The most deadly of all horrors is the horror within, not the horror that is unknown but the familiar, that which we recognize. And what is closer to us than our own bodies and the decay we witness in others and ourselves every day? Snuff films—or those cinematic experiments which purport to be snuff films—push the limits of what we will watch, what we choose to put our minds through as we see that decay amplified, exploited, and exhausted.

August Underground wants you to watch whatever the body will take—and we’re fascinated by the sickness, by the filmmakers, and by our own curiosity. Why are you turning away—and why are you not turning away? This is the closest we can get to death, that last great unknown, and we are reaching it through the body. Yet it is the body of another, turning us into voyeurs.

We live in a voyeuristic culture. Blogs, webcams, Twitter updates, FaceBook, MySpace—they turn us into peeping toms, and we get off on it, wanting more and basking in anonymity. Canadian writer Hal Niedzviecki calls it Peep Culture, as in, peeping into one another’s lives. August Underground’s handheld camera works on several levels: it creates the illusion that we are watching a private home video, something no one else was meant to see. This is exhilarating, to say the least, and also unnerving. The handheld also gives a very distinct point of view—specifically, one which the viewer can adopt. In the first of the AU trilogy we never see the “man behind the camera” and so we step into that anonymous role.

It is not merely the special effects which make AU films appear so genuine—though we must, in any discussion about snuff films, acknowledge the impressive effects: Toetag Pictures produces vividly lifelike severed limbs and bloody wounds, and it is partly the appearance of real violence done to the body which ensures the success of the films. It looks as real as we imagine death is. The other important part of the work, though, is the way it is done: the careful camera angles, the handheld shakiness. Many cinephiles argue that AU does not have good cinematography, that anyone can do what they do. The shots, however, are painstakingly thought out and edited, for proper blocking techniques with both bodies and objects are absolutely necessary to the effect; the result of what we do not see because of a carefully-placed killer’s back or because of the struggling “other hand” of the cameraman creates the illusion and sustains it.

Fred Vogel, the director, writer, and mastermind behind AU films, may balk at the suggestion of symbolism in his work, yet he deliberately includes short scenes where nothing violent happens, where we see the murderers carrying on their everyday lives. This heightens our sense that these are ordinary people who have daily routines and acquaintances. Amidst these scenes, character is developed and we are admitted into the true horror of the murderous deeds. In the first film, simply entitled August Underground (2001), the killer and his companion, the cameraman, visit a slaughterhouse and are given a quick tour by a friend. We see meat hooks and dead pigs and hear about the gutting process in unrestrained detail. Our expectations are high as we imagine what the slaughterhouse could be used for, but nothing gruesome happens. The cold, detached manner with which the scene plays out emphasizes the lack of humanity in the characters and the story. Another non-violent scene, similar in emotional starkness, demonstrates the killer’s power over the people he tortures; visiting “Little America,” a roadside attraction, the killer stands Godzilla-like over the tiny city, revealing how big he builds himself up to be, how much he loves to be in control.

Within minutes the second film in the trilogy, Mordum (2003), is harsher and more graphic than its predecessor as the killer and his buddies get bolder. The violence and the special effects are almost absurdly realistic; are we actually watching a guy cut off his own penis so that his girlfriend won’t get a knife shoved up her vagina? It is very easy to believe this is real, which is exactly what Vogel wants out of his audience: a belief in the horror he presents. Mordum has fewer symbolic scenes than the original AU, instead portraying unrelenting sadism and bloodshed for seventy-seven minutes—yet the final scene after the credits, the “epilogue,” if you will, serves as a sharp contrast to the brutality and the abnormality of the acts just witnessed. As the cat eats its freshly killed mouse, we see a natural murder within nature, as the food chain intends, which is a grim reminder that death surrounds us every day. By and large we don’t have a problem with the natural order in the food chain because it is about survival—but the cat plays with the dead mouse, as man has played with his victim. The difference remains that the cat eventually consumes the mouse for food, stressing the unnaturalness in the human murders.

The final instalment, Penance (2007), is probably the best-looking of trilogy; the quality of the picture is clearer, bringing out the fine details of the gore. The actors often place the camera on a steady surface, a welcome relief amidst the dizzying cinematography. Additionally, by using a still camera, action can take place slightly off-screen as the camera focuses on a wall, leaving the viewer to listen to vicious dialogue and use his or her own sick imagination. Penance reveals more character than the other films, exposing weakness as the killer states, “I don’t like myself” during an angry rant. We also witness, more than in the other films, the love/hate relationship between the killer and his girlfriend. Suddenly we are closer to the murderers because they are emotional and vulnerable, even if just for a moment.

The alligator and rat in Penance function similarly to the cat and mouse in Mordum, contrasting a kill for survival with a kill for perverse pleasure. Unlike the scene in Mordum though, we see the direct kill in the final film. Again, in comparison with the human murders, the animal chain of hierarchy seems tame and natural.

We must remember that these are works of fiction, for no “true” snuff film exists for universal entertainment; any such film would immediately be seized by authorities and destroyed. The question, then, remains: Why would anyone make a film like this? We must wonder why the filmmakers go to such extensive lengths with the special effects and cinematography, making the films look authentic, instead of creating a movie that is aesthetically pleasing and a plot with clearly developed characters—in short, how come Vogel and his crew don’t make a regular horror movie? It is the experience of the viewer, the manipulation of the audience, which makes the film a success, and this is accomplished through careful “bad” filmmaking, a home video gone horribly wrong.

These are not horror movies we can easily walk away from, like other films in the genre. Snuff films are too close for comfort. Whether it’s curiosity, research, entertainment, or otherwise, you have to really want to watch it to make it through one of these films. It does not make you brave, but it does take a certain amount of guts.

I first hear about Vagrancy Films through my old roommate, who says, “They’re weird. Like you.” And so, my partner D and I attend our first show:

Andy Warhol’s Flesh for Frankenstein. January 18, 2008.

Not know there’s going to be costume contest that night, my zombie outfit fits right in. A strange man with flaming orange hair and pop-bottle glasses dances a hobo jig in the aisle. Someone yells, “VHS Trade!” and several guys start handing out old movies to random people. A slide show of vintage advertisements play on the screen while a crowd of 80 files into Rainbow Cinema’s biggest theatre.

James Bialkowski, head honcho at Vagrancy Films, is not what you’d expect. A giant man with crazy eyes and cartoon skeleton-patterned shoes, his deep voice welcomes the crowd through a megaphone and starts gathering contestants for best costume; first prize is $51. Cash. His creepy sidekicks, the Grim Brothers, begin verbally abusing us for not being rambunctious enough, and thus the heckling begins:

Watching a movie at Vagrancy is not simply about watching a movie. It’s about making fun of, reacting loudly to, and partaking in the experience as fully as possible. Throwing back to the golden age of Grindhouse, Vagrancy allows audience members to dress like Neon Maniacs, repeatedly yell “Fuck her in the spleen!”, or, as one man so chose, announce “All of you are sick, this is disgusting,” and storm out of the theatre. At Vagrancy there is something to offend everybody and that is why it’s so engaging.

I love James’s trailer reels; for me they’re the highlight of each show. Splicing old commercials, ads, and cartoons amongst original 35mm trailers, the ten-fifteen minute pre-show is unpredictably and creatively cut together. In the past year and a half, D and I have seen such previews as Sonny and Jed, They Call Her One Eye, The Black Cat, Telephon, Black Frankenstein, Tom Thumb, and Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS. During Flesh for Frankenstein, set in the charming countryside of old England, a subway train rips through the screen in a trailer for Der New York Ripper. My favourite promo, though, is The Exorcist seizure teaser trailer which premiered at Vagrancy’s Dirty Bird Pt. I in May 2007. One minute and forty seconds long, it consists of a demon’s face flashing in the darkness and is so terrifying that it was originally banned in some theatres.

Some pre-shows screen short films made by the Vagrants—promotional videos where they hunt for porn in the late Cinema City, a 3-year anniversary music video featuring Mr. Karaoke, and introductions to the feature presentation. After each trailer reel and before the main film, the ‘Restricted’ Vagrancy Cat runs across the screen; an old, animated ratings warning which portrays a blue cougar prancing through the vicious jungle, this is the Vagrancy mascot. He marks all merchandise, such as rare films and t-shirts, which are available during ticket sales.

James and his gang regularly hand out free posters and movies for answering film trivia, for being a newcomer to Vagrancy, or for no particular reason at all. They love introducing people to interesting and bizarre films from the horror, giallo, and exploitation genres. Upcoming shows include Wicked Wicked, Savage Streets, and the 4-year anniversary show in September.

Vagrancy@FaceBook

VagrancyFilms@MySpace

www.vagrancyfilms.com

Mädchen im Nachtverkehr (1976)
A.K.A. Girls in the Night Traffic, Wilde Lust, Wild Desire
Dir. Jess Franco; Starring Kali Hansa, Diotta Fatou, Pilar Coll

Keeping in true Grindhouse tradition, Vagrancy Films offers a double feature from sexploitation master Jess Franco: Mädchen im Nachtverkehr, an X-Rated subtitled cut running just over an hour, and Wilde Lust, the 25-minute longer XXX German version. Mädchen im Nachtverkehr has better picture quality, but Wilde Lust definitely shows more, so Vagrancy kindly offers both in one package, courteously catering to their viewers. When the box art alone shows a bed full of naked ladies and some very sensual banana-eating, you know you’ve got a good deal.

We begin with said ladies who are actually high-class hookers, only it appears they have worn themselves out and are now resting; Franco opens with some bizarre music while the girls massage each other and discuss their clients. Using flashbacks amidst the slumber party, Franco wastes no time getting down to business; the women are beautiful, bushy pros who give their Johns exactly what they want, whether it’s plain ol’ missionary, role-playing as a corpse, or theatrical sex shows.

But when an erotic photographer turns out to be a kidnapping pimp, hijinks ensue. One of the hookers is taken to a Turkish brothel, where the workers appear far less interested in their jobs than the Swiss girls. Soon all of the friends are kidnapped and bored in the brothel, plotting revenge on their captor.

For the XXX cut, some die-hard fans might feel the need to brush up on their German, although the English subs are hilarious with such gems as “Willie is terrific” and “You have a plump bust.” Our opinion, however, is that the dialogue isn’t so important because Franco’s imagery is more than satisfactory for story-telling. The cinematography is very flowing and slow, giving the impression that we’re watching from a distance; though the actual cuts in the reel are sometimes jumpy, the lack of abrupt camera movement adds serenity to the experience.

Franco pumped out several exploitation and horror films a year and was already a veteran filmmaker by the time he made Mädchen im Nachtverkehr. With over 200 directorial credits to his name, the Franco legacy holds its own again the waxed and tanned hardcores of today; for a 1970’s porno, the women are actually real hotties. Music includes saloon-style ragtime, honky-tonk ditties, and horn-blowing.

No, really, there’s a saxaphone.

For sale from Vagrancy Films, $10.

www.vagrancyfilms.com

Jess Franco at Grindhouse Database

Briton Self, acclaimed author of Abbreviated Moments, announced today that he is writing a new novel. After four years of silence in the world of creative fiction, fans are excited at the prospect of fresh work from their beloved Brit; after publishing his breakthrough novel, followed over a decade later by the collected works Into the Mud, Self’s fiction appears only sporadically amidst a turn towards political writing. In his true low-key fashion, Self made the announcement on MySpace, of all places, simply by updating his status. If not for die-hard Self aficionados in the Sunflower Skins offices, the act could have gone unnoticed for months, as Self doesn’t have many friends on the popular social networking site. He created a profile at the suggestion of a former agent and rarely attends to it; considering that, the update was a pleasant surprise to many. Self has kept minimal contact with the press, preferring to voice his opinions in articles and essays, but paparazzi jumped at the opportunity to re-establish communication. One source suggests that the latest work is a retelling of the Icarus myth in modern day London, and while Self declines to comment any further, he doesn’t appear to deny the attention he has given mythological and philological subjects in recent years. Last October he contributed research for a new study of J.R.R. Tolkien’s work, while the previous summer was spent amongst Aztec ruins, keeping a travel diary for Playboy UK. Blending myth with modernity is a technique well established and Self has successfully accomplished it in non-fiction. Though he seems to disdain publicity, fans must encourage Self’s new work, as it could be the classic this generation has been waiting for; he has shown eager promise before, and, we at Sunflower Skins feel, everything has been leading up to this.

Visit Briton’s MySpace here.

Penguin Classics Edition of Abbreviated Moments

The first qualification for judging any piece of workmanship from a corkscrew to a cathedral is to know what it is—what it was intended to do and how it is meant to be used. –A Preface to Paradise Lost, C.S. Lewis

I’d like to draw your attention to the epigraph above. That one sentence neatly sums up much of the “controversy” surrounding The Dirty Bird at the recent Fringe film festival. If you don’t know C.S. Lewis beyond The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, you should probably know he was one of the most brilliant critics of his time.

But first, some housekeeping. Since Facebook sucks moose balls I can’t post this (or even get to) the original discussion with my account (many others are having the same problem), so I have to post a note of my own. For a guy who loathes Facebook, I sure am spending a lot of time on it lately.

Ruby Nadler, if you were serious about making those rape t-shirts, you are arguably the biggest hypocrite to have participated in the discussion; if it was in jest, perhaps you should avoid making light of that particular topic (it’s off-limits you know). Might I suggest slavery as an alternative.

Several people very close to me have been sexually assaulted so all that statistical crap can be tossed in the ditch with the rest of the waste. Btw, thanks for turning them into meaningless numbers. Excellent work, Melissa. I had no qualms watching the movie—none whatsoever. I very much enjoyed the film, not because I know the filmmakers or because my partner was involved in the project, but because I believe it was well made.

At first I was mostly amused by the staggering level of ignorance from people who claim to be particularly enlightened. It’s funny watching them spin their wheels in the mud talking about something they refuse to observe critically. But after Mr. Milne’s posts I’m a might bit annoyed.

This debate IS about censorship. Oh sure, nobody has outright said the movie shouldn’t have been made, but that is just a classic defense. “I didn’t say that.” No, but you mean that. Melissa, David, John, et al, you claim to be on the side of free speech? of freedom to create? that it’s ok to make something with questionable content? You are, but only if YOU aren’t offended. That, my friends, is hypocritical. That, my minions, is two-faced bullshit. That is standard feminazi or religious-right or (insert extremist nutjob group here) tactics—I’m not calling anyone a feminazi, I’m just saying there’s a distinct odor. We all know how conservative London is so this sort of ignorance was to be expected, unfortunately it comes from Fringe ‘supporters’ (I use that term hesitantly). I suspect some of you were secretly glad when Stevie Harper wanted to deny tax benefits to movies that were deemed in bad taste. Some of you may have even voted for him.

John Milne (can I call you Mr. Hollywood?), you said: “Frankly [Grindhouse] doesn’t appeal to me and never will.” Thank you for proving Mr. Lewis 100% correct. Stick to Stephen Spielberg films and keep your nose out of the exploitation scene unless you truly want to make an informed opinion—I highly that doubt you do. All of those “sloppy” cinematic techniques you mentioned are called CONVENTIONS, and as Dustin said, they were all planned out and executed according to that plan. But being a seasoned film veteran of five years, you probably knew that, right? Right. Maybe it if was shot in black and white… In my opinion the winning film was far more sloppily put together. This is why I usually avoid festivals like Fringe: too many ignorant people who claim to be beacons of enlightenment. Mr. Hollywood, I think you’re just sore you couldn’t win the contest. Did you even enter or are Indi competitions beneath you now? You are the bad kind of elitist, the kind that gives the rest of us elitists a bad name. You and your cohorts have made it abundantly clear that you are intentionally ignorant of the exploitation genre, yet you feel you have the right to judge it. Oops, sorry, you DO have the right to judge it; what you do not have is the authority or credibility for that judgment. “In my opinion, I would have rather seen what the other filmmakers had to offer that didnt get screened.” Then become a panel member. Filmmakers, dig out your French berets.

Better yet, enter the competition next year and wow us all with your superior filmmaking skills. Show us what a real director can do so we don’t have to suffer through this “entry level” rubbish.

Oh and a quick little btw, not all exploitation films are meant to be humourous.

Mr. Heap, you should probably recheck the definition for ‘misogyny’; the only misogynistic person involved in The Dirty Bird is Karate Pete (he’s a fictional movie character, not a real person). The filmmakers most certainly are not woman-haters. Did I not mention that some of the people who worked on the film have families? I.e. spouses, children, etc. Women worked on the project and they are very proud of it. This “pathetically banal” and “uninteresting” film shares its view with the mainstream media only insofar as the mainstream has assimilated aspects of the exploitation genre The Dirty Bird mimics. I have a feeling you aren’t well versed in 60’s/70’s exploitation cinema. Jess Franco alone has something like 150 movie directorial credits. There’s a very rich (and sleazy) cinematic history behind The Dirty Bird that you have so casually dismissed. I am confused on one thing though: you quote Nellie McClung saying “never apologize,” yet expect one yourself? What heck for? The door was behind you and, I assume, unlocked. My what unsteady ground we tread.

“And I rather doubt if many women would produce a film about rape as “funny” either. Seems kinda like a male-specific genre of humour.” Oh really? Your ignorance of the independent film industry is showing. I worked the ticket booth at the last Vagrancy show and there were just as many women in attendance to watch smut as there were men. Let’s drop the male/female sexist crap, feminism is an archaic institution that has outlived its usefulness in its current form. It relies on tired clichés and double standards. Our society has moved beyond it and it either needs to modernize itself or go away.

The difference between bathroom “scribbling” and The Dirty Bird is that Jake isn’t hiding behind anonymity, he’s standing firmly behind his creation. Neither is he cowardly or creepy.

Melissa, you said: “Media never influences peoples behaviour.” Earlier you said: “Did Fringe give no thought as to the effect such images will have on the behaviour and mindset of the viewer?” Which is it? Whenever you want to stop dancing a jig with your position you let us know. Whenever you want to admit you aren’t really “anti-censorship” I won’t mock you, although you are the worst kind of censor: the kind that denies it. You have made it painfully clear that your original note has nothing to do with voicing outrage on any meaningful level; this is purely self-serving and it makes me sick. You are arguing both sides of the coin depending on which way people are challenging you. There are so many holes in your argument that it’s almost not worth the trouble to write all of this, but I too am passionate about art and people who argue in the ways you do threaten my right to create and my way of life. I have zero respect for you. Funny how the people upholding the right to make smut seem to have the most firmly grounded positions. But this exactly is the wishy-washy type of contradictory argument I expected from the detractors.

I struggle continually with notions of censorship and what is acceptable in art and public society. It appears you have solved that problem: you have drawn a line, and that line has nothing to do with anybody but Melissa or David or Mr. Hollywood or X. Everybody has a line of what they consider to be acceptable; however, that does not give anyone the right to push that on others.

This point has been made, but some of you still seem bent on holding others accountable: nobody forced you to go to Fringe. Nobody forced you to ignore the content warning they displayed before the movie. Nobody forced you to stay for the duration. Long story short, you are solely, I repeat, solely responsible. It is not Fringe’s job to decide what “effect such images will have on the behaviour and mindset of the viewer.” Not the Grimbrothers. Not your friends who got the movie and enjoyed themselves. The glorious thing about living in a free society is the freedom to choose. You, as a grown adult (I’m assuming), have way more power than any filmmaker, author, painter, or singer/songwriter. At any time before or during the presentation you could have stood up and walked out the back door, thus exercising your right to choose—filmmakers have no innate power over anyone unless he or she relinquishes it. Hell, if you’re that susceptible to outside influence, then I would suggest avoiding any movie genres remotely provocative. And throw out your TV, that thing is far more dangerous than any exploitation movie *coughrealitytv*. By blaming others for a choice that you and you alone made, you are perpetuating negative social stereotypes you claim to oppose. Did you also think that the song “Blame Canada” was to be taken literally?

Have you seen Ken Russell’s The Devils? The violence is intense and the sexual imagery is out of this world, the uncut version I mean. Though since religion is targeted maybe that’s acceptable.

I’m sure you’ve seen Deliverance with the famous “squeal like a pig” male-on-male anal rape scene; I’m curious as to whether or not you immediately tuned out the rest of the movie like you did with The Dirty Bird. Did you recognize the black humour in the scene (who hasn’t stifled a laugh at it)?

What about Natural Born Killers? Mallory is molested by her father, to a laugh-track no less, and turns into a bloodthirsty sociopath. That’s a lot of taboos. Sounds a little familiar, no? And from a hugely successful mainstream movie that many people argued romanticized violence (I think there were even lawsuits against the director for encouraging violence, similar to the BS the video game Grand Theft Auto deals with). You mentioned that you make films; to me that implies the need for a critical eye, yet I’m curious why you didn’t use it with The Dirty Bird.

Nobody is denouncing your right to whine (at least nobody should be) or your right to dislike any film. I don’t believe you should “stop watching movies” or keep your informed opinions to yourself, though to blame someone else for offending you is just plain foolish. But I think the one thing that keeps coming up over and over is how completely you missed the point of the film. You saw only what you wanted to see from a narrow feminist lens. You know the kind, it’s the one with the black edges around the frame so you know you’re looking through a keyhole or something even though in reality you don’t see the black border. You “promote free-speech,” but only on your terms and only if what’s being depicted doesn’t bother you. Offending people is ok, just as long as it’s not you.

Was the movie about “empowerment?” It could be interpreted that way. Does it glorify or condone rape? There is no evidence in the film (at least none available to anybody who paid attention) to support that. Sorry, but you are on a high horse. You keep trying to pass yourself off as altruistic, as some kind of moral crusader. Bollox. You haven’t fooled anyone. You imply that only serious or documentary films are allowed to approach rape. That, my dear, is elitist.

It’s funny how the people who avoid a certain genre at all costs are the ones who are most vocal in undermining it, like how the religious-right wackos want the evolution theory banned because it is personally offensive to them.

Scene from Deodato's "Cannibal Holocaust"

Horror movies take aspects of real life and exaggerate them, distort them in some way. The (often) improbable horror is recognizable, relatable, we empathize. Are they realistic? No, not always, but that is irrelevant. As viewers, critics, writers, and filmmakers we must suspend our disbelief, look past what is happening on the screen to what is happening, or has happened, behind it. Not every movie has a moral to it. Not every movie has a social commentary—not every movie should. If people want to infer one where none exists, then that is their prerogative. But the above holds true with or without a deliberate social context. Having said that, art necessitates an interaction with the audience, but that is not a blank cheque.

There are very few taboos left. I struggle to even think of any at the moment. One of the main points of the horror genre is to explore those taboos. One of the main points of the exploitation genre is to explore those taboos.

Whoever has seen Bob Saget’s standup routine please raise your hands. He is one of the filthiest, most perverted, most offensive people I’ve ever seen. And one of the funniest. Not because of his language or subject matter, though of course those are part of it, but because he knows his craft and uses the conventions, the language, the subject matter expertly to shock and entertain.

Was Jake pushing the envelope to get a reaction? I think that’s well established by now. I fail to see how that disqualifies The Dirty Bird from the contest. The movie got its intended reaction and did it with excellent cinematography.

Maybe I’m just really desensitized…I know I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have sensibilities. I empathize with abused women. I don’t think it’s right for anyone to be taken advantage of, be they man, woman, or child. I can recognize a fictional depiction. I can also separate said fictional depiction from reality; meaning I didn’t suddenly develop the urge to go out and rape someone. I didn’t want to go around killing people after watching a violent movie. I may not be the world’s most well-adjusted human being, but I have sense enough to not let the things I watch and the books I read affect me in a way that is going to cause me to hurt someone. That is a pathetically banal argument that has been used and reused unsuccessfully for over a century. James Joyce’s Ulysses was banned (subsequently lifted after sanity prevailed) for being sexually suggestive, yet the book didn’t turn anyone into a sexual deviant. As for The Dirty Bird, I am baffled how anybody could interpret it as romanticizing rape. I almost wonder if they saw a different movie.

On a closing note I’d like to quote from The People vs. Larry Flynt. I think it is particularly relevant here and something that our increasingly bleeding-heart society forgets/ignores. It’s spoken by Alan Isaacman (portrayed by Ed Norton), Larry’s lawyer, during one of the lawsuits against Larry and his right to publish smut: “I’m not trying to convince you that you should like what Larry Flynt does. I don’t like what Larry Flynt does. But, what I do like is that I live in a country where you and I can make that decision for ourselves. I like that I live in a country where I can pick up Hustler magazine and read it if I want to, or throw it in the garbage can if that’s where I think it belongs.” Here’s the important bit: “Or, better yet, I can exercise my opinion and not buy it.” Unlike Alan and Hustler, I liked what Jake did, but even if I didn’t, I would not deny his right to make it.

Watch “The Dirty Truth,” Jake’s response to the controversy surrounding “The Dirty Bird.”

Amuse yourself with feminist responses.

Dir. Ken Russell; Starring Vanessa Redgrave, Oliver Reed, Dudley Sutton

Using Aldous Huxley’s The Devils of Loudun as his point of departure, Ken Russell gives a vivid and unsettling portrait of renaissance history: religious intolerance, repression, and corruption are at the heart of The Devils, an exotic film about the adulterous priest Urbain Grandier and his supposed possession of a local convent. Amidst the political turmoil of 17^th century France and Cardinal Richelieu’s desire for absolute power, Sister Jeanne of the Angels has become sexually obsessed with Grandier, and her sisters follow suit with mass hysteria; Grandier is charged with witchcraft and the nuns must be exorcized.

Forget Sean Penn. Forget Mickey Rourke. This is Ollie Reed in his greatest role, sweating and seducing and praying—and evoking the audience’s simultaneous empathy and disgust. His intensity never lets up for a moment, but then again, neither does Russell. Sister Jeanne’s wild dreams about Grandier are loaded with colour, biblical transgressions, and unsettling sexual imagery. Vanessa Redgrave’s Mother Superior will, in short, terrify and haunt you as few nuns can: be wary of her giggling piety.

Some may disagree with me, but I particularly like this depiction of the Loudun Possessions because Russell does not go over the top. Yes, the film is image upon image upon image, but he never decisively tells the audience how to feel about Grandier; Russell offers several options—admiration, sympathy, condemnation—yet leaves it to the viewer to decide. We are swayed from believing the heretical accusations to sensing it was a political ploy set up by Richelieu in order to desecrate Grandier’s reputation. After several screenings I still do not know, which is perhaps critical to the film’s beauty.

I have on good film-snob authority that Mark Kermode’s 2002 documentary Hell on Earth is “bloody brilliant.” Additionally, be sure that you see the uncensored print of The Devils with the infamous “Rape of Christ” scene. Controversy led to the film being re-rated, re-cut, and banned outright in many countries, and it is through Kermode’s perseverance that the deleted scene was recovered, although official copies of the film remain without it. But guess what, kids? Do you think Vagrancy would sell a censored version of one of the greatest films ever made? Certainly not.

Russell’s absurd portrayal of Louis XIII as a flaming homosexual provides some much-needed and well-placed comedy in an otherwise terrifying film about sexual and religious perversion. Although Russell has obviously taken some artistic liberties, the creepiest thing about The Devils is that it actually happened. Don’t heckle this one, you beer-guzzling buffoons; sit back in awe. One of the most disturbing films I have ever seen, my first viewing left me curled in a foetal position, horrified.

For sale from Vagrancy Films, $10.

www.vagrancyfilms.com

Those of you who were able to drag your drunken carcasses to “Dirty Bird 2” know that $10 is a steal. Last night Vagrancy upped the ante to a whole new level; this is the only place you are going to get over 65 splices of 35mm exploitation goodness, including but not limited to educational footage of incestuous Swedish siblings, cherry-popping of young wirgins, and “Jesus in some hairy guy’s taint” (if I’m quoting correctly).

The night started with two short films, “Blood Shed” (2008) and “The Dirty Bird” (2009). The first comes from the east coast and skilfully combines horror and comedy with its “nudity, profanity, graphic violence, drug use, mutilation, and fishing.” Jason Shipley’s 15-minute gore fest is both hilarious and disgusting, a sure sign it will go over well with vagrants. Well paced, clearly shot, and impressively edited, “Blood Shed” makes a sucker out of anyone who misses it.

As for the second short, I might be a bit biased, but it’s the new favourite in my house. Jake Grimbrother nods his twisted little head at Jess Franco with “The Dirty Bird,” meeting with screams of delight (mostly from Jerry) and excessive applause. Mix Hansel Hartleib’s startling score with Karate Pete’s killer moves, and you’ve got a great prequel to the infamous “Pussy Pound.”

Then the movie started. Or should I say, movies. Bilo’s selections for the night were seamlessly cut together by the Rainbow’s excellent projectionist. Beginning with mondo film “Sweden Heaven and Hell” (1968), it wasn’t long before the boobies were bouncing across the screen in Technicolor. I, for one, learned a heckuva lot about what to do if I’m a Swedish broad with urges of the dirty kind. Exploiting sex, alcohol, drugs, and children, we were then treated to parts of “The Sidewalk Cowboy” (1968).

Bilo’s trailers are rarely a let-down (I’m blocking out creepy Russ Tamblyn as Tom Thumb). On April 4th Vagrancy heads to Cleveland to screen “Anita: Swedish Nymphet” (1973) complete with Christina Lindberg in the flesh, so last night’s trailer reel included “They Call Her One Eye” (aka “Hookers Revenge” [1974]), “The Depraved” (1971), and “Maid in Sweden” (1971). We also got “The Photographer’s Models” (1974) and “Dagmar’s Hot Pants” (1971), plus some weird German soft-core. However, in my opinion, one of the best parts of the evening was the cartoon short: it featured Chilly Willy, who, by the way, is far cooler than that annoying woodpecker, though do not think for a second that I’m slandering the immortal and untouchable Woody. I love the juxtaposition of exploitation films with silly cartoons from my childhood. Delightfully inappropriate.

Finally, along with a special ladies night discount, we were able to purchase half-price pre-sale tickets for Vagrancy’s April 17th showing of “The Exorcist” (1973). Don’t miss the chance to see it, screening in the theatre for the first time in nearly ten years. And this is the uncut original, not the sissy version you’ll find on DVD. Advanced tickets go on sale March 24th at City Lights Books, Neon Crab Tattoo, and Grooves.

“Blood Shed” FaceBook Page

“The Exorcist” FaceBook Page

“Sweden Heaven and Hell” FaceBook Page

Vagrancy Films FaceBook Page

http://www.vagrancyfilms.com

Red lipstick on your
Blue jeans I
See the green day can’t
Swallow the sunshine.

Pulling at ripped hems of
Your pink miniskirt I
Wait for you
To follow me home.

I taste you taste
Like strawberries the
Colour of your lipstick
Smeared on my mouth.

The last winter of our youth, you and I
Walked across snowy and forgotten lands
Where in yours you took my tired, small hands
And came upon a Watermelon Sky.
Pure, solid pink until the horizon,
Like inside your mouth, like under your skin,
Like your patience wearing a little thin,
The deep red membrane we set our eyes on.
Then we turned to see the blues of the moon:
Soft aqua and turquoise fading to white
By the single star that’s been out tonite.
The choice to live is ours; morning is soon.

And though our hearts may be black like its seeds,
We will remain true wherever it leads.

Hulga the Angel descends in the dark.
Her stump leg scrapes the ground. She knows full well
Her presence brings no peace nor chastity.
Not here, not anymore. Because I am
Re-stitching this dress, pulling out the seam.
For each knot I tie, the tighter will be
My new skin, adjusted by the years
To fit over new curves, new bones, break new hearts.
Let down the hem, iron out the creases:
This chocolate silk dress is yours. I made it
For you. Time only makes my blood run cold
And memory gets richer with heat, with want.

Hulga points to a violin player.
She says, “Maybe this was the only man
You ever really loved. And even then
It was only your desire you loved.”
It is more than just her name that is ugly.
It is my shame, my lust, that in itself
Makes my identity, summer after
Summer. Put on my dress, cut by a bow.
Measure my life against the day we met.

There will always be death in this body.
Hold it close, embrace wounded memory.
Truth is embedded in divine flesh. Yours.
I will hear your music for my whole life
And I will remember your tenderness,
Part of me forever, like a stump leg.
If you see me haunting your dreams, or don’t,
Whether you can or cannot forget me;
I will wear this dress with everything
I ever wanted in you or in him.

Hulga points to a reveling sinner.
She says, “Maybe this was the only man
You ever really wanted. Even still
It was only yourself that you needed.”