold. I could find myself re-watching some of the exceptional shoot out scenes and replay some of the iconic deaths of the unfaltering waves of henchmen to my hearts delight. Icarus isn't a film that had to be made but now that it is here I graciously accept this gift for what it is; a film by Dolph Lundgren about Dolph Lundgren. I'm sure many of you can complain about the handicam quality but for what it is worth, Dolph sure is menacing toting a Remington 870 and I hungrily look forward to this brutes reemergence in the video scene. I believe I'm going to coin the term "dolphsterpiece" from here on out.

-mAQ

The Dead Pit

Having perused through some much needed cult horror recommendations several months ago, I recently rediscovered this twanging, pulsing need to subject myself to The Dead Pit since being reminded about its release on Code Red DVD. After seeking out a copy and collaborating with the desire for supernatural zombie mysticism inside of me, I can genuinely say I came out of this experience almost surprised by the creeping quality of this low-budget guttural triumph. Brett Leonard's similar affection for fog machines can be found within some of the smoky racial VR combat sequences featured in Virtuosity and I see a similar character schematic being shared with Feed's Michael Metszencalmpf and Dead Pit's Dr. Colin Ramzi. Not only is the set up reminiscent to the brilliant Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors but the brutal crescendo garners an visually-aromatic likeness to the most infamous of scenes within Return of the Living Dead. This plus Cheryl Lawson parading around screaming whilst exposing her midriff equals horror goodness.


Before I get off on a tangent with the ascertainable atmosphere within The Dead Pit, allow me to mention that the film is inclined to have a tremulous build up for some. It took me several viewings to make it past the 30 minute mark and I'm sure glad I finally buckled down for this treat. After its bizarre Ghoulies-esque opening scene of a young(er) Jeremy Slate lurking down a spiral staircase bathed in a ghoulish green smoke only to find a mad scientist who has been using the hospital's patients getting bizarre lobotomies and brain manipulation techniques. Telling the crazed Ramzi that this must come to an end, he puts a bullet between his eyes, rolls him in his "dead pit" and seals the cellar to the abandoned ward. Cut to the present, Dr. Gerald Swan (Slate) has become a shut-in psychiatrist with a misappropriated addiction to alcohol and counseling his patients. With the admittance of a new patient, one with a strange case of amnesia(?), a mysterious earthquake ravages the grounds and breaks the seal to the dead pit.


While the film desperately struggles to breathe life into all its characters, this proves unnecessary as the dead rise from their Nickelodeon-flavored point of entry to devour the brains of all who have entered upon this unholy ground. Cheryl Lawson as Jane Doe is pitch perfect as an entrancing bubblehead but not much more than that. Actress she is not, dissenting guinea pig of psychological and physical torture by way of a malicious manifestation she is. Her connection with the sinister undead ringleader goes as far as one with any luck in predictability would assume. Jane Doe's adventures at night as she daintily sneaks past guard prove to be superfluous at most as most of her contact with the specter prove to be through her dreams until the finale. Even as dated and aged as the film appears to be, The Dead Pit does feature an exquisite set of decadence as told through abandoned hospital wing. To strengthen this aspect, Brett Leonard utilizes several camera techniques way before their time to great effect e.g. the chase scenes through the halls as our poor lead actress flees in fear of falling victim to her boogeyman. At first glance, these scenes might appear to be ordinary but pay close attention as these tactics have just begun being employed again in such a similar "sweeping" pattern. See also: Live Free or Die Hard for a recent example.


Perhaps the most universal ground of praise in The Dead Pit would be the climax of the film where Dr. Ramzi commands all his minions to shuffle ominously through the swinging double doors. Again, the implementing of the fog machine works to a brilliant key stroke. The calamitous nature of these bumbling fiends plays to great regards the tension needed for the shuffling beasts and their lack of humanity. Now while these slaves are limited by command, they break down my expectations to kill two police officers just off the property which sets the mood nicely for an all-over possibility of this supernatural epidemic breaking past the grounds and possibly into a world-killing event. Just a thought. The Dead Pit, while being an 80s horror film, is a sugar rush of evil incarnate. This comes as no surprise from the highly efficient skills of Brett Leonard. It's rather saddening to see him resort to directing Highlander films nowadays as he was such an unregarded icon in both cyber-thrillers and debut zombie features. The Dead Pit comes greatly recommended if you can digest the constant dribble of loons until you reach the midway notch. This is a film that matures as the mysticism of evil progresses; a very nice touch for a first-timer.

-mAQ

Death Bed: The Bed That Eats

Whether in the underground or the mainstream, I have viewed a plethora of horrible films during my life. I have dug far and wide, from nation-to-nation (cinematically not geographically, of course) hoping to find those few dark films worthy of recognition and notoriety. Despite all the mediocrity I have encountered on my cinematic journeys, the celluloid adventures have been worth it when I recall such horrific masterpieces as Jörg Buttgereit's Nekromantik, Lucio Fulci's The Beyond, Roger Watkins' Last House on Dead End Street, Andrey Iskanov's Visions of Suffering, and a variety of others. Recently, I took my chances with an odd and peculiar horror film Death Bed: The Bed That Eats, a film with such an odd title that it would make even the most initiated and jaded of horror hunters out there wonder in amusement.

Death Bed: The Bed That Eats was directed by the unknown auteur George Barry, a man that seems to only understand art in his own lost vacuum world as his single horror accomplishment testifies to. The ambiguous ghostly voyeur of the Death Bed is the tragic decadent artist Aubrey Beardsley, who is trapped within his own painting. The last great Sage poet and American patriot Ezra Pound once stated, "Beardsley was a sick man who knew he had to make a name quickly if he wanted to make it, personal wish, not believing in what art is or ought to be.......He was a heroic invalid, up to the point of his force. He didn't lie to himself or his friends in private, He knew that beauty is so difficult. He said, beauty is difficult." Like Pound's statement about Beardsley, director George Barry also should hold the title of "heroic invalid," a filmmaker with a twisted vision whose idea of beauty can only be found in the most dark, damp, and deteriorating of mid-western basements. The world of Death Bed: The Bed That Eats is a place that not many people would willingly go to, but those that desire to will be treated to a place of wonderful phantasmagorical bless. For those that cherish their deepest and darkest of strange dreams, the film visualizes a supreme deadly daydream, offering the viewer a glimpse of a deteriorated celluloid netherworld that will not be soon forgotten.


I can only imagine that director George Barry used a wide variety of mind altering drugs before, during, and after the production of Death Bed: The Bed That Eats. In fact, I would not be surprised if Mr. Barry got the idea for this lovely nightmare of a film whilst wasting away on his own bed. Some of the most aesthetically powerful scenes in Death Bed: The Bed That Eats occur when the bed eats a much deserving docile victim. The beautiful bed does not really eat the person, but burns them alive in a beer-like yellowish liquid which vaporizes human flesh like acid. The bed also resonates a whitish foam that makes one wonder whether or not the bed is sexually aroused by the humans it consumes. Drug connoisseur or not, I am sure George Barry felt a bed that eats people would make for a distinctly interesting film in comparison to a bed that people die on merely by overdosing on. Despite the many killings that have occurred before the sad quaint eyes of forever young Aubrey Beardsley, he seems to have gotten rather bored with bedside killings.


If you're looking for a vintage and hypnotic piece of original Sinema, Death Bed: The Bed That Eats is the film to see. I am pretty sure Aubrey Beardsley would not have minded having his ghost make an appearance in this fantastic acid horror experiment, for this is a film merely following in his hopelessly decadent footsteps. Just as I wonder where artistically Beardsley would have ended up had he not succumbed to tuberculosis at an early age, I also wonder where George Barry would have went cinematically had he continued directing films after Death Bed: The Bed That Eats. Maybe Barry only had one film in him, but this single horror film and one-time director deserve exclusive recognition, for Death Bed: The Bed That Eats is one of those rare horror films that manages to go beyond the typical sensory power of the medium, radiating Sinema gold. Swim inside the Death Bed because surreal nightmares like these never get old.

-Ty E

Chloe

I have been eagerly waiting for sometime to see Atom Egoyan direct another film that even compares to the psycho-sexual electricity of his brilliant work Exotica. That being said, I never thought his next best film would be a highly unconventional lipstick lesbian affair between a voluptuous eighteen year old Aryan girl and a middle-aged red-headed housewife. The sexual romance occurs unconsciously (or at least for the older gal) when a wife disillusion-ally suspects her husband of banging his young college students. I guess the wife has reason to suspect when her husband seems more interested in instant-messaging his female students online than engaging in coitus with a woman he used to passionately pound three times a day. To make the film extra-sexually-subversive, Atom Egoyan made sure to have the wife's son have some high quality hard-on time with the woman of his Mother's subconscious dreams. Like Exotica before it, Chloe is a brilliantly crafted and lavishly paced film that engages the viewer in intercourse during the film's beginning and explodes with a pleasantly fulfilling climax at the end.


With most of the beautiful lipstick lesbians I have met in my life, I have noticed a couple things. For one, the lipstick lesbian is not a sexually inverted bulldyke with too much testosterone who wishes to be male, but usually wallows in the wonderful world of female beauty. Secondly, the lipstick-lebso seems to have not been born with a love of female-on-female cunnilingus but instead developed her fetishistic vice through the lack of development of a mother-daughter relationship as a child just as Chloe hints at throughout Chloe. The married Mother Catherine becomes the perfect motherly replacement for Chloe, a woman that in age could be her own mother. When Chloe attempts to give Catherine her own Mother's hairpin, she is symbolically asking the older woman to replace her own Mother, even if it is in the form of a behind the curtains night of engaging in each others meat curtains.


Wife and Mother Catherine's Lesbian inclinations seem to be the result of her loss of sexual passion for husband and her overall lack of sexual potency as a Mother. She gets aroused at the idea of the young Chloe passionately fondling her husband, for it makes her feel like she did when she was young. Also, being a gynecologist and a sage of the Vagina, Chloe must have been tempted to go down South more than once during her life. Unfortunately for Chloe it seems that Catherine just wanted a taste of the blond beastess. Catherine's eighteen year old son offered Chloe some masturbatory fun but the boy toy could never replace a Mother figure. I think Atom Egoyan should be noted as the director of the truly best family affair for Chloe's passionate nuclear family scare is certainly cinematically quite rare.


Chloe is a brave film and Atom Egoyan is no doubt a brave auteur. Apparently, Chloe was a film that either the critics loved or hated. I certainly do not see feminists, bulldyke lesbians, or any other type of prudish wanna-be-men/men-haters enjoying the film. I have seen more than my fair share of Lesbian-themed films and Chloe is the only one to successfully combine eroticism, sexually-paced storytelling, and passionate-acting for a believable mädis-tale that one will think about long after the experience is over. Isn't that what good sex is about?

-Ty E