Reviews

Three go-go dancers - Varla (Tura Satana), Rosie (Haji) and Billie (Lori Williams) - are racing their sports cars out in the desert when they meet up with a young man named Tommy (Ray Barlow) and his girlfriend Linda (Susan Bernard). Tommy is an amateur car racer who has come out to do some time trials. Varla challenges him to a race. When she cuts him off with her car it leads to a fight and she kills him. Dragging the frightened Linda with them the trio go into the nearest town to fill up with petrol. There they see a muscly young man (Dennis Busch) carrying his crippled father (Stuart Lancaster) to his truck. The petrol station attendant (Mickey Foxx) tells the girls that the muscle man is retarded and that his bitter old father is reputed to be rich, but must have his riches stashed away somewhere at his isolated homestead. The girls decide to drop in for a visit hoping to find the old man's riches. They pass off Linda as a rich man's runaway daughter they are bringing home against her will. What they don't know is that the old man is a misogynist who delights in kidnapping women for his son, whom he refers to only as The Vegetable, to rape. They will have to rely on their own deadly talents and the possible decency of the old man's other son Kirk (Paul Trinka).

Russ Meyer's black and white "ode to the violence in women" made little impact when first released in 1965. Meyer had taken the world by storm with "The Immoral Mr. Teas" (1959), the film most often credited with kicking off the nudie cutie craze. And he would become a household name with the success of "Vixen!" (1968). But the films he made between those two landmarks, though some of them are among his best work, didn't attract much attention. But then John Waters, in his 1981 autobiography "Shock Value" wrote : "'Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!'...is, beyond a doubt, the best movie ever made. It is possibly better than any film that will be made in the future." Waters dubbed Meyer "the Eisentein of sex films" because his use of skillful editing to get maximum impact out of scenes of sex and violence is reminiscent of the methods by which the Russian director managed to powerfully convey his political messages. Waters' championing of "Faster, Pussycat!", in particular, led to it becoming a favourite on college campus's across America.

If Meyer is "the Eisenstein of sex films" then "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" is the "Citizen Kane" of trash films. I don't use the term disparagingly. For me a trash film is a film which appeals on a visceral rather than purely emotional level. In trash films realism is bad style. We must always know that we are watching a movie and enjoy it as a fantasy formed from our own base drives - from those uncivilised aspects of our nature that we must repress to live a civilised existence. Hence the term "trash" for the substance of these films is those aspects of ourselves which must be discarded. The violence in the trash film appeals to the knot in our stomach from every time we've had to bite back on our anger. It's prurient sexuality appeals to the lusts generated by everyday existence for which we may have insufficient outlet. We don't sympathise with the characters in a film like this, but we can identify with their actions because they take place in an obvious fantasy world. But the trash film has another appeal - the exhilaration that comes from the transgression of the bounds of good taste. And its sense of humour is the kind which elicits a belly-laugh. The anarchic spirit of the trash film has no less value than the more rarefied pleasures and intellectual stimulation of the art film.

What makes "Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!" great is the way that it takes the sex and violence of the trash film and distills them into something more iconic than explicit. Unlike most of Meyer's films, there is no frontal nudity or sex scenes. The violence is powerful, but not extended or shown in gory detail. Yet Tura Satana in her tight black jeans, half-exposed breasts practically bursting free as she eyes up a man like a side of beef or takes him out with karate chop to the neck, distills any amount of sex and violence into a single unforgettable mythic figure. Similarly the vastly underrated Stuart Lancaster is the very personification of sleazy misogyny. Add to this the brilliant build-up of the opening monologue, Meyer's masterful editing and Jack Moran's eminently quotable and often hilariously funny camp dialogue and you have a trash film masterpiece that just gets better and better the more times you watch it.

It was 1977, the year the Sex Pistols stormed the British pop charts with "Anarchy in the U.K.", and John Waters marked the year with the release of his most joyously angry opus, "Desperate Living".

Peggy Gravel (Mink Stole) is a suburban housewife who returns home from the mental hospital to the care of her husband Bosley (George Stover) and her massive black maid Grizelda (Jean Hill). She is caught up in one long paranoid screaming fit, accusing a neighbourhood kid of trying to murder her with a baseball and fearing that her pre- pubescent children are having sex. When Bosley catches Grizelda stealing and tries to administer "fit medicine" to Peggy, the pair attack him and Grizelda kills him by sitting on his face.

On the run from the law, Peggy and Grizelda have an encounter with a perverted policeman (Turkey Joe) with a panty fetish. In return for their panties, and wet soul kisses, he shows them the way to Morteville, a town so hideous that criminals can live there in a state of "mortification" rather than go to prison.

The pair rent a room from a lesbian couple, butch Mole McHenry (Susan Lowe) and her busty man-loving girlfriend Muffy St. Jacques (ex-stripper Liz Renay). But they are soon arrested by the leather goons of Queen Carlotta (Edith Massey) who orders them to have a trash make- over.

Carlotta's daughter Princess Coo-Coo (Mary Vivien Pierce) is in love with Herbert (Mike Figgs), the garbage collector at the local nudist colony.

Mole makes the ultimate sacrifice for her lover, Peggy joins forces with Queen Carlotta, and Princess Coo-Coo becomes a victim of her mother's insanity, as Morteville moves inexorably toward revolution.

This John Waters classic is a masterpiece of deranged comedy which repays multiple viewings. Beneath the camp humour and cheap gross-out gags is a surprisingly perceptive satire on the infantile, neurotic nature of fascism. Compare this film with Barbet Schroeder's classic documentary "Idi Amin Dada" (1974), and you will see that the psychology of real fascist dictators is not that different from that of Queen Carlotta. (Idi Amin's portrait is one of several that hangs on the wall in Carlotta's castle.)

Some may not like this film as much as John Waters' other early works because of the absence of Divine, but really this is a benefit in a way as it allows Mink Stole to shine in her one starring role and gives great space also to the incomparable Jean Hill. But everyone is good in this film, with Susan Lowe having her one big role in a Waters' movie. The scene in which she reveals her special gift to Muffy actually has a profound undercurrent of tragedy you just don't expect in a Waters' film.

Look out also for one of Waters' most obvious tributes to Herschell Gordon Lewis in the wrestling scene, an appearance by Waters' current casting director Pat Moran as the bathroom pervert (she also played Patty Hitler in deleted scenes from "Pink Flamingos") and the gorgeous Marina Melin (who had been appearing in Waters' films since "Eat Your Makeup" (1968)) baring all as the chief nudist.

Waters really wears his "Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs" and "Wizard of Oz" influences on his sleeve with this one.

This film has been criticised too harshly, because of Mick Jagger's lack of experience as an actor and it's failure to stick to verifiable facts. But treat it as the cinematic equivalent of a folk ballad and you'll have a good time with it. Just as you wouldn't hire an opera singer to sing a folk song, you don't need a professional actor to play the lead in a rough-and-ready entertainment about a rough-and-ready character. By the time one gets to the speeded up segment that accompanies Waylon Jenning's singing of Shel Silverstein's "Blame it on the Kelly's" it becomes clear this is not a film that is intended as a serious examination of history. Like the song "The Wild Colonial Boy" which Jagger sings in one of the more memorable scenes in the movie, this is popular entertainment to be enjoyed with a few beers. Taken as such it is very enjoyable, with catchy songs, evocative cinematography and Jagger being very much the lovable, charismatic rabble-rouser he was in real-life at the time. And what matters in a folk ballad is not the truth, but the legend.

This send-up of the plasticine animation television series "Davey and Goliath" is a must see for anyone with a twisted sense of humour.

Combining the sickly sweet lesson-teaching approach of early sixties children's programs with a story based on the notorious serial killer The Son of Sam (dramatised in Spike Lee's movie "Summer of Sam") was a stroke of genius.

Watch in amazement as a little boy's soft-spoken pet dog instructs him to cleanse the city by blowing away amorous couples with his gun.

The brief scenes involving Jesus in William Wyler's "Ben Hur" moved me

to tears. Nothing in Mel Gibson's movie had anywhere near that impact.

Why?

This is a well-made movie, exceptionally well acted. The story has been

accurately described as "the greatest story ever told", so the

ingredients of a great movie are bound to be there. And the structuring

of the story, with flashbacks to the Last Supper during the crucifixion

lest we miss the point that the story is one not of man's inhumanity to

man, but of one man's love of all humanity, is well-handled.

But this is not the realistic portrayal of Christ's last day which it

purports to be. If any man had actually been treated as brutally as

Jesus is in this movie, he would have been dead long before he reached

the cross. We have become numbed to cinematic violence. Unless there are

gouts of spurting blood and flesh hanging in strips, we feel that it is

not worthy of our attention. Real life violence, is, I'm sure, far less

spectacular, but far more disturbing, simply because it is real. To

convey this sense of reality is no doubt extremely difficult. It takes

the talent of an artist, not just a movie-maker. It requires subtlety.

What takes place just off screen is usually far more powerful and

disturbing than what we see.

The argument that the explicitness of the depictions of violence in this

film are necessary in order to convey the reality of what Jesus suffered

is nonsense. Rather the very explicitness dilutes the impact. And it

distances us to what is happening to Jesus. We see not a man, but a

bleeding side of beef. Often the violence in this film, particularly in

the slow motion sequences, appears to be used for its sheer visceral

entertainment value, much as Sam Peckinpah used such scenes in his

films.

There have been many depictions of the crucifixion in previous movies.

This is the goriest, no doubt. But if explicit depictions of violence

were what made for great art, then "Last House on the Left" would be a

better picture than "The Virgin Spring".

The film also lacks subtlety in its depictions of the supernatural. (As

a devout anti-supernaturalist, I admit to some bias here, but

nevertheless even something unreal can be depicted with subtlety.) An early scene in which Jesus reattaches a Roman soldier's ear after one

of his disciples cuts it off is unintentionally quite funny. And the

film occasionally resorts to scenes of the devil and demonic children

which would not look out of place in a cheesy Italian rip-off of "The

Exorcist".

So much of our response to a movie is a reflection of what we bring to

it. When the subject is the life of Christ, this couldn't be more true.

A great artist will dip into this deep well of personal religious

associations which we all carry with us, and our response will be deeper

and more personal because of what we have brought to the process.

Take that scene in "Ben-Hur" when Jesus gives Ben-Hur a drink of water.

What could be a more powerful symbol of what Jesus meant to the world

than a drink of water to a thirsty man? How much more meaningful and

moving then is this scene than any scene of a nail going through Jesus'

hand in close-up.

Religion, however, like all things, is a matter of personal taste.

Clearly this film has struck a chord with many viewers for whom watching

it is a profoundly cathartic experience. The fact that I am not one of

them doesn't stop me from wondering if, for some reason, the world may

not have a need at the moment to relive the crucifixion in such graphic

detail. Why this should be, I don't know, but far be it from me to try

to dissuade others from seeing a movie that could work for them.

When Milos Forman was casting the mental patients in "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" he looked for unfamiliar faces. One of those who made the biggest impression was the remarkable Sydney Lassick. But it was not his first screen appearance. Ten years earlier he had played the Fairy Godfather in this ridiculous breast-obsessed nudie musical. Perhaps it is not surprising that it didn't lead to further movie parts. He apparently didn't make another movie until "Cuckoo's Nest".

While Lassick provides the main curiosity value in a pretty terrible movie, the film as a whole does provide plenty of "what were they thinking!" entertainment value. The songs are terrible and it all comes across like a pantomime for intellectually challenged adults. There isn't even a hell of a lot of nudity, which after all was the main selling point. But it is unique.

The trend for making "adult" versions of fairy stories, often with song and dance numbers, would continue, peaking in the late seventies with Albert Band's production of "Cinderella" (1977), which was much slicker than this one, but not necessarily any more entertaining.

The plot idea of a man inhabiting a woman's body has been used many times. Here it is given a uniquely Hong Kong treatment.

A real estate agent gets knocked out by a falling pot. Although he wasn't supposed to die, his spirit goes to some form of purgatory. He is told he must return to his body by noon or he will be dead. Missing the dead-line by a fraction of a second and finding that his body has been cremated he decides to take up residence in the body of a car-crash victim, not pausing to notice that the body is female. How can he persuade his girl-friend of his real identity? Can he find a way to keep his job?

If you are looking for a subtle and sophisticated comedy, look elsewhere, but if you like plenty of silly, raunchy, bad-taste slapstick and gorgeous naked women, then this is one of the more entertaining films of its kind. Highlights include a wild party were one of the women puts some form of skin penetrating aphrodisiac on the bathroom doorknob and a scene in which the hero's boss's wife responds in a unexpected way when she almost catches him playing "horsey" in the nude with his secretary.

Why do we want to spend the hour and a half that it takes to watch this movie in the company of a character so loathsome that we would do anything to avoid him if we met him in real life? Jimmy Fingers is arrogant, self-obsessed, sexually violent and just plain creepy. O.K., there are moments in which we get to see that he has a better side, when he comforts a destitute women who is crying in a doorway, or when he sticks by his small time hoodlum father, in spite of the fact that he is even more repellent than Fingers himself. There is so much in this movie to make you squirm from the no-holds barred, bloody violence and a painful proctological exam to the scenes in which Fingers annoys everyone in earshot by playing loud doo-wop music on his portable tape player and threatening violence towards anyone who objects. With its fine acting and totally unpredictable story-line, this film is undeniable entertaining, but it's appeal is a rather masochistic one.

Compared to the many classics Michael Powell had previously directed, this Australian film is just a light, piece of fluff, but it is worth watching to see the young Helen Mirren and another solid performance by James Mason, who must have had a particular interest in playing this part as he also co-produced the film. Don't be misled by the title, the issue of sexual relations between an older man and an under-age girl is only really hinted at, the main theme being the need for an artist to find new inspiration. The tone of the film is essentially light, and, for me, the highlight is a couple of hilarious scenes in which Jack McGowran, as Mason's scrounging mate Nat Kelly, meets his comeuppance at the hands of a man-hunting neighbor of Mason's.

This is what a sex film should be like. Even though the sex is central to the story, the story extends beyond the sex. Just as an action film needn't be all action, the sex scenes can be made more interesting by the context in which they are set. The high production values and memorable music add to the enjoyment. The sex scenes themselves, while at times very explicit, favor the sensual over the graphic. The scene with the snake and an oily lesbian encounter are stand-outs. Many consider the scene in which Spelvin takes on two men at once to be the highlight, but I would disagree. Up until this point the sex has seemed to be a natural expression of Justine's growing lust, but here the performers appear to be just showing off for the cameras. The wraparound Hell sequence is worthy of "The Twilight Zone".