Pop stars have always been an important and necessary part of our social fabric, but they are tragically finite beings, suffering from a range of conspicuous and crippling design flaws. They get tired and bitchy from all the touring, practice routines, fan interaction, and off-hours promotional bullshit they have to constantly endure. They get addicted to drugs. They can only be in one place at one time. They get old and fat and bitter, and eventually they die. Which is why the world needs more pop stars like Hatsune Miku.

Hatsune Miku, whose Japanese name roughly means “New Sound of the Future,” is an invention of the Japanese company Crypton Future Media. Several years ago, Crypton premiered Miku as a modest 2-D animated spokesmodel for the software program Vocaloid, an audio synthesizer that translates musical notes and hand-typed lyrics into audio files using a selection of pre-programmed voice packs.  Currently, Miku is an international pop star with her own video game, her own manga series, and even www.mikubook.com her own social networking site. She has released several successful Japanese music albums, and – most bizarrely –  she gives live performances to crowds of screaming, adoring Japanese fans in the form of a life-size 3-D hologram.

Miku routinely sells out huge stadium venues all over Japan, and when she appeared live in Los Angeles earlier this year in conjunction with Anime Expo, she sold out the Nokia Theatre.




When Vocaloid 2 was launched in 2007, featuring Miku both as a splashy cover image, and an incorporated voice pack, a floodtide of fan-generated content instantly propelled both the Vocaloid software and Miku herself, into the Japanese national spotlight. Like GarageBand, Sonar, and similar digital music programs, Vocaloid was originally designed and marketed as a technical tool for electronic musicians, specifically ones that lacked access to voice talent.

“It was supposed to be a kind of ‘virtual instrument’ for projects that didn’t have the budget to hire a singer,” Crypton CEO Hiroyuki Ito recently informed Geekscape. “An amateur songwriter, for example, could insert a synthetic voice in his home studio to create a demo recording of a song. But since there’s such a rich Anime culture in Japan, we thought maybe by adding some kind of animated character, we could figure out a whole new way of utilizing Vocaloid technology.”

The early proliferation of animated Hatsune Miku fan videos and audio content, posted and shared on sites like Nico Nico Douga (the Japanese equivalent of YouTube), quickly established Vocaloid as an interactive toy for everyday human consumption, rather than merely a specialized tool for professionals. (Incidentally, the software is doing well in a professional capacity, too – electronic musician Mike Oldfield recently experimented with Vocaloid on his album Light + Shade, and Susumu Hirasawa used the software to create the howling, ghostlike vocal chorus that dominated much of the soundtrack for Satoshi Kon’s Paprika.)

A big part of Hatsune Miku’s appeal is her potential for interactive manipulation. Miku sings to live audiences as a full-scale humanoid, but she’s also a cartoon character, and that means fans have an unprecedented ability to vicariously experience her stardom for themselves. She has a devoted Cosplay following, and Sega has featured her in a popular Japanese video game called Project Diva.

“Originally, our company didn’t set up any licensing for Hatsune Miku to be used in gaming or computer software,” Ito recalls, “But since there were so many requests, we expanded the licensing to include computer programming production, which paved the way for things like Miku Miku Dance.” MMD, a limited 3-D animation program featuring several built-in Vocaloid avatars, has become an Internet phenomenon in its own rite, inspiring a ridiculous explosion of content, from strenuously goofy fan videos to obscure Japanese pop culture parodies. It also has its own twice-annual nerd competition called Miku Miku Dance Cup, where MMD aficionado compete to see who can make the fanciest original music video utilizing the software.




Miku now has over 305,000 fans on Facebook, and her crossover into the American cultural arena appears imminent. A year ago, at New York Anime Con, Crypton representatives announced plans to begin pursuing the development of a Vocaloid program for North American consumers. “It’s not that easy, though,” Ito laments. “We still need Ms. Saki Fujita, the voice talent, to master the proper English pronunciation. But we are definitely in the process of developing an English version that will recreate the voice people recognize as Hatsune Miku – not just the sound, but a software component as well.”

Meanwhile, Miku’s visibility in Japan continues to balloon insanely out of control. She’s the official Japanese sponsor for the Toyota Corolla, and her angry, leek-wielding chibi likeness, Hachune Miku, was recently launched into space. Unlike her flesh-and-blood counterparts, Hatsune Miku has no problem being everywhere at once.

The function of the modern entertainer has kept pace with most other developments in new media, in the sense that it has begun to radically redefine itself as a creative platform. The concept of the stage and video performer as a narrowly-defined “talent” is gradually evaporating, replaced by a brash re-conception of the pop star as an unapologetic purveyor of spectacle, the central, magnetic unit in a vast, orbiting network of computerized pyrotechnic and LED displays, meticulously choreographed sound systems, and towering video displays, converging in a looming, perfect synthesis which is then broadcast over a system of networked satellites to a potential audience of millions worldwide. Humans like David Bowie, Madonna, Michael Jackson, and more recently, bizarre experimental pop acts like Lady Gaga have achieved this fragile state of identity through a combination of nuanced showmanship, strategically timed personal reinvention strategies, and a slick balance of innovative weirdness and earthy, classical presentation. Hatsune Miku doesn’t refute any of that – she builds and expands on it. She’s a pop act without any central human figure, just an avatar for the audience to project their own experiences onto. She’s unchanging, unconstrained, and indefatigable. She’ll be around for as long as her public wants her – and if they ever lose interest, she’ll simply evolve.

 

So at this point I think we can pretty much all agree that the Muppets are the single most amazing invention ever crafted or conceived in the entire history of human achievement, as evidenced by the recent enthusiasm for them all over my Facebook feed.

That doesn’t erase the fact, however, that this latest, gigantic comeback extravaganza in the Muppet franchise is being released by Disney, and even though they did a really good job on Muppet Christmas Carol and probably didn’t totally fuck up Muppet Treasure Island or Muppets From Space from what I can vaguely remember about those two movies, big gala franchise revivals like The Muppets always have the potential to go disastrously awry, especially when you’re talking about a property with such mouth-wateringly built-in potential for a vast, soul-destroying merchandizing campaign aimed simultaneously at wide-eyed, stupid young children and downtrodden young adults attempting to recapture the innocent nostalgia of their youth before they had to spend every single night laying awake in bed, staring at that crack in the ceiling and wondering how they’re ever going to pay back their student loans. Fortunately for everyone, The Muppets doesn’t merely succeed at not being a soul-sucking waste of time — it’s a funny, brilliant, and highly engaging musical comedy, and probably one of the greatest Muppet movies ever made.

 

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At a superficial level, The Muppets is a fun and entertaining movie with a good soundtrack and just the right combination of genuine sparkle and hat-tipping self-acknowledgement to create and sustain an instant, deep rapport with its audience. What’s really impressive, though, is that it manages to consistently balance such a sterling degree of showmanship with a thematic undercurrent that’s genuinely moving and complex. The protagonists of the movie are Walter and Gary, a pair of brothers who grew up obsessed with The Muppet Show, and who are now futilely attempting, in their respective ways to transition into adulthood. Walter is a Muppet-like, but essentially non-Muppet character, and Gary is Jason Segel, whose relationship with his girlfriend, Mary (Amy Adams) is becoming strained by his failure to commit. To celebrate the tenth anniversary of their relationship, Gary and Mary decide to take a special vacation trip to Hollywood, but at the last minute Gary invites Walter along, too, so that the brothers can fulfill their childhood dream of touring Muppet Studios together. Mary is clearly disappointed, but she obligingly doesn’t protest.

 

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Arriving in Hollywood, Walter is disappointed to find the Muppet Studios dilapidated and virtually abandoned — it’s been twenty-odd years since The Muppet Show went off the air, and the troupe’s star has clearly faded. After sneaking into Kermit’s former office, however, Walter’s disappointment turns to shock when he overhears a skeevy oil tycoon (Chris Cooper) negotiating a deal with Statler and Waldorf to purchase the Muppet Studios in order to raze the historic sets and drill for oil. Determined to rescue the relics of his childhood fantasies fro destruction, Walter convinces Gary and Mary to help him locate Kermit the Frog and the rest of the Muppet cast, hoping to salvage the Studios — and possibly the Muppets’ waylaid entertainment careers — by staging an emergency fundraiser event live on National television.

 

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The plot of The Muppets is a familiar mainstay of ’80s teen comedies, and that’s part of the point, since a central motif of The Muppets is ’80s youth nostalgia, with the Muppets standing in as a particularly poignant signifier. However, as the pastel costumes, jaunty ensemble dance choreography, and weird, terrifying, five-second Mickey Rooney cameo in the opening number testify, the movie isn’t just interested in the ’80s, but in pretty much the entire tradition of theatrical and variety show entertainment that spawned the Muppets to begin with. That’s why the “let’s put on a show” trope is such a great story choice — it’s actually a cliche that dates all the way back to the germination of the musical genre in the 1930s, just like the parallel “rise to fame” plot that drove bothThe Muppet Movie and The Muppets Take Manhattan.

Defending the validity of popular entertainment is pretty much the thematic core of The Muppets, and it does an awesome job. Aside from celebrating the musical comedy format with deftness and aplomb, it also uses the Gary and Walter subplot to explore what popular entertainment means to individual people, and to stress the deep interconnection between performers and their audience. The whole film is swathed in an intricate network of subtle, overlapping references to the original Muppet TV series and previous Muppet films,and even though there are a couple of heavy-handed jokes in there about how silly it is that it used to be 1985 and now it’s not anymore (Kermit’s Rocky IV robot butler was my personal favorite), the few scenes that threaten initially to devolve into self-lampooning irony recover themselves quickly.


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The dramatic need for the Muppets to stage an adversity-laden comeback is, more than anything, the crux of the film’s humor — it may have been awhile since their last red carpet, but the Muppets have clearly never left the public consciousness, and their legacy is as secure as it ever has been. The Muppets reaffirms that legacy with a degree of style, wit, and eloquence well-befitting its subjects.

 

I don’t watch football, and I certainly don’t have a Fantasy team, but I know a little bit about the phenomenon from personal experience, because my roommate, Adam, is totally obsessed with Fantasy sports and talks about them constantly. Having witnessed the highly emotional, incoherent absurdity of Fantasy gameplay firsthand, I initially felt pretty enthusiastic about the premise for the FX show The League, which catalogues the rabid, compulsive obsession of six Chicago football fans busting each other’s balls at Fantasy Football each week, by whatever paranoid, psychotic, or socially uncomfortable means necessary. The show is currently in its third season on FX, and Season Two launched on DVD and Blu-Ray late last month.

 

 

The level of fanaticism displayed by the characters on this show is a very, very slight exaggeration, which is why the premise is so simultaneously brilliant and subject to misinterpretation. I’ve personally sat through many, many angry, drunken tirades about imaginary shit that has happened between players who, in real life, were never even on the damn field at the same time as each other, about “trades” and “live drafts” and “meniscuses” and other vague concepts that I don’t really understand and don’t care about. A lot of the more ridiculous elements of being in a Fantasy League — like the constant, Skype-augmented Internet grandstanding, and terse interfamilial bitching that occurs when family members play against each other — are captured well and exploited effectively.

The main problem with The League is that the tone of the humor is so inconsistent. There are certain episodes where all the jokes are obviously supposed to hinge on the characters being horrible, irredeemable fuckholes, which is a style of humor that can sometimes, in theory, work (It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, for example, banks on that approach). In other episodes, though, the humor seems dependent on the characters being essentially affable, normal human beings who just get carried away by the aggressive fury of competing with each other. Either approach could probably work, but since the series waffles so much between the two extremes, getting a handle on the character dynamic becomes difficult and alienating, and certain episodes actually feel really weird and uncomfortable because the tone is so elusive. (For example, I know this is cheating, but there’s a Season One episode where everybody basically just sexually harasses Andre’s new girlfriend until she’s so pissed off and humiliated that she breaks up with him. You have to establish a pretty distinctive tone for the series ahead of time to make an episode like that work, otherwise it feels rapey and gross.)

 

The League 2

 

Another problem with the series is that, although the characters are pretty clearly differentiated from each other, they’re also fairly one-dimensional, and their individual schticks get boring quickly. Ruxin is deadpan and misanthropic, Andre is pretentious and gets ripped on a lot for being a wuss, Taco is basically Kramer from Seinfeld, and Jenny is a woman. All of these character traits are established in the first episode, and none of them are developed further after that. Loose character sketches can be functionally appropriate in a show with a consistently broad style of humor, but so many episodes deal with the nuances of characters’ personal releationships (Kevin and Jenny have a fight about Kevin’s lineup, Ruxin’s wife won’t have sex with him because he’s watching too much football and not spending enough time with her) that the characterization often feels lazy and underdeveloped.

 

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Season Two seems more uniformly resigned to a broad, emotional-slapstick approach than Season One, which makes it more engaging, if not necessarily better. The performances are solid, and the one-liners and situational humor are relatively sharp when the show decides to go that route. My roommate also pointed out a lot of jokes to me that are apparently really hilarious if you understand fuck-all about sports, so in that respect I’m not fully equipped to provide a comprehensive analysis, I guess.

As far as the DVD specs are concerned, a lot of episodes include extended versions, so if you’ve been diligently re-watching the same episodes over and over again on your TiVo for months, you’ll still find plenty of new material here. There’s also a deleted scenes reel, a gag reel, and a collection of alternate scenes (the dialogue on the show is mostly ad-libbed, so the alt scenes are pretty much variations on dialogue riffs from the actual episodes for the most part). In case you’re a really, really big fan of Taco’s music videos, those are included on the disc as well.

 

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The League is basically not a terrible show, and if you’re looking for something to throw in when your friends come over, you could do a lot worse. The stars have a good rapport, and the show has a strong premise that’s rife for comic exploitation. It’s just disappointing to see such an amazing concept handled in such an unfocused way.

 

Buxom and baby-faced, ’70s Eurosex icon Christina Lindberg has enjoyed an upsurge in North American popularity recently, prompting cult/sleaze distributor Synapse to obtain and reissue a string of Lindberg’s softcore movies previously unavailable to American audiences. The most recent of these is Wide Open, which unfortunately features Lindberg considerably less than the relentless parade of publicity photos engulfing the surface of the cover box suggests it does.

 

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Synapse struck gold a couple years ago when they landed the North American rights for Thriller: A Cruel Picture, a scuzzy, bondage-themed slice of revenge porno from 1972 that featured Lindberg as a hapless teenager who gets kidnapped, spoonfed heroin, and pimped out to an increasingly hostile series of Johns, ultimately taking revenge on the villains who maimed and sexually exploited her with a sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun. Lindberg was already a cult icon overseas by the time the DVD hit North American shores, and because Thriller was cited so heavily as an inspiration for Tarantino’s Kill Bill, her underground popularity in the U.S. has skyrocketed since Thriller’s release.

 

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Wide Open is the sixth movie Synapse has released that features Lindberg (if you count Sex & Fury, a Japanese film in which she appears only briefly), and it’s the third to be released under the company’s softcore label, Impulse (Thriller, Sex & Fury, and Exposed were all issued standard-label, probably because they contain slightly harder themes). Wide Open was the last erotic movie of Lindberg’s career, which is disappointing, because even though Synapse plastered pictures of her all over the fucking cover box and phrased the synopsis deceptively in order to intentionally trick you into thinking she’s a major character, she’s actually not in the movie very much at all. She pops up once in awhile, inexplicably, like a mirage, to vacuum her apartment naked or get porked in a barn amongst watchful cows, and then vanishes into the woodwork again, as quickly and mysteriously as she appeared.

 

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The plot of this movie is so meandering and directionless that it essentially can’t be summarized. It’s about three people named Marianne, Beryl, and Paul (none of whom are played by Christina Lindberg) who get accidentally involved with heroin trafficking ad cheesecake photography and the Mob and a lot of other shit that would probably be really fucking interesting if the movie would actually focus on that instead of cataloguing every boring nuance of the characters’ lives and relationships. The essential problem with Wide Open is that it refuses to commit to being entertaining. All Gustav Wiklund does in his Special Features interview is bitch about how much he hated making sex movies, and how much he really wanted to branch out into making “serious” films. In terms of its characterization and storytelling, Wide Open feels ovewhelmingly like a bad student film, too worried about being written off as diversionary entertainment to cater to audience expectations, and reflexively preoccupied with characters ad relationships that are too underdeveloped and bland to be interesting.

Budget issues are another possible excuse for the film’s languid pace and confused, apathetic plotting (Wiklund kvetches with equal bitterness about being unable to afford Christina for more than two days of shooting due to her rising popularity with producers and pin-up photographers at that time), but a good filmmaker – or even a competent hack – can figure out a creative workaround when an effect or plot point is failing due to technical constraints.

 

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Like shimmering oases in a vast desert of boredom and suckage, the film’s only redeeming moments are the nude scenes with Christina, which are legitimately glorious and hot.  They are all too brief and far between, and made me long wistfully for the tawdry, pseudo-educative melodrama of Anita: The Shocking Account of a Young Nymphomaniac, or the bizarre, polygamous Mime fetish burlesquerie of Young Playthings. Wide Open, despite Lindberg’s tragically fleeting presence, is neither of these films. Worst case scenario, it’s unnecessarily padded.  Best case scenario, it’s pretentious and self-indulgent.  Either way, unless you’re a completist, it’s a waste of your fucking time.

Synapse is a company best known for Psychotronic retro reissues like Maniac Cop, Entrails of a Virgin, and The Deadly Spawn, however this month they’re releasing a movie called Frat House Massacre from 2008 that claims to be an impassioned homage to the low-budget sleaze and horror films that distributors like Synapse have built their reputations on unearthing and re-exhibiting. Frat House Massacre is set in the 1970s and features a score by Italian composer Claudio Simonetti, famous for his haunting and innovative work on films like Demons, Suspiria, and Dawn of the Dead.

 

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Frat House Massacre‘s plot is barely extant enough to deserve its own paragraph, but it concerns two brothers named Bobby and Sean, who just graduated from high school and are looking forward to attending college together. A few weeks before classes begin, Bobby is tragically injured in a car accident, leaving him comatose. At some point, off-camera, Sean encounters the members of Delta Iota Epsilon (D.I.E. – get it?), an oddly intense campus Fraternity with a reputation for gut-churning, brutal hazing rituals. For some reason, Sean decides to pledge D.I.E., and the results, predictably, are fucked-up. Midway through the film, the tables are turned suddenly when the senior members of the Frat start being targeted for violence themselves by a mysterious assailant. Some bizarre and basically unnecessary supernatural elements are introduced, and finally there’s a big bloody climax with a lot of plot twists you weren’t really expecting because it didn’t occur to you to think very hard about how the movie would end.

 

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The film has more in common with ’80s slasher franchises like Friday the 13th than with gritty, pathological chamber pieces like Raw Meat, Headless Eyes, and Texas Chainsaw Massacre that characterized the ’70s grindhouse scene, but if boob-filled splatter movies are what you dig, Frat House Massacre will suit you fine. Unfortunately, the movie’s 1970s setting feels arbitrary, and other stylistic similarities to ’70s gore and sleaze movies are vague and unevocative. Even Simonetti’s soundtrack is derivative and bland, which really disappointed me, because his tumultuous, paranoid 1977 soundtrack for Suspiria is one of my favorite film scores ever.

 

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By drawing a parallel to ’70s grindhouse horror in the first place, the producers of this film are obviously trying to piggyback on the success of comparatively recent genre installments like House of 1000 Corpses, Death Race/Planet Terror, and Machete that have gained a cult audience by aesthetically quoting from their forebears. Rote, barrel-scraping, straight-to-video splatter movies have a special place in my heart, and I can’t fault Frat House Massacre for being one, but it’s not deeply invested enough in its themes or setting to be a real homage, and it’s not clever enough to be satire.  It’s just a bunch of people getting naked, snorting coke, fucking, and getting blunt objects slammed through their skulls for 90 minutes.  It may be carrying on a glorious, seedy tradition, but it fails to comment on, or significantly add to it.

 

 

You’d never know from looking at the DVD cover, but One 7 Movies, a tiny and obscure distribution company, has quietly (and possibly unwittingly) issued the first-ever uncut North American release this month of cult director Joe D’Amato’s bizarre Italian porno classic Sesso Nero (retitled Exotic Malice for this particular release).  D’Amato was the auteur scuzzball behind such sexual abominations as Erotic Nights of the Living Dead, Emmanuelle and the Last Cannibals, and Porno Holocaust, and Sesso Nero was his first-ever pornographic film.  It stars two of his regulars, Annj Goren and Mark Shannon.  Laura Gemser, tragically, is absent.

 

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People bitch a lot about how disgusting and weird modern straight-to-video porn has become, but there’s plenty of Golden Age, shot-on-celluloid, story-driven porno that’s equally deranged, like that movie Harry Reems was in that fetishizes B&E rape, or that other movie that notoriously screened in Times Square and won first prize at the Wet Dream Festival where a Danish woman fucks a pig.  Extreme Associates may be getting occasional shit from the government these days for their nipple-twisting, controlled burns, and aggressive spankings, but I’ve seen ‘70s pornos with underage schoolgirls getting impromptu punitive vaginal piercings that bled on-camera.  Obviously a lot of these movies cater to specific tastes or merely exploit the freak-show potential of taking hardcore porn in strange directions thematically, but some directors from this period had an actual interest in using the hardcore format to explore sexuality and related issues in an expressive and personal way, and the overlap and confusion of porn’s flash-in-the-pan crossover potential with the permissiveness of the new Avant Garde in the early ‘70s helped give birth to a unique breed of Gothic, existential porno issuing primarily from Europe that was devoured ravenously by American audiences.

 

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Of all the really badass ‘70s and ‘80s exploitation directors who have retained a significant reputation for their work in this mode, Joe D’Amato is widely recognized for being the most frank, artless, and pointlessly fucked up.  He wasn’t exclusively a hardcore director, and a lot of his movies, like Anthropophagus (which still hasn’t been released uncut in North America, unbelievably) are legendary just for being really gross.  Others, like Porno Holocaust (which landed a North American DVD release three years ago) are legendary for combining truly wretched, seething, Italian-style gore effects with hardcore sex, and in many cases, a bitchin’ electro-funk soundtrack.

 

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D’Amato is not as innovative or passionate about his work as, say, Jess Franco had the capacity to be, but Sesso Nero does, at least, attempt to be an extension of softcore films like Franco’s A Virgin Among the Living Dead, which uses sexuality as a vehicle to explore related concepts like physicality, intimacy, and mortality (Virgin was made shortly after the unexpected death of Franco’s lover and star actress Soledad Miranda, and has been interpreted as a metaphysical and psychoanalytic elegy to her).

Like its key softcore predecessors, Sesso Nero deals with existential themes about death, regret, and masculine virility.  It’s about a guy named Mark who finds out from a doctor in an echoey flashback that he has some kind of obscure penis disease, which will make it necessary for him to eventually have a surgery that will leave him impotent.  To cope with this, Mark has left his home in New York and flown to a distant, exotic country that is never named, where many years ago he had an intoxicating affair with a woman named Majra, who is now dead.  Mark has been given narcotics to blunt the pain of his illness, and he begins a gradual slide into self-destructive, hallucinatory addiction.  He starts to see Majra following him, then he starts following her, and eventually he becomes lost in a netherworld of bizarre, surreal sexual depravity involving Majra and a cast of other figures, some imaginary, some real, and some ambiguous.

 

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If you’ve seen a D’Amato movie before then you pretty much know what you’re getting, and if not then I guess there are worse ones to start out with.  The film is plotless and technically inept, but in an endearingly unselfconscious way.  There are long periods of boring, unnecessary talking and many of the sex scenes are brief and mechanical.  It’s weird to admit, but despite or because of its flaws, the movie achieves a highly affecting atmosphere that made me homesick for other, similarly fumbling and meandering Eurotrash staples (Franco’s Female Vampire in particular).  It’s inaccurate to say that I recommend it, but I’ll definitely watch it again myself.

 

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The original title of Exotic Malice is Sesso Nero, which means “black sex” in Italian, and not seeing the Italian title anywhere on the DVD cover gave me instant reservations about the distribution company.  It’s not like I personally care that the title was changed, but D’Amato fans are so rabidly completist that the only possible explanation for the omission is that One 7 Movies just didn’t realize they could make more money off the release by plastering D’Amato’s name all over it.  Sure enough, the disc is totally stripped down, and the print is grainy and dinged-up, with some dodgy sound and an occasional jerky reel transition.  I guess for a movie like this it doesn’t matter very much.  Maybe shitty print quality is even a good thing.  The only special feature is a blurry deleted scene of a woman masturbating with a freaky, enormous ‘70s vibrator that looks like an electric hand mixer.

Honestly, for what you’re paying, the DVD is probably worth it, especially if you’re a fan of either vintage Eurosleaze or classic porn.  The print isn’t pristine, but it’s in pretty good shape considering it’s forty years old and unrestored, and there are plenty of hardcore scenes if that’s what you’re interested in.  And the Nico Fidenco score is fucking glorious.

 

 

Following up their much-anticipated DVD release earlier this year of Fellini’s 1970 made-for-TV documentary The Clowns, RaroVideo continues to celebrate Italian heritage this month with its release of two sought-after and previously obscure examples of Italian filmmaking – Pier Paolo Passolini’s politico-philosophical documentary La Rabbia (The Anger), and Ruggero Deodato’s violent police thriller Live Like a Cop, Die Like a Man.

Deodato has been directing low-budget horror, action, and smut films since 1964, and is best known for his notorious 1980 film Cannibal Holocaust, which was so violent that it got him arrested in Italy for obscenity (you expect that shit from Britain, but when it happens in Italy, it’s serious).  Live Like a Cop’s script was written by Fernando di Leo, and it was the last movie Deodato directed before jumping on the lucrative cannibal aborigine bandwagon in 1977 with Jungle Holocaust (a.k.a. The Last Cannibal, a.k.a. Last Cannibal World, etc., etc., ad infinitum).  Like Di Leo’s Italian Connection (and pretty much every other Italian action movie made between 1965 and 1985 that doesn’t completely suck), Live Like a Cop is a noted Tarantino favorite.  I anticipated something completely fucked up and insane, and Live Like a Cop didn’t disappoint me, although it’s definitely not as violent as Deodato’s cannibal movies, and I’m pretty sure they didn’t kill any giant tortoises for this one.

 

Live Like A Cop Die Like A Man

 

The movie opens with a ridiculous 20-minute chase sequence, which according to the back cover of the DVD was shot without any official authorization in the middle of the day in a crowded area of metropolitan Rome.  Back at the station following the incident, the two protagonists are properly introduced.  Alfredo and Antonio are members of an elite police squadron called “Special Force” which is basically authorized to do whatever the fuck it wants – kill people, torture them, fuck their sisters, destroy their property, etc., as long as it’s vaguely related to whatever case they’re working on.  There’s one high-ranking Mafioso in particular named Pasquini that the boys are hoping to snatch, especially after one of their friends at the station is horrifically assassinated by two of his thugs in the parking lot.

The plot of the movie is pretty thin, but it doesn’t matter – Tony and Alfredo bust people’s heads open for 90 minutes, set a parking lot full of innocent cars on fire, scream epithets at whoever won’t give them information about Pasquini, cruise on their bikes, lounge homoerotically shirtless in their shared apartment, tag team Pasquini’s sister, shoot people without justifiable cause, handcuff some guys to the ceiling, fuck up a really volatile hostage situation, and piss off Alvaro Vitali by stealing his comic book.  Plus there’s a scene with a helicopter and a really beautiful, echoey sugarpop soundtrack by Ubaldo Continiello, who did the music for several other Deodato movies as well, including Last Cannibal.

 

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Special features include a making-of documentary, which pretty much blew my mind because they interview Ruggero Deodato and he’s just this balding guy sitting on a couch wearing glasses and a sweater vest and I guess I was expecting him to have big scary eyebrows and a beard and be glaring at you the whole time or something.  There’s also a reel of commercials Deodato made before he became a filmmaker, which is neat but frustrating, because you can’t watch the commercials without Deodato’s commentary, and I’m not sure why that is.  Maybe they didn’t want to pay somebody to subtitle the original audio.

Like Deodato, Pier Paolo Pasolini is most famous for making a completely vile, disgusting, notorious film.  His 1975 adaptation of the Marquis de Sade’s 120 Days of Sodom is more overflowing with anal rape, golden showers, and forced coprophagia than probably any other movie ever produced outside of Germany.  Deodato’s motivations were mainly commercial, but Pasolini had a social agenda – his version of Sodom (retitled Salo, in reference to the Fascist-controlled Republic) was set in 1940s Italy, and reworked De Sade’s systematic catalogue of depravity into a parable about the decadence and cruelty of the ruling class.  Like Cannibal Holocaust, Salo was banned in several European countries and remains a controversial film today.

 

 La Rabbia

 

Pasolini’s La Rabbia is a composite documentary made up of re-cut footage from newsreels and other appropriated sources.  The first half was made by Pasolini, the second half by Giovannino Guareschi, a right-wing humorist and political cartoonist.  Technically it’s one film, but actually the two films were conceived separately – Pasolini’s film was made first, and Guareschi’s was commissioned later as a counterpoint, ostensibly to buck Italian censors who were hostile to leftist political ideology (in a supplemental essay included with the film, Pasolini bitterly opines that the producers just wanted to make more money by positing the film as a bare-knuckles debate between warring ideologues).

The most interesting thing about La Rabbia is that the presentational device for both halves is exactly the same (re-appropriating old footage and re-editing it with fresh narration to give it new meaning), and yet the style of presentation remains so radically different. Guareschi chose to approach the project as an opportunity to persuade and indoctrinate, and as a result, his half of the film, at least superficially, is more stylistically compelling and accessible.  Pasolini’s approach is more intuitive, emotional and poetic, and his film is consequently more difficult to penetrate.  The lack of stylistic communication between the two films could be interpreted as problematic, but seen from another perspective, it’s more revealing than the selected content of either film could ever hope to be.

 

La Rabbia

 

The subject of the film is post-revolutionary social politics, and both approaches are essentially conservative in the sense that they express profound ambivalence about evolving social ethics and political reality.  Pasolini’s film is powerful because it expresses the individual, personal relationship that Pasolini has with the issue he’s addressing – he goes off on weird tangents about things like the symbolic significance of Marilyn Monroe, or the connection between abstract art and the heavily ritualized abstraction of monarchy, as exemplified in a coronation ceremony.  Guareschi, conversely, focuses on creating ironic tension between his narration and the images he’s presenting, or amplifying specific images into gross metaphors for broader ideas, like when he lingers excruciatingly on footage of the infamous Soviet dog head transplant experiments, equating their grotesquerie with the social experiment of Communism.  Moments of irony like this are integrated with moments of intense, maudlin sincerity – Guareschi’s possibly unintentional counterpoint to Pasolini’s deconstruction of a coronation ceremony is a heartfelt, un-ironic presentation of footage from a royal funeral, lamenting the death of a King.

If you don’t know a lot about recent Italian political history then you might have a hard time experiencing La Rabbia at face value, but even without those vital reference points, it’s an interesting exercise in form and presentation.  It’s not hard for modern viewers to pick a side in the debate – Guareschi, for one thing, is overtly and uncomfortably bigoted, and his attacks on homosexuality are particularly provocative considering Pasolini himself was persecuted throughout his life for being homosexual.  The special features on the disc include an unusually in-depth and informative making-of featurette, which mainly deals with Guareschi and Pasolini as public figures, but also spends a lot of time doing nerdy academic shit like dissecting the use of color in the pieces of expressionist political artwork that Pasolini chose to sample.  Some trailers and TV spots, and an earlier short film by Pasolini entitled Le Mura di Sana’a (a documentary dealing similarly with themes of social revolution), are also included.

If I had to recommend just one of these for purchase, I’d probably go with Live Like a Cop.  La Rabbia is an interesting experiment, but even Pasolini was dissatisfied with it, and subsequently chose to reject montage-based filmmaking.  Live Like a Cop, though its aspirations are lower and its social rebellion more sugarcoated and approachable, is an infinitely more watchable film.

Cultural pioneer Mr. Skin brings the love this month with a remastered two-disc set of vintage 1980s Women in Prison highlights.  Headlining the triple-bill is benchmark classic Chained Heat, starring former child star Linda Blair, Blaxploitation superstar Tamara Dobson, veteran pin-up Stella Stevens, and inimitable B-movie queen Sybil Danning.  Blair also appears in the second feature on the set, a thinly veiled Nazisploitation epic called Red Heat, which features legendary ginger-haired Eurosex goddess Sylvia Kristel.  Danning pops up briefly in the C-feature, Jungle Warriors, which shares a producer and partial cast with Chained Heat, but otherwise feels somewhat out-of-place in this collection.

I’m aware that some people really hate the Women-in-Prison subgenre, and it makes sense that they do.  Superficially, most WiP movies are just endless parades of rape, misogyny, and sexualized violence, usually capped with a breakout sequence involving a lot of people getting thrown over balcony railings and shot in the face.  Fans of WiP movies dig the subgenre for its soaped-up lesbian shower sex, hair-pulling catfights, and fluffy, pansexual power-fetish rape scenarios.  There are two reasons why I think the subgenre is essentially defensible: first, it explores issues of female power and social hierarchy by amplifying them into a distorted burlesque.  Secondly, it is filled with soaped-up lesbian shower sex and power-fetish rape scenarios, and I dig that.

Mr Skin Presents Women in Prison Triple Feature

Women in Prison movies (“WiP” to their friends) first originated as an offshoot of the “roughie” trend that began in the mid-to-late 1960s, when horny Americans were finally getting bored with movies about people playing naked beach volleyball, but were still too nervous or rurally sequestered to go looking for actual porn. Roughies were cheap softcore movies about sexual exploitation and sexual violence – a double-win for producers, who found them both easy to sell, and easy to sneak past moral crusaders, who were satisfied as long as sex didn’t seem like very much fun.  Proto-WiP films like White Slaves of Chinatown and Olga’s House of Shame are still pretty shocking today, and the subgenre only got more out of control in the 1970s and ‘80s after it emigrated overseas to countries like Spain, Italy, Germany, and Japan.

 Chained Heat

Chained Heat, released in 1983, is maybe the best-known example of the WiP subgenre produced in America.  Linda Blair plays Carol, an aspiring interior decorator with a really fucked up hairstyle that kept bothering me through the whole movie.  She’s in prison for eighteen months for accidentally running over a dude with her car. Right after Carol and the other New Fish arrive, inmates start turning up dead – some in prison riots, others more mysteriously.  The recent upsurge in violence is clearly connected to escalating tensions between two racially divided prison gangs, led respectively by Ericka (Sybil Danning), and Duchess (Tamara Dobson from Cleopatra Jones), and to one of the prison’s tyrannical overseers, Captain Taylor (played by Stella Stevens, who seriously looks EXACTLY like Lady Jaye from Psychic TV in this movie). 

Mr. Skin apparently went to the trouble of engineering Chained Heat’s first-ever uncut video release in the U.S. for this set, and judging from how much boobs and ass were in there, I’m gonna go ahead and say it was worth it, although I never saw the movie in a cut version before, so I can’t vouch for the restoration personally.  The sex is fairly subdued and innocent for a WiP movie, although there are a couple scenes involving physical coercion.  Mostly it’s a lot of lesbian shower sex and stripteases, which is not a bad thing at all, just a little tame for the subgenre.  Linda Blair is just sort of there for most of it, but whatever, I love Linda Blair, so I don’t really care if there’s a reason for her to be in a movie or not.  Plus she takes her top off a couple times, which is either really weird or really hot, I’m not sure which.

Red Heat

The second movie in the set, Red Heat, takes place in Germany, and features Linda again, this time as Christine Carlson, a naïve American tourist who gets kidnapped and railroaded by Germans who are supposed to be Communists, but who are basically just Nazis.  After being wrongly convicted of international espionage, Christine lands in the slammer where she is surrounded by hardened, sociopathic lesbians with Eastern European accents and face tattoos, the meanest of which is Sofia, played by legendary French actress Sylvia Kristel, star of Just Jaeckin’s original 1974 Emmanuel.  Maybe it’s because I love Sylvia Kristel so much, or maybe it’s my nostalgic childhood attachment to Ilsa: She-Wolf of the SS, but I actually liked Red Heat better than Chained Heat.  I guess you could argue that it’s a rip-off of Midnight Express in some ways, but it’s Midnight Express with Sylvia Kristel, Linda Blair, lesbian shower sex, boobs, and Nazis, so I don’t know what there is to complain about.  Plus it has a soundtrack by TANGERINE FUCKING DREAM, which means it’s automatically a good movie no matter what.  Seriously.

Jungle Warriors

Unlike the first two movies, Jungle Warriors is not a WiP movie at all really, and it also doesn’t have the word “heat” in the title (although I’m pretty sure the shrill opening credits theme song is probably called “Heat” because most of the lyrics are just the word “heat” repeated over and over again).  A group of professional models crash land in some obscure part of South America that is controlled by an evil drug cartel, get chased by some guerilla thugs through the jungle, and are ultimately captured, imprisoned, manhandled, and gang raped for like 20 minutes before escaping.  The movie has massive pacing issues – the first half just feels like meaningless padding to boost it up to feature length. As low-budget action movies go, the second half is pretty much fine.  Chicks running around shooting machine guns at people mostly.  And there’s this one part where Paul L. Smith shatters a car window with his bare fists and hoists John Vernon over his head while screaming ferally in his face, so that was pretty good. Sybil Danning is in it for a few minutes as the Drug Lord’s sister.d

Overall I’d say the set is recommendable.  All three films are presented in what I’m guessing is their original aspect ratio, and they’ve been remastered, so grain and scratches are minimal. The set is pretty light on special features, but the interview with Sybil Danning is entertaining and informative.  Chained Heat and Red Heat I’d definitely watch again, Jungle Warriors I’d maybe throw on in the background while I fold my laundry.

In Daniel Pinkwater’s The Snarkout Boys and the Avocado of Death (incidentally, one of my favorite children’s novels), the horrible villain, a wicked criminal mastermind, liked to torture his kidnapees by tying them to a theater chair, and forcing them to watch German comedies. It is in that spirit that I must approach Ernst Hofbauer’s surreal erotic classic “Schoolgirl Report, volume #7: What the Heart Must Thereby…,” recently made available from Impulse Pictures DVDs.

SGR#7

While Germany has produced some very notable films and filmmakers (F.W. Murnau and Werner Herzog spring immediately to mind), I think any of us would be hard-pressed to name any popular or famous German comedians. What’s more, when one thinks of German eroticism, one usually thinks of Isla, the She-Wolf of the SS, and other rough-hewn, overtly fascistic, spank-and-torture-centric films. So you can imagine my twisted eager dread when sitting to watch what was billed as a rompy, lighthearted German sex comedy. Either this was going to feature a lot of uncomfortable rape scenes, a lot of unfunny jokey dialogue, and a stern, broody tone that would be a bone fide bonerkiller.

I am happy to report that Hofbauer (1925-1984) kept his rape scenes to a minimum, that the goofy dialogue was unfunny but tolerable, and that the tone was almost akin to a tuba-rich, lager-ready Bavarian circus. But with a lot more pubic hair. The end result was fun, sexy, and kept me happily off-balance.

The setup is as follows: Our heroine, the virginal teen Elka Deuringer, visits her hunky Aryan brother (Johannes Buzalski), only to discover that he has been enlisting her 17-year-old classmates to work as prostitutes in his makeshift brothel. When one of the customers comes onto her, she screams, the police are summoned, and everyone is taken to court. From there, the film is a series of sexual flashbacks, as each of the hooker schoolgirls gives court testimony to how they came to work in the brothel to begin with. Each of the vignettes is a flashback, which makes me suspect that entire sequences were cannibalized from other porn films of the day (a practice that is all too common with both porn and early genre films). That clothing and cars change model is a definite clue. That the setup dialogue is given off-camera is another.

We get the story of a young girl losing her virginity in a shower to a blonde hunk who looks more than a little bit like Roger Daltrey from The Who. We hear the madcap story of a trio of teens who, in exchange for free ice cream (!), seduce a horny Italian waiter, much to the chagrin of his wife, leading to a naked chase through a hotel that would feel in-place in a “Police Academy” sequel. We hear about a woman who used to seduce motorists only to rob them (and the surprisingly dark consequences). There’s the story of a nerd who likes older men (the nerd was, for my money, the prettiest of the lot), who supposedly exploits books to seduce them, in the scenes that are the film’s most unintentionally hilarious. There’s the Bavarian classroom antics, about which you can intuit. And, most bawdily, there’s the almost Shakespearean story of a Gaby (Puppa Armbruster) who plays a little identity swap in order to nail her teacher.

This film was shot in 1974, right during the post-”Deep Throat” boom in American hardcore. This film contains no closeup hardcore sex or on-camera penetration, but is chock full of naked schoolgirls, giggling, wet, nubile bodies, kissing, and oh-so-much groping. It’s of a distinct European tradition of porn, which was, to some of us more porn-attentive viewers, ubiquitous in the mid 1970s: The bawdy, pseudo-comic softcore romp. Complete with some rocking mid-’70s jazz jams (in this case, by Gert Wilden).

Porn and comedy have always been strange bedfellows, and, like exes who need to stop sleeping together, are always accidentally finding themselves in bed together. The comedy in porn is rarely funny, and often distracts from the sex. But then, I think I’d rather have cheesy jokes in my unrealistic porn setups that ennui and melodrama.

 

I find it kind of disheartening that erotic narrative features are now considered a novelty. There was a time back in the 1970s when porn flicks were shot on film (16mm or 35mm) and could only be seen in unsavory viewing booths, “stag” parties or adult movie houses. In 1972, thanks mostly to the runaway popularity of “Deep Throat,” pornography enjoyed a brief mainstream surge, and kind, down-home suburban folks were gathering in groups to view sex films in public venues. For a while there, porn was just good, dirty fun.

Thanks to The Internet, porn has kind of become a little more mainstream again (I’ve heard stats that posit that 30-80% for the Internet is smut), but it’s often relegated to still pictures, or short vignettes; narrative features – like they were back in the 1970s – have become a specialty field. But there was a time in the 1970s, when X-rated films were consumed openly, and garnered attention from serious film critic and heavy/mouth-breathing wanker alike. “Midnight cowboy” and “A Clockwork Orange” spring to mind. There was even talk that Stanley Kubrick would direct a sex film (Eyes Wide Shut, anyone?)

What was lost in this “shrinkage”of the pornographic feature is something that pornographers have all but forgotten in this modern age: sexual tension. The slow, erotic build-up of attraction. Luckily, thanks to the folks at Cult Epics, we now have DVD access to the better-known classics of one Radley Metzger (“Camille 2000,” “Therese & Isabelle,” “The Lickerish Quartet”), often considered the master of the erotic film, and his daring bisexual classic “Score.”

“Score” is set in the Riviera (the country is never named), and is rife with all the accoutrements of gloriously junky Eurotrash pseudo-poetry: we have the lugubrious narration by an all-seeing narrator. We have the overwrought set design. We have the thick-chested hunks and the waif-like women. We have the jazzy, repetitive soundtrack. And, most notably, we have the swinging, bisexual chic that was once so very acceptable, and now is the stuff of fetish sites and immature tittering jokes of 14-year-olds.

“Score” follows the adventures of the bisexual Elvira (Claire Wilbur) and her bisexual husband Jack (Gerald Grant), a swinging married couple who are constantly playing an extended sex game: Together, they select a target couple, and see if they can, within a month, seduce them. Elvira will seduce the woman, and Jack will seduce the man. They each tally up their score at the end of the month, and declare a winner. No prizes are discussed. At the outset of “Score,” Jack and Elvira have already been working on a young prudish American pair, and are very close to sealing the deal. Elvira even goes so far as to have sex in front of the Sissy Spacek-looking twentysomething Betsy (Lynn Lowry from “I Drink Your Blood”). Jack only has to make insinuations to Betsy’s husband Eddie (porn star Calvin Culver) to get him vaguely interested; it seems that Eddie has some sugar in him already.

Smoke?

 

Despite that one sex scene, “Score” is actually largely sex-free, opting instead for titillating occasions of drunken dress-up (sailor costumes, diaphanous robes, and leather cowboy pants abound) and long conversations of suggestive talk, where the young couple are slowly – ever so slowly – goaded into having gay sex. This may sound kind of sinister on the page, but Metzger, clearly more interested in the eroticism of the situation, tries to keep things mostly upbeat. Well, mostly. There are a few insufferable scenes of weepy confessions, and a few stretches where things seem stretched past the breaking point. But aside from that, the film is largely just a build to the inevitable hardcore sex scenes.

Nun and cowboy

 

Yes, the two women go at it. And yes, the two men go at it. The man-on-man sex scene is surprisingly hardcore for a film of such high production values, and we’re treated to many a loving, low-light close-ups of their bodies. The women’s sex scene, in contrast, is frustratingly arty, shot mostly in mirrors, and through distorting glass, and seems stiff and distant. Especially in light of the lush photography and professional production design. “Score” looks way better than any slasher flick from the ’70s.

Metzger doesn’t just let us off there, though, actually following these couples to the next morning, where they discuss the consequences of last night’s bisexual adventures. But, in the spirit of the thing, the young ones find that, if they play by their own rules, they find bisexual swinging to be kind of liberating. The film’s final shot is Jack and Elvira scoping a new mark.

 

Lynn Lowry

In an age where 14-year-old virgins are becoming bored with porn (a phenomenon that baffles and old guard man like me, who had to fight for porn as a teenager, flipping through cable channels hoping for that 1 1/2 seconds of glory through the blurry lines), and kids now have instant, private access to all kinds of freaky sex, it’s kind of refreshing to see an adult film that’s actually for adults.

One that’s actually thoughtful lush and, well, intimate. In an age where you can watch just about anyone being sodomized at a moment’s notice, it’s actually daring and refreshing to see a bisexual feature film that gets there more patiently. One that’s erotic rather than merely pornographic. It’s a film that actually goes all the way.

The DVD also contains a huge amount of special features including some very entertaining footage of on-set antics, and playful cast parties. It also traces the careers of each of the actors, some of which went on to do wonderful things, some of which ended badly (Calvin Culver was an early AIDS victim). Cult Epics did their homework, though, and put out a work of actual, unexpected and surprising quality. Good of them, I say. Keep the spirit of old smut alive.

Calvin Culver