Pink Flamingos (John Waters)

Divine.

I knew it. I just knew it. Those two times when I just can't continue on watching the film is a foreboding all on its own. Sure, films like "Salo" and "Cannibal Holocaust" have disturbed me to the fullest, but it's only during "Pink Flamingos" that I have looked away from the screen several times simply because I just can't take what the film is showing me anymore. This, I believe, is trash American cinema at its most deprived, disturbed and relentlessly absurd. Damn New York Magazine for nonsensically comparing this to Luis Buñuel's "An Andalusian Dog". Buñuel's short classic is pure silent art; "Pink Flamingos" is a radical piece of noisy trash. But hell, there's such a thing we call 'junk art'. Perhaps "Pink Flamingos" belongs to that category. 

A film about the filthiest person alive (played by late drag legend Divine), one can't really expect a film with such subject matter to be an exercise in elegance and good taste. In fact, John Waters seemed to have seen that 'filthy' little branding as a challenge to visually top himself in every sequence, shock factor-wise. From cannibalism to castration, Waters has thrown everything into the film but the kitchen sink, and the result may just be the most appalling piece of trash ever made. That is a compliment, by the way. 

But the film, as crazy as it may be, is still a story rooted in familial bond. Divine, although an extremely disturbed person, is still family-oriented. And beneath her heavily made-up, genuinely intimidating exterior is a truly caring daughter to a mentally ill, egg-loving mother (Edith Massey) and a consistently encouraging mother to a mentally unstable son (Danny Mills). 

But still, do not be misled by the ostensibly tender characterization. Personally, I still think that Divine is, without a doubt, one of the most frightening characters in all of movie history. The only difference is unlike most movie killers who prefer to murder alone, Divine prefers company and an audience, but she only does so when there's enough justification. And in her case, the word 'justification' means fending off some hacks who want to seize from her the title of 'the filthiest person alive'. Referencing a clichéd action film tagline, "God help those who come his/her way". 

But in the end, no matter how deprived and murderous Divine may be, she may just ultimately prefer to cook her dear mother some eggs all day (and maybe eat some excremental droppings from dogs on the way) rather than to murder for fun. But then again, you may never know. This Divine is one unpredictable fella to deal with. But so is John Waters, the same man who has declared "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" as the best film ever made. 

As an auteur, Waters is commendable for making the film look as cheap as possible while also feeding it with enough acts of deprivations and cruelty to make it even more shockingly antithetic to what makes a film acceptable at the least. But ultimately, what Waters has achieved is something stylistically noteworthy. By integrating songs into scenes while rendering the dialogue mute, he was able to consistently create an ironically fun-loving atmosphere. 

Take the scene where Raymond (David Lochary) and Connie Marble (Mink Stole), the scheming couple who wants to dethrone Divine from her filthy throne, is about to deliver a birthday gift to Divine as an example. We know that the content of the gift is something unspeakably dubious to say the least (okay, a fecal matter's what's inside the gift box), but Waters, despite of the disgusting nature of the gift, has chosen to insert the very pristine "Happy, Happy Birthday, Baby" song by 'The Tune Weavers' to accentuate the mockery that accompanies the sequence. Amid all the nonsense, John Waters has indeed forged his own style. He has ensured that "Pink Flamingos" will be a tough act to follow. Until now, I believe it still is. This film persists. 

'An Exercise in Poor Taste," the tagline says. Yes, it sure is, but one can't also deny the fact that "Pink Flamingos" is a trash film worthy to be deemed as truly influential. We can at least safely say that if there's no "Pink Flamingos", there will be no such films as Harmony Korine's "Gummo" or even Rob Zombie's more recent "The Devil's Rejects". And also maybe without "Pink Flamingos", exploitation cinema would have been a lot tamer. 

Honestly, no other films have disturbed me as much. For me, films like this are stuff nightmares are made of. To admire this film's true aesthetic value is quite hard but it is not really impossible. But to find enough motivation to rewatch the film will surely be an intense scatological dig. Well, at least for me.

FINAL RATING

Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill! (Russ Meyer)

Tura Satana as the vicious Varla.

Call it dated, silly and extremely campy, but still, "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" is classic exploitation fun that brings us back in a time where the deadly combination of femme fatales and some high-octane machinery equals to titillation. This, I think, is one of those films that have definitely made men salivate back then. Cars, violence and sexy women, what more can you ask for? Yet despite of its superficial display of violence, sexual innuendos and car chases, there's no doubt that this film, directed by Russ Meyer (who has also produced and co-written it), still has something much to say than meets the eye. 

Is it a film about women empowerment? Well, definitely a big no. In fact, this is the kind of film that will definitely make feminists shake their head in disgust and disappointment. This was never how they envision women to be. It portrays women as unpredictably murderous low-lives and nothing more. To make it even worse, the heroines of the film (if you can call them that) are a bunch of go-go dancers, which is not exactly the most ideal job for the female populace. So, if it's not a film that empowers women, then what is it all about? 

Personally, I think that it's merely a film about power. Director Russ Meyer, with an intention to exploit and entertain, was successful in putting into the screen the things (sexy women, cars and violence) that sway men into complete submission and reduce them into libidinous losers. In a way, it's not the female characters' sexual force that dominates the film but Russ Meyer's power as a director. In a way, he reflects, by way of this film, the ultimate male fetishes of the time while also relishing in it himself. Now, imagine what kind of film would be made of today's male fixations? What kind of 'pussycat' will we see at this point in time? Oh, well, enough of that before it gets all too... sleazy. 

Back to the subject at hand, this is a film that's undeniably sexy and spell-binding. It is a fun little film that has since been one of the genre's cornerstones. Yet at the end of the day, it's also considered as trash. Yes, the kind of trash that has inspired Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez to create "Grindhouse". With that given, why then, despite of the fact that the film was made specifically for its own era (the 1960s) and nothing further, has it become timeless? Well, I think the answer lies in the very execution itself. Buried somewhere in the middle of the curvy presences of Varla (Tura Satana), Rosie (Haji) and Billie (Lori Williams) is a quick-witted script and a fast-paced plot. 

The story is simple enough: three go-go dancers, after a day's work, found themselves in a contagious mood for reckless fun. Enter a young, harmless couple who have obliviously joined the unpredictable triumvirate in a picnic of sorts. A little trouble occurs and the male half of the couple was killed by one of them crazy ladies. This is where the carnage starts. From here, "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" picks up the steam like there's no tomorrow. With the female heroines increasingly becoming more and more dangerous, so do the male characters in the film, particularly the crippled whacko (Stuart Lancaster) and his 'all brawns no brain' son (Dennis Busch). There's also the other son named Kirk (Paul Trinka), who may or may not be your usual decent Southerner. 

In a way, I occasionally found the script, with all those wonderfully-placed puns and whatnot, to be even more fascinating than the narrative itself. I also found the performances to be even more engaging than the characters themselves. Although I can see where the logic of the characters are coming from and what motivates them to do what, I still can't help but be more smitten by how these actors and actresses have gotten themselves in the spirit of camp even though there's this brooding sense of futility in what they are doing. They are, after all, merely acting in a cheap exploitation film. Why should they give their all, right? Well, energy and passion indeed perform mysterious wonders to people. 

What the actors and actresses lack in talent, they make up for intensity. Acting more like cartoon characters than actual people, there's this comedic feeling that, inevitably, there will be an Acme box that will fall from the sky and hit one of them in the head, resulting in an explosion of unearthly proportions and a bump of mountainous heights. It's a laughable thought, really, but this is also the very reason why the film is so much fun. You just can't help but picture the surprise appearance of a carrot-eating, wise-cracking bunny in there somewhere, or perhaps an arrogant, constantly salivating duck suddenly coming out from one of them desert shrubs. 

Ultimately, "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!", unlike the curvaceous wholeness of the three lady characters in the film, proved to be less than the sum of its parts. But still, that does not take anything away from the film's wildly alternative vision of America; a vision where liberated women are given free reins to do whatever they want in the middle of the desert, with men ironically at their mercy and the revving of car engines as their symbol of authority. Ladies and gentlemen, what we've got here is a new wild west.

FINAL RATING

Hobo with a Shotgun (Jason Eisener)

Rutger Hauer as the Hobo.

If you think "Machete" is bloods and guts galore, well, you haven't seen "Hobo with a Shotgun" yet . The film's concept, once merely a fake 'Grindhouse' trailer winner, fully delivers despite of its seemingly limited premise of a homeless man trying to clean the streets of an anarchic town. Initially, when I first laid my eyes upon the said trailer, I thought it was quite imaginative in its idea of creating a gun-toting character out of a hobo, but I thought the man playing the eponymous role in the 2-minute imaginary project (at the time) is too young and fairly unconvincing. This is where great tweaks in characterizations come to play; specifically, this is where Rutger Hauer enters the scene. 

So from being just a film that mainly highlights a man's exploitative exploits of exploding heads and maniacal sadists "Taxi Driver"-style minus the immense psychological baggage, with the help of Rutger Hauer's Clint Eastwood-ish presence, "Hobo with a Shotgun", in a way, transformed into some kind of an all-out urban western with a no name hobo at the crimson spotlight.

At first, I thought that the primary villains in the film were too exaggerated that it borders outright outlandishness even in the standards of 'do-it-all' B-movies. But then I realized, if this is not the way how these actors would act, then how should they? Brian Downey, who played the attention-seeking town kingpin 'The Drake', is a perfect contrast to Rutger Hauer's reserved and laid back Hobo, and so are Nick Bateman and Gregory Smith as the kingpin's sons. I do not know, but in "Machete", when I saw good ol' Steven Seagal as the primary villain, I can't help but notice the dry antagonistic chemistry between him and fellow few-worded Danny Trejo as they both struggle for an unsure, short-lived climax.

"Hobo with a Shotgun", on the other hand, fully capitalizes on how characteristic contrasts (the silent Hobo and the foul-mouthed Drake) help the psychological and emotional drive of the story. Indeed, the dichotomy between Hauer and Downey's character makes the pay-off all the more enthralling to anticipate and we, as audiences, are quite assured that the build-up won't just culminate in a big stare-off contest.

Molly Dunsworth, although how cliched it is to have a 'prostitute with a heart of gold' as the feminine lead, is energetic, boisterous and sweet all at the same time as Abby, the girl who Hobo envisions as a school teacher and tells of metaphorical stories about bears. Oh, and she also has an Ash-like "Groovy" moment in the film and an encouraging speech that is the thing of 'cheese'.

As for the screenplay, there's nothing much to say as it is more concerned about the Hobo's one-liners and doomed soliloquy. Now, if you want to watch a film solely for fun that you can repeatedly watch even if you're brain dead yet with enough adrenaline left, "Hobo with a Shotgun" is pure, razor-edged, brain residue-littered entertainment for you. It is a film conceived from perversion and exists in bad taste, but what you may find out is that it's also surprisingly dramatic and hopeful in a silly and flawed kind of way. Plus, do not expect much explicit sexuality. Yes, the film is violent, profane and rabidly morbid, but it's never gratuitously sexual. And for that, I salute the film.

Indeed, in a reality of a hobo armed with nothing but a rusty old shotgun and some aspirations for idealistic change, sex is not an option. But frankly, judging from the film's overall content of everything bloody red, crushed and dismembered, where would you really put those scenes? Even its bar and club settings aren't really very welcoming to such. What we got instead are harshly-situated innuendos that fit into the film's pumped-up feel but do not really materialize into any pumping scenes. But is that a bad thing?

FINAL RATING

I Spit on Your Grave (a.k.a. Day of the Woman) (Meir Zarchi)

Left for dead.

Sometimes, there are pieces of provocative filmmaking that although tackle sensitive, graphic and taboo themes, can still pass as art. This may be a personal bias, but I do regard the likes of "Irreversible" as a daring cinematic art. The original "The Texas Chainsaw Massacre" had its artistic merits amidst its exploitative slaughterhouse feel. Hell, even Clive Barker's "Hellraiser" can be considered as a masterful exercise of gothic storytelling. And then there's "I Spit on Your Grave".

This is where the pretense of unorthodox cinematic art really exhausts reasons and justifications. A revenge-themed independent production that actually climaxed in the gruesome and harrowing series of rape scenes. It is a film that can never find its place in a positive consensus. It is a deeply offensive display of feminine violation on celluloid. It is a highly nauseating exploitation picture that is tailor-made for that little, almost neglected 'fast-forward' button on your DVD remote control. Yet it sparked endless curiosities, garnered an underground cult following and even inspired a remake. Why? In one of my rare (cough, cough) instances as a film watcher and reviewer, I honestly do not know why.

"I Spit on Your Grave" is, above its surface of violence, murder, and physical and emotional torture, is primarily founded by two negative extremities fighting for hegemonic balance: misandry and misogyny. After all, as I question myself as how the 'momentary' capturing wonder of the video camera ever reached such a pathetic low point, the film is surprisingly, although unconsciously, split into two parts: The first being 'women' through the viewpoint of sexually shallow men and the second being the literal physical deconstruction (and dismemberment) of the idea of advantageous masculinity as the tables are finally turned.

Actually, I never thought that I will ever have the chance to see this film; but in a cruel twist of fate, I finally did, and although I really wish I hadn't, it gave me genuine firsthand reasons why.

This is disturbing stuff, and yes, even in today's standards, "I Spit on Your Grave" is still extremely disquieting. Just one tip for men, if ever you are planning to watch a horror film with your girlfriend, please do prefer Freddy and Jason's campy exploits more; this piece of questionable cinema doesn't belong in the 'horror' genre or does it even qualify as a film. It is a revenge-fueled assault to the senses completely devoid of any moral sanctions, nor traces of narrative cohesion, nor characters with common sense.

FINAL RATING