User Reviews

Mild Spoilers Ahead-- A flea circus is an attraction used to draw in tourists, the lure being that they will see a tiny circus with fleas performing as if trained. Generally the equipment in these tiny circuses is designed to move on its own or with help from the purveyor, giving the illusion to the audience that they are seeing something happen that isn't there (read: the terrific quote from Jurassic Park).

This movie is a modern flea circus. It promises fleas and instead is literally one man pretending to talk on the phone, pretending he doesn't notice the camera, pretending to itch himself and rave hysterically at pretend fleas... you get the idea. I realize that the conceit of this film is less about the actual fleas themselves and instead supposed to be some kind of psychological piece about a man dealing with some kind of stress? But it fails to deliver in either regard, giving us no story in a "psychological film," no insects in a movie called fleas which is supposed to be about an entomologist working, and so many moments where I had to check how much was left in this movie it ended up feeling like it was two hours long rather than the one hour mark it crawls to.

I'm afraid that for me this movie has basically no entertainment value. It was painful to sit through and if I didn't feel compelled to finish a movie once I've started it I would have turned it off.

FLEAS is a really cheap American indie which one guy filmed at his mother's home over a Christmas period. There really isn't much of a story, certainly not enough to sustain a feature-length running time, so the whole thing feels needlessly padded and dragged out. The plot is about a guy with a passion for insects who becomes convinced that he has fleas burrowing into one of his legs, so he decides to remove them. This occupies about 10 minutes of the screen time and the rest is a waste of time. If you're looking for bloodshed, there's a little, but certainly nothing like the video cover makes out; this is mostly made up of those darned telephone conversations that are the bane of the indie feature.

In FLEAS, a man smokes cigarettes and talks to himself a lot. He also talks to his "little friends". A lot. He stares. He picks through a hedge, looking for specimens. He's an entomologist, and he's developed quite an itch. The inevitable scratching ensues. Still peering into the bushes, he scratches vigorously.

Entomology is a hazardous game.

More smoking, while a voice, perhaps from some cosmic toilet bowl, murmurs through his phone. The man seems to say, "Cigarettes make entomology more interesting!", as he scratches himself. Now, talking and drinking beer, while the toilet voice reverberates.

Strange, foreboding music must mean that something interesting is about to take place. Nope. Just more scratching, and more self-conversing. The itching worsens, leading, inexorably to... further scratching! A Bergman-like close-up of his naked foot appears, while he applies anti-itching cream.

Relativity laughs at us, explaining why this is eternal torment!

The man's in bed now... both feet are naked... the itching goes on... and on. He beats his bed with a book, perhaps attempting to reach some nirvana state. Perhaps it's symbolic? Nope. It's fleas. He beats his furniture now. Why should he call an exterminator when he has a book?

More talking to no one in particular.

A clock ticks, marking the time spent watching this pig's breakfast. Serious scratching erupts. More cream, and still no exterminator. Nice bathroom though. Toenail clipper surgery is fun! Hitchcockian visuals of his naked feet covered in barbecue sauce now haunt us. Thank God for toilet paper / duct tape bandaging!

This is art. This is itchy, barbecue sauce art.

The burbling toilet calls back. This movie is death, making a brain kebab of its viewers. The man's in his car, now back in the can. What's the real difference? We are the damned!

More bandaging. Back to bed. Why doesn't he just move the bed into the bathroom?! Drinking. Blathering. Barbecue sauce visions. Hacksaw mutilation.

Then, a burger and fries. Eating sounds, like a ruminating animal chewing cabbage. More bathroom surgery. The cold grave is preferable to this viewing experience. Oh Death, wrap me in thy black wings! Smother me with thy shroud!

Annnd... don't forget the barbecue sauce!...