Alice in Wonderland: An X-Rated Musical Fantasy

For whatever reason, pseudonymous English writer Lewis Carroll’s novels have proven to be fruitful material for celluloid erotica. Indeed, arguably the most notable example of this is Jonas Middleton’s hardcore arthouse horror effort Through the Looking Glass (1976), which is based on Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There (1871), which is the less popular sequel to the author’s Alice's Adventures in Wonderland (1865). Additionally, both French auteur Louis Malle’s sometimes sensual surrealist work Black Moon (1975) featuring Warhol superstar Joe Dallesandro (who was no stranger to nudity and even pornography, although he does not go unclad in the film), as well as Cecil Howard’s shockingly artsy and kaleidoscopic porn fantasy Neon Nights (1981) demonstrate blatant Carroll-esque elements, not least of all because they both star a naïve blonde girl who becomes immersed in a striking fantasy realm of mystery and intrigue. Of course, the most blatant example of Carrollian celluloid carnality is the pornographic musical Alice in Wonderland: An X-Rated Musical Comedy (1976) aka Alice in Wonderland directed by horror hack turned pornographer Bud Townsend (Nightmare in Wax, Terror House) and starring fashion model and Playboy cover girl turned porn star turned semi-mainstream actress Kristine DeBell (Meatballs, The Big Brawl). Produced by porn mogul Bill Osco, who is notable for producing the first mainstream adult film, Mona the Virgin Nymph (1970), as well as the erotic Flash Gordon spoof Flesh Gordon (1974), Alice in Wonderland bears the seemingly strange distinction of being a fuck flick that was picked up and distributed by 20th Century Fox, though they cut three minutes of the work so they could receive an R-rating. Luckily, in 2007, the now unfortunately defunct label Subversive Cinema released the film on DVD in both its hardcore and softcore versions, with the former being the version I had the marginal delight of recently viewing. Undoubtedly, out all the Carroll-themed fuck flicks, Townsend's Alice in Wonderland is the most innately juvenile as a work that genuinely seems like it was created to appeal to children, thus making it quite at odds with Middleton’s genuinely dark and depraved blue movie masterpiece Through the Looking Glass. Of course, considering porn films and musicals share similar structures (e.g.: little bit of storyline, ‘action,’ little bit of storyline, ‘action,’ etc.), it should be no surprise that someone would make a sing-a-long porn movie, but I would be lying if I did not admit that I forwarded through most of the songs in Alice in Wonderland, which reek of 1970s retrograde raunch. Indeed, while Townsend’s smutty musical is worth a see, it is far too ‘cute’ and pathologically ‘positive’ to compare with the great works of the porn genre, as it is more or less a piece of cheesy post-counter-culture propaganda with Afrocentric undertones that reminds one how much hippies suck. 

 Alice (Kristine DeBell) is a somewhat bitchy, severely sheltered, and innately immature librarian who rebuffs the advances of her prospective boy toy William (Ron Nelson) insulting his shirt because it has another man's name on it (To Alice's credit, it is rather pathetic and emasculating when a man wears the jersey of their favorite sports player, especially when it is a white man wearing the jersey of a negro football or basketball player).  As William accurately states of Alice, “The body is all grown up…but the mind is still a little girl.” After William splits from the library after their (non)lovers spat, Alice finds a vintage copy of Carroll’s Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and says to herself: “That’s funny…I never read this when I was a little girl.” Indeed, had Alice read the novel as a little girl, she might not be an adult virgin. After singing an absolutely horrid song in the library, a discernibly Hebraic “White Rabbit” (played by cult/TV actor Larry Gelman, who is best known for his roles on The Bob Newhart Show and the Odd Couple) appears out of nowhere and says to her, “You can grow up…there’s nothing to it. Everybody grows up. I grew up.” Since the White Rabbit is in a hurry to be at the Queen’s party as it might result in her having his head if he is late since “the Queen’s a bitch,” he jumps and disappears through a magical mirror in the library. Intrigued by the rather overweight four-eyed White Rabbit, Alice also jumps through the magical mirror and lands in a room with one normal size door and a miniature door. Since she cannot find a key for the big door, Alice goes through the little door, but not before drinking a special lotion that shrinks her body, thus making her the proper petite size for the wild and wanton world of Wonderland. Indeed, Alice may be a virgin, but her erotic encounters with the people and beings of Wonderland will certainly change that. 

 After Alice, who cannot swim, falls into a lake and is saved by a furry creature, she is dried off by said furry creature’s equally furry comrades in a chapter of the film that is abbreviated with the tie in: “Alice makes new friends…AND GETS A LICKIN’.” Alice puritanically believes that, “If it feels good, there’s a good chance it’s bad,” but the furry creatures touch her otherwise with their wandering tongues to prove her wrong. A talking rock also teaches Alice that there is nothing wrong with diddling one’s naughty bits. After being introduced to the merry world of masturbation, the White Rabbit pops up and startles the prudish virgin. The White Rabbit brings Alice to a tea party hosted by the Mad Hatter (Alan Novak), who has a label on his large goofy top hat reading “9 7/8,” which indicates how many inches long his member is (clearly, he embellished the number!).  After whipping out his willy, the Mad Hatter convinces Alice to touch, lick, and eventually suck it, which she does in a rather childlike fashion, but it is ok since the hat man is a quick shooter. From there, Alice goes with her friends to help Humpty Dumpty (Bucky Searles), who fell off a wall and sprang a ball and now he cannot get his ding-a-ling up. Even viewing a live lurid show of a twosome of naughty Sapphic nurses performing 69 on one another cannot help Humpty get a hard-on, but luckily Alice comes to the rescue and uses her newly acquired oral sex skills to rescue his damaged dick from perennial flaccidness. After Alice gives Humpty an erection, all the characters sing, “His ding-a-ling up. His ding-a-ling up. We got his ding-a-ling up,” and the egg man falls off the wall again, thus revealing that his dick is nothing more than a cheap dildo. After hanging with Humpty, Alice meets silly sibilings/lovers Tweedledum (Bree Anthony) and Tweedledee (Tony Richards) who, aside from having jolly old good incestuous sex with one another, sport goofy yarmulkes. When the incest session gets old, Alice and her comrades leave and happen upon a whore (Gila Havana) attempting to revive a black Jewish knight (Bruce Finklesteen), who is actually a queer with a white knight boy toy (Jason Williams). Indeed, with all the eclectic perverts in the area, it is no wonder why the place is called Wonderland! 

 When Alice encounters the King of Hearts (John Lawrence)—a bongo-banging Afrocentric pimp daddy who, like many black power types, seems to prefer blonde-haired cracker chicks over his own kind—she comes close to losing her virginity as the black monarch uses stereotypical negro pimp speak to con her into bed, but their sexual encounter is cut short when the white trash bitch Queen of Hearts (played by Juliet Graham, who appeared in various classic porn an exploitation flicks, including Gerard Damiano’s 1975 S&M hit The Story of Joanna and Joel M. Reed’s 1976 trash-fest Bloodsucking Freaks) catches them in the act and calls for the virgin’s head much to Alice's horror. Of course, as the Queen tells Alice, “You misunderstood me, doll. I don’t want to cut off your head…I want you to give me some head.” Against the Queen’s demand for instant sexual gratification, Alice’s new friends refer to a vintage copy of Alice's Adventures in Wonderland to prove that she deserves a fair trial. If Alice is found guilty, she must give head to the Queen, but if she is found innocent she must face the even more perturbing punishment of giving the fat old Judge (J.P. Paradine) head. Of course, during what amounts to a surrealist show trial featuring a song and dance, including the negro King banging on bongo drums, Alice is found guilty. While giving the Queen of Hearts head, Alice manages to pleasure the mad monarch so much that she faints in delight, thus enabling her to make her escape with the help of the White Rabbit and Mad Hatter. After falling into a lake, Alice ends up in the real world and makes up with her boyfriend to whom she subsequently loses her virginity. In a rather silly hippie scene, Alice and her boy toy go skinny dipping in a rocky river and the films concludes with the following storybook epilogue: “And so Alice settled down…got married…raised a family in a house with a white picket fence…filled with kids and a little…Arf! Arf!...puppy…and they all lived happily ever after…Be sure to pick up a copy of Alice’s New Book “Fear of Shrinking.”

Aside from a couple weak cumshots and passive penetration scenes, Alice in Wonderland seems more or less like a cheapo spoof of the classic fairytale made for sexually curious teens, though, somewhat dubiously, the film would surely appeal to younger children as well as it is certainly less sophisticated than an episode of The Ren & Stimpy Show. Personally, I was completely put off by the film’s innately lighthearted tone, conspicuously cliche post-hippie “peace and love” and “live and let live” messages, mind-numbingly mindless celebration of hedonism, and truly vomit-worthy sing-a-long songs, though the work certainly has its rather memorable “magical” moments, especially when Humpty Dumpty falls off the wall sporting a dildo instead of his real wang. Indeed, if you’re looking for a more ‘evil’ and ‘esoteric’ take on Carroll’s novel, the part pseudo-documentary/part psychedelic celluloid trip Alice in Acidland (1969) directed by John Donne is certainly more effective in that regard, even if it is true retrograde trash. A work where virtually all the male characters are gay or ambiguously gay, the King is an Afrocentric pimp who plays bongo drums and fucks cracker cunts doggie style while they eat fried chicken, the Queen is a less than aristocratic mudshark who looks like a haggard white trash whore that was found at a Texas truck stop, Alice acts like a half-retarded bitch who will commit any sexual act so long as someone gives her a semi-logical reason to do so, and the White Rabbit seems like a pedophile Rebbe who uses goofy make-up to lure in little kids, Alice in Wonderland is certainly a work that the viewer will never forget, whether they want to or not. Considering the rumors that Lewis Carroll was a pedophile who may have wanted to marry an 11-year-old girl, Townsend’s version seems to take a more ‘subtextual’ approach to the classic fairytale, especially considering the truly adolescent-like and pedomorphic lead really seems like a petulant preteen princess who's giving blowjobs and cunnilingus for the first time. Somewhat surprisingly, in 2007, an Off-Broadway musical entitled Alice in Wonderland: An Adult Musical Comedy based on the film was staged at the Kirk Theatre in New York City, thus demonstrating that the fetishistic filmic fairytale has developed a certain amount of respectability and artistic merit over the past couple of decades. Additionally, an amateurish animated porn flick entitled Alice in Wonderland: A XXX Parody (2011) directed by W. Crawford that is vaguely in the satirical spirit of Townsend's film was released a couple years ago. Somewhat interestingly, the 2007 Subversive Cinema DVD release of the film features a somewhat recent featurette entitled Alice In Wonderland 30 Years Later: Back Down The Rabbit Hole where a couple of the flick's cast members, including elderly Hebrew Larry Gelman (aka “The White Rabbit”) and Lena Romane (who claims to have starred in a whopping 800 to 1,000 different fuck flicks during her rather long career!), reflect on the work some 30+ years later.  Notably, all of the subjects of the doc rightly agree that pornography has degenerated drastically in terms of both artistry and morality since the release of Alice in Wonderland, including Hebraic hack porn star/director William Margold, which says a lot considering the man is so depraved that he once confessed in a interview with Rona Barrett that he would be willing to perform in a sex scene with his own daughter.  Indeed, it certainly says a lot about our contemporary zeitgeist when a Lewis Carroll adaptation featuring Alice giving a half-ass blowjob to the Mad Hatter seems totally ‘old hat’ nowadays.

-Ty E

Visions of Clair

While I never have really put too much thought into, I can say without the slightest bit of hesitation that Bacchanale (1970) directed by the Amero brothers is one of my favorites, if not my favorite, fuck flicks, not least of all because it contains a completely singular phantasmagoric yet psychedelic hermetic netherworld of the orgasmic offbeat gothic sort that is big on atmosphere and low on cheap soulless sex and limp drug-ridden dicks. With that begin said, I am always on the lookout for hardcore flicks in the spirit of the Ameros' unsung masterpiece of celluloid lechery and luckily I just discovered one with a similarly sinister essence of foreboding aesthetic excess. Indeed, Visions of Clair (1977) directed by Zachary Strong (Resurrection of Eve, Confessions of a Teenage Peanut Butter Freak)—a sexually eclectic pornographic auteur who assembled both hetero and homo hardcore flicks and worked with in various different genres—is esoteric erotica at its finest as a somewhat inexplicable arthouse-hardcore hybrid that has the grand distinction of being the only fuck film produced by hardcore heavyweights Cal Vista that managed to lose money. Indeed, a sort of metaphysical blue movie that features, among other things, ancient archetypes, pseudo-spiritual hippie gibberish, psychedelic penetration and ejaculation, Ludwig van Beethoven's Symphony No. 7 and an ambient transcendental original score, pleasantly politically incorrect quasi-beatnik lingo, left-hand path lechery, and random references to ancient Egyptian mythology, Visions of Clair is a hallucinatory hardcore horror flick with wayward airs of aberrant aesthetic majesty. In short, there is no other film quite like it, be it obscure vintage fuck flick or otherwise. The closest things to a pornographic take on Ingmar Bergman’s masterpiece Persona (1966), albeit focusing on three seemingly mentally damaged dames as opposed to just two, as a work featuring arcane lipstick lesbianism, psychic vampirism, and metaphysical horror, Strong’s work may be preposterously pretentious for a porno flick, but somehow it all more or less works as a filmic fever dream with a genuinely foreboding atmosphere and authentically sensual sex scenes. In its counter-culture-cultivated depiction of three very different yet seemingly equally internally wounded women becoming “one” and dichotomous use of gender archetypes, the film also surely owes a heavy aesthetic debt to Donald Cammell and Nicholas Roeg’s Performance (1970). Originally advertised with the rather aesthetically misleading tagline, “a film in the style of EMMANUELLE but with the raw passion of THE STORY OF O,” Visions of Clair—a work featuring pillows with decidedly decadent England dandy Aubrey Beardsley’s iconic illustrations and images of the ancient Egyptian ‘ankh’ (aka “key of life,” “the key of the Nile” or “crux ansata”)—is a porno that, at the very least, cannot be properly pigeonholed, though it is safe to say that the creators had their fair share of recreational drug use and resentment towards masculinity and the male sex in general. 

 Visions of Clair begins simply enough with a frustrated young hippie-like artist named Ron (John Rolling) complaining to the young unclad model he is painting, Clair van der Meer (Annette Haven), that he is more or less incapacitated by her supposedly stunning beauty, even rudely stating to her: “Shit…I lost my momentum. I guess you’re too beautiful for me, Clair. I mean, your beauty is not the kind I usually paint…it’s too conventional. You’re too womanish, Clair. Look at you…big tits, nice ass…beauty, pretty, or whatever…but not attractive to me. Alright, I rather not paint you in the nude. A costume perhaps. Anyway, most women don’t commission nude portraits from me.” When Clair asks the angst-ridden painter what it is about her body that really disturbs him, Ron irrationally replies, “It’s not real…I can’t even imagine having sex with your body...No, it’s not real.” In a noble attempt to calm down the agitated artist and to prove that he can indeed imagine having sex with her, Clair makes the mighty expiatory sacrifice of sucking off Ron and proceeding to fuck him, thus causing the seemingly sexually frustrated painter to liberate his seed. Shortly after they finish and the artist disrespectfully wipes his spilled seed on the model’s dress, Ron’s girlfriend Daphne (Bonnie Holiday) randomly shows up at the studio and seems quite bewildered by the fact that her best beau is cavorting with a blatant psychic vampire of sorts. Of course, it is only matter of time before bitchy ‘artiste’ Ron is out of the picture and Clair and Daphne become inseparable partners that even seem to share the same soul.

 Flash forward four years later and Ron is now dead as a result of a supposed “accident” he had while he was drunk. Clair and Daphne have now become an ‘item,’ with the latter becoming the perennial ‘shadow’ of the former, as she is the ying to the other’s yang.  They live in Clair's mansion where they have all the time in the world to get wild and wanton, as neither woman seems to work.  Meanwhile, a third woman, a seemingly borderline mute painter named Roahne (Susan Bates), has entered the picture as she has been commissioned to paint a somewhat amateurish Crowley-esque portrait of Clair, Daphne, and assumedly herself. Roahne is accompanied by an intolerably bombastic and vainglorious “bobo” (aka bourgeois bohemian) named David (Jay Gamble), who claims to have known Clair when he was younger, stating of her, “I’ve always been rather attracted to her. I mean, when I was a child, I thought of her as a god, you know? She was so unapproachable…I was actually in love with her. Still am, somewhat.” When Roahne and David meet with Clair at a diner while the latter is buying a golden ancient Egyptian necklace from some swarthy hippie pansy, it results in rather awkward consequences. Indeed, upon entering the diner, David immediately goes up to Clair and rather rudely interrupts her while she is talking with the antique dealer and mentions how their families know one another, but she says nothing, which rather infuriates the young man, who later complains to his quasi-muse Roahne: “I can’t get over how fucking rude she was. It’s not like I’m nobody from nowhere creeping up on her to demand a piece of ass or something….And then she takes a good damn mentally retarded nymphomaniac out of the gutter and then she has the gall to put on airs with me?!” David also accuses Roahne of being a “good damned zombie” due to her rather flat affect and her seeming aversion to mindless chit-chat, but little does he realize that he is a nuisance to the three women, who will come to form a sort of ‘metaphysical ménage à trios’  of Sapphic meta-womanhood.  Indeed, whether it is by her mysterious golden necklace or own innate ominous yet orgasmic aura and penetrating sexual magnetism, Clair will lure Roahne to her secret world of quasi-satanic Sapphic spirituality.

 Although they never seem to get around to actually talking, Roahne seems to know everything about Clair and Daphne, stating to herself, “Clair…a Goddess. Daphne…a Priestess. Her isolation…forms a shield…to which others’ illusions are drawn and attached as to a magnet. Like a magnet. Lust…in its basic form.” In a remark that makes it seem like she has seen Bergman’s Persona one too many times while high on cheap acid, Roahne also declares, “To know Clair, I must become Clair.” On top of painting her and her lover’s portrait, Roahne is also to be ritualistically bequeathed with the gold Egyptian necklace that was bought by Clair from the antique dealer who David thinks is a fraud and describes as a, “faggot hustler.” When David attempts to “make love” with Roahne after she passes out after he makes her a dubious Italian dinner (David claims that his marginal amount of Guido blood has given him the innate power to be a master cook), he proves to be completely impotent and eventually dies while suffering what seems to be metaphysical ‘cock block,’ thus disappearing from the story entirely, as if Clair willed his pathetic demise via black magic. Towards the end of the film in what amounts to a semi-sadomasochistic lesbian montage, Clair and Daphne share a ritualistic dance together that evolves into passionate mutual cunnilingus while Roahne enters their home in a seemly possessed somnambulistic state to finish their portrait. Indeed, Roahne becomes a Sapphic somnambulist of sorts who masturbates with an ancient Egyptian dagger while Clair and Daphne devour one another’s bushy naughty bits. In the end, Roahne finishes the painting and the three women become one, though cunty goddess Clair is clearly the true goddess of the superlatively sacrilegious spiritual threesome. 

 A lesbian horror flick where all the male characters, who are more or less exactly the same in their bourgeois-bred effeminacy and lack of virility, mysteriously drop dead and all the three female characters become one big Sapphic spirit of the sinisterly sensual sort, Visions of Clair is unquestionably one of the few lesbo fuck flicks that I have ever seen where the sex and sensuality actually seemed sincere as opposed to the conspicuously contrived counterfeit carpet-munching that one can almost always expect from such works. Of course, more importantly, the film is one of the most aesthetically intriguing, hypnotic, and wildly idiosyncratic porn flicks ever made, which is something that only European filmgoers have seem to have taken notice of, as demonstrated by the fact that the handful of online reviews that exist on the film were written by Europeans. Notably, auteur Zachary Strong was bisexual, though it seems like he sides more with his female side in the film, as the two male characters are exceedingly arrogant assholes whose pathological narcissism seems to be a mere cover for their sexual inadequacy, which is demonstrated via the characters' literal and metaphysical impotency.  It should also be noted that while the male characters are nothing short of spiritually retarded, the female characters, especially the eponymous lead, have almost supernatural intuition as if they have a sixth sense or something.  Indeed, it is apparent while watching the film that Strong understands women very well and has a sort of jealous contempt for masculinity, which he only a seems to understand in a sort of detached and deracinated fashion, thus making him a kindred spirit of sorts to Tennessee Williams in that sense. With Visions of Clair, Strong also makes it quite clear that while men are more literal and to-the-point in their sexuality, the so-called ‘fairer sex’ is more sensual to the point where sex is an (un)holy ritual for them that takes a wholly spiritual form, thus making the metaphysical overtones of the film not so ridiculous as they might seem upon a superficial glance. In terms of Western esotericism, Visions of Clair is clearly a work of the left-hand path, which is innately dark and feminine in its very essence. Indeed, if Christian Evangelists need a good example of true spiritual heresy in pornography, there is probably no better example than Strong’s film which, on top of featuring entrancing lesbian orgies involving tender nipples being cut open with daggers, is certainly at odds with the benign spirituality of the right-hand path.  Undoubtedly, for fans of classic porn chic era dreamlike hardcore horror/fantasy works like the Amero brother's Bacchanale (1970), Jonas Middleton's Illusions of a Lady (1974) and Through the Looking Glass (1976), Kenneth Andrews' Night of the Occultist (1973), Chuck Vincent's Visions (1977), Cecil Howard's Neon Nights (1981), Roger Watkins' Corruption (1983) and Midnight Heat (1983), and Pieter Vanderbilt's The Dark Angel (1983), Strong's sinisterly seductive skin flick is simply mandatory viewing, as a cream of the crop piece of surrealist celluloid sensuality from pussy-licking purgatory. Indeed, if you ever wondered what Robert Altman's 3 Women (1977) might be like on X-rated acid, checkout Visions of Clair. 

-Ty E

Necrophobia (1995)

Unless you count the grotesque avant-garde works of Frans Zwartjes (Visual Training, Pentimento), Paul Verhoeven’s Catholic-tinged genre-hybrid arthouse work The Fourth Man (1983) aka De vierde man, and/or South African auteur Aryan Kaganof's experimental quasi-documentary Ten Monologues from the Lives of the Serial Killers (1994), there are not really that many notable Dutch horror flicks. Personally, I have never really found classic Dutch horror films like Dick Maas' De Lift (1983) and Amsterdamned (1988), and Rudolf van den Berg's The Johnsons (1993) to be particularly interesting, not to mention the fact that all of these films are cross-genre works and surely not examples of pure unadulterated horror cinema. While not exactly an unsung masterpiece and only vaguely artsy fartsy, the delightfully debasing 60-minute flick Necrophobia (1995) co-directed by Frank van Geloven and Edwin Visser is a rare notable example of where Dutch filmmakers who clearly love the horror genre managed to assemble something strikingly sick and memorably aesthetically aberrant. Indeed, the closest thing to a Dutch Nekromantik, albeit with shades of both classic and not-so-classic works like The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974), The Toolbox Murders (1978), The Evil Dead (1981), Lucker the Necrophagous (1985), and Cemetery Man (1994) aka Dellamorte Dellamore, van Geloven and Visser’s so-called “psychological horror” film is delightfully depraved celluloid trash with marginal class that reminded me why I am and will always be a horror fan, even if I think about 99% of what the genre has to offer is worthless and innately inane garbage. Although somewhat amateurish and featuring mostly sterile student film style acting performances and not exactly the most attractive of Dutch actors, Necrophobia also features striking editing, genuine shocks, demented dream-sequences, sister-on-sister car chases and sororicide, pale female corpses sporting strap-on dildos and—arguably most importantly—necrophilia. Of course, like many Dutch films, the work also features dark dry humor, nihilistic undertones, and a certain biting cynicism that one can usually expect from cinematic works from the small Germanic lowland country. Like Jörg Buttgereit’s Nekromantik 2 (1991), Necrophobia is notable for featuring an unhinged female necrophile, albeit one who will fuck both male and female corpses so long as a strap-on dildo is mounted on said corpse before she mounts it.  Also, like Nekromantik 2, the film features a weak, goofy, and gawky male protagonist who finds himself the unwitting prey of a nasty brunette Nordic babe with a fiercely foul fetish for newly rotting flesh. A micro horror flick made for horror fans by horror fans, especially those with a special taste for corpse-fucking art, Necrophobia is another great example as to why cadaver-humping and dark humor go together like peas and carrots, as well as piss and shit.

Like many Dutchmen, Mark Embrechts (Martijn Oversteegen) is a rather blunt and leisurely fellow who begins Necrophobia by remarking via off-screen narration regarding his loathing of running and his love of his wife and dog: “They say running is good for your physical condition. That’s nonsense. The only effect it has on me is that I’m sweating like a pig.  The ones having fun are Boris and Rebecca, he always does when I run around. Anyone who wants to keep such a beautiful girls has to stay fit.” Unfortunately for Mark, his life is going to be turned upside down when his wife Rebecca (Grietje Besteman) is tragically killed after she is run over by a less than prole-like pansy wimp driving a large truck that he clearly was not meant to drive.  Mark is so traumatized by his wife’s death that he has his friend watch his dog Boris for him while he attempts in vain to grieve. As Mark contemplates to himself while at his wife’s funeral, “Sometimes life grabs you by the balls…and all you can do is swallow and continue. But I’m not ready to swallow yet.” At the funeral, Mark also notices two attractive young women, and one of them, a seemingly mentally perturbed chick named Colette (Gerry Verhoeven), will soon become the widower’s rebound lover, though it will ultimately have gruesome consequences. Meanwhile, a cloaked individual digs up Mark’s wife Rebecca’s freshly buried corpse, brings it back to a fog-filled torture chamber adorned with corpses in various states of decay hanging from meat-hooks, straps a strap-on dildo on the cold cadaver's pussy, and begins riding the pseudo-phallus on the corpse. Of course, Mark will soon get very personal with the defiler of his beloved wife’s corpse.

Not taking the senseless unexpected death of his wifey very well, Mark contemplates suicide and even attempts to slit his wrist with a seemingly dull bread knife, but he pussies out the last second. Of course, Mark is somewhat cheered up when he bumps into cemetery girl Colette at the local graveyard where his wife was recently buried, as the young lady asks him out on a date, which he naturally obliges, though he naturally has mixed feelings about the situation as he still loves his belated spouse. That night, a seemingly hysterical young woman wearing a horrid wig named Martha Morbeck—the other young woman that the widower spotted at his spouse's funeral—comes by Mark’s home to warn him to stay away from Colette by making the seemingly far-fetched claim that she will put him and his wife’s life in danger, even if the latter is already dead. After Mark rudely kicks her out of his humble abode, Martha hits the road and is soon involved in a car chase with Colette, who ultimately shoots her in the shoulder before running her off the road. Martha eventually wakes up in the necrophile’s torture chamber and is soon killed by a chainsaw-wielding Colette, who is also sporting a featureless white mask.  Indeed, Colette is the necrophile, though it is not initially apparent why she prefers fucking female corpses with strap-ons as opposed to male corpses with real rotten cocks. When Mark finally goes to Colette’s house for a dinner date, he asks his new love interest about Martha. Colette reveals that Martha is, in fact, her sister and that she fell in love with the same man as her, thus resulting in a bitter rivalry between the two siblings. Indeed, Colette was married to a man named David that died from a heart attack the previous year and Martha has apparently attempted to wage a “crusade” against her ever since. When Mark and Colette have sex, the latter has a traumatic flashback regarding how her husband died of a heart attack while they were having bondage-based sex and she was unable to escape from the rotting corpse of her dead beau because she was tied up.  Indeed, Colette had a truly transcendent carnal session with her belated boy toy, which ultimately caused her to develop a softspot for rotting flesh.

Needless to say, Mark leaves shortly after the rather awkward sex session, but not long after he gets back to his home, Colette abruptly arrives, hits him over the head with a mallet, and brings him back to her corpse-fucking torture chamber, where the somewhat pathetic protagonist wakes up naked with a large strap-on dildo attached to his seemingly brittle body. While Colette soon attempts to kill Mark with a chainsaw, the widower manages to disable her weapon and she is soon shot dead by her curiously crazed psychiatrist Dr. Bernhardt (Rutger Weemhoff). As Dr. Bernhardt reveals to Mark, he is the one who got Colette hooked on corpse-fucking in the first place. Indeed, on top of suffering the distinct trauma of her husband dying on top of her during S&M-fueled sex, Colette was trapped under her postmortem hubby’s corpse for a week before anyone found her, thus leading to posttraumatic stress of the rather perturbing meta-perversion-inflicting sort. As it turns out, it was Dr. Bernhardt's idea to get Colette to “relive” the experience of necrophilia and he even helped her dig up the corpses. Naturally, Mark must die since he knows of Dr. Bernhardt's dubious relationship with Colette regarding grave-robbing and corpse-based carnality. While Mark manages to kill Dr. Bernhardt by stabbing him in the throat with a meat-hook, the doctor manages to shoot him in the stomach and genitals with a sawed-off shotgun just before he drops dead. As he dies, Mark thinks to himself, “Sometimes life grabs you by the balls. Literally. Thank god it’s over.” In a twist ending, it is revealed that Colette has survived the gunshot wound and she wants to fuck Mark, who says to himself while dying, “over my dead body.”

Undoubtedly, what sets Necrophobia apart from similarly themed America films is that, aside from featuring corpse-fucking, it is undying in its relentless cynicism, pessimism, and misanthropy to the point where the protagonist is killed and even has his balls blown off. Indeed, even the death of the lead’s wife is depicted in a totally unnervingly nihilistic fashion, as the woman is depicted twitching spastically as she succumbs to her fatal injuries.  Of course, gorehounds will also probably be sad to know that, unlike Buttgereit’s Nekromantik films, the necrophilia scenes in the film are not depicted in graphic detail, but are more implied than anything. Indeed, while the American influence on the film is blatantly obvious to the point of almost seeming like parody, van Geloven and Visser’s work is decidedly Dutch in character, as it spares no ones feelings, never wallows in sentimentality, and prides itself on being pathologically pessimistic and absurdly anti-romantic.  Somewhat notably, the two directors of the flick would collaborate on one more film together—the somewhat popular Dutch-Belgian coproduction Slaughter Night (2006) aka Sl8n8—before Visser himself became a corpse after he died unexpectedly of a heart attack on August 26, 2012 while in Crete, Greece. While not exactly a masterpiece of arthouse cinema, Necrophobia is certainly an underrated and overlooked masterpiece of Dutch horror, which may not say much considering the sorry state of the genre in the Netherlands, but considering it is the same tiny nation that produced cine-magician Frans Zwartjes—a master of the aesthetically grotesque and macabre—it also says a lot. Also, while not the greatest film that the totally taboo subgenre has to offer, Necrophobia will certainly appeal to necro-cinephiles who enjoy similarly themed works like Joe D'Amato's Beyond the Darkness (1979) aka Buio Omega, Buttgereit’s Nekromantik series, Nacho Cerdà’s Aftermath (1994), and Philippe Barassat's Le nécrophile (2004).  Of course, I would not recommend the film to the necrophobic.

-Ty E

The Defiance of Good

It is not every day that one discovers a hardcore porn flick that viciously assaults everything rotten about the counter-culture generation, especially in regard to their wacky misguided quest to discover new religions and ways of living, but the classic horror-themed S&M blue movie The Defiance of Good (1975) aka Cure Me aka Defiance! directed by pornographic auteur turned horror hack Armand Weston (The Taking of Christina, The Nesting) does just that, as a rare sadomasochistic skin flick with some socially-redeeming value and entrancing expressionistic undertones. Starring a then-only-17-year-old Jean Jennings (Case of the Full Moon Murders, Virgin Dreams), who was an ex-cheerleader turned teenage runaway that later married goofy Guido character actor Joe “Maniac” Spinell, and produced by porn star Jason Russell (who started an affair with Jennings that resulted in the dissolving of his marriage to actress Tina Hall, who became so morbidly depressed by the situation that she drank herself to death by age 32), this quite literally and figuratively penetrating fuck flick depicts the insanity that ensues when an overprotective bitch of a bible-lobotomized mother forces her nubile teenage daughter to go to a mental institution after catching her taking her first hit of cocaine, thus resulting in the titillating teen being gang-raped by a couple Charles Manson look-a-likes and eventually coming under the wing of a demented guru who forces her to lead a ludicrously lecherous life of devout sadomasochistic sacrilege. Somewhat interestingly, star Jean Jennings was the granddaughter of a Baptist minister, thus making The Defiance of Good a rare example of pornographic art imitating life and vice versa. Additionally, the man who plays the Svengali-like quasi-Manson-esque guru, Fred J. Lincoln, was also a pornographer and like producer Jason Russell and hack pornographer Vinnie Rossi (Desire, Max Bedroom), claimed that he was the true ‘auteur’ of the film and not Armand Weston, who was certainly a talented pornographer that was more than capable of directing the film. Strangely artsy and unnervingly atmospheric, refreshingly politically incorrect, sinisterly socially conscious, and pornographically phantasmagorical, Weston’s film dares to make a mockery of the counter-culture movement while also ironically being a direct product of it. A sort of pseudo-metaphysical blue movie where a minister who has lost his faith and congregation sires his own hermetic new age S&M church in a megalomaniacal attempt to spiritually and sexually enslave young girls, The Defiance of Good is ultimately a rather raunchy reminder why no other zeitgeist has produced more crazed charlatans, unhinged high priests, and megalomaniacal gurus than the spiritually and morally forsaken counter-culture generation. 

 After her exceedingly bitchy Catholic mother (Carole Holland) catches her with her drug-addled friend Susan snorting her first hit of coke, naïve teen Cathy (Jean Jennings)—a somewhat busty green-eyed blonde and seemingly untainted daddy's girl who has no idea how brutal the world really is—finds herself in a mental institution that is plagued by gang-rape, forced miscegenation, aggressive bull-dykes, and demented quack doctors who see Thorazine as the cure for all patients, including those claiming to be the victims of sexual pillaging. Indeed, since Cathy’s father (‘Roderick Usher’ aka Steve Lincoln) is a cowardly old cuckold (indeed, the mother even says to Cathy, “you should know now that your daddy isn’t the strongest person in the world”) who will not stand-up for his daughter, even though he wants to, the teen is forced to face institutionalization at the psyche ward of a grungy little place called Eastwood General Hospital. During her first couple of minutes at the hospital, Cathy is forced to strip completely naked for a heinous high yellow negro with a sick sense of humor and a contempt for white people who then proceeds to give her a phony “exam” by reaming his dirty dark fingers up her virginal vagina and tight rectum. As a decidedly demented dyke who randomly starts masturbating in front of the teen states regarding the doctors, “They call themselves doctor…They’re crazier than the rest of us.” Upon talking to a mentally perturbed would-be-poet that looks like a cross between Charles Manson and Jamie Gillis, Cathy is absurdly told: “I am the world’s greatest poet. Baudelaire…Rimbaud…William Blake…their blood flows through my veins,” thus indicating that The Door front man Jim Morrison has had a rather detrimental effect on the discernibly despoiled baby boomer generation.  When Cathy is gang-raped late one night by two Manson look-a-likes and a nefarious token negro, she tells the head doctor, who is an exceedingly effete fat fag that resembles John Waters' man-muse Divine minus the drag, but he does not believe her and orders the nasty negro orderly to put her on a steady dose of Thorazine.  Of course, after drugging her, the jigaboo also rapes Cathy, but thankfully the rape in question is not actually depicted in the film, thus indicating that people were sane enough at the time of the film's release to be repulsed by interracial sex scenes.  Needless to say, things are not exactly looking up for Cathy, but when she meets a seemingly empathetic, smart, soft-spoken, and ‘progressive’ physician named Dr. Gabriel (Fred J. Lincoln) who offers the chance to stay at his private sanitarium, she finds her way out of the hospital of hell. Of course, little does Cathy realize that Dr. Gabriel is a loony lapsed minister turned malevolent madman and S&M messiah who forces teenage girls into largely degrading sadomasochistic sexual servitude. 

 Upon entering Dr. Gabriel's rather strange and perennially shadowy yet elegantly decorated sanitarium, little lamb Cathy is given the following pretentious hippie spiel from the good doctor: “Our task is…to break the stranglehold of the past. We must liberate ourselves from the old traditions and concepts of good and evil that simply have no place…NO PLACE in the modern world. In order to be free, we must unlearn all the moral values that your misguided parents have taught you. You will learn to free your spirit and your flesh! […] I will be your teacher, your guru…the father that you never had. You will obey me as a newborn child and I will lead you to knowledge.”  Indeed, like a newborn child, Cathy will be doing a lot of crawling around naked.  Of course, being a dimwitted gal who lacks even the smallest inkling of intuition and common sense, Cathy has no clue what Gabriel is talking about it, at least not until his assistant Miss Caine (Heather Ellis) brings her into a dark bathroom and attempts to put her in bondage. In no time, Gabriel and his debauched disciples literally whip Cathy into shape by getting her involved in leather-clad orgies featuring whips, chains, bondage, and groveling cunnilingus-inclined male slaves. While being whipped, Cathy is told by Gabriel in a Manson-esque fashion: “You must die so you can be reborn.” Of course, Cathy is eventually reborn and molded into a sort of sexually cultivated automaton with a talent for giving and receiving painful pleasure. When Cathy attempts to get in bed with Gabriel, she is firmly denied, with the deranged and seemingly sexually impotent doc stating, “Don’t ever touch me. My pleasures are in the mind…they are far more exquisite than any temptation of the flesh.” When Cathy tells Gabriel that he sounds like a priest, he concurs and matter-of-factually replies in a pseudo-poetic monotone fashion: “I am a priest…in my own way. My father was a minister. And he made sure I became one too. I will perish is the poorest part of town. Noises from the local whorehouse kept me awake at night…Teasing my mind with the wildest fantasies. I was tormented with sexual horror. My guts ached for the touch of a woman. I tried to fight it…bury it…I had my own congregation at 28…It was a lovely young girl. Anyway, I lost my faith, I lost the church. I tried to resume a normal life but it was too late. Physically, I was useless. I traveled, I read, I studied. I knew what I had to do. This is my church and you, you are part of my new congregation.”  Of course, when it comes to his cruelly carnal church, Gabriel has nil tolerance when it comes to heretics and Cathy is about to learn that the hard way.

 While Dr. Gabriel eventually tells Cathy that she is free to go since she has been fully initiated into his pseudo-spiritual program of sadomasochistic (dis)pleasure, he also lets her know that if she does decide to leave, she will never be able to come back to the sanitarium of sin. Fully brainwashed by now, Cathy naturally opts to stay, at least a little while longer, but her loyalties are ultimately tested when he friend Susan (Day Jason)—the same girl that gave her the drugs that landed her in the loony bin in the first place—is brought in as a new initiate to the S&M church. After pleasuring Susan’s pussy with her tongue, Cathy bonds with her old friend who, not surprisingly considering the specific set of circumstances, wants to escape from the sanatorium immediately. While Cathy admits that she would like to stay because, as she states to her friend, “I don’t know if you can understand…I’m not really sure I understand myself…but in a certain way, I feel safe here. I feel protected…even needed” (undoubtedly, Cathy's remark reflects why people join cults/religions in the first place), Susan eventually convinces her to help her to escape from the sanitarium. In a silly, if not admittedly momentarily startling, twist ending, it is revealed that Susan setup Cathy all along and that her begging her ‘friend’ to help her escape from the clutches of Gabriel and his followers was merely a cunning ploy to test the teen’s devotion to the church. As to what happens to Cathy after that, one can only guess, but I would not be surprised if the deranged deviants of Gabriel’s sexually sadistic congregation burnt her clit off while she was still alive, killed her during some sort of bloody S&M session involving knife-like dildos, and then sodomized her corpse. 

 While looking up background information on The Defiance of Good, I managed to find a vintage The New York Post article from Tuesday, January 28, 1975 entitled “A Cheerleader Grows Up” about the film’s underage star Jean Jennings and her role in the film. After revealing that Jennings lied about her age to be in the film by signing a release saying she was 23, it is also revealed that the film’s distributor Mickey Zaffarano—a morbidly obese mafia man who ran porno theaters and national porn distribution company for the Guido Bonanno family crime family—decided to release the work anyways despite the fact that the lead was underage, with his super sophisticated Sicilian reasoning being as follows: “Now, what do I do? Can the law stop me from exhibiting?” In the same article, Jenning also appears in good spirits about her profession, even claiming that her father supports her career in cinematic carnality, stating, “my father is very proud of me. He hasn't seen the film but he knows what kind of movie it is and he wants to help me in my acting career” (not surprisingly, the newspaper was unable to reach Jennings' parents for comment).  Of course, after seeing The Defiance of Good, I doubt any parents would be proud of their child being in the film, even as an extra, as the work may make a mockery of the corrosive cocktail of sex, drugs, and gurus associated with the counter-culture generation, but it is still sleazy celluloid filth that makes the viewer feel like they need to take a long cold shower after watching it.  Somewhat shockingly, the film was so popular upon its release that, like Jonas Middleton's somewhat superior avant-garde hardcore horror flick Through The Looking Glass (1976) starring Jamie Gills, a tie-in novel was subsequently released that was written by the assumedly pseudonymous novelist D.M. Perkins, who was also responsible for penning the tie-in novel for Gerard Damiano's crossover hit Deep Throat (1972) starring Linda Lovelace. With his later work Take Off—a genre-eclectic pornographic reworking of Oscar Wilde’s The Picture of Dorian Gray (1891)—auteur Armand Weston would prove he was capable of more ‘lighthearted’ celluloid lechery, but there is no denying that there was a certain sadistic spirit behind The Defiance of Good.  Indubitably one of the most sensual and sensitively directed S&M fuck flicks that I have ever seen, Weston’s film is not disturbing because it features gang-rape, multicultural finger-fucking, and Sapphic sadomasochism but because it depicts the unhinged mentality of an entire generation that, like the protagonist of the film, suffers from Stockholm syndrome and is responsible for the degenerate post-cultural/post-racial/post-spiritual/post-moral America that exists today.

-Ty E

Good Luck, Miss Wyckoff

Maybe it is just me, but when I see a scene from a film with the words “Miss Wyckoff Fucks Niggers,” I have to check it out, if only for novelty reasons. Indeed, within about the first 30 seconds or so of the exceedingly exploitative melodrama Good Luck, Miss Wyckoff (1979) aka Secret Yearnings aka The Sin aka The Shaming directed by Marvin J. Chomsky (Evel Knievel, The Deliberate Stranger), one sees such ‘politically incorrect’ words written in chalk on a sidewalk in regard to the eponymous female protagonist, who ultimately learns how unhealthy dark meat can be for a white woman. A work set in 1954 in suburban Kansas, Chomsky’s film may seem like a reworking (or rip-off) of Douglas Sirk’s All That Heaven Allows (1955) and/or Fassbinder's remake Ali: Fear Eats the Soul (1974) upon a superficial glance due to its depiction of an elder woman starting a ‘forbidden romance’ with a much younger man in an unforgiving 'puritanical' town, but it is really a piece of pathetically assembled agitprop trash masquerading around as keenly socially conscious high drama, thus making for an unintentionally hilarious film that depicts the extremes that some semi-Asiatic left-wing filmmakers were willing to go in terms of their semi-hermetic hate campaign against America’s white majority. Indeed, directed by Hebraic hack Chomsky and adapted by Jewess Polly Platt (whose father presided over the Dachau Trials and who was once the wife of fellow chosenite Peter Bogdanovich) from the 1970 novel of the same title by gay Pulitzer Prize winner William Inge, Good Luck, Miss Wyckoff has aspirations towards being a more subversive Guess Who's Coming to Dinner (1967), but it was both a critical and commercial failure and it is really just a superlatively sleazy exploitation flick on steroids featuring a couple forgotten Hollywood stars. The patently pathetic story of a virginal 35-year-old high-school teacher who is suffering pre-menopausal symptoms and is inspired to start a random sexual relationship after being conned into doing so by a Jewish psychiatrist, only to find herself a rape victim and the quasi-sex-slave of a young psychopathic negro janitor (!), Chomsky’s film seems to have been made with the sole intention of offending and shocking white middle America and is thus a one-note-celluloid-wonder of sorts, albeit a sometimes entertaining one-note-celluloid-wonder that demonstrates the Semitic Sunset Boulevard truly has no shame. Of course, it should be no surprise that the film was somewhat recently released on DVD/Blu-Ray by the porn/exploitation distribution company Vinegar Syndrome, as it is more or less a ‘crackersploitation’ with Blaxploitation overtones that depicts most whites from the 1950s as dimwitted true believers of the so-called ‘Red Scare’ who mindlessly hated negroes and ostracized anyone who even remotely acted in a socially transgressive fashion. Directed a crypto-propagandist hack who directed episodes of the cultural Marxist favorite Roots (1977), the majorly moronic and totally tasteless TV miniseries Holocaust (1978), and the terrible TV movie Inside the Third Reich (1982), Good Luck, Miss Wyckoff is nothing short of left-wing porn twaddle made for those hopelessly impressionable individuals who consider Howard Zinn’s A People's History of the United States (1980) to be the definitive book on American history. 

 Opening in Freedom, Kansas in 1954 with old maid protagonist Evelyn Wyckoff (played Anne Heywood, who was 48 when she starred in the role) walking home and spotting the words “Miss Wyckoff Fucks Niggers” written on a road near her house, Good Luck, Miss Wyckoff then goes back a couple months to reveal how the main character went from being a sexless spinster to earning the deplorable reputation of being a, “nigger fucker.” Miss Wyckoff is 35-year-old high-school Latin teacher and she is suffering from debilitating depression due to the fact that she is almost middle-aged yet she has never had her hymen broken. Indeed, after suffering hysterical panic attacks and committing random acts of irrational violence (among other things, she smashes a mirror with her fists in front of her equally sexually prudish friends), less than wanton Wyckoff needs a serious change of pace and her almost creepily stoic gynecologist Dr. Neal (Robert Vaughn) is ultimately the man that is going to be the who unwittingly leads her on a deplorable path of no return. Indeed, after Dr. Neal gives Miss Wyckoff a rather awkward gynecological exam and realizes that she is showing some perturbing pre-menopausal signs, he recommends that she begin having sex, stating, “Nature wants us to use our bodies…if we don’t, they dry out and function poorly.” Dr. Neal also recommends that she see his Jewish psychiatrist colleague Dr. Steiner (Donald Pleasence of the Halloween franchise fame), who, using Freudian hocus pocus, eventually gets Miss Wyckoff to admit that the source of her sexual hang-ups is the result of a traumatic childhood experience where her mother more or less told her that she would grow up to be a slut.  A somewhat impenetrable man with dubious motives, Dr. Neal recommends to Miss Wyckoff  that start an affair with a married bus driver, but when the teach finally gets the gall to jump the bones of the proletarian philanderer, he has already moved away, thus leaving her with very little options where losing her virginity is concerned. Luckily, a young psychopathic negro named Rafe Collins (John Lafayette) begins working as a janitor at Wyckoff’s high school and he is going to make the frigid teach learn a lesson or two about carnal knowledge, whether she likes it or not. 

 A nastily narcissistic negro that is in his mid-20s and who is stereotypically on a football scholarship at a less than prestigious community college, Rafe has rape on his mind, especially when it comes to naïve liberal white women, and he is not going to let any white woman tell him, “no,” as it only makes him all the more horny. One day, Rafe walks into Miss Wyckoff's classroom and states, “I wonder how many of you white people really mean it when you pretend to care about us negroes” while beginning to pull out his poisonous black snake. While Miss Wyckoff manages to convince Rafe to leave immediately, the next time he shows up will result in the teacher involuntarily losing her virginity. Indeed, the next time Rafe comes to Miss Wyckoff’s classroom, he takes her hand and forces it down his pants. When Wyckoff resists and bites the naughty negro’s hand, Rafe slaps the teacher like a pimp slaps his whores. After locking Miss Wyckoff in her classroom and threatening her by stating, “I’m warning you…not one sound,” Rafe takes off his clothes, forces the petrified teacher onto her desk, and rapes her while she cries hysterically and pleads for him to stop. When Miss Wyckoff shows up to her classroom the next day and discovers the negro-style sentence, “you be here this afternoon,” written on her chalkboard, she decides to sneak out of the school before Rafe can find her, but on the following day she is not so lucky. When Rafe rapes Wyckoff the next day, she begins to rather enjoy it, which the narcissistic negro immediately notices and uses to his advantage. Indeed, the next day Rafe sexually degrades Miss Wyckoff by forcing her to get on her knees and crawl to him while begging for his very potentially diseased colored cock. 

 After talking to another black janitor on the football team, Miss Wyckoff learns that Rafe is not a boy, but a 24-year-old ex-hustler who was “discovered” by the school football coach.  Indeed, it seems that white Americans will do anything for their beloved philistine game of football, including supporting criminally-inclined  nig-nogs.  In that sense, Good Luck, Miss Wyckoff reveals that not much has changed in America, at least where stupid mainstream sports are concerned.  When Miss Wyckoff’s best friend/fellow teacher Beth (played by Carolyn Jones, who is probably best known for her role as Morticia Frump Addams on the original TV series The Addams Family from the mid-1960s) remarks regarding Rafe, “He’s the kind that makes everyone hate niggers. That’s what he is…an uppity negro,” the race-mixing educator responds hysterically by absurdly stating, “Racial prejudice is one of man’s most difficult problems to solve during his time here on earth…perhaps god intended it to be that way. And if we don’t solve it, Beth, we’re all going to be destroyed,” thus making it seem like xenophilia is a major mental disorder. Of course, rumors begin to spread around the high school due to the fact that Miss Wyckoff spends way too much hanging out with a jigaboo janitor in her classroom. When two young white male janitors who suspect Miss Wyckoff is a “nigger fucker” hear the teacher screaming out in pain, they swiftly run to her classroom, only to find her completely naked and being bent over a hot heater by Rafe, who has intentionally burnt her breasts while viciously buggering her from behind. While one of the white men calls Rafe a “rotten bastard,” neither of them attempts to rescue Miss Wyckoff, who more or less got what she deserved. Of course, with the cat out of the bag, Miss Wyckoff is ostracized by everyone in the small Kansas town, including her best friend Beth and a cowardly communist-sympathizing dork teacher named Chester Rollins (J. Patrick McNamara), who she had previously defended when he was about to be fired from his teaching job due to his commie views. In the end, Miss Wyckoff briefly contemplates suicide, but ultimately opts to leave town after being given a letter of recommendation from the school’s principal.  Indeed, as they say, once you go black, you never go back.

 While clearly a carelessly convoluted cultural Marxist-oriented work that was probably made with the sole objective of antagonizing white America by making it seem like the secret desire of every moral and cultured white woman is to be forcibly bent over by a half-braindead black buck with a primitive talent for savage sexual pillaging and throwing pigskins, Good Luck, Miss Wyckoff is also rather incriminating in many respects, namely due to the fact that all the ostensibly progressive leftist characters, including the eponymous protagonist, are weak and socially defective individuals whose championing of negro causes is due to the fact that they can ‘relate’ to the negro due to their own dubious place in society as weaklings and emotional cripples. As revealed in the film, Miss Wyckoff was partially responsible for the desegregation of her high school. Although mere speculation, one can only assume that if she had been a normal happy woman with a husband and kids and not a sex-starved childless spinster, she probably would not have time to waste on negro rights and promoting the reading of Karl Marx.  It should also be noted that it is two non-Europids—a Jewish psychiatrist and a young negro—that are ultimately responsible for Miss Wyckoff's moral decline.  Of course, Israelites also played a large role in the Civil Rights movement, as it enabled them to weaken their greatest enemy—the white majority.  Indeed, like the lead protagonist in Robert Redford's revoltingly sappy and superficial piece of obscenely overrated celluloid twaddle Ordinary People (1980), Miss Wyckoff ultimately finds herself even more screwed up after going to regular sessions with a Judaic psychiatrist. I also found it interesting how psychopathic spade Rafe has virtually the same sociopathic attitude that is popular among black American ‘youths,’ rappers, and football players nowadays, thus making Good Luck, Miss Wyckoff a somewhat prophetic work, if not unintentionally so. Undoubtedly, despite being a somewhat nonsensical piece of trash exploitation, I would be lying if I did not admit that the film reminded me how much America has gone down the morally vacant multicultural drain since the film’s release some 35 years ago. Indeed, we now live in a such racially, culturally, socially, and morally defective era that it is not uncommon for white sluts to be impregnated negros and then pass on their misbegotten mulatto spawn to be raised by its cuckolded white grandparents. Of course, maybe if contemporary whites were more like those depicted in kosher agitator Chomsky’s agitprop piece then America would not be the ugly dying mongrelized bastard beast that it is today.  A Semitic-sired quasi-Blaxploitation/melodrama hybrid that surely reminds one what Hebraic Hollywood really thinks of the white majority, Good Luck, Miss Wyckoff is certainly absurdly asinine celluloid excrement yet, like the high school teacher protagonist of the film, the viewer learns a very valuable lesson: “once you go black, you never go back, as no self-respecting white man wants you back.”

-Ty E