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Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Diamonds of Kilimandjaro

Release Year: 1983
Country: France/Spain/maybe Germany?
Starring: Katja Bienert, Antonio Mayans, Aline Mess, Albino Graziani, Javier Maiza, Olivier Mathot, Ana Stern, Daniel White, Lina Romay.
Writer: Jess Franco and Olivier Mathot
Director: Jess Franco
Cinematographer: Jess Franco
Music: Jess Franco and Daniel White
Original Title: El Tesoro de la Diosa Blanca
Availability: Buy it from Amazon


The phrase "Jess Franco at his worst" is something that should strike fear in the hearts of even the stoutest of cult film aficionados, to say nothing of the mainstream masses who go about their daily lives in blissful ignorance of the sundry celluloid abominations lurking in the dank, shadowy alleys of the cinematic landscape. Even at his best, Jess Franco manages to illicit negative reactions (to put it politely) to his work from the vast majority of viewers. And Jess Franco at his worst? The sane mind dare not even imagine what such a beast would look like! I, as has been stated elsewhere, am a fan of Jess Franco, and a pretty big fan at that. And as a fan of Franco, I recognize that often times the dank, shadowy alley leads to the secret door that opens up into a magical psychedelic jazz strip club decorated with garish pop art excess and populated by the bizarre and decadent fringes of lunatic society.

I freely admit that, for one not predisposed toward Franco's peculiar predilections and directorial quirks, his films can be inaccessible and rather impenetrable -- which I guess is my way of skirting around calling them boring and incompetent. As for myself, my appreciation of Franco and of the Franco aesthetic has grown over the years, aged like a fine wine, until I have reached the point where I positively adore his warped creations. If I could have any filmmaker's career, I would most likely end up picking Jess Franco. If nothing else, imagine the sheer number of bizarre stories he must have amassed over the decades of his long career as a cult filmmaker on the fringe.


Franco himself probably could have picked the film career of any other filmmaker to be his own, but he eventually picked Jess Franco as well. He was not always the maverick nutjob over-indulging in his own obsessions. There was a time, however brief and long ago, that Franco flirted with mainstream acceptability and garnered praise and work from more established and well-respected members of the cinematic industry. But every time the choice was presented to him: play the game and be accepted or play by your own rules and remain on the fringe, Franco took the fringe route. You can chalk this up to whatever you want: dedication to a personal vision, artistic madness, or the inability to make a sound business decision. It's probably all three, and then some. Whatever the case, Franco become a filmmaker so prolific and so committed to his own idiosyncrasies that at some point he may very well have stopped making movies in specific genres and became a genre unto himself.

If you know Jess Franco, then you know what I mean when I say "a Jess Franco film." You know that there are tropes and themes that run through most all of his films regardless of whether they are horror, science fiction, espionage, sexploitation -- all other labels applied to his films are secondary to that of "a Jess Franco film." And at times, not only is Jess Franco a genre unto himself, but his films attain such lofty levels of bizarreness that they perhaps stop being movies at all and become some entirely new and incomprehensible type of art. Or maybe he's just bad at what he does. Whatever the case, and probably because Franco and I seem to share a lot of common interests, fetishes, and obsessions, I have grown to look upon his body of work with considerable fondness and respect.


And I am not alone. As more and more of his films find their way to DVD in uncut and properly presented formats, Franco's fanbase is growing. However, even among his fans, the jungle adventure Diamonds of Kilimandjaro (their spelling, not mine) gets very little love. Even those with a tremendous talent for digesting Franco seem to regard Diamonds of Kilimandjaro and it's follow-up, Golden Temple Amazons, as among the very worst films Franco ever made. And while "Jess Franco at his worst" is more than enough to keep most people away (hell, "Jess Franco" alone is enough to keep most people away), that phrase is, in turn, more than enough to make me think, "Man, this I gotta see!"

So with my love of Franco in general established, let me further say that I also have a weakness for jungle adventure movies. Some of the earliest films I remember seeing were the old Tarzan movies starring Johnny Weissmuller, and between those and all the Poverty Row b-movie adventures about jungle goddesses that filled Matinee at the Bijou when I was a kid, plus a dollop of old pulp stories when I could find them, I knew that jungles were full of crocodile wrestling, hot chicks in loin cloths, lost treasure, ancient crumbling cities carved into the sides of cliffs, and oblivious British professor types in pith helmets explaining some anthropological point as they puff on a pipe and fail to realize that they are slowly sinking in quicksand. And men of adventure -- men like me -- would stride through those leafy quagmires with a machete in one hand, a colonial rifle in the other, and harvest glorious tales of adventure and romance. Yes sir, that was the life for me. And even though I'm in my thirties now, I still haven't let go of the dream that one day I'll be living that kind of life. The closest I can get is the jungle adventure film, all full of the good stuff I just mentioned, and usually even fuller of scenes consisting of the stars pointing at something off camera, followed by a cut to grainy stock footage of an elephant or a rhino or something.


So that brings us to Diamonds of Kilimandjaro, an old fashioned jungle adventure film as directed by Jess Franco and produced by Eurocine Studios in France. Man, for a guy like me, it just keeps getting better! Eurocine was infamous for being the production house that looked at the very cheapest, laziest, and sleaziest of European exploitation films and felt that they could do it even cheaper, lazier, and sleazier. In fact, "Cheaper, Lazier, and Sleazier" might have been their corporate mission statement, and as far as I can tell, they always lived up to it. You knew that with any Eurocine production, you were going to get a plot that had been written on the back of a used napkin five minutes before filming started. You knew you would get stars with no interest in acting in the movie. You knew you would get a director who was considered to be the worst by most people but was still working beneath himself when working for Eurocine. And perhaps most defining of all, you knew you were going to get a whole lot of nudity. I've always wanted to research and write two film books. One would be a history of exploitation filmmaking in Florida, when folks like David Friedman, HG Lewis, and Doris Wishman were running wild and setting gorillas loose in nudist colonies. The other would be a history of Eurocine, driven by personal anecdotes from the people who worked for and with them. It must have been insane, and any book on the subject would be a tome of ultra-cheap filmmaking techniques and hilarious personal accounts. Sounds like a job for Tim Lucas and Pete Toombs!

Among cult film fans, Eurocine's best-known production is probably Zombie Lake, a film of staggering incompetence directed by one of my favorite directors, Jean Rollin, after another of my favorite directors (Jess Franco) turned it down because the movie was just too cheap and crappy. Too cheap and crappy for Jess Franco, huh? Truly, it boggles the mind. But Franco wouldn't get through a lifetime career in exploitation films without doing some work for Eurocine. Diamonds of Kilimandjaro and Golden Temple Amazons were two of the movies Franco apparently didn't think were as cheap and shoddy and ill-conceived as Zombie Lake. And while even Franco fans seem to hate both films, I have to admit that, well, just like Zombie Lake, I kinda like them. Actually, I more than kinda like them.


Diamonds of Kilimandjaro is basically the end product of someone at Eurocine getting stoned and proposing a movie probably with the description, "It'd be like Tarzan, but with tits!" And from what I can tell, that's about as far as you had to go with concepts and pitches at Eurocine. All that's left to do is call Jess Franco and tell him to have the film done in a week or two. Diamonds of Kilimandjaro begins with a plane crash, as all good Tarzan rip-offs do. The only survivors are a caricature of a Scotsman and his daughter, Diana, who grows up to be German sexploitation actress Katja Bienert. For some reason, the natives who find them decide to worship the Scotsman as a god, even though they already seem to know what white people are and thus shouldn't really be so enraptured when one of them drops by wearing a knit cap and kilt. Years later, an expedition to the jungle results in an explorer running into Diana, who has an aversion to wearing tops -- an affliction all women in this movie seem to have. When she frees him after the others want to put him to death for trying to take sacred diamonds from the jungle (actually, it's a small chunk of amethyst), the explorer returns to civilization and reports to the dying matron Hermine (Lina Romay in heavy old-person make-up) that her daughter is still alive. Hermine then commissions an expedition to find the child and return her to civilized society.

So begins the adventures of one of the worst-equipped jungle expeditions of all time. Two of the guys (Albino Graziani as the dickish but ultimately moral Fred, and Antonio Mayans as the friendly but ultimately immoral Al) at least spring for proper jungle attire, or as proper as dungarees and t-shirts can be. But the other guy, Diana's drunkard uncle or something, played by Olivier Mathot, shows up wearing his finest flared slacks and loafers. Still, that's nothing compared to his wife, Lita (played by Mari Carmen Nieto, aka Ana Stern), who shows up for their jungle adventure wearing the same tank top, denim cut-off hot pants, and high-heeled, hot pink 1980s scrunchy boots that she would later wear in Jess Franco's Mansion of the Living Dead. Seriously, someone needed to get this woman one of those old Banana Republic catalogs, from back when the catalogs were digest sized and printed on thick brown paper, and all the clothes were safari and adventure themed, with lots of tales about rum and gauchos and jungle expeditions thrown in for good measure. Lucky for all involved, Lita's questionable taste in rain forest hiking attire will not be much of an issue, as she spends much of the movie naked.


In fact, if you are going to like Diamonds of Kilimandjaro, you are going to have to really like two things: naked women and random shots of jungle foliage, because that's about all this movie is comprised of. In fact, they should have just titled it Tits and Foliage, because it's not like I wouldn't watch a movie called Tits and Foliage. In fact, I'd probably be more likely to watch Tits and Foliage than something called Diamonds of Kilimandjaro. Plus, the movie is full of tits and foliage, but there are no diamonds, and there is no Kilimandjaro. For like 89 minutes this is a movie about a group of dumb people trying to find a naked white chick in the jungle while a naked black chick in the jungle throws spears at them. And then in the last minute, some Scotsman in a hut stammers, "You are here to steal the treasure!" Huh? Treasure? What treasure? What the hell is anyone in this movie talking about?

If you asked me if I like this movie, the answer would be an enthusiastic "yes!" If you asked me why I liked this movie, I would sort of shuffle and mumble and get all awkward like a little kid who has just been asked what the teacher just said after being caught not paying attention. Certainly, there are very few, if any, artistic merits about Diamonds of Kilimandjaro. Most of the signature Jess Franco flourishes are absent. There's no jazzy psychedelic score. There's no ultra-cool pop art nightclub. There's no interesting cinematography or direction. Jess pretty much sits the camera in the jungle (or a Spanish stand-in for a jungle) and lets stuff happen in front of it. If the movie is short on running time, no problem. He'll just shoot fifteen seconds worth of random palm fronds and jungle scrub to pad things out. Still short on time? Might as well use some of that stock rhino footage Eurocine found lying around in a warehouse somewhere. It's obvious that Franco was as bored making this movie as most people are watching it. And yet, I really like the movie. Is it the threadbare plot? Is it the bored acting? The listless direction? The plodding pace? I can't say for sure, but something about this movie delighted me. I guess, Like I said before, I'm just a sucker for jungle movies, especially when they feature an adventurer in high-heeled, hot pink 1980s scrunchy boots.


Lead actress Katja Bienert has little to do beyond walk around the jungle naked. When she is given more than that to do -- swinging from a vine, for example, the results are usually pretty good evidence for why she wasn't given much to do beyond walking around the jungle naked. She sort of flails around on the vine for a second and is obviously about to fall right before Franco cuts away and dubs in a war cry that sounds more like, well, the sound you make when you are about to fall. I don't think even Tarzan himself would have seemed as cool if his war cry had been, "Whoops!" Bienert looks good in a loin cloth, of course, and she worked with Franco a number of times before and after this film, including Eugenie, Lillian the Perverted Virgin, and one I absolutely must see, Linda -- aka Naked Super Witches of the Rio Amore. In fact, as late as 2002, she was still working with Franco, appearing in Killer Barbys vs. Dracula, as well as doing a fair amount of work on German television shows. As you might guess from the titles that make up the body of her work, she hasn't exactly achieved an air of respectability, but then, neither has Teleport City, and I'd probably be much happier hanging out with Katja Bienert than I would with Meryl Streep or the Dali Lama. Sorry, Your Holiness, but I'm bailing on you to hang out with a German sex film star, because that's the kind of awesome guy I am. Katja spends the bulk of Diamonds of Kilimandjaro looking vaguely confused and amused, which is nice because that's how I spent the bulk of Diamonds of Kilimandjaro, too.

Albino Graziani is another Franco regular. In fact, I don't think he ever worked with anyone but Franco. He stars here as Fred, vying for Alpha Male status on the expedition with the less boisterous Antonio Mayans. But while Fred spends all his time carrying around a gun and shouting, Mayans is busy laying every female he sees, including Lita and, eventually, Diana herself. If there's anything close to a complex character in this film -- and there really isn't, to be honest -- it's Fred, who reacts with disgust when he learns that there is more to this expedition than he was initially told. It turns out that Lita and boozy uncle whatever his name was are intent on making sure Diana never returns to civilization, lest they lose out on their inheritance. Al himself eventually has a crisis of conscience as well but ultimately sacrifices principal in order to steal the diamonds that are actually amethyst. Pretty much all of his character development takes place in the span of thirty seconds, which is convenient if you lead an active lifestyle and don't have a lot of time to spend watching some dude with a beard discover himself and ultimately succumb to temptation and greed.


Actually, one of my favorite things about the Eurocine films I've seen is that they all try to throw in some deep, important message amid all the gratuitous scenes of naked jungle chicks and skinny dippers. Diamonds of Kilimandjaro has the moral conflict between Fred and Al. It has the moral conflict between the primitive and civilized. It has the moral conflict over whether it is right to take Diana from the jungle if she does not want to leave -- would she even know if she wanted to leave? And it throws in an angry, frighteningly hot black chick (Aline Mess, also in the jungle adventure Devil Hunter with Al Cliver and possessed of the most alluring bloodthirsty snarl I've seen in a while) who knows these white fools are no gods and have only come to plunder her land. Mess seems to relish her role, and if there's anyone to watch this movie for, it's her. She spends the entire thing running naked through the jungle, beheading obnoxious jackasses with unbridled glee, doing sexy ritual dances, and throwing spears at irritating people. You could be offended by the stereotypical portrayal of blacks as primitive and superstitious, but I look at her behavior and think, "Man, what's not to love about this girl?" Plus, she's like the only one who isn't falling for the "white man from sky is god!" shtick.

Oh, and there's the moral trickiness of a father who hangs out with his naked daughter in the jungle all day, but the film seems unconcerned with that one. It is European, after all. But the script, penned by Franco and Olivier Mathot in a writing session that probably lasted twenty minutes, crams all these "big ideas" in with no real thought. Not that Diamonds of Kilimandjaro is deep or meaningful in any way. Hell, I'm like one of maybe three people in the entire world who love this film, and even I wouldn't try to sell that claim. It's like something I would have written when I was twelve and all hopped up on jungle adventure movies and copies of Penthouse than my friend's dad had hidden in their utility closet.

Franco at his worst? I don't really think so. Diamonds of Kilimandjaro is certainly not Franco at his best, but I really thought this goofy mess of a film was kind of fun. I can't justify it, and don't feel like I even need to. I certainly wouldn't promise you that you will like it as much as I did. But I did like Diamonds of Kilimandjaro. It really is a throwback to old style adventure films, only without much adventure and with more nudity. It has nothing to do with the better known Italian jungle films of the 80s, all of which were gory, serious cannibal movies. Compared to those, and even with the near-constant gratuitous nudity, Diamonds of Kilimandjaro is sort of this dumb, innocent old-fashioned movie. It has a charm for me I can neither explain nor deny. It's pure, idiotic cheesecake, and then it attempts to cram complex thematic elements in between the scenes of Ana Stern skinny dipping and Ana Stern getting laid and Ana Stern wearing her high-heeled, hot pink 1980s scrunchy boots, and Katja Bienert topless and falling out of trees. I admire that.

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Monday, February 05, 2007

Urotsukidoji: Legend of the Overfiend

DIGG THIS ARTICLE. 1989, Japan. Starring Yasunori Matsumoto, Koichi Yamadera, Yoko Asagami, Daisuke Gori, Tomohiro Nishimura, Maya Okamoto, Hirotaka Suzuoki, Yumi Takada, Norio Wakamoto. Directed by Hideki Takayama. Written by Sho Aikawa.

I was having a hard time starting this review, and I'm not sure why. I don't mean that I was caught in some moral dilemma, wondering if I should dare discuss such a filthy, irredeemable piece of trash -- I think we all know how such a moral dilemma would hash out if I'm involved. I guess it was just a case of writer's block, or exhaustion. Or maybe it was the fact that there were just so many things to say, so many approaches that could be taken in discussing the source material, that I was overwhelmed. Perhaps even spoiled for choice. And under a bit of pressure. An epic as vast and sprawling and serious as this demands an appropriately grave and serious demeanor. Would I do the subject justice? Would my review be deserving of such a monumental work of art? In the end, I simply had to accept that sometimes words don't come easy, even to a rambling windbag like me, but like the titular character of the Overfiend, while words may not come easily, they must come never the less.

Which brings me to the disagreeable preface that must be applied to a review of a film of this nature. As regular readers know, I pride myself in ardently defending the standards and decency of the community. Luckily, since the community to which I refer is the Internet, which means pretty much anything short of Hitler jerking off on Jesus while the Savior makes sweet love to a little boy can be considered decent and acceptable. Still, even with the community standards of the Internet thus established, I feel like I should warn some of our less seasoned and no doubt happier readers that the movie about which we're going to talk today is a work of questionable morality and ill repute.


At this point in my career, I don't think any recreated act on film or video could manage to shock or offend me. Amuse, perhaps. Disappoint, sure. But when you've been at this for as long as I have, the disconnect between make-believe and reality becomes crystal clear, and once you've managed that, there's not much point in getting offended by goofy make-believe sleaze. But I understand that not all of you share this particular immunity toward offense, for a variety of valid personal reasons, so allow me to warn you now: Legend of the Overfiend is utter and absolute filth. Unless, like me, what was human in you died a long time ago, you will find this series inexcusably tasteless, offensive, and perhaps even upsetting. In a couple weeks, I'll be reviewing the ridiculously fun and enjoyable Bollywood caper Shaan, and I suggest that if you have heart or soul left in your being, you simply rejoin us then and give this whole horrible Legend of the Overfiend thing a miss.

On the other hand, if you find cartoon tentacle porn more absurd than upsetting, and if you want to slog through a film that is indeed filthy and wretched, but also one of the single most important titles in the history of anime in the United States, then steel yourself, make sure your boss isn't working (I'm writing this at work -- I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be reading it there), and prepare to submerge yourself in a series that is impressive both for how callously offensive and perverse it strives to be while also striving to be colossally epic and vast in scale -- sort of like the Old Testament.


When, during the summer of 2006, Teleport City decided to dig about in the waters of anime from the 1980s, we mentioned on more than one occasion that the eighties were probably the most glorious decade of unfettered excess and decadence in the anime world. The giant robots and melancholy space pirates of the 1970s gave way to hot chicks in battle armor, exploding heads, and the now infamous birth of tentacle porn, among other things. While today's anime market may be choked with cheap hentai titles full of tentacle rape and nurses pooping on each other, it's neither as shocking nor as notable today as it was in the eighties, for two main reasons. First, the eighties did it first, and just about everything that happens today is derivative of the sleazy pioneers of the 1980s. Modern sleazeball anime may have plumbed further into the depths of human perversions and replaced magical demon bodily fluids with actual human bodily fluids, but given how mainstreamed porn and sexual deviance has become (and God bless it!), even the most shockingly sick and twisted modern hentai lacks the punch of its forefathers, if for no other reason than we've seen it all before. I don't know what it says about me or society that a title like Cool Devices can come out, and my reaction is a decadent sigh of boredom and, "Oh, ho hum. He's peeing on his sister."

Second, modern hentai (for you people who don't take time to acquaint yourself with esoteric terms, "hentai" is what people call porn anime so they don't have to call it porn anime) exists largely and almost exclusively within the confines of the porn ghetto. There is very little, if any, cross-over between hentai and the more mainstream world of shrieking blonde ninjas in orange jumpsuits telling me to "believe it!" Of course, I speak only of official production anime; if one needs to find the crossover between porn and mainstream anime, one need only turn to our dear old friend, the Internet, which will allow you to access a whole world of fanfic in which the characters of Naruto lick each others buttholes while fending off an endless attack of bad grammar and spelling mistakes. But that's fanfic, and it's a ghetto all its own. Only Dragonball filk is lower.


There was plenty of underground hentai in the 80s, of course, but there were also several titles which crossed the line (in more ways than one) and either flirted with or achieved legitimate mainstream crossover success. Here in the United States, when anime broke in the latter half of the Reagan era, it was defined primarily by three titles, though only two are ever really acknowledged as having reigned supreme, while the third is filed away as sort of this guilty curiosity that no one really saw, but don't let that sort of anime history revisionism fool you. There were three king hell titles: Akira was the obvious top of the heap, followed by the OVA Bubblegum Crisis, which dominated the home video market for reasons I still cannot fathom to this day. I guess it was all we had at the time, and it was better than watching MD Geist.

The third title comes to us courtesy of one of the creators of the classic anime series Yamato, aka Starblazers in the United States, and even though Akira is named time and again as the defining moment in 80s anime and one of the landmark accomplishments in the history of anime as a whole, it was the bastard son of a writer-director-producer Yoshinobu Nishizaki -- The Nish, as he has become known lately -- that really defined anime in the mainstream press. In between creating Starblazers, delighting generations with Odin: Photon Space Sailer Starlight, and shooting cannons off on his private yacht, Nishizaki found time to serve as producer for a new series which, unlike all his previous ideas, wasn't just a rehash of Yamato. Following the lead of Lovecraft-inspired horror that flirted with graphic sex presented to us in Wicked City, Nishizaki decided that the one thing wrong with that movie was that it only featured some sex thrown in with its violence, and never had the guts to show full-on penetration of a woman by a gigantic demon penis.


And so, as the 90s came to a close and the window for getting a high-profile work of such decadence and depravity was closing, Nishizaki collected together a crew that included director Hideki Takayama (still brand new to the game in 1989, but he's since gone on to direct all sorts of screwed-up demon rape porn, and for some reason, Sakura Wars) and writer Sho Aikawa (who was fresh off the popular title Vampire Princess Miyu and would go on to write for Fullmetal Alchemist), and together, they made a little OVA series called Urotsukidoji, more popularly known as Legend of the Overfiend.

This is a pretty dubious assembly of talent, and one sort of has to stretch the meaning of the word talent to really fit them all in. After all, Nishizaki hadn't really come up with anything memorable since Starblazers, and he seemed to be batshit insane in addition. Sho Aikawa -- who I'd like to think is the same Sho Aikawa who would go on to acting fame in Takashi Miike's Dead or Alive trilogy, but I'm pretty sure it isn't -- may have achieved some degree of respectability with Vampire Princess Miyu, but that was flirtation with respectability, at best, and you have to do much better work if you want to make people forget about you also having written Dog Soldier and Angel Cop. And director Hideki Takayama? Other than becoming the go-to guy for Overfiend sequels and rip-offs, he doesn't have much to offer. But the fact remains that while they may not have been impressive names, they were still names, and they had some legitimate work under the belt. And The Nish, crazy or not, still had Yamato era clout that helped make his own private exploration of ridiculously grotesque and pornographic extremes more of a high profile release than the average piece of hentai naughtiness.


But whatever respectability the Overfiend saga -- and porn aside, it is a saga, complete with a vast and ambitious personal mythology and epic scope -- may have squeezed out in Japan is nothing compared to what happened to the thing when it hit the United States. It became a cult phenom that, for a brief time, very nearly rivaled the status of Akira, albeit with a decidedly different tone in those who talked about it. I remember seeing it for the first time in 1990, when a friend who was heavy into trading VHS tapes to get obscure horror films, ended up with a copy on a tape where it shared space with some Japanese porn movie about a woman pursued by a garbage bag containing her murdered husband, and an underground video of some chick performing "hanadensha," or "pussy arts," such as blowing up balloons, shooting a dart gun, smoking a cigarette, and, umm, filling herself up with squirming, live eels. Yeah, I really don't have any excuse whatsoever, other than it was pretty late, and we sure did laugh a lot.

It was just the first episode of Overfiend, fuzzy and with no translation, so all we really knew was that there was a spectacle on the screen the likes of which we'd never really seen, not even in Wicked City. And we weren't the only ones. Bootleg copies of this "ridiculously screwed up thing from Japan" were circulating like wild fire throughout the cult film underworld, and while many looked on with awe-inspired disgust, that doesn't change the fact that many looked on, always corrupted by a friend waving a VHS tape and saying, "Dude, you have got to see this!" So many saw it, in fact, that the Overfiend eventually crept into mainstream consciousness and became the poster boy for how hideous and corrupt anime was. Not just porn anime, but all anime. It didn't matter if it was the gender bending shenanigans of Ranma 1/2, the turgid teen romance of Kigamure Orange Road, or the epic science fiction of Akira. Overfiend, as far as the local newscaster was concerned, embodied them all, and all anime looked like and was as perverse as Urotsukidoji. If only. I might have finished Kigamure Orange Road if that had been the case.


Of course, it's not like anime was totally innocent of the charges. The 80s were, as we've said, pretty packed to the gills with messed up stuff. If anything, The Overfiend was simply the trends of the 1980s taken to their most logical extreme, or as logical as Nishizaki was ever capable of being, and exploding in the final year of that decade with all the gruesome force of the Overfiend's orgasm blowing some chick's head off in a messy splash of blood, brains, and semen. It was the last gasp of the twisted, free-for-all of the 1980s. After that, anime settled down, and the porn settled to the bottom of the barrel. In time, when old timers would go back and talk about the seminal movies of the 1980s, they would neglect to mention the most "seminal" of them all. If Urotuskidoji was mentioned, it was usually as an offhanded aside, or a sneering condemnation of how this tasteless abomination ruined anime and made everyone thing anime fans were all a bunch of murderous pervs. Rarely will they mention that, for better or for worse, damn near everyone who watched anime in those days saw it. Rarely will they mention that it was, again for better or for worse, a defining title of the era, and that among other dubious claims to fame, it was the first anime feature (when the OVA episodes were edited together to create a feature film) to be released in both dubbed and subtitled format not just to U.S. home video -- but to U.S. movie theaters as well.


The Overfiend gets no respect, and frankly, it doesn't deserve much. The animation is sometimes hit or miss, occasionally nicely realized, and in some cases bordering on great; the story is scatter-brained; and yes, it's packed full of misogynistic violence toward women, underaged sex (though the warning at the front of the film swears the high school characters are all over the age of nineteen), and rape that culminates in exploding heads. It's just not very good. But it does have its moments, and good or not, it played a huge role in defining the formative years of anime, and deserves, if nothing else, to be recognized for its contributions (be there good or ill) and its rightful place in the history of anime. So it was that I decided that, while I wasn't going to champion the series (I save my Nishizaki championing for Odin), I would at least try to put it in it's proper context, and I would do so with the help, should they chose to offer it, of the great and mighty torchbearers of celebrating "old school" anime, the Anime World Order podcast. Of course, they're a podcast, and I'm a written review website, so I don't know exactly how this collaboration will work out, but that's all part of the fun.


Of course, as soon as Gerald from the AWO took me up on the offer, I had to figure out exactly how I was going to deal with such a notorious and admittedly irredeemable piece of filth. The Overfiend, I mean, not Gerald. In my younger years, I would have simply indulged in it with reckless abandon, celebrating the filth and the fury with slimy screencaps and interminable gusto. I am older now, and not so prone to adolescent fits of petty offensiveness, but I'm also still not offended by things that are saucy or stupid, or in the case of Urotsukidoji, both saucy and stupid. And in the end, Urotsukidoji is definitely stupider than it is offensive. In fact, I find the whole thing so absurd, so totally ludicrous as to be inoffensive, because seriously, man, how can anyone take this crap seriously? There are much scarier things in the world and much scarier things in the world of anime, and they are called moe and harem shows, but we'll come to those later.

So in deference to my more sensitive readers who do not share my callous disregard for what you humans call morality, I'll do my best to exercise some degree of restraint, which may be an odd thing to do in the case of Urotsukidoji -- but only just barely, because while I may claim that the purpose of this review is to put this much maligned piece of trash in its rightful place in the pantheon of anime, my real motivation is simply to have a good laugh, which ultimately, is about all you should get from something as completely goofy as the Overfiend.


Our story begins with narration courtesy of a guy who seems to be competing with Tomisaburo Wakiyama as Ogami Ito for the deepest voice in the world. He lays out the basics for us -- demon world and human world, one intruding on the other -- the usual. And there's a chosen one who will rise up and cleanse the world and unite us all while demons with six breasts do it doggy style to clue parents in to the fact that they shouldn't have rented this movie for their kids, even though the kids themselves are no doubt appreciative. Right away Nishizaki clues us in to the fact that there's not going to be much in the way of originality on display in this story. We then meet the nominal hero of our story, a goofy peeping tom named Nagumo, who alternates his days between peeking in the girls' locker room and being licked on the cheek by the number one ace hero of the basketball court during some weird Japanese high school sport in which basketball games are accompanied by a girls' gymnastics routine. Watching everything from up in the rafters is Amano, the new kid at school who no one seems to notice has catlike whiskers. Amano is searching for the titular Overfiend, the super-being foretold by prophecy to be the savior of the world. Amano is pretty convinced that it's that cheek-licking basketball guy, but Amano's sexy sister Megumi is convinced that it's someone else, possibly nerdy perv Nagumo. Either way, once again we see that ancient beings relying on a "chosen one" is always a stupid idea, because the chosen one is always some kind of a chump. Here we get a face-licking basketball star or a masturbating nerd. Nice going, prophecy of old.

When next we meet the brave and noble Nagumo, he is slinking into the school to peep on Ameki, the sweet girl next door on whom he has a crush, and one of the female teachers. When it turns out that the teacher intends to sex up the young student, Nagumo assumes his standard position of peeking in. But when it's further revealed that the teacher is, in fact, a hideous demonic monster that is going to rape Akemi via a twitching tangle of giant tentacle penises that spurt glowing neon goo, well, Nagumo still just sort of squats there peeping through the crack in the doorway. It's not until Amano shows up that the sexual assault is halted thanks to some good ol' magical intervention that results in exploding heads.


The good thing about Legend of the Overfiend is that it doesn't try to trick you into thinking it's something it's not. If you are going to be offended and disgusted by the movie, it makes sure you know that from the very first few minutes. That way, at least you haven't wasted your time. Pretty much everything that will jam pack the rest of the series running time is put up front for your consideration in this opening scene, so you can't say Nishizaki didn't warn you. Personally, as I said before, the whole scenario is so utterly silly and juvenile and presented in such an over-the-top manner that it's really hard for me to feel offended in any way. I would have loved to have been sitting in on The Nish and his crew when they were writing the story for this absurd exercise in the extreme. Although the story itself is presented in a serious fashion, I can't imagine anyone taking it the least bit seriously when they were writing it.

But then again, Nishizaki is batshit insane, so who knows? Whatever sexual and psychological hang-ups he and the society in which he lived might have had are certainly laid bare in The Overfiend. There is an obvious fear and lack of understanding in regards to women. Lesbians are all secretly drooling demons who have hidden their giant penises behind a veneer of femininity. And even as they paint a terrified phobia of homosexuality, they fetishize the penis to a degree that would even make Tom of Finland blush. If you are the type to analyze such things, it's worth noting that The Nish made his millions working on the Yamato series. The original battleship Yamato was a massive World War II ship that was supposed to be the pride and joy of the Japanese people and a symbol of their might. Its construction bankrupted the Japanese military, and during it's first major combat operation, it was sunk by American airplanes. Still, however, the Yamato is held up by many -- mostly men -- as a great symbol of pride despite it being a catastrophic failure. More than a few people have said that the Yamato was nothing more than the "big dick" syndrome. Theirs was the biggest and that made them the baddest. Never mind that the thing turned out to be impotent.


So decades later, Nishizaki resurrects the myth of Yamato's grandeur by creating a cartoon series in which the original ship is recovered from its watery grave and turned into a spaceship that will save humanity. If The Nish had his history straight, then there would have been tremendous fanfare and pomp as the space battle cruiser Yamato was launched. Then it would have been shot down by aliens a few minutes later. But that would have been a pretty lame television series, and since Yamato is one of my favorites, I'm glad Nishizaki didn't go that route. And ultimately, I reckon championing the old Yamato battleship is no different than any other country championing their lost causes.

Anyway, after Yamato, Nishizaki made a show about a submarine that's turned into a spaceship -- completely different from the Yamato series, right? Anyway, you may notice that Nishizaki -- who also happens to be a gun and cannon nut, as well as sporting a fondness for speed boats and big yachts -- seems to have a preoccupation with things that are long and cylindrical in shape. And then comes The Overfiend...I've never seen Nishizaki naked, and likely never will, so I can't say what he's compensating for. However, it's pretty obvious that the man has built an entire career around his obsession with his own penis. Overfiend is just the most overt example.


Anyway, having established that this movie is going to be an affront to all that is decent and tasteful in the world, Overfiend then goes on to lay out the rest of its plot, which has got to be one of the most complex and sprawling mythologies ever grafted on to cheap animation and porn. Nishizaki may be obsessed with dicks, he may fear and/or hate women, he may be ripping off Wicked City, but no one can say that the man didn't have vision or put work into the back story of his infamous masterpiece of the grotesque. Spread over the first few episodes of Legend of the Overfiend, we get a story that spans thousands of years and involves everything from depraved captains of industry to Nazi madmen, to peeping tom high school students. As Amano and Megumi continue to try and ferret out the Overfiend -- or Chojin -- other forces from the demon realm seek to do the same. This includes such demon assassin hits as messing with that basketball guy during his orgy, offering up a giant possessed demon penis that will make the school's resident nerd ultra-potent and powerful if he chops off his own useless little member and replaces it, and finally sending a wizardy uber-being out to kill Amano. Just when you think Overfiend can't possibly get any sillier, it finds a way.


Eventually, Nagumo realizes his destiny, but to the horror of Megumi and Amano, it's not the destiny they expected -- and for all that is ridiculous about Overfiend, the final revelation that basically, the people who believed in the prophecy just got it all wrong, is a pretty nice writing touch. The series ends on a cliffhanger of sorts -- with Amano shedding his human disguise and attempting to take on the Overfiend himself while vowing to survive the carnage that comes from the inevitable destruction of the world. Unfortunately, the series is never fully resolved. The final two episodes of the OVA end up being post-apocalyptic side stories that don't really go anywhere, and subsequent sequel series' were equally pointless. Eventually, the final Urotsukidoji series was just a remake of the first series. If you've seen Odin and suffered through its non-ending, then you might pick up that this is sort of a thing for Nishizaki. Unfortunately, Overfiend does not end by randomly cutting to a Loudness music video.


Not all the blame (or credit -- whatever) for Urotsukidoji can be laid at the feet of Nishizaki. Urotsukidoji was actually created by manga artist Toshio Maeda in 1986. Maeda was working as a porn manga artist and had gotten bored, he says, with drawing the same mundane crap over and over. He decided that what erotic manga needed was a dash of grotesque fantasy. Blending his erotic manga with a Lovecraft-esque sense of the horrific, Maeda more or less invented the tentacle porn genre -- yes, it's a genre now -- with tentacles and nightmarish abstractions of the penis standing in for actual sexual organs as a way to skirt Japanese censorship laws. When Nishizaki seized upon Urotsukidoji as the source for his next masterpiece of anime, Maeda's position as the father of sick and twisted cartoon porn was cemented. Maeda went on to create several more of the more infamous high-profile hentai titles of the early 1990s, including the terrible Adventure Kid, Demon Beast Invasion, and La Blue Girl. Maeda is infinitely proud of his legacy and has reportedly even said that he wants "Tentacle Master" inscribed on his tombstone. Urotsukidoji remain his defining "masterpiece."


You know, Urotsukidoji is an absolute mess. Although the high concept is interesting and intricate, the execution leaves a lot to be desired. And it's still largely just a pornographic rip-off of Wicked City with a bit of Akira thrown in (the scene in which the Overfiend comes full into power and decides to destroy the world is very reminiscent of the finale of Akira). It draws from the same Lovecraftian/H.R. Giger vision of horror as Wicked City. The characters are ridiculous -- after being raped in every orifice by a teacher who turns into a slobbering monster, Akemi shows up for school the next day and is basically no more freaked out than, "Boy, that sure was weird." Nagumo is completely impossible to like as a character. I guess the story is ultimately about Amano and, to a lesser degree, Megumi, which is OK since Amano is the only halfways decently developed character in the whole thing. The animation is often incredibly cheap, with limited motion in most scenes. Effort seems to have been put into the big battles and the demon rape, but that's about it.

But for someone as awful as me, there's a perverse enjoyment to be extracted from the nonsense. For one, I admire the ambition of the story. Most of the tentacle porn that would follow in the footsteps of Urotsukidoji was incredibly weak -- basically, they would say, "There's a demon world, and they rape humans and some people fight them," and leave it at that, knowing that the ultimate goal of their little film is to get some lonely perv off, and he's probably not even going to listen to the plot. That wasn't good enough for Nishizaki. The man had created an expansive universe for Yamato, and even for Odin, and he saw no reason that Urotsukidoji shouldn't enjoy the same epic mythology. Never mind that it was an endless parade of filthy porn and callous rape; he was still going to weave a monstrously complex tapestry to serve as the backdrop Also, as cheap as the animation is in most scenes, one does have to admire the imagination that went into the monster design. There are, after all, a lot of monsters in Urotsukidoji, and no two of them look alike. From hulking wolfman-like monsters to grotesque toadmen that dress like Humphrey Bogart, the sheer number of drooling ghouls the art team dreamed up is fascinating. Of course, at the end of the day, it's all about the giant screaming (sometimes literally) cock, but still, points for wickedly sick imagination.


Finally, there's the finale. Although it leaves almost all of the plot threads dangling and is a weak resolution to the story as a whole, the scenes of mass destruction and carnage as the fury of the Chojin and the whole demon world is unleashed on earth are pretty impressive. They obviously cut costs on the rest of the series so they could deliver on the finale, and at least in that respect, Urotsukidoji doesn't disappoint.

But it's still pretty foul. I wouldn't really recommend it, although I was just as enthusiastic in the old days about convincing unsuspecting friends that they should watch it. But there is something grotesquely fascinating about the whole artistic abomination. The incredible insanity and over-the-top spectacle of it all trumps the nasty misogynistic edge and juvenile penis-obsession and really transforms Urotsukidoji into a sleazy carnival sideshow. You hate yourself for looking, but you can't turn away. It's that car wreck everyone slows down to gawk at. As wretched as it may be, it has a strangely hypnotic power that can draw even decent people into its world of laughing demons and spurting bodily fluids.


It might be worth watching just so you can see the cast list for the English dub. Apparently, whoever worked on it was a little embarrassed, so the English cast list includes names like Chris Courage, Rebel Joy, Rosie Palmer, and my two personal favorites, Lucy Morales and Jurgen Offen. I would assume that the use of such names is perfectly in tune with Nishizaki's high school locker room level of discourse. The dubbing was done primarily for the theatrical cut of the film, which combined the first few OVA episodes into one film and cut out all the scenes of actual penetration. The Japanese cast (most of whom elected to have their names left out of the credits) actually includes a lot of experienced actors, including a lot of people The Nish roped in off the Yamato series and other Leiji Masumoto works. Tomohiro Nishimura, who voices Amano, even worked on My Neighbor Totoro! It's sort of reminds me of all the respectable actors who showed up in Caligula.

If you are interested in the history and evolution of anime, you can't help but pay attention to it. The dang thing played in American movie theaters, for criminey's sake! Newspaper and TV reporters held it up as the sole defining example of "anime," resulting in crusades to have anime banned and all anime fans branded as slobbering perverts, while at the same time, apologists tied themselves in knots trying to write pieces that deconstructed and analyzed the film and trumpeted its artistic merits (it's a cautionary tale about teenage pregnancy or a cautionary tale against blind faith, depending on who's writing the analysis). It was an absolute fiasco, and if nothing else, I always enjoy a good fiasco. As alarmist and shocked as the reaction in the U.S. was, it was even more sensational in England. In the U.K., things were a little more serious. Urotsukidoji practically destroyed the anime market in England, which was only just coming off the high of its infamous Video Nasties years. It took a long time before anime fandom in the U.K. could rebuild itself. Like its titular character, Urotsukidoji destroyed the world so it could rebuild a new and better one in its place. But the fact that it gutted the industry and made anime so incredibly difficult to obtain for many people might be the main reason, far more so than the actual pervy content of the series, so many people harbor a lingering distaste for this anime atrocity.

For me, personally, it didn't make much of a difference. I didn't suffer any of the "anime is all porn and anime fans are all perverts" stigma because, frankly, no one at my high school even know what anime was or was in any position to even hear about Overfiend or anime. everyone in Buckner, Kentucky, was too committed to the new Bocephus album at the time. So I have a much better sense of humor about this series than many other people who did get branded as freaks on account of it may have -- even if they were Miyazaki fans and had never seen Overfiend. I mean, hell, as far as anyone I knew was concerned, if you were watching cartoons, period, you were just a nerd.


At the end of the day, Urotsukidoji is all those things and more -- and less. It is filth. It is irredeemable. It does have artistic merit. It lacks artistic merit. It is shameless and offensive. It is ridiculous and harmless. It was the logical illogical extreme and the culmination of the increasingly outrageous nature of anime in the 1980s. You should avoid it like the plague. You should absolutely see it.

There's really no way to make sense of the controversy and jungle of opinions surrounding the series. At the end of the day, you really just have to see for yourself. Me, I think it's mildly entertaining in spots and ultimately harmless. In fact, as outrageous as the porn aspects of Urotsukidoji may be, when held up against certain aspects of the modern anime landscape, it seems to be little more than goofy doodling -- quaint, almost, perhaps even innocent. And that's because everything is presents is so preposterous that it can't be taken seriously or really looked at as a corrupting agent. No one is going to go out and mimic the Chojin, after all. Compare that to something like the modern moe or harem show -- things that may not feature a giant demon raping a woman and making her body explode with his semen, but instead paint a world where an unlikable loser with no redeeming qualities never the less finds himself in control of a group of slavishly devoted women who worship him like a god. Or moe, in which female characters are so overly precious and innocent and doe-eyed and pre-pubescent that the whole thing reeks of child pornography. These types of shows are far more insidious and perverse than the flashy, over-the-top idiocy of Urotsukidoji. They often appeal to a segment of the population that really does relate in some way to the lead male character and really does let the portrayal of women and little girls affect their opinions of the real world. I don't see Urotsukidoji operating in quite the same fashion.

So yeah. Whatever man. Urotsukidoji is the tawdry piece of pornographic trash you've heard it is; it's also not all that fiendish or corrupting. It's just silly. But it is a major milestone in the history of anime, so if you are the type who needs or wants to understand the evolution of anime, then you pretty much have to deal with Urotsukidoji. It's really not as painful as you think it might be. I mean, I wouldn't watch it with my parents or invite a date over to watch it, but come on: it's so loopy, so genuinely cracked in the head, and so unabashedly over-the-top, and so epic and ambitious that it really stops being offensive porn and starts being nothing more than a laughable freak show. And it does try to be something more than cheap porn. It tries to be really lavish, complex porn. earlier, I made a passing reference to Caligula. Overfiend is definitely the Caligula of anime -- fitting, even, since both films were funded with Penthouse money. They both contain about the same degree of perversion an twisted grotesquery (I'm pretty sure that's not a word -- but it is now!).

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posted by Keith at | 8 Comments


Tuesday, November 23, 2004

HOTS

1979, United States. Starring Susan Kiger, Lisa London, Pamela Jean Bryant, Kimberly Carson, Mary Steelsmith, Angela Aames, Marjorie Andrade, Cece Bullard, Karen Smith, Robyn Martin, Lindsay Bloom, K.C. Winkler, Sandy Johnson, Marilyn Rubin. Directed by Gerald Seth Sindell. Available on DVD from Amazon

So I think we have this and Pom-Pom Girls, and then we're pretty much finished with the whole cheerleader exploitation thing and can move on to more important genres like sexy stewardess sexploitation and naughty nurse sexploitation. You may recall in my review of the first of these films I watched for this site, The Swinging Cheerleaders, I stated that I wasn't all that interested in cheerleader movies. Well obviously, since this is the fourth one I've reviewed so far, that initial assertion hasn't proven to be entirely accurate. What I should have said is that I don't care for cheerleader movies that are like H.O.T.S.

H.O.T.S. was one of those perennial late-night cable favorites that would entice young boys to find a way to stay up late and get a glimpse of the many forbidden fruits put on display. For me, this usually meant going over to my friend Rob's house since there was no cable television where we lived, but his dad had installed one of those gigantic old satellite TV systems that could pick up everything. Although our favorites were Sword and the Sorcerer, Revenge of the Ninja, and that first Emanuelle film with Sylvia Kristel, we'd pretty much watch anything that was on so long as it promised us bloodshed or nudity, or preferable, some tantalizing combination of both. While the commercials for H.O.T.S. didn't seem to promote much in the way of bloodshed, they did trumpet the idea that there would be naked boobs galore. And so we planned our schedules and assumed that we'd have another classic piece of entertainment to add to our list.

It's pretty clear to me now that the reason I thought I didn't like cheerleader sexploitation was because the only one I'd ever seen was H.O.T.S., and even as a young lad desperate for anything with a hint of nudity, I recognized that H.O.T.S. stunk and stunk bad. I seem to even recall that halfway through we simply gave up and decided to watch something else - and given the broadcast schedule for cable TV at the time, there's a 90% chance we ended up watching Beastmaster for the umpteenth time. Now, I have nothing but fondness for Beastmaster, but it really says something about your nudie cheerleader movie when a couple of kids would rather watch Beastmaster yet again than finish the sexploitation.

H.O.T.S., for all its promise, turned out to be idiotic, tedious, and surprisingly timid. Now idiotic I can take in a nudie film. I wouldn't be one to claim that filth like The Cheerleaders and Revenge of the Cheerleaders was anything but idiotic. And perhaps even a bit tedious. But at least they weren't timid. When they decided to bare it all, they bared it all. H.O.T.S., coming as it does at the very tail end of the cheerleader exploitation arc, suffers from increasing limitations on what could be gotten away with in a film. Thus this movie has a distinct lack of the full nudity we've come to love and expect from movies of the 1970s. Unable to be as brash and flat-out twisted as previous films, this final whimper (or first murmur of the 1980s teen sex comedy) attempts to make up for its lack of guts by stealing the plot from Animal House and putting more boobs on parade since it can't show anything else.

The thing movies this wretched never seem to understand is that when you steal the plot of a film that is much better than yours, all it's going to do is remind people that they could be watching Animal House instead. H.O.T.S. has more in common with that movie than with any of the 1970s cheerleader films, and in fact, it's not so much that it has anything in common with Animal House as much as it has everything in common with all those God awful 1980s teen sex comedies that flooded the world in the wake of Animal House. If you're around my age, you know the ones. A team of misfits, probably possessed of an unquenchable thirst for sex and beer, must devise a plan to let them beat the snotty rich kids in the big ski race/raft race/football game/what have you. Along the way, a lot of twenty-something starlets will show their boobs, and probably at least one guy will fall off a ladder.

H.O.T.S. fulfills all the requirements of the genre and then some by taking it a step further and making the plot even more similar to Animal House. Our heroic girls are part of the H.O.T.S. anti-sorority, the hottest and sassiest group of girls on campus. Hijinks, often of a sexual nature, are the order of the day when the H.O.T.S. ladies (Heather, O'Hare, Teri, and Sam) decide that in order to get back at the evil sorority, they'll steal every man on campus and thus deprive the snobby girls of their daily lovin'…at least until the antics of the H.O.T.S. girls steams the uptight dean and he threatens to close down their house. Naturally, the day can only be saved by engaging in some sort of sporting activity against the rival rich girl sorority, and the sport they chose is strip football.

So yeah, dumb enough, right? But it's not so dumb that the movie couldn't be good for at least something so long as it appealed to the sordid side of what people might desire in their late-night sleazy movies. And while H.O.T.S. does feature a large number of bountiful bouncing breasts and waste no time in getting to them, it turns out they're not enough to make up for the film's horrendous acting, painful attempts at comedy, and shockingly boring script. It turns out, contrary to what you may believe, that yes, a movie can be so bad that not even a lot of boobs can save it. I thought that maybe I'd overestimated how bad the film was when I was young, but secretly I knew that wasn't the case. I was just making excuses for renting it again so Teleport City could be something like, "The number one online authority on sleazy cheerleader movies." I mean hell, if the movie couldn't past muster when I was eleven, it sure as hell wasn't going to get any better with age. And it turns out that it got even worse. I wouldn't call it the worst 1980s teen sex comedy ever made, but it's certainly up there in the running. Once again, despite my best efforts, I couldn't finish the movie. I ended up watching the last forty minutes on so on fast forward just so I could say that at least I made it to the end. Even that was a chore. There is probably an actual matehematical way to graph the point at which boob shots no longer compensate for the abysmalness of the movie in which they appear. Whatever that graph may look like, H.O.T.S. definitely appears ont he negative end of the bouncing bell curve.

The comedy is on the level of things like the college being F.U. Heh heh. Get it? And the evil sorority? Pi! You know, like, as in…you know. Also, there's a fat chick because comedy demands a fat chick. Man, this movie makes Revenge of the Cheerleaders seem inspired for casting David Hasselhoff as a guy named Boner. About the best you get here is Danny Bonaduce in bed with a seal. Even if the comedy had been funny, the delivery would have killed it since pretty much no one could act -- though that didn't stop several of the girls from going on to lucrative careers in awful direct-to-video sci-fi and horror films and, one assumes, appearing regularly at the Chiller Theatre convention. Kim Carson, who plays H.O.T.S. founder Sam, probably had the most prolific post-H.O.T.S. career. She has some ninety-five films to her credit, many with titles like Talk Dirty to Me IV, New Wave Hookers, Rockin' Erotica, and the much-acclaimed Cumshot Revue II, which personally I felt suffered from trying to be bigger and more expensive than the original while forgetting what made part one such a classic. I'm willing to bet all of those films actually have better scripts and acting than this one.

You know what? I really hate this movie. I hate it a lot. And when I hate a movie this much, it's not even any fun to write about it - and I haven't even gotten to the scene with the robot. I wouldn't recommend H.O.T.S. even if you are hard up for boobs. You might as well just go ahead and rent one of the older cheerleader movies from the 1970s. Not only do they show a lot more, they somehow manage to be a lot less irksome than this "dawn of the 80s sex comedy" film. At least they go all out with their nudity and had the good sense not to dally too long in between sex scenes. H.O.T.S. has stretches of gut-wrenchingly unfunny comedy that seem to go on for a truly epic amount of time, and nothing slows time down more effectively than bad, unfunny comedy. And this isn't the sort of bad comedy that is so bad it actually becomes funny. No, this is just bad comedy that is so bad that it's boring, and then they make it last for a long time. As a kid, I simply turned to a different channel. As a grown man who really should be ashamed of himself for even thinking of watching H.O.T.S., I was pondering gouging out my eyes before I decided to simply get the film over with and never think about it again.

H.O.T.S. It's a teen sex comedy that can't even capture the attention of a teenager. If you think to defend the film by saying that it's pointless to criticize the acting or story in a film like this, then all I can say then is, first of all, it shouldn't have had so much acting and story if it couldn't do those things. And secondly, even as brainless sleazy sexploitation, H.O.T.S. fails utterly despite some nice breasts on display. There is absolutely no reason to watch the movie, unless you need something to demonstrate to you the merits of The Cheerleaders and Revenge of the Cheerleaders, which are the movies you should probably be watching instead of H.O.T.S.. You know, this movie has put in a bad mood, now, which makes it even worse. What kind of wacky sex romp puts you in a bad mood? I'm going to have to go watch Bruce Lee pull out Chuck Norris' chest hair just to make myself feel better.

The best way to sum up the whole experience goes thusly: when I was in college, my good friend Eric was working as an usher at a movie theater when showgirls hit the screens. I myself worked as an usher a few years prior, but that was when Home Alone came out. Anyway, it being a high-profile NC-17 sleazefest, theaters knew that every underage kid worth their weight in salt was going to be devising complicated schemes for sneaking in to see the film. So one of Eric's jobs was to stand guard over the doorway and recheck ticket stubs for anyone entering the forbidden auditorium of unearthly delights presented in the form of the chick from Saved by the Bell giving a lap dance to the guy from Twin Peaks. During one of the showings, perhaps an hour into the movie, a guy walks out of the theater, turns to Eric, and says, "Tits and ass aren't worth a movie that bad."

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posted by Keith at | 0 Comments


Friday, September 03, 2004

The Cheerleaders

1973, United States. Starring Stephanie Fondue, Denise Dillaway, Jovita Bush, Brandy Woods, Kimberly Hyde, Clair Dia, Richard Meatwhistle, Jonathan Jacobs, Raoul Hoffnung, Patrick M. Wright, Terri Teague, Charles Goldman, John Bracci. Directed by Paul Glicker. Available on DVD from Amazon.

Is it art or is it porn? While this question may be bandied about for years to come in regards to The Night Porter and Salon Kitty, answering that question for a movie like The Cheerleaders should take about as much time as it would take for a chorus of people to shout out in unison, "It's porn!" Where The Night Porter represents the tendency in the 1970s of filmmakers to try and blur the lines between art and exploitation, The Cheerleaders represents the same decade's commitment to movies that just want to give you something to jerk off to in the grindhouse. There is nary a single shred of artistic value or even common decency, not a single glimmer of aspirations to something greater. The Cheerleaders is unrelenting and indefensible sleaze. And predictably enough, to that we say, "Rah rah rah!"

Now I think the biggest complaint that you can lodge against this film isn't that it features gratuitous nudity or horrible acting, or that the characters we see giving blowjobs and having gangbangs are supposed to be fifteen or sixteen years old. No, the biggest flaw in this film is that the cheerleading is really quite bad. Nothing rhymes. None of the cheers are catchy. The cheerleaders aren't even performing in unison. How can the team go on to win the big game when the cheerleading is so shoddy? Opening narration explains how the Amorosa High football team is on a winning streak and school spirit is at an all-time high. What could be causing this is a mystery. And though the film implies it's all thanks to the cheerleaders, when you actually see them cheer, you'll realize that the upturn in school spirit is still a mystery.

So you know, what with the cheering being so bad and all, it just sort of shattered the illusion of reality for me that this film could have otherwise created. Everything else is pretty true to life, after all, like how the cheerleaders drive around in their convertible sports car all the time in their cheerleader outfits and still doing cheers, even when they're just going to eat hotdogs, or how the cheerleaders are always having naked slumber parties, or how they always save the day - usually by employing sex. These parts of the film take on an almost cinema verite reflection of real life which is undermined whenever we're asked to believe that these are the greatest cheerleaders in all the land.

The plot is pretty complex and along the same lines as the plots to the various Girls Gone Wild films. Young Jeannie has a problem: at fifteen years of age, she is still, tragically, a virgin. She figures the best way to lick this problem is by taking the advice of a couple friends and trying out for the cheerleading squad. She makes it, but her efforts to deflower herself at the hands of some virile young lad continue to be stymied when the squad captain Claudia has made a bet that she can foil Jeannie's noble plans for the entire season. Wacky hijinks ensue and require the cheerleaders to take off all their clothes as often as possible, all in the name of sexual liberation and freedom and America!

Oh yeah, the sleazy janitor is also planning to fix the next game, because someone always has to be fixing the game in these cheerleader movies. Unfortunately for him, the cheerleaders have their own plan to help the team by sapping the opponents of all their strength. Can you guess how? Remember, this was back in the days when football players were dedicated gridiron gladiators who never fooled around before the game and could have their strength instantly sapped by them by having sex the night before. Too bad the cheerleaders also had a big orgy with their own players, making everyone on the field so very sleepy! But wait! Is that a fourth string runningback the other team has? The cheerleaders missed him! Can anyone but Jeannie come to the rescue and save Amorosa from the shame of losing a high school football game?

Needless to say, this is very much a "what you see is what you get" type of film, and believe me you see a lot. As I said when I reviewed two previous cheerleader exploitation films, Revenge of the Cheerleaders and The Swinging Cheerleaders, these films are a prime example of what you could get away with in the carefree and easy 70s that would get you locked up in today's more conservative and timid atmosphere. Consider, first of all, that the crisis presented to us is that a fifteen-year-old girl hasn't gotten laid yet. No one leaps up and says, "Well, you should wait until you get older anyway." Nah, the general reaction is more along the lines of, "Freaky! Let's get you some sex!" In addition, you have older teachers, male and female, both getting it on with underage (according to the script, remember) girls, and that's cool, too. And then you have Jeannie's own dad who leers at his naked daughter from time to time before also having sex with one of the cheerleaders. And then you have the scene in which Jeannie's initiation to the squad involves her having to shower in the boys' locker room, just when the team comes running in with their minds on a gangbang. Har har har! And then Claudia teaches Jeannie that the best way to seduce thugs is to pretend you want to be treated rough. These are all valuable lessons for young girls to learn, of course.

Tasteless doesn't even begin to describe The Cheerleaders. It gleefully does things with supposed high school girls that most modern films won't even do with adult characters. But like most oddball skin flicks from the 1970s, there's such an exuberant…innocence certainly isn't the word I'm looking for…such a joyously perverse celebration of all things tawdry that I can't imagine being truly offended by the sexual content. But that's just me, and I'm perverted in many ways. If you are going to be offended, then you're better off being offended by the lack of a plot or the amazing absence of acting skill from every performer. But at the same time, you should just be ashamed of yourself if you sit down to watch The Cheerleaders and expect taut plotting, engrossing characters, and stand-out performances. If that's the case, then frankly, you deserve to have sat through a scene of a fat guy in a jock strap crawling around on the floor while a cheerleader licks a baseball bat.

Since this is technically supposed to be a sex comedy, the movie does have to take time out from all the nudity - and there is a ton of it, more than in any other cheerleader movie and more than in most 70s sexploitation films in general - for crude humor the likes of which would make even Benny Hill shake his head in embarrassment. Ho ho ho! The janitor is a peeping tom! Oh, the hilarity! Jeannie's dad is willing to let the cheerleading team stay over for a slumber party, and he offers them grilled wieners! And, ummm…well, really that's about it. Even Revenge of the Cheerleaders had more gags than this film, even if most of them involved cheerleaders eating phallic shaped food items. The only way I can think of to describe the comedy in The Cheerleaders is to say it ranks somewhere below watching someone get hit in the balls, but only slightly above getting hit in the balls yourself.

As a skin flick, though, you'd really have a hard time beating The Cheerleaders. Or maybe, you wouldn't have a hard time beating it, but that is a joke I'm just not going to make. Aww, crap. Too late. Some of the girls are kind of homely in a Pippi Longstocking way, but this was the 1970s and everyone was hot as long as they took off their clothes and weren't fat. The cheerleading outfits are tiny, but that's not of much concern since they come off in almost every scene. Stephanie Fondue as Jeannie has that "friend's cute little sister" thing going, which of course, is creepy and sleazy just like everything else in this film. Denise Dilliway's captain Claudia is the more developed, experienced, and kinky of the girls, while Jovita Bush's Bonnie is the best looking. Everyone gets naked all the time, and sex is had in cheesy bachelor pads, fast food restaurants (nothing turns you on like have sex on a dirty deep fryer), car washes, locker rooms, trophy rooms, gardens, and well eventually you just loose track. The guys in the movies are either sleazy old dudes or meatheaded jocks.

Curiously, almost no one form this cast went on to bigger and better things. In fact, most of them never went on to anything, period, and this remains the sole entry in their filmography. The only familiar face, if you can call it that, is Pat Wright as the football team's coach. He starred in a stack of films including Revenge of the Cheerleaders, the hillbilly sexploitation comedy Sassy Sue, Caged Heat, I Spit on Your Corpse (yes, the sleazy follow-up to I Spit on Your Grave!), Candy Tangerine Man, and Russ Meyer's Beneath the Valley of the Ultra-Vixens. In 1992, he got back to his roots with a part in The Bikini Car Wash Company. Curiously, almost all his roles cast him as a coach, a cop, or a creepy in-law. Cheerleader Kimbery Hyde went on to star in a couple of those naughty nurse movies as well.

So if cheap guilty titillation, sleazy and morally disgusting situations, and near-constant nudity are all you are looking for, The Cheerleaders deliver with a tremendously spirited holler. If, however, you are looking for world-class cheerleader routines, then yeah, you better watch Bring it On.

Am I finished with cheerleader movies? Well, almost. For a genre I said I didn't like, I sure do seem to like it a lot. Well, we have HOTS and The Pom Pom Girls to get through, and then I think we'll just about be done and ready to move on to mor eimportant genres, like naughty nurse movies. You know, I figured if I was going to write about cheerleader films, then I should at least do it in a way that allows me to put "The authority in sleazy cheerleader movies" under the Teleport City name.

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Wednesday, September 01, 2004

Salon Kitty

1976, Italy. Starring Helmut Berger, Ingrid Thulin, Teresa Ann Savoy, Bekim Fehmiu, John Steiner, John Ireland, Tina Aumont. Directed by Tinto Brass. Buy it from Amazon.

Although it's not very B-movie friendly of me, I have to say that I really, really hate Nazi sexploitation films. I know, I know. I said I didn't like sleazy cheerleader movies from the 1970s, then went and changed my mind. But in the case of Nazi sexploitation, I'm more informed of my own opinion as I've seen a lot more of these than I had seen cheerleader movies. And after a small parade of the films, I safely say that I hate Nazi sexploitation and don't see myself flip-flopping on that decision any time soon, so take that, George W. Bush!

I don't hate the movies because I have good taste. The aforementioned sleazy cheerleader films can attest to that. I don't hate them because I find them morally reprehensible, though they most assuredly are. But I'm well past the point of being morally outraged by a movie. There's more important things in real life about which one can be morally outraged. It seems pointless to expend so much energy on being offended by a movie. No, I hate Nazi sexploitation films for the same reason I hate any of the films I hate, for the one transgression I consider unforgivable in any type of film: they are godawful, gut-wrenchingly, mind-numbingly boring.

Well, to me, anyway. I know there are people who are fascinated by these movies, and obviously it's not because they find them boring. Hey man, like Funkadelic says, everybody has got their thing (or something to that effect). I have friends who can't understand why I love Jean Rollin vampire movies, which they insufferably ponderous, dull, and shoddy. It's because, as I've said before, there is no such thing as a good movie or a bad movie; there are only movies we perceive to be entertaining, and those we do not, and that is a purely subjective judgment. So it is my subjective opinion that watching Nazi sexploitation films is even less interesting than watching the NASA Channel when they do things like focus on a lug nut for eleven hours just to fill air space.

But I am a fair man, and part of the reason I'm undertaking this Marco Polo-esque journey through the Netflix Silk Road is to evaluate, reevaluate, plug holes in my education, and generally attempt to paint for myself and you a more complete image of the cinematic landscape, but not to the point of being all "Leonard Maltin's Guide" and everything. I decided, then, that in the name of assembling a more inclusive survey of cult, obscure, and forgotten films that I should probably bite the bullet and let there be a representative of the accursed Nazi sexploitation genre that became so bewilderingly popular during the 1970s thanks to the success of Diane Thorne and Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS. I always thought that movie was dreadfully boring and always felt like watching Diane Thorne was akin to peeping on your aunt - albeit an aunt with a tendency to dress up in Nazi S&M gear and poke things in people's butts. Ilsa was not a movie through which I wanted to suffer again just for the sake of writing a review, nor were any of the other half a dozen or so titles that could have fit the bill, all of which seem to feature a saucy female commandant who tortures naked women and men (but mostly women) for eighty minutes before some cheap stuff blows up in the final five when either Allies invade or more upstanding members of the Third Reich find out about all the sordid details of whatever's been going on in SS Experiment Camp #324 or wherever.

I figured if I was going to delve once again into the brackish waters of SS sexploitation, I should go for the more critically acclaimed "artistic" end of the spectrum, which means watching Night Porter and Tinto Brass' Salon Kitty. Night Porter is still to come, and that'll be the last of my words on the subject, because if Salon Kitty is any representation of "serious" Third Reich randiness, then this end of the spectrum is really no more bearable than the end of the field occupied by such titles as SS Love Camp, though it has a lot less to do with those films and is more akin to films like Salo: 100 Says of Sodom, another self-important "exploitation as art" film that bored me to tears for much the same reasons as Salon Kitty.

Tinto Brass may not be that recognizable a name to American moviegoers who don't pay attention to Italian cult directors with ass fetishes, but one need only utter the title Caligula to realize that, name recognition aside, Brass is responsible for the one of the most controversial movies in American history. He has a long resume apart from that notorious Penthouse-funded skin flick, and though many of his other titles may be both artistically and erotically better, none of them tricked Peter O'Toole into being in a hardcore porn film. For Salon Kitty, the only celebrity puzzler is how they roped acclaimed art director Ken Adam, who did all the best set design for the James Bond films, into working on what amounts to typical sleaze in an arthouse disguise. In fact, Salon Kitty's primary claim to critical fame is that Ken Adam did stunning work, as always. Everything else about the film, however, is an utter mess, and a boring one at that. On the other hand, it's an accomplishment that a film that I find to be so boring can still spark so much debate and such a long review, so I suppose it's good for something even if I don't particularly like it.

Tinto Brass is most competent when working on small-scale erotic indulgences. When he tries to ply his craft on a grander scale, the gaping cracks in his skill as a storyteller are revealed. Salon Kitty purports to tell the somewhat true story of a brother madame who is contracted by the Nazis to establish a whorehouse for their officers, stocked with only the finest Aryan ladies with unshakable faith in the Reich. The ulterior motive, however, is to spy on various Nazi officers, see which ones might be wavering in their commitment to der Fuehrer, and which ones will just be valuable to blackmail at some point in the future. In and of itself, it's an interesting plot, but Brass stretches it out to an ungodly 133 minutes, which is at least a full half hour longer than it needs to be - and this coming from someone who generally likes long movies. Characters drift in an out with only the weakest of development, and at no point is there anyone in this film with whom you can identify, or even remember, for that matter. But we'll come to that - the film's biggest crime is that it simply fails to be what it should, which is interesting.

As any long-time reader knows, I'm a big history buff. Military history doubly so. Like any good history buff, and anyone who has even the tiniest shred of self-respect as pertains to their own intelligence, I'm fascinated by World War II and understanding the mechanics of what happened and how such things came to be. As wretched and despicable as they may have been, few subjects in recent history are as intriguing, as grotesquely engrossing, as the Nazi party's more extreme explorations. I'm talking about their obsession with the occult, with occult and religious symbolism, and their eventual evolution into some crazy Europe-conquering version of the Hellfire Club or some other secret society of decadent aristocratic mystics. Exploitation movies have, predictably, chosen to focus more on the "Fall of the Roman Empire" style sex and debauchery. Certainly there was that aspect of the Reich, though the, shall we call it "creativity" of some of these torture devices and sex experiments remain purely the figments of exploitation filmmakers' twisted imaginations. Generally, the Gestapo's favored method of torture was simply to beat you until you cracked. It worked remarkably well and had also been the preferred method of torture employed by Genghis Khan's horde. Time tested, you know, unlike electrified spiked dildos powered by the sperm of slain Jews, or whatever the hell some of those movies dreamed up.

Whatever the case, it's ripe material for film, as proven by the sheer volume of movies dealing with the subject. In the hands of a competent director, someone who is unafraid to wallow in what others may see as simple filth and exploitation while at the same time being able to present it in a way that is as stylish, sophisticated, and provocative as it is twisted, disgusting, and perverse, the subject of Nazi decadence - or let's simply strip that away and call it the decadence of the powerful elite, any powerful elite (witness, for example, Rome in Brass' next film) - should make for a controversial, enraging, and stunning film. Salon Kitty takes all the pieces needed to be great but fails to assemble them properly, but since I'm the eternal optimist, I'll focus on the positive aspects of the film before jumping into its sundry negatives.

First and foremost, Salon Kitty achieves said sophistication and stylishness with the set design. It's beautiful, and it makes it impossible to properly assess Brass' directorial skills since a chimp could man a camera and come away with a beautiful shot when it's surrounded by Ken Adam's impeccable interpretation of Nazi iconography, Weimar Republic cabaret chic, and modernism. Filmed as it is with a hazy, dreamlike quality, it perfectly captures the atmosphere of a powerful elite who have lost touch with reality, who indulge in every vice and whim either out of obliviousness or denial of the fact that their empire is crumbling and the barbarians, so to speak, are at the gate. On visuals and they way in which they are presented, Salon Kitty is a remarkable success.

The set is decorated with copious, near constant in fact, male and female nudity presented with such frankness, such clinical disinterest, and in some cases, such distasteful indulgences, that it ceases entirely to be erotic. Though this much sex and nudity, not to mention the name of Tinto Brass, inevitably means that the film will be classified as erotic, it couldn't be any further from the mark. One could argue that there are no actual sexual acts in the film; merely acts and expressions of power. Brass helps keep all the sex and nudity a total turn-off by allowing himself to indulge is some unquestionably tasteless, gratuitous sleaze - most notably an infamous "deformed dwarf" sex scene and a scene of a woman having sex with a double-amputee. At no point does Brass' camera shy away from what's happening, so if you have ever wanted to see the penis of a humpbacked dwarf or watch a woman screw a legless man, here's your chance. Brass' inclusion of such scenes is questionable, at best, and they certainly undermine any attempts to have the film taken seriously as a work of art instead of near-pornographic sleaze, even if they remain thematically true to the notion of sex as a tool rather than a thing of pleasure, a fetish to be indulged rather than an experience to be enjoyed.

The actors are uniformly good, though I think the script gives them tragically little character with which to work. There's nothing surprising about this though. Brass is, after all, an Italian director at a time when Italian directors were abandoning the notion of a film needed developed characters or a coherent script in favor of experimenting with imagery and mood - kind of like American films are doing today, which frankly, is scary since I like a lot of the more outlandish Italian films but despise most modern American films. Maybe I'm a hypocrite. Time will tell if, in another thirty years, people write about Underworld or The Chronicles of Riddick in the same way I write about Dario Argento or Mario Bava films. Whatever my perceived short-comings of the script and the characterizations it forces upon the actors, the performances are good. Italian cult film fans may even recognize a face or two.

The script toys with interesting notions even as it fails to construct a coherent story or engrossing characters. By default, it's a political script, as any script about "the corruption of absolute power" can't help but be. The set-up is well thought out, with our Madame Kitty () representing the old swinging ways of the post-WWI Weimar Republic, better known as the greatest era for cabaret performers. She must ultimately submit to the power of the Nazis not because she believes in them, but because they are stronger. She's constantly looking for a way to wrest control of her brother back from the Reich, just as many German citizens in general were wondering how they let their country fall into the hands of a bunch of thugs. The main difference is that the average German wasn't doing this while wearing sparkling gold eyelashes and fishnet stockings (that wouldn't start until later). Kitty's salon is a microcosm of Germany.

From our viewpoint here in 2004, one can also see a reflection of the Germany to come in Salon Kitty. The world over, Germans are known for being the weirdest, kinkiest, and most accepting people on the planet, with perhaps only the Japanese coming close to them. Hey - it's not a criticism as far as I'm concerned. What it has done, however, is make so many extreme things so accepted, so almost mundane, that it takes a gargantuan kink to shock the Germans. In such a setting, sex and sexual perversion becomes less about just getting your kicks and more about having to push things further and further in order to avoid being bored. Obviously, putting such a viewpoint into Salon Kitty is injecting modern events into a film that is thirty years old, though I'm sure the Germans were busy building their reputation even in the 1970s. In fact, Salon Kitty, if nothing else, is a perfect example of the 1970s' tendency to want to challenge and befuddle people with the "is it art or is it porn?" question. Even if the answer was "it's porn," it still confused people and shook things up. Nowadays, I guess the closest thing we have is Vincent Gallo, though in his case the question of "is it art or is it porn" is eschewed in favor of the more telling declaration of, "Man, is that guy ever as asshole!"

I already touched on Brass' tendency to indulge in perversions of a purely exploitive nature, but it's not like that's ever turned off the guy who gave a good review to Revenge of the Cheerleaders. Anyway, it seems like he did that mostly as a lark, a shock tactic to amuse himself and outrage those who are outrageable (?).

So let's skip ahead to the homosexuality in this film. It's overly common to day to ascribe a high degree of homosexuality and homosexual tendencies to the Nazi party (and to most former world-conquering regimes). What makes the subject tricky is that sometimes it's done to correct an historical inaccuracy, sometimes it's done purely to exploit, and sometimes it's done out of homophobia. First of all, I don't think Tinto Brass made Salon Kitty as some sort of manifesto against the evils of homosexuality or as a comment to the effect of, "Hey, ever notice when societies become decadent and depraved they also go gay?" Likely he was simply following the trend of the time, which was toward Nazi fetishism and carrying the Aryan Man myth to its extreme. This is only partially based on historical fact. When the Brown Shirts, Hitler's famed gang of young thugs, was formed, it is indeed true that a lot of homosexual worked their way into the ranks in order to be close to so many young boys. But homosexuality was not exactly cherished by the Third Reich the same way it had been by, say, the ancient Greeks.

In 1934, there was a famously bloody purging of homosexuals from the ranks of the Brown Shirts, and Nazi Germany went on to exterminate hundreds of thousands of homosexuals in a campaign that gets far less attention than the similar campaign against Jews. Salon Kitty takes place in 1939, and while I'm sure some homosexual characters had snuck back into the fold, it's highly unlikely that we'd see this much, pale-faced, makeup-wearing mincing about. There are very few overt acts of homosexuality in the film, but the general appearance of some of the main Nazi characters is obviously heavily influenced by stereotypical images of homosexuality, more as another fetish than as an actual sexual preference. The Nazi officers here look less like men who could perpetrate the deaths of millions and beat the crap out of people and more like refugees from the pages of Propaganda magazine. They're not just white, they're ghostly white. The pale, frail Aryan flower stuck in the imagination of many, and we see it here in abundance, as if the Night of Long Knives never happened.

But maybe that's historical nitpicking. It's not as if Salon Kitty aspires to historical accuracy, after all. I'm pretty suregay or not, there weren't many Nazis who dressed up in skintight shiny silver "Uberman" outfits adorned with lightning bolts and a cape. It's an extrapolation, an exaggeration of reality, even at its most lucid moments. Still, one can't help but wish for a few less puckered-lip dandies with extreme hair parts and a few more fat, burly Gestapo thugs who look they could really knock the crap out of you. Have you ever seen a picture of those guys? I don't think Hermann Goering was anyone's fetish. But then, if we base things on him, then the Master Race looks to have really hit the bratwurst stand hard during the last Oktoberfest.

What really makes Salon Kitty fail for me is the bloated running time. There's just not enough movie for 133 minutes. The main plotlines - Kitty's deal with the devil and subsequent attempts to regain control of her little cabaret world seems to sputter, and the love affair between one of the prostitutes and a Luftwaffe pilot remains utterly unengaging because both characters are so dull. Brass pads the film out with endless "indulging in wicked fetishes" scenes, but really, one can only sit through so many of these. At least Salon Kitty doesn't go for the more lurid "sex torture" nonsense of cheaper films. The few points the script has to make were obvious, even in 1976, but that doesn't stop it from hammering us over the head with its observations. I get it! Nazis were decadent! I get it! Absolute power results in a detachment from reality! People pretend to believe in something simply to advance their own greed and lust for power. I knew all this already, and it's not like people coming out of the 1960s, Vietnam, and the Nixon era needed to be told. Given the dearth of valid or intelligent political discourse today, it's easy to over glorify the political content of Salon Kitty, but placed in the context of 1976, the film is actually something of a late-comer when it comes to taking shots at political corruption, cronyism, and elitism.

There is a tendency to over-praise a film like Salon Kitty just as there is a tendency to over-criticize it. There is plenty going on here, but none of it is profound or even particularly daring when placed in the context of other films of the time. What keeps Salon Kitty on people's radar is how it pushed the boundaries for sexual perversions in a big budget film, and if nothing else, it really pushed those. But the story, the message, these things are not groundbreaking. Like the constant nudity, the ham-fisted clumsiness of the script and the sheer repetition of ideas that were obvious from the get-go serves simply to grind down the viewer, especially when it's stretched out over 133 minutes.

So where does that leave us? I think it leaves us with a film that, if you have the stomach for such fare (and despite the constant nudity and dwarf-humping, Salon Kitty is actually a lot less sleazy and offensive than most other films in the genre, though it's still not a good "first date" film), you should see even if, like me, you're going to end up not liking it. It never spans the gulf between its ambitions and the reality of what it can accomplish, but the experience is anchored by some masterful direction made possible by Ken Adam and his stunning art design. That's enough to carry even a bored viewer through much of the film, though ultimately it wasn't enough for me. As a dream sequence, Salon Kitty is quite powerful and well-crafted. At the same time, have you ever tried to sit through someone detailing one of their dreams to you? The feeble political currents in the script are admirable today since so few films aspire to be anything more than "loud, dumb, and cool to look at," but let's not over-estimate the political daring of Salon Kitty since it came from a period when shocking social and political commentary in a film was more the rule than the exception.

I appreciate that it gives us a lot about which to talk. In that sense, there are many levels to Salon Kitty and it certainly doesn't deserve to be dismissed as pure exploitation, though it also doesn't deserve to be accepted as pure art. It exists somewhere in that uncomfortable middle that confuses so many people, which actually might be the best thing about it. It covers much of the same thematic ground as Brass' godawful Caligula, though it's faint praise indeed to say Salon Kitty is better than that rotten heap of rubbish, just as it doesn't say much to remark that, "It's certainly better than those Ilsa movies." I'd place it in the company of Passolini's Salo, another movie that indulges in endless perversion to make a screamingly obvious point. Both are films that I appreciate for taking risks, for pushing buttons, and for their willingness to tread where film was not meant to tread. I also appreciate that Salon Kitty stays away from the fetid realm of sexual torture that befouls so many Nazisploitation films and just over-indulges in fetishes. But respect isn't the same as like, and no matter what respect I may have for Brass' bawdy foray into Nazi fetishism, it doesn't change the fact that once the credits rolled, I was not shocked, dismayed, outraged, or enthralled. I didn't hate it, love it, or even like it. I was just glad to have the thing finally over.

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Wednesday, August 25, 2004

Revenge of the Cheerleaders

1977, United States. Starring Jerii Woods, Cheryl Smith, Helen Lang, Patrice Rohmer, Susie Elene, Eddra Gale, William Bramley, Norman Thomas Marshall, Regina Gleason, Carl Ballantine, Fred Gray, Carrie Dietrich, Sheri Meyers. Directed by Richard Lerner. Available on DVD from Amazon.

Hey, wait a second. Didn't I just say I didn't like cheerleader movies all that much? You'd think that would be a good reason for me not to go indulging in one after the other. But maybe I don't like cheerleader films that much because I'd never seen this one. Where as Jack Hill's earlier effort makes some attempt at, if not being a good movie, at least being a movie. Revenge of the Cheerleaders completely lacks any pretense at being meaningful, political, social, or redeeming in any way and instead revels in being a cheap, sleazy piece of exploitive crap. As such, I liked it a whole lot more.

Revenge of the Cheerleaders answers the call for a movie in which a young and exhausted basketball-playing David Hasselhoff is revived by sniffing a cheerleader's worn panties. That's pretty much the cultural high point in this lurid tale of high school cheerleaders who frequently flash the full frontal while trying to save their scummy high school from greedy land developers. Yeah, high school. Remember when you could make taudry teen sex comedies jam-packed with nakedness coming from people pretending to be high schoolers? I'm pretty sure that would get you arrested today, but that's why we love the 1970s. You could call a twenty-something actress sixteen and cram your sex farce full of nudity. I think now maybe if you're lucky they'll flash a boob, but that's about it. It's part of what irritates me about the "tame by today's standards" phrase that so many people throw around. Considering how repressed and timid modern films have become, the continued issuance of this utterance baffles me. Our films today are far more prudish and the violence far more cartoonish and bloodless than anything that came in the '70s or even '80s. Just because things have gotten louder, dumber, and more overblown doesn't mean they've pushed the envelope, and while there's no end to the number of booty short shots we'll cram into a film, nudity has become a rare event, and even when it does turn up, it's pretty meek.

Not that I'd, umm, say that Revenge of the Cheerleaders isn't dumb, but it is a perfect example of what you could get away with in the ultra-permissive 1970s that would get you drawn and quartered today. Wrong as it is, this is the sort of sleaze I grew up sneaking peeks at as a wee lad. Watching a movie like this is like getting a visit from an old, hot friend and staying up all night waxing nostalgic about the time you dumped the pot in the cafeteria chili. It's much better and more daring than the sex comedies that would roll around in the 1980s, and needless to say, infinitely better than what passes for teen sex comedy today, if for no other reason than it doesn't skimp on anything but the outfits.


Once again, the story is threadbare and simple. Aloha High School in Aloha, California, is a dump. The students have sex and smoke pot on the front lawn, the principal is insane, and the head nurse is fat and surly. Reining over the madness are the Aloha High cheerleading squad and the star basketball player and plaything, Boner. Yes, that's David Hasselhoff in his first film, starring as a character named Boner whom we first meet as he emerges dazed, tired, but triumphant from a bout of sweet, sweet hanky panky in a stall in the girls' bathroom. He can do it all: shoot hoops, make love 'til the wee hours of the morn, dance up a storm, and show off his ability to play second fiddle either to a sassy talking car or a beautiful pair of bouncing boobs - all talents that would come in handy later in his career when he was still playing second fiddle to boobs and dancing atop the crumbling remnants of the Berlin Wall.

If Aloha High gets closed, they'll all have to go to tough inner city school Lincoln High, where the thugs and sociopaths rule the roost but can be robbed of their drugs by spunky teen cheerleaders armed with a fire extinguisher. They may be tough, but they also know that flame retardant foam can really wreak havoc on a leather jacket. The plot doesn't even kick in until the last twenty minutes, sot he movie before that is filled with nothing but glorious 1970s nudity and hijinks. There's the ol' blowjob behind the food counter routine as the guy tries to serve some lady a banana split. There's skinny-dipping. There's lots of dancing. There's even an orgy in the guys' locker room shower, which fills with suds for some reason, probably so Black Belt Jones can go in there later and do some fighting. Most of the humor is funny only for how unfunny it is, which I find is true of many if not most comedies. A stoned dude snorting Parmesan cheese, the classic "hot girl fellaciating a banana," and Boner being revived by the enticing aroma of worn panties is about as sophisticated as things get. No one, I hope, will be rolling on the floor with laughter. And yet, it's the fact that the film is so simplistic, so completely devoid of grace or wit that makes it funny. Sometimes, when someone who isn't funny tries to be, the results are disastrous. In the case of Revenge of the Cheerleaders, it's so unfunny and lunkheaded that it almost achieves a state of hilarity. A lot of movies are unintentionally funny. This one was intentionally trying to be funny, and the fact that it isn't is what's funny about it. Does that make any sense at all? No? Well, in that case, it has a lot of nudity. And I mean a lot.

Is it going to surprise anyone if I say that the acting is as good as the script? There are, if one was to be kind a couple acceptable performances, but a lot of what's being said and done just feel like improvisation by people who have no idea how to improvise, all delivered with the razor sharp skill of an actual stoned high schooler. So I guess maybe there's some degree of cinema verite realism in Revenge of the Cheerleaders, years before that "shocking" movie Kids terrified us all with the revelation that young teens are smoking pot, having sex, and engaging in excruciatingly long-winded and moronic conversations. I'd certainly rather watch Revenge of the Cheerleaders than that. At least Revenge of the Cheerleaders has David Hasselhoff and the brothers breaking it down on the dance floor with some hot Rerun-esque moves.


Speaking of Hoff, he's about as good here as any bad actor is in his first screen role. What's amazing is how little he's improved since Revenge of the Cheerleaders. I mean, it's quite damning to say a movie is so shoddy that even David Hasselhoff probably leaves it off his resume, but it's not like he's given us much that's better since then. His best films remain Revenge of the Cheerleaders and Star Crash, and only Revenge of the Cheerleaders flirts with the full frontal Hasselhoff nudity so many middle-aged German women demand.

The only other "name" star in this film is Cheryl "Rainbeaux" Smith, who made something of a career out of appearing naked in cheerleader movies. Here' she appears pregnant and naked, smoking pot and drinking while her baby is a mere three months away from birth. Look, it's not like you can expect prenatal responsibility from a movie where cheerleaders dump pot in the chili to cause a schoolwide orgy and food fight. Smith really has very little to do in this film despite already being a veteran of The Swinging Cheerleaders and Pom Pom Girls. But hey, any movie that features a naked pregnant teen cheerleader cavorting in the boys' locker room with David Hasselhoff has to be good for America, right?

The strangest thing about this film is the bizarre finale in which the heroic cheerleaders take on the greedy developers in a labyrinthine underground compound that looks right out of a James Bond film. Or rather, right out of a very cheap James Bond rip-off. The big fat nurse blows up the school, only without the help of the Ramones, sinks in quicksand, but is somehow redeemed in the end as the cheerleaders run through an endless series of cardboard space-age doorways and chambers. Eventually, everyone gives up on the plot and has a big luau with nude dancing and more "Hasselhoff gets funky with the brothers" stuff.

Yep, it's pretty bad. This is the sort of exploitive skin flick you should be ashamed of watching. There's really no justifying it with "it's a bold look at women seizing sexual power," or essays on how our heroic cheerleaders are both sexually and racially progressive as their ranks contain all races getting along in perfect, naked harmony. No, it's just hot women taking off cheerleader outfits while David Hasselhoff dances. I mean, his name is Boner! If you're not making out with your honey in the back seat of a muscle car at the drive-in while this is playing, then there's really no good excuse for watching it. The plot is awful. The characters are awful. The acting is awful. But the nudity is ever so fine, and David Hasselhoff is called Boner. Any movie that features nudity during the credits also gets bonus points from us. It's hilariously unfunny, utterly absurd, sleazy, cheap, and unredeemable. So yeah, I thought it was pretty good. I'd much rather watch this than Bring it On.

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Swinging Cheerleaders

1974, United States. Starring Jo Johnston, Colleen Camp, Jodi Carlson, Ric Carrott, Sandy Dempsey, Jack Denton, Ron Hajek, Rosanne Katon, Mae Mercer, Bob Minor, John Quade, Ian Sander, Cheryl Smith, Jason Sommers, George Wallace. Directed by Jack Hill. Available on DVD from Amazon

Yeah, remember cheerleader movies? They don't make them much now, but back in the 1970s there was a whole glut of them, thanks primarily to low-budget film tornado Roger Corman, who also gave the country an equally impressive avalanche of "naughty nurse" movies. Now I've been to hospitals and seen a lot of nurses but have never seen one whom I'd like to see be naughty. Cheerleaders, on the other hand, are a much safer bet, though I will state that, unlike many members of my sex, I never developed a thing for them. I was too busy being into punk rock and courting strange gypsy-like d-rock girls to be interested in clean-cut young ladies urging me to show my spirit. That was back in the days when cheerleaders performed cheers instead of just coming out from time to do dance routines to out of date dance hits or something by Justin Timberlake.

Likewise, I never much got into cheerleader films, not that I had easy access to them as a kid. That was in the era before cable television and VCRs, so if I wanted to see cinematic boobs, I had to go over to my friend's house who had the big satellite dish in the back yard. And generally, we turned to sleazy barbarian movies for our nudity fix, because then it also came wrapped in a package with guys waving swords in each other's faces while they talked about wizards. But it's not like I was ever opposed to watching a cheerleader movie when it came on. Yes, my arm could be twisted, and if you insisted, I'd sit through the shower scenes and party scenes in the name of…umm…I don't know. Research? Acquiring a well-rounded film education? Beats me.

Of all the cheerleader movies, The Swinging Cheerleaders has the most promising title and, oddly enough, is the least sleazy and exploitive of the bunch. Chalk that one up to director Jack Hill, who was a master of injecting cheap exploitation with some actual storytelling and interesting characters. He's best known as the director on Pam Grier's two best films, Coffy and Foxy Brown, and he worked on a slew of Corman productions. This isn't one of his better films, but it's a better film for his participation, if that makes any sense. It's a smarter, perhaps more politically aware cheerleader exploitation film than the others, but it's also a duller one. Funny enough, it was passed off on cable from time to time as a sequel to the idiotically enjoyable cheerleader sleaze H.O.T.S., even though The Swinging Cheerleaders was made a full decade before that film. And you thought that kind of thing only happened to Bruce Lee.


The plot is simple enough: radical campus reporter Kate (Jo Johnston) wants to do a story on how cheerleading degrades women. So naturally, she goes undercover as a cheerleader. Luckily, even though she's a college feminist and all-around radical, she also has a full arsenal of polished cheerleading skills. After infiltrating their ranks and gaining their trust, she discovers that most of the cheerleaders are actually quite nice, and some of the football players are good guys. Her radical boyfriend, on the other hand, turns out to be a grade-A heel even though his Art Garfunkle hair marks him as a sensitive guy. Kate also uncovers a plot to fix the football games, and of course, everyone gets involved in busting up the racket while also having to urge the players to push 'em back, push 'em back, way back.

So points to Hill for trying to do something a little different and perhaps even more meaningful with a subgenre that was made for drive-in exploitation. I think the film's claims to be a celebration of women's lib and sexual equality is a little dubious, but that was a common ploy and so remains to today where every cheap exploitive film about a woman in a skimpy leather outfit is trumpeted as "the story of a woman taking charge of her own sexuality" so long as she kicks a guy in the balls with her stiletto heels at some point. I think they even tried to pass off Showgirls as a feminist triumph before just giving up and giving it the tagline, "The movie where that chick from Saved by the Bell gives the dude from Twin Peaks a lapdance."


Hill's script, which is credited to two female writers but was, apparently, slapped together by Hill himself along with help from a friend, is surprisingly well-plotted, and one incident leads well into the next. That doesn't mean a lot of it doesn't get a bit boring, though. Frat parties are really only fun to watch if they involve John Belushi smashing thing or Snoop Dogg with a video camera taking a group of girls into the back room. Likewise, there are a lot of scenes of people sitting around talking about sex without actually having it. Just about everyone in their cast shows their boobs at some point, with the exception of "name" co-star Colleen Camp. Though previous and subsequent cheerleader movies wouldn't shy away from the full frontal shots, this one has none. So, I don't know. You can let your teenagers watch it or something.

Hill's story is typically schizophrenic, something that was a trademark of his. At time slapstick comedy, at time poorly-choreographed action film, and at times misguided drama, The Swinging Cheerleaders certainly has parts that keep it from being a completely lightweight and easy-to-enjoy romp, but at the same time the "serious" moments are so cartoonishly overdrawn that it's impossible to take them as seriously as they might or might not want you to.


The acting, like the script, is better that you'd expect. No one's in danger of becoming acclaimed on account of their performance, but very few people are risking being thought of as completely awful. And best of all, Rosanne Katon is in the film. I first fell for her while watching the otherwise wretched Ebony, Ivory, and Jade, where Jade dies early and gets replaced by another Ebony, but I guess they couldn't call the film Ebony, Ivory, and a Little More Ebony. She's cute as hell and always energetic, and is one of the best actresses in this film. Lead Jo Johnston is okay as well, and her sleazy boyfriend is easy to hate. Read whatever politics you will into the fact that the liberated radical gets off on exploiting women while the star quarterback is revealed to have a heart of gold. I think it's less a comment on the disillusionment with campus activism and more a statement of the fact that sometimes athletes are nice and hippies are dicks.

Overall, I'm left with very little to say about the film. It's the ultimate in disposable drive-in fare and a fine example of Hill's knack for taking brainless exploitation and trying to invest at least a little heart into things. Still, it's not really that interesting of a movie to me, and though it would have been a great double-feature to catch at the drive-in or as a kid late at night sneaking a peek on cable, it's not the sort of film that can hold my interest for very long. Still, I'd rather watch this than a hundred more recent "erotic thrillers." At least it has some intelligence and a weird sense of humor. I'd rather watch this thank Bring it On, but just barely.

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Sunday, August 01, 2004

Meatrack/Sticks and Stones

1970, United States. Starring Craig Dudley, Fernando Ascencio, Gary Bennet, Robert Case, J. Will Deane, Gene Edwards, Jimmy Foster, Danny Landau, Robert Nero, Kim Pope, Maureen Sadusk, Wyn Shaw. Directed by Stan Lopresto. Available on DVD from Amazon.

You know, I was sitting around the other day thinking about how Teleport City is full of heterosexual sleaze and how, by comparison, I've let the gay community off pretty easy. This hasn't been so much a result of my unwillingness to delve into the wild world of homosexual sleaze as it has been a reflection of the fact that, for the most part, the movies just aren't readily available. Now I'm not talking about one of those movies where guys in sweaters struggle with their homosexual tendencies against a backdrop of quaint West village eateries and coffee shops. No no, I'm talking stuff on the level of all the other works of art we've reviewed on this site. You know, something shot on a grainy film stock, featuring seedy locales, horrible acting, and lots of gratuitous nudity. Sleaze baby! The fuel for the grindhouse fires that made the 1970s such a wonderland.

So it was then, by sheer act of availability, that we found most of the sleazy movies we were coming across (and we came across a lot of them - you'd almost think we actively sought this stuff out) highlighted naked female flesh, sometimes naked female flesh upon naked female flesh, but really short-changed that desire I know we all have to see grimy, sweaty, hairy-asked guys with weird looking penises and dirty feet rubbing against one another in fleapit hotel rooms.

Well, Something Weird heard the cry for some vintage gay sleaze of the most unappealing and unerotic variety and answered the call with a double-feature DVD containing two prime examples of Something Weird's knack for finding movies that sound hilariously entertaining on paper but are an unsufferable bore to actually watch. Still, Teleport City does have a decently sized gay readership thanks to all those Hercules movies we watched, though I can't say whether or not dragging these grubby old films into the shining light of day is any sort of proper "thank you" for your patronage and patience as we worked our way through a variety of reviews involving boobs. If nothing else, these two gay exploitation films work well as an example of just how polished exploitation filmmaking has become these days.

I'll review both films on the disc as a single piece, partly because they're thematically and physically linked on the DVD, but mostly because quite frankly I doubt I can work up enough words on either one individually. Before I launch into all that, though, perhaps I should give a brief summary of my personal attitudes, and thus the attitudes of this website as a whole, toward homosexuality. The succinct breakdown is that I really don't give a damn. It's not that "I don't give a damn as long as they keep it to themselves and don't let anyone know" sort of thing. It's more just "I don't give a damn in the same way I don't give a damn whether someone is heterosexual." None of it makes any difference to me. I'm more interested in whether a person has funny stories to tell and can handle themselves well on a difficult hiking trail. Whether or not two guys are holding hands or sneaking smooches from each other is no concern of mine, and my reaction to the usual "Homosexuality is okay as long as they don't try and force it on me," is usually, "How often do gays actually try and force homosexuality onto someone?" or alternately, "Hey, how come those guys aren't hitting on me?" I may not be interested but, you know.

You may also notice that I make fun of the guys in these homosexual grindhouse follies more than I would a woman in a similar film. This, again, has nothing to do with my opinion of homosexuality, and is instead directly related to the fact that, gay or straight, I consider us all men and as such and as a member of the population of men, I feel at ease making fun of other men in a way I wouldn't feel comfortable about women. In other words, I apologize now for the crudeness that is to follow, but that's what happens when guys get together.

Which brings us, in our usually roundabout way, to the first film on this sordid double-bill, the sleazy, cheap, and grubby Meatrack. Hey, already we have an appetizing title. I don't think the average gay man is any more interested in a film with a title like The Meatrack than a heterosexual guy would want to rush out and see something called Janine's Ham Pamphlet, but I've always been turned off by comparisons between genitalia and supermarket meat products. There is just nothing arousing for me about luncheon meats.

But as I said, The Meatrack is one of those movies that sounds like a must-see mindwarp when you hear bits and pieces of it recounted to you: a bisexual hustler working his way aimlessly across the country has flings with a fat guy in a dominatrix outfit and cheap wig who makes him dress as a little sailor boy, and eventually ends up being forced to make a porno movie with some lady while being menaced by a couple of knife-wielding drag queens, all the while reflecting back on how his tramp of a mother drove him into this life of shame. To please grindhouse patrons who actually will sit through just about anything, some of the characters also fool around in a theater showing The Screaming Skull.

First of all, if you were looking for z-grade sleazy kicks and a handjob from a raincoat-wearing stranger in some seedy 42nd Street theater, you were probably pretty surprised to have picked such a brutally nihilistic, mean-spirited, and thoroughly unappetizing slice of slime. The Meatrack is one of those movies that just makes you want to take a shower, the cinematic equivalent of rubbing KFC original recipe all over yourself, but with much worse odors. It's the kind of movie that just makes you squirm, and not in the way that stranger was hoping. Gay or straight, I can't think of anything less appealing than a close-up of some dude's soaped-up hairy 1970s ass shot in washed out, grainy 16mm film. Ugh. It's as sexy as filiming similar close-ups of a guy with bad teeth and a scraggly mustache licking his over-plump lips while drinking milk. Sorry about that visual. My point is that considering the downbeat subject matter of The Meatrack, it's really not the sort of film you might want to sit through if you're just looking for some pervy kicks. The picture it paints of its young hustler is relentlessly downbeat and grim.

On top of the general feeling of congealed chicken grease that this film imparts in the viewer, it also manages to be intensely dull and dreary. The director attempts to inject some arty moments in, playing around with the camera, switching to black and white stock, that sort of thing, but none of that masks the fact that we're sitting through a painfully unexciting trough full of cinematic swill. Who knew knife-wielding drag queens could be so boring? I've always been of the opinion that more movies, if not every movie, should feature knife-wielding drag queens menacing the straights, but apparently even something that fabulous can't save a movie this wretched. It's not even worth commenting on the acting and dialogue. After all, these were movies made so people could meet each other in the theater and fool around.

Some respite from the torturous first film can be found in the second feature, the gay '70s Fire Island travelogue Sticks and Stones which, although certainly more playful and entertaining, also manages to pack in a lot more frontal nudity than the less interesting but somehow far dirtier first film. Sticks and Stones has no plot of which to speak. Gay couple Peter and Buddy walk around Fire Island in Speed-O swimtrunks. Buddy is drunk and stoned most of the time, which is fitting since he sort of looks like Peter Fonda, and frequently does little more than mumble his way through conversations. His boyfriend Buddy is insufferably bitchy, the kind of guy who gets a wild party house on Fire Island then spends most of his time whining, "Come on, it's time to go home." You can't help but feel for Peter, decadent as he is, because Buddy is such a bitchy drama-queen with no sense of humor and no sense of fun.

Oh yeah, I guess I should throw out a quick explanation about Fire Island. Well-known among New Yorkers and gay couples up and down the east coast, Fire Island is a lovely stretch of beach jutting from Long Island. While the southern portion of Fire Island is your typically overcrowded New York area beach, the further north you travel, the gayer things become until you hit the heart of Fire Island, a mecca of escape for gay couples with enough money to rent beachfront vacation homes. Sticks and Stones, if nothing else, is a humorous snapshot of the island thirty or so years ago, and frankly very little has changed other than people own better sunglasses and have tamed the hair in their asscrack. In fact, while whiling away a fine summer day a couple years ago on the nude beach up on Fire Island, I saw a guy with a Robin Williams-esque pelt of thick black hair all over his body except for his ass, which was shaved as bare and smooth as a newborn babe's. And in case you're wondering - yeah, a nude beach frequented by gay men is a perfectly acceptable place to hang out even if you're not gay. Aside from getting to swim naked, the beach is much cleaner, much less crowded, has fewer children, and absolutely no teenagers blasting 50 Cent on their radios.

Buddy and Peter are throwing a big 4th of July bash on Fire Island, and they've invited everyone, including the horrendous Lavender Guru, who proves that rambling, full-of-shit new age gay hippies are just as annoying as their straight counterparts. The guy just doesn't shut up, and the film's most painful moment comes when it sticks with his pointless, exhausting rambling. Still, he calls himself the Lavender Guru, so I guess that counts for something. There's also Prince Albert with his famously pierced manhood, two guys who give us the wacky "coupla queers tryin' to change a tire" scene, some surprisingly attractive lesbian named Kim Pope (who would go on to star in tons of sleazy 1970s grindhouse films including The Amazing Transplant and Jackie Starr - X Reporter), who gets to do a wild naked dance with chaps-clad Prince Albert, and a host of other zany characters. The party itself is sort of ridiculously entertaining, but the movie can't help but cut to scenes of Buddy moping and whining and starting arguments with a stoned Peter. You know, petty bickering and sniping is boring and annoying enough in real life. I don't want to pay to see more of it. That's why I skipped out on that reality TV craze.

Sticks and Stones feels pretty much like someone's home movie of a wild party intercut with a poorly written and acted soap opera. The film's best scene, besides the aforementioned tire changing scene and naked dancing, shows some of the partygoers boarding a train in Manhattan and attracting curious and sometimes judgmental glances from the uptight straights. While I don't think anyone would argue that Sticks and Stones is some sort of milestone in the history of gay cinema, it's at least a far more positive and sympathetic glance than that Meatrack thing, not to mention managing to be a lot less boring. But being less of a bore than The Meatrack still leaves plenty of moments for tedium, all ofwhich culminate in the most frustratingly drawn-out and ponderous "final argument" I've ever fast-forwarded through.

Still, there's enough pre-AIDS slice of life decadence here to make the film worth a look, though if you're hoping for something really outrageously over-the-top and flamboyant, you're still going to find yourself drifting off to sleep. If nothing else, at least most of the guys are better looking and not as matted and hairy as the Meatrack crew. Still, from a purely aesthetic point of view, I'll always believe you can't get any uglier than a rear shot of some hairy-assed dude bending over with his yarbles flopping about lifelessly. Really, now, it's a silly looking set of organs to begin with, and this is its least flattering angle.

Speaking of flopping manhood, the thing that makes most Something Weird discs worth owning regardless of how godawfully boring the actual films turn out to be are the extras. They pack a lot of them onto each disc, and this one has a good hour's worth of some of the most hilariously awkward and unarousing gay nudie loops and shorts you could possibly imagine, provided you're prone to lying around trying to imagine laughably unsexy gay nudie loops. Things begin slow with a look at a 1970s gay pride parade on the West Coast, which does little more than show you haw far these parades have come. It's all pretty threadbare and sad looking, though I'm a big fan of whoever made the sign that said, "More Deviation, Less Population." Then there's footage of some Howard Cosell looking newsman interviewing people at a "Gay In," most of whom are spaced out hippie types, and one of whom is some surly gay biker who makes fun of everyone for being blessed out and wimpy and into balloons. Dude, if you're so tough, why'd you come to the hippie Gay-In in the first place?

Things get utterly ludicrous as we launch into our first nudie loop, which features an all-naked, all-male country band sunning themselves on rocks and playing instruments while some beefy Rudy Ray Moore looking black guy does some of that horrible shuffling and jig dancing you're most likely to see being done by slaves in old movies. Jesus! To make things even more surreal, whatever music they were actually playing was never recorded, and so the film is dubbed over with some Lawrence Welk type music. This is pretty much the theme for the rest of the shorts, which features naked guys wrestling with one another, posing for one another, and in my favorite bit, playing buck naked pool. It's all so matter-of-fact as to be utterly devoid of any gay sex appeal. The pool players, in fact, spend so much time stretching and contorting themselves in penis-and-ass exposing stances that you'll soon lose any shock and the sheer amount of naked flesh on screen and just start thinking to yourself, "God, these guys suck at pool. Just stand normally and get this fucking game over with."

So, as you can probably guess, this DVD isn't what would fall into the category of "standard viewing," not for anyone. For starters, the first film is dismal and without any entertainment value whatsoever. The second film drags colossally in places but at least is a little more enjoyable. The extras are hilariously silly. I wouldn't recommend any of this to anyone really, not even my hardest up gay friends. There are a lot of packages on display for all the world to behold, but none of them are presented in a way that could arouse, and they're surrounded by movies that can't entertain. So what's left? But if you're gay, easily amused, or simply in to really astoundingly bad, bottom-of-the-barrel grindhouse fodder, you might want to take a look at least at Sticks and Stones as a timewarp back to an era that was actually less innocent than our own and as a curiosity on the highway of gay cinema and acceptance. But mostly? Our gay readers deserve something a lot more entertaining than this stuff. Like Spartacus or something.

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Sunday, May 20, 2001

Eternal Evil of Asia

1995, Hong Kong. Starring Ellen Chan Ah Lun. Directed by Man Kei Chin. Available on DVD (HKFlix).

Over these many years of watching crazy films from all over the world, I've amassed a sizeable group I can only refer to as "Only in Hong Kong." When that country feels like it, they can pump out some of the most bizarre movies you'll ever see. I mean, no other country but Hong Kong would give you Young Taoism Fighter or a whole subgenre of films in which guys wearing ratty gorilla suits leap about and do kungfu. When they want to, Hong Kong can baffle you like no other former British territory.

In the years leading up to the reunification of Hong Kong with the mainland, the quality of films deteriorated severely. The Hong Kong new wave really hit it's peak in the early 1990s, and John Woo's insanely action-packed shoot-em-up Hard Boiled was sort of the orgasm for the whole movement. After that, the good movies were few and far between. Hong Kong retreated into a dismal era of slapped-together no-budget crap, lame romantic comedies, and weird, often brutal softcore action/horror/porn.

I've been a fan of Hong Kong films ever since seeing my first kungfu film way back when in the 1970s. And no matter how embarrassing and abysmal the films may have become, I felt I owed it to the industry that had given me so much joy over the years to see if there was anything worth digging up. So let's see. I can't stand romantic comedies. Whether they star Anita Yuen or Meg Ryan makes no difference to me. I just don't like them. Maybe you do, and that's cool. They are there for you, and you don't have to worry about me snaking that last copy of You've Got Mail you were hoping to get.

So I can chose between no-budget slapped together crap or sleazy softcore sex and gore. Okay, I'm cool with both of those types of film. So let's see what the no-budget crap is all about. Apparently, it's all about Donnie Yen undercranking his fight scenes to where he looks like one of those old newsreels of Babe Ruth. Man, this shit reeks in ways that aren't even funny. It's just awful. It's Richard Kern awful. Who would have thought guns and kungfu could be so insanely, mind numbingly boring?

Well, that leaves me with sleazy softcore sex and gore. Ahh, it's like an old glove that always fits. I can always count on sleaze to delight me and make the neighbors wonder what the hell it is I'm watching. Are those naked three-headed green midgets with five dicks that I saw on his television screen? You're goddamned right, they are!

Luckily, communism hasn't quelled Hong Kong's tastelessness, and while every other genre may have become worthless, the boys and girls in what was once called "the biggest Chinatown in the world" have latched on to horror, gore, and sleaze as the only defense against the increasing popularity of foreign films and the defection of most of the big name talent to Hollywood. It's not a new strategy. When the bottom fell out of the market for Shaw Brothers films in the late 1970s, Runrun was quick to churn out a fistful of cheap exploitation films featuring ample amounts of naked female flesh and spurting blood, thus keeping his company afloat a while longer. Some things just never go out of style.

Most of the new school of Hong Kong exploitation, or Cat III films as they are known (because the Cat III rating is Hong Kong's equivalent of either an R, and X, or an NC-17, depending on the film) seem to revolve around vengeful spirits and a visit to Thailand, probably because spirits are easy to make (they look like people, but with green lighting) and Thailand is a cool looking country.

Eternal Evil of Asia is indeed about vengeful spirits and a trip to Thailand, but it's so much more than that. Of the gallons of cheap Cat III sex and gore films to come out of Hong Kong in the past five years, few are weirder than Eternal Evil of Asia, and absolutely none have a lead woman as fabulously sexy as Ellen Chan.

The movie centers around a nice enough fellow whose buddies seem to be dying, while he himself can't seem to get it up even when Ellen Chan, who plays his girlfriend, does a sexy striptease for him. Most people have the opposite problem, so we immediately know he's either gay or has drawn the ire of a vengeful wizard from Thailand. Well, as fate would have it, it's the wizard thing. That's bad news, because if you are gay, you have plenty of options. If you are on the shitlist of a vengeful wizard from Thailand, well you're pretty much screwed, aren't you?

Ellen thinks he's been cheating on her, and in order to save his relationship with her (believe me, you'd go to any lengths to save a relationship with Ellen Chan), he recounts to her the entire sordid story of his trip to Thailand with his buddies.

They'd gone seeking hookers, although our hero is too smitten with Ellen to even think of fooling around with hos. After doing such "funny" (by callous Hong Kong standards) things as going to an AIDS bar, where all the hookers are HIV positive, they end up getting chased by some local thugs and lost in the jungle. Luckily, a reclusive, buff wizard helps them out. When one of the guys insults the wizard by calling him a dickhead, the wizard gets an impish grin and turns the guy's head into a giant penis. Yep. Needless to say, the film only gets more highbrow from here. You know, if Woody Allen used the same joke, it would be bold and witty. When they do it here, it's just considered trashy. Well, I can't stand Woody Allen, so there.

Then, all of a sudden, a wizard war breaks out as the buff wizard is attacked by some sexy witch her buddy. They derive magic power from flying and spinning through the air while gettin' it on. Sure. Why not. It beats having to prance around to lame disco music like American magicians have to do. Our hero and his buddies help out the buff wizard, while the guy with a dickhead strokes his own neck vigorously.

The wizard is grateful. He turns the dickhead back to normal and introduces everyone to his cute sister, who instantly takes a shine to our hero. He resists her advances, though, so she cooks up a magic love potion. Unfortunately, everyone but him gets dosed with it, and they all have a wild orgy with the girl. When she realizes what has happened, she freaks out and, in an attempt to keep her from going nuts, the buddies accidentally kill her.

That done, they decide the vacation is over and return to Hong Kong, where they each start dying in strange ways. One guy keeps showing up as a walking corpse impaled on a flickering fluorescent lighting tube.

The wizard, seeking revenge for the death of his sister, has gone insane and is out for blood. He also takes time out to astrally project himself into the bathroom to watch Ellen Chan shower. Now that's a pretty good wizard power. Ellen, on the other hand, seeks the advice of a local sorceress and ends up in a showdown with the wizard's apparition, in which she gives a blow job to an invisible man. You'd never think that just watching a woman waggle her tongue and pretend to give an insane Thai wizard a blow job would be so sexy. Or then again, maybe you would. I think Ellen Chan could scratch her ass and make people weak in the knees.

But the fun has only just begun, as all sorts of magical mid-air sexual acrobatics ensue. This movie is every bit as high in tastefulness as your average cannibal film or Satanic lesbian nun flick. It's guaranteed to offend most people, but since the readers of this website generally aren't most people, I have no reservations about recommending it whole-heartedly. After all, offensiveness is one of our banner awards to any film. It's completely twisted, unrepentingly tasteless, and of course, immensely enjoyable. Like most Hong Kong horror films, it veers wildly between sex, gore, and slapstick comedy, but unlike most of them, manages to pull off the schizophrenia while only seeming like somewhat of a mess.

Of all the Cat III horror sleaze I've seen, and I'd be an obvious liar if I didn't say I'd seen ... well, more than my fair share ... Eternal Evil of Asia remains my favorite. It's the wildest, the weirdest, the only one with a giant penis-headed man, and perhaps above all that, it's the one that has Ellen Chan Ah Lun.

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Wednesday, January 10, 2001

Space Thing

Buy it now from Amazon.

I think all sci-fi geeks have this dream, or rather, one of two variations of a dream (if not both). In the dream, they are captured by one of two alien races. The first alien race forces the sci-fi geek to have countless hours of sex with beautiful Earth women so they can study our mating practices. In the second variation of the dream, the alien race is comprised entirely sexy space alien women who look human (though some may be green-skinned, or possibly a pale shade of blue) and who force the sci-fi geek to have countless hours of sex with them.

Personally, I have never had either of these fantasies. I'm just reporting on things I've heard, and I think they are sick and perverted wet dreams that I am glad I have never ever harbored somewhere in my mind. No, I am an upstanding citizen of the human race, and I would never, and I mean never, fantasize about screwing cute space women on a UFO. Ever.

There, with that out of the way we can continue this review, which is of a movie in which a sci-fi nerd gets to make it with tons of sexy space women. of course, this nerd is in his thirties or forties, but hey, what are you gonna do? No matter how you slice it, this is prime 1960s sci-fi sexploitation with all the great future trimmings you would want from such a film.

The movie opens with our hero, who is beefy and silver-haired and inhumanly wide (sort of like Jonathan Frakes -- there's one for you sci-fi geeks to whom I absolutely cannot relate to in your weird lust for alien sex), lying in bed with his buxom, naked wife. Once again we get quality 1960s bodies, back before silicone implants and heroin chic. Nice, round women with curves. Ahhh, yes. This is the way it always should have been. Not Carney Wilson jumbo models, but just the right amount of flesh and baby fat to not remind you of stick figure drawings.

The wife wants to get it on in all ways possible, but the guy only wants to lie around in his seersucker pants reading those "Fantastic Adventure" type pulp magazines about space and the future and alternate universes. He finally takes a break long enough to dole out some sweet lovin' to his lady, but promptly returns to his Popular Science fare amid the afterglow.

A note of courtesy here that I have never made but should: guys, don't start reading sci-fi novels while you are having sex. I know a lot of you don't get to have sex (not a jab, just a fact), but if you do have yourself a girlfriend, learn how to please her in bed. If you have to go buy yourself a copy of Kama Sutra or study up by watching some porn, then do it. You can justify your viewing of pornography by dismissing it as research. Learn the craft. Don't read the next book in the Dune series and ignore your girlfriend. If you have a good thing, realize it. Hell, I have a great thing; she even puts up with my endless lustful ramblings about sexy space women and go-go boots.

So there. Public service announcement over. I knew of this guy who had this amazingly cute girlfriend who would drive down from Atlanta to Florida to see him. He was a real greasy, nerdy guy and we all wondered how he scored such a cute, witty, charming as hell punk rock girlfriend. He should have been worshiping her combat boot-clad feet every brief moment they had together. Instead, she would come down to visit (it's a six hour drive), he would ignore her to play Magic: The Gathering or work on his Klingon outfit, and she would have to sit on the porch with me wondering why she even bothered. Don't do that shit. It makes her mad, and it makes all the good fellows out there mad, too.

Anyway, back to our movie. Our hero, if you want to call him that, drifts into a dream about being a super duper space captain, complete with space age Esquivel lounge tunes floating around him. He is captured by the requisite spaceship full of sexy alien women who all look human and wear very skimpy, boob-revealing gowns. In their culture men are slaves and women are the lesbian bosses of things, taking time out from their sapphic structure to please men only when they feel like amusing themselves. Okay, so what's so wrong with that?

In an effort to infiltrate the ranks, our hero bravely allows himself to become the sexual plaything of the female crew, selflessly sacrificing his body to their unholy depravity and lust, and of course trying to study and mimic their sexual veracity all in the name of science.

So basically this is a movie about some middle-aged dork making it with a spaceship full of beautiful women in sexy space togas. The coolest thing about this guy is that he gets to make love yet doesn't have to remove is tight, shiny gold foil pants. The women disrobe and peel off their sexy space go-go outfits every couple of minutes, but this guy never once has to drop his britches. Of course, this is not necessarily a negative aspect of the film, even for women. I don't think anyone wants to see his hairy, middle-manager-looking ass naked.

This film is enjoyable on many levels. Of course, there's the naked flesh, an element that can make even the most awful of films possible to get through. But apart from that is the tremendous kitsch value. With so many people attempting to recreate and mimic the 1960s "retro future" look pioneered by film and television makers like Gerry "UFO" Anderson, it's always nice to catch a bit of the real thing, and Space Thing is definitely a large slice of retro-future fun. Everything from the swank lounge music of the future to the sparkling interiors to the space mini-skirts and mini-togas will have you wishing we'd all ended up in that future instead of the one we got, with JNCO jeans and Tech Vests (whatever the hell those are).

But I guess in the scheme of things we have to go through that "future noir" time of Blade Runner, and then into the "wild desert" future where we all wear giant shoulder pads and live in the desert for some reason. Then we will finally be able to enter the future of little togas and go-go boots. Apocalypse is, of course, a small price to pay for a barefoot Jenny Augutter in a little mini-toga.

Space Thing is a perfect example of the sort of life space-age bachelors and interstellar playboys are forced to lead. It's much better than watching Star Trek: Voyager, anyway. But then, jamming twigs up your ass is also more enjoyable than watching Star Trek: Voyager, so if you don't mind, I will stick to 1960s space sexploitation like Space Thing. It makes me happy.

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