There are more notable filmmakers working now than at any time before. It’s just a matter of access. It is still harder to make a film now than to paint a picture in the 19th century, but there are a fuckton more people who are in a position to pursue a career in art. So I often wonder which films and filmmakers will be remembered during the impending dystopia, after the baby boomers finally collapse civilization under the weight of their greedy retirements. If I could take action on such things, I’d give you very short odds on Alexander Payne. While I can’t identify some special stroke of genius that separates him from any of the dozens of equally celebrated auteurs, he does have a central and universal theme that he has made his own. Payne is the poet laureate of the mediocre. That is, the vast majority of us, usually overlooked, especially by artists. I don’t know why Payne, who went to Stanford and then found some success with his first film and increasingly more with each one to follow, has taken an interest in, neither serial killers and drug addicts, nor presidents and revolutionaries, but in mid-level insurance men, high school civics teachers and novelists who are almost good enough to be published by small presses. However, he is clearly fascinated and nails every detail, from the cars his characters choose to the McAllisters’ bottled salad dressing in Election. Maybe his films are so funny because of this unusual choice in subject. In Sideways, Giamatti and Church are funnier in their pretensions, for example, because there is a seed of justification to them. Bagging a fat chick in the San Joaquin Valley who remembers you from an old soap opera role that led nowhere is funnier than, say, a total loser passing himself off as movie star to a dumb blond. Everything is perfect when Virginia Madsen lobs herself underhanded, right over the heart of the plate while out on the porch with Giamatti, only to have him freeze up and take a called third strike. Would the scene have worked if Giamatti had a National Book Award? Or even if we thought he might win one down the line? Would it have been so frustrating if he was just a joke or a junkie? Obviously, I think not, and the result is one of the most empathetic romantic scenes or record, as we connect completely with both characters simultaneously, as they disconnect. Payne realizes that the struggle between “good enough” and “not quite” is just as fruitful a source material as any. I doubt it’s a coincidence that his own film making tends to be just right, rather than revelatory or jarring. Maybe it’s because he went to Stanford and so forth and doesn’t share, with 95% of living creative types, the delusion that he is Charles Bukowski. Anyway, it’s good.

Best Gangster Saga – Election and Election 2

While the aughts will be remembered as the decade of television, the gangster epic of the decade is not “The Sopranos” by any criteria. It seems like, perhaps in the wake of “The Wire’s” greatness, more people are realizing how flawed David Chase’s opus was. You can’t blame anybody for being blown away by the absurdly high level of the acting and writing at the time. But by now you should be able to look back and see the moral, psychological and narrative impossibilities that culminated in a final season or two that was often unwatchable. The defining scene is when Tony–a minor mob boss–is sent a private luxury jet to fly to Caesars in Vegas to hang out and maybe gamble a few grand, the staff at Caesar’s supposedly having taken the same holiday from sanity and common sense that we were to take in giving a fuck if AJ would get into college or about Meadow’s feelings. With characters like this, at some point, you have to face the fact that they are murdering psychopaths controlled by greed. That is the driving force of the really great gangster films, beginning in recent history with The Godfather and The Godfather Too! , continuing through Goodfellas and the even better Casino (that’s right). Perhaps this sequence of films rounds off in Election and Election 2 (AKA Triad Election). Johnnie To’s films proudly pay homage to these predecessors, particularly in the final murder in Election, which is Fredo’s death combined with the deaths of Nicky Santoro and his brother.  Unlike most other HK flicks, including To’s own, there is a mastery of the techniques and material rather than an apprenticeship. If you agree with me that the greatest Godfather moment is Hyman Roth, Michael and some cronies cutting up a cake shaped like Cuba, while discussing how to slice up the people and resources of the country; if you wanted to see more of the decrepit, Machiavellian, Midwestern bosses hashing things out in Casino (”why take a chance?”) you’ll be absorbed by the focus on endless back room dealings and machinations in these films .

Everything is cold calculation; strategy driven only by self-interest and self-aggrandizement. Some abide by a system of honor, but it quickly becomes evident that the system is revered as a method for stability and profitability as an alternative to constant war. With sufficient corporate streamlining, even these ethics can be cast aside and buried alongside their adherents. These men have nothing in common with the Flintstones. Their families don’t humanize them. Contrast an early scene of our protagonist having dinner with his son to another of his son watching him bash in a friend’s head with a rock. If anything, these men drain away any sympathy we might be inclined to feel for their innocent family members. And it is getting to the true ruthlessness of the gangsters that makes this line of films so compelling. We have moments of understanding, of course–they are still human. But perhaps the guilty pleasure in such films is that the coldness of accurate depiction gives us the emotional distance to happily watch psychopaths position themselves and bump each other off like game pieces. And there are some magnificent bump-offs, from quick and brutal daylight hits to a very convincing argument made with sound reasoning, a sledge hammer, a meat cleaver and some German shepherds. Even when a kung fu guy chops up multiple attackers (they had to do it once, they are Asians, after all) the tone isn’t broken. To’s powerful visuals are evidently at their best when applied solemnly, though there are spots of dark humor. The Hong Kong setting–often a pleasure, even in the hands of hacks–gives the gangster epic a fresh surface. The history and the traditions of the Triad are seamlessly integrated with the traditions of Scorsese and Coppola to create something new. And finally, these HK crime epics are well written. Whereas many (or most) of the more celebrated HK films work around the script, these films realize great scripts. It’s said that you can watch them independently, which is true. But you’ll miss some interplay, including direct and subtle allusions, and lines of thought left for the viewer to take up. Watching the films a year apart, it might not occur to you that the viewpoint of Big D, the destructive hot head in Election, is largely vindicated in Election 2. As good as Casino, Goodfellas and the first two Godfathers? Nobody said anything about “films of the century.” But there’s a viable epic here, which I never would have believed.

Best Biopics – Sun

On the one hand you’ve got Sun, Soukrov’s praised but still underrated piece on the downfall of the emperor of Japan. Some found the film dull, perhaps because it is emotionally hollow, but the beauty of the filmmaking more than makes up for that. Anyway, emotions are for girls. After meeting the Hirohito to negotiate some details of his part in the surrender, MacArthur says what I had been thinking. “He’s like a child.” The Emperor agrees to disavow his divinity–an act that highlights the absurdity of the Japanese arrangement. You can’t agree to stop being the son of a god, you can only agree to stop pretending. Though the Emperor is extremely intelligent and refined, unchecked indulgence has indeed fostered a perpetual child who collects photos of movie stars (why do all dictators love Hollywood?) and practices “marine biology” by dicking around with a microscope while his country lies in ruins. He’s aware of internal tensions, but doesn’t really grasp the external realities, as evidenced by his nightmarish visions of aquatic monsters bombing Japan. Hirohito plausibly theorizes about the reasons for Japan’s defeat, but fails to see that, at the heart of each bad decision, is an antiquated social structure based on personal status and deference, rather than the competition of ideas, and that he is the center of the broken system. All of this is captured in one of the decade’s most subtly great performances by some Japanese guy. The unceremonious MacArthur offers him a box of Hershey bars as a consolation prize.

American Splendor

On the other hand, you have American Splendor, about a schlub of slight notoriety. The mixing of media might seem obvious or trendy after the fact, but it’s perfect and seamless in the movie, as when Harvey’s eventual wife looks for him at the train station, imagining different depictions from his comic books, brought to life with animation. The inclusion of Harvey and his friends works so well because the film is the conclusion of the story. Giving them major roles magnifies the effect the film has on itself. Not only have these dorks from Cleveland, who inhabit a world in which Robert Crumb is fucking Lincoln, occasionally reached the periphery of public attention; there’s a Hollywood movie about the whole thing now, and they’re in it. What makes the film great–apart from stuff like the acting and direction–is that it chooses to focus on a small success story from within a small subculture. Not that Ruthless is on par with a moderately successful series of independent comic books (someone, please cut the breaks on my car tonight), but I was only a bit less shocked to see this site mentioned in The Guardian than Harvey was to get a call from a Letterman producer. Every DIY dork who’s almost died from a boner over selling 500 CDs or getting an article into an obscure magazine that they liked will understand what such small victories mean. It’s not only finding an audience, but finding an audience among people who share your unusual tastes and therefore must be brilliant and discriminating. The film is also a suitable requiem for, and a fun look back at all of that DIY shit, from ‘zines to obscure record collecting. Nerds will compile limited editions and misprinted Wheaties boxes ’till the end of time. But now such practices are marketing ploys and symptoms of social disorders. They were back then too, but they were also part of how unheralded forms of expression forced new outlets. The days when there were veins of creative material only obtainable through “underground” social networks are pretty much gone, unless you’re into kiddie porn, and it’s fun to look back.

Best Crime Film: Bubble

Who says social realism requires the threat of starvation? In America, the joyless existence of the underclass is best represented not by a bicycle thief, but by wares of The Hamburglar. Soderbergh and writer Coleman Hough glean every idiom and detail for his portrait of the struggling middle American. So, as an added perk, this will always be a window to what it’s like in a time and place, which is the most underrated quality a movie can have. I’ve been to New Baltimore, Michigan and New Hartford Falls, Iowa plenty of times. If you want to soak it in without actually having to visit, here’s your chance. The experiment in dialogue must have been tried 20 times per semester at every film school in the country–”I know you’re not an actor, Chase, just talk like you do on the quad. I’m capturing… reality!” But pulling it off so well is fresh and memorable and hinges upon the all of the awkwardness and pointlessness being perfectly designed. There are many moments where we can tell that a character is saying what experienced judgment tells them is the right thing to say in order to fill up a that particular space. The relationships and motivations underlying the mundane and the murder are likewise, sparse but perfect. Martha, our killer, is not only a stepping stone, but one that would only be slightly missed and has already nearly sunk in the mud. Her clumsy and irrelevant gestures around the time of crime–like some random gifts, given in a final effort to inject herself meaningfully into the life of her “friend”– verify that, even as a murderer in a small town, she’ll be forgotten in a year’s time. As an irrelevancy who killed a trivial person who was kind of a bitch anyway, Martha will be denied even infamy.

Man Getting Hit By Football: Punisher: War Zone

Originally, I was going to make this into an 80’s Action Legacy award of some kind. But, if I did that, I’d feel compelled to give the spot to the impeccable Rambo, which is the better movie and also has Rambo in it.  But in this case, I’m going against the more cerebral work and with the movie that had me grinning like an idiot the whole time. Yes, Punisher: War Zone has some flaws, including the characters and the story. But then we must also consider what a mighty achievement it is to salvage the fucktastically ridiculous “Loony Bin Jim” character with a single line: “Let me axe you a question.”  Another motivation here is that I know most of you have denied yourselves this film, though I sense that it is creeping towards becoming a cult fixture. It is a fact that every single person who has ever seen this film has enjoyed it, and I want you to share in that enjoyment. I’m being serious now.  If you are going to see a movie for the action, why would you see some pile of shit like Iron Man, rather than Punisher: War Zone?   Iron Man is a story (that makes absolutely no sense) for little boys about some guy who flies around in a magic robot suit. The action is not cartoonish.  It is cartoons.  I defy anyone to make a significant, qualitative distinction between the CGI cartoons of guys in stupid, magic, robot suits slugging it out at the end of Iron Man and the CGI cartoons of, say, Shrek arguing with Donkey.  What, Shrek is cuter? And that makes it OK? Hell fucking no.  Look, if you’re going to see Shrek, by all means, see Shrek. It’s a better and far more intelligent film than Iron Man, Fantastic 4 or, for that matter, The Anal Rape of Indiana Jones. But, if you are going to see an action movie, see shit get properly fucked up. In this movie, while it does contain a bit of comic book silliness, The Punisher decapitates an old lady!  He jams the leg of a chair through someone’s eye! He runs a man through a glass recycling machine! I’m pretty sure the script is just a string of such exclamations, but director/kickboxer/woman of the century, Lexi Alexander, realizes it beautifully with tension, surprise, humor and some pretty slick filmmaking.  Perhaps Ebert’s condemnation is the best recommendation:

“The Punisher: War Zone” is one of the best-made bad movies I’ve seen. It looks great, it hurtles through its paces and is well-acted. The soundtrack is like elevator music if the elevator were in a death plunge. The special effects are state of the art. Its only flaw is that it’s disgusting.”

Best of all, it looks like real action, not a super glossy version of the Saturday morning shit I outgrew at some point during elementary school.  I get that we Americans are too pussy to see images from the actual wars we start that kill actual people. But goddammit, at least our fake violence should be real and it should include sadistic heroes, one liners and a novelty death every twelve frames. Football in the groin, not nerfball in the stomach.

Best Horror Film: The Descent

The Descent is about an international group of hot women in their late twenties to early thirties who go on annual adventures. This year, they’ve chosen to explore caves in the Appalachians of North Carolina. One of the girls, hoping to create a truly special experience rather than a run through a “tourist trap,” tricks the group into going into totally unexplored caves, rather than taking the tour they have mapped out. In these unknown caves, they find an enclave of creatures that are kind of a cross between bats and humans–having evolved to survive in total darkness and remaining undiscovered for millennia, though they sustain themselves by preying on whatever animals stumble into the caves. Now, this is a horror movie, so of course you have to suspend disbelief. I mean, a bunch of hot chicks banding together to escape male attention so they can be supportive of each other and pursue their collective interest in geology? But it’s worth letting these things slide to get to some great horror. What sets the movie apart is that it is an excellent thriller even before the ghouls show up, to the point that it doesn’t even need them.  The underground setting is beautiful and dangerous, the interactions between the characters seem real and the danger they face is already terrifying. They could plummet to their deaths, be instantly crushed, or they could be trapped and die of starvation, during days of total darkness. It’s also a good problem solving movie, as the women devise plans and utilize tightly fixed resources to maximize their limited chance of survival.  When the ghouls show up, they actually could have ruined a good movie. But instead, they make a great one.  They are scary, there is not too much CGI and the creatures’ strengths and weaknesses don’t wildly vary depending on if the story’s need for them to be fought off or not. The rest of the film follows the formula, but with some nice twists and one that I think is exceptional. Much has been made of the different endings, one for North American rubes, the other, the original. Though the original ending is immediately darker it’s kind of disjointed. The American one (as I’ve heard it described) still works.  Without getting into details, I kind of like the idea of a survivor left to tell the tale, never believed, and to carry the memories of the horror. It’s like the renegade cop who leaves one hoodlum alive and says, “Tell Mendoza. I’m coming.”  Either way, I think the real gut punch of the film comes in what the women do to each other in the cave. One mistakes a friend for a ghoul in the dark, and another finds out what happened without knowing the reason why. Some other stuff happens in between.  The way this story line unfolds is ice cold, but conflicted.  So this shit is just relentless. Woman against nature, against monster, against woman… there are multiple points of tension at all times. Oh shit. I forgot to say, “spelunking.”

Best Movie That Is Just A Bunch Of People Standing Around And Talking–On the Occasion of Remembering the Turning Gate

To the best of my knowledge, the French invented this kind of film and Eric Rohmer perfected it. Nothing earth-shattering happens. People sit, walk, eat and talk and we have a window into pretty unremarkable lives. It’s surprising that this can work as well as it does. It’s even more surprising that, once a few filmmakers figured out how to make it work, very few others were able to successfully emulate them. And no approach to drama is more excruciating when it fails. The formula only works with good (but not necessarily great) acting, understated direction and seemingly organic story and dialog. It is best if the characters are attractive, intelligent and interesting, but none are astronauts, and you probably know 20 people who’ve been through more “drama,” especially if you are homosexual. The key seems to be the writer/director’s ability to convey what is going on in his characters’ heads, without doing anything intrusive or interrupting the natural flow of events. Ultimately there should be an illusion that the main creative force behind the film is merely trying to stay out of the way, even when he is slipping small cues into beautifully framed shots. Then, you just get sucked in by the these characters and their stories for no immediately obvious reason, as you are to Sang-soo Hong’s soap operas about nothing. An Occasion for Remembering The Turning Gate has a betrayal, remorse, and requited lust that turns into unrequited love (or at least longing), but these things happen in a few, key moments. The rest of the film is the pedestrian shit that leads up to and comes after the “big” events. It’s the unspoken jockying for position between romantic rivals, the manipulations of suitors by the desired and the winner immediately weaseling out of commitments after the game is over. There are also ancillary events that don’t really lead to anything, but might have. The characters are sympathetic, or not, depending largely on the tendencies of the viewer. The important thing is how real they seem. You can argue that Hong’s films, much like Asian people in general, are all pretty much the same, and I’ve found a couple others more entertaining. I just picked this one because it seems like an answer to a favorite Woody line: that the only love that lasts forever is unrequited love.  True, but because we idealize them at some point, all loves wind up feeling at least partially unrequited and this lingers into future relationships. This is one reason you will never be happy. I assume the final shot of the gate in a downpour is meant to evoke, not only the titular myth about a princess ditching an infatuated peasant to execution, then ditching him again after he finds her in reincarnation as a snake, but also, Rashomon. Each relationship is a potential version of the protagonist’s love story.  It’s not so much the same events perceived differently from different individual perspectives, as the individual wavering between his own perceptions of what has been, could have been and could be. For example, towards the end of the film, the protagonist runs into a girl who he saved from bullies when they were children. It sounds like the beginning of a Kate Hudson movie and he and she are suitably intrigued.  He decides that maybe there’s a reason he didn’t remember her (plus, she is married) and gives up after a brief pursuit, but only reluctantly and wondering.  All of this is sedate to the point of being relaxing and conveyed mostly through conversation and static shots. And some graphic, bareback banging.

Best intellectual exercise: Inglourious Basterds

I have only have a little to add to Matt’s review. That is where you should start. I read it before I saw Inglorious Basterds, which, based on the trailers, I had been leaning against, as the film looked like it overestimated our willingness to savor the suffering of an otherwise unknown man because he wound up fighting for an evil cause. So I luckily had my eyes open early on, when The Jew Hunter gives his little speech about how we hate certain beings without really considering why. If it didn’t dawn on you until later that QT was massively fucking with the audience, and everything else that the film touches, it’s worth rewatching. Basterds is also worth another look because it is fucking great. Anyway, rather than regurgitate or slightly tweak too many of Matt’s points, I just want to reiterate how special an achievement the film is because there are so many who would to diminish everything Tarantino does. I remember the one film class I took in college, when the professor said that Tarantino was not so much good at making movies, as at stitching together other people’s movies. This is a common criticism. The justification is that he–holy shit!–is influenced by other filmmakers and often reworks what they’ve done. I sat in intimidated silence, not wanting to be like some kid who struts into ethics 101 (or any other class), proudly touting Ayn Rand. But I really had to wonder which little Asian film, known only to QT and his critics, had so pithy, smooth and entertaining a commentary on how we are “fooled by randomness” as Pulp Fiction’s sequence in which Jules is luckily missed by gunfire at close range, becomes a man of faith, and then doesn’t flinch when his ally, Marvin, is shot dead by a freak discharge midway through his personal conversion. So, these people who want to diminish Tarantino’s work are generally the people who go to museums where you eat a piece of candy and they are like, “that’s the art!” I actually enjoy conceptual art and the idea of playing with interaction between the artist and viewer. But you can’t have it both ways and celebrate the museum piece and disparage one of our great filmmakers because the wrong people like him, especially in this case. If you saw Basterds with an audience of more than a dozen, you almost certainly saw people in a movie theater sadistically hooting and cheering at the deaths and suffering of characters on the screen. They were so delighted because they despised these characters who were… sadistically hooting and cheering at the deaths of characters on the screen of the movie theater they were in. Tarantino actually gets the audience to act out the parts of the villains on screen, the very characters they were cheering the deaths of, to the point where it felt like someone is flipping a switch back and forth between the two, making one cheer, then the other. And the attackers of the hooting, Nazi audience in the movie are the filmmakers, who reveal a message of condemnation covertly slipped into the film, before attacking from behind the screen and from within the projectionist’s booth. Tarantino is playing with his audience, but is he condemning them? The characters are actual, fictional Nazis, but the audience is just watching a movie and it’s not like Tarantino opposes violence in cinema. Maybe he’s just making fun of all parties for not being able to make the simple distinction between real suffering and actors playing with fake guns and blood. In any case, out of the millions of attempts to incorporate the audience into the art, you’d be hard pressed to find one so slyly yet directly successful and you won’t find one on such a massive, international scale. And, it wasn’t like, “that’s the art!” That was one flourish of art incorporated into an entertaining movie that was full of them, including one legendary acting performance and a few very good ones, a few laugh out loud moments and Tarantino’s, now barely noteworthy command of both dialogue and the visual. You can weave interpretations forever about the film as the end of the historical film, or a critique of propaganda, a commentary on the nature of terrorism and a Godard-inspired deconstruction and a bookend to his Les carabiniers and on and on, and you’d be right to do so. But I doubt Tarantino had some central, propaganda point of his own in mind. He just puts so many cards on the table that he must be playing more than one game at once–or at least some game I can’t totally decipher–about movies, their relation to real life, history, war and violence. Just take something small. Did Tarrantino, who can have any actor he wants, chose Eli Roth (Hostel, the “torture porn” discussion) for a big role in this film about movie violence just because they are pals? Quite possibly. But that’s just one card on the table.

Best Zucker Movie:  OSS 117: Lost in Rio

Obviously, the real David Zucker caught syphilis, went insane and made An American Carol, so the torch must be passed, but only after it is used to burn the script of the upcoming Scary Movie 5.  The OSS 117 movies are celebrated like few others in our forums, but I’ve found only one English review of OSS 117: Lost in Rio online and it was written by a gorilla. The online review claims that the OSS films rely upon “a refusal to go for the easy joke” which is the exact opposite of how they work. The films take every easy joke that comes their way, though they usually finesse it to perfection.  The “easy” jokes are mixed with more subtle humor, wit, parody and satire in equal parts.  There is no less original film on this list.  The OSS films are based on a real OSS 117 series of  “serious,” Bond-style spy capers from the 50’s and 60’s.  They owe a lot to the Zuckers and Jim Abrams. Obviously, making fun of spy movies and the “hip” film techniques of the 60’s is nothing new. It was actually being done during the 60’s.  Nor is the guileless, political incorrectness of the bungling master spy, Hubert Bonisseur de La Bath, particularly innovative.  It is impressive, however, that the films take so many influences and approaches to humor and blend them into a perfect cocktail. Michel Hazanavicius’s films wouldn’t be David Zucker films if they didn’t misfire here and there, but that’s part of the charm. Jean Dujardin stars and is one part the actor you wish Bruce Campbell had become, one part Leslie Neilsen. I don’t think humor translates across language and cultural barriers as well as people like to pretend it does, but Dujardin really does git r done here with a comic performance bordering on genius.   Doubtless, some of the humor is still lost in translation, but I was laughing out loud pretty much throughout the film. Americans will appreciate how La Bath’s imperial arrogance mirrors the caricature of the Ugly American. Take the film as an overture to mend the resentments between the two countries. Frenchmen and Americans are both self-important pricks and this should be a cause for unity.  There are two films in the series so far, OSS 117: Cairo, Nest of Spies and OSS 117: Lost in Rio.  I probably chose the latter, more recent film because I just saw it.  However, it also refines the OSS 117  blend even further. Like Austin Powers, OSS 117 borrows much of the earnest appeal of the very films it parodies, including exotic settings. There are some beautiful, and hilarious uses of the Rio setting here. And, yeah, it’s meant to be a joke that the oafish spy is swimming in scantily clad, model-caliber ass, but it’s by design that the audience gets a good look as well. So for hot chicks in leather costumes and cheap jokes about Chinese accents, you turn to little-known French films. For winding deconstructions of film, violence, war and war and violence and film that integrate the reactions of the audience into the movie itself, you turn to $100 million-grossing Brad Pitt movies. We’re in Rand McNally, people.

Could you find any faults with the science?

One or two. But I think they did a nice job advancing an impossible story without lingering on details and trying to over-explain the unexplainable. Yeah, nutrinos don’t work like that. This is why the initial reaction of scientists is, “that’s impossible!” Then they quickly move on to the totally realistic approach a film like this is supposed to take.

So it’s pretty plausible?

No, you jackass. It’s a movie about the world ending in 2012 in accordance with the Mayan calendar. Nothing about the film is plausible, but that’s OK. My own preference would be for some of the escape scenes to be a shade more realistic. Like, it’s a bit much to watch Cusack and family outrun the collapse of the earth’s surface, keeping 10-50 feet ahead of the edge of destruction at all times as they drive across LA in judgment day traffic. Most of the action sequences follow that format. There’s a wave of… it doesn’t really matter, there’s a wave engulfing everything and our heroes have found an awkward vehicle that is exactly .5% faster than it. “I’ve never driven a hansom cab before!!” “Oh no, it’s a tsunami! Just go! Go!” Still, a lot of these scenes are pretty exciting and there’s nothing coy or miscalculated. Emmerich is pulling out all the stops all the way without apology and he’s pretty good at it. That makes for some cool visuals, but diminishes the suspense of the actual action scenes.

Yeah, and the protagonists just happen to catch every lucky break and be the one group out of millions to escape.

This is a complaint commonly made about movies and other stories by people who overestimate their own intelligence. The point is that the film has chosen to focus on the one incredibly lucky family who catches scores of breaks to escape and tell their story. A movie about the guy who is instantly crushed while taking a dump at work would be pretty pointless.

Fair enough. But I do want to see that work dumper being crushed along the way. Corpse count?

Paltry. Using 80’s Action standards, the corpse count is under ten. You could blame “PG-13,” but this film is nowhere close to an “R” so I doubt that it was cut down to avoid one. The relentless destruction of city after city was enough to hold my attention. The destruction is maintained creatively, though streets and buildings were sometimes conspicuously empty.

How maudlin was it?

More maudlin than Maude herself! There are a lot of scenes where people are making heartfelt goodbyes to their loved ones. But it is a movie about the end of the world. I know that if you or I discovered that everyone would be dead soon, we would spend our last hours reciting “The Wasteland” from memory. But it’s possible that lesser individuals might say goodbye and be sad. Arguably, some of these scenes could have been cut out. Like maybe seventy or eighty of them. But they are generally effective, which is due largely to good acting across the board.

Where there any cliches?

Emmerich seems to love the generic so much that his passion almost elevates it to artistry. The first major fissure in LA is, of course, met with a “Duuude!” by blond surfer dudes who are like the children Jeff Spicolli had with Jeff Spicolli. Whether it’s Tibet or Rome, Emmerich seems to imagine everything with the mind of a citizen in an authoritarian country, connected to the rest of the world by an illegal satellite dish. The landmark motif that every hack review of this movie begins by mentioning is really emblamatic of his overall approach. France=snooty art guys. Russians=bearish baritones and their decadent tarts. A group of VIPs includes the queen of England. Which isn’t to say that Emmerich’s hyper-generic approach doesn’t work. Woody Harrelson’s hippyish conspiracy nut/radio host is as generic a character as you can imagine, but he also steals the show.

How many times was Cusack certainly dead, but then he crawled out of a freshly made fissure in the earth’s crust or popped up after having been under water for fourteen minutes?

912

Writer Count:

Just two are credited: Emmerich and Harald Kloser. I looked because about halfway through the film, I thought “I bet this film didn’t have a swarm of writers.” This is because it’s a good, coherent script, well plotted with characters who have clear and consistent motivations. Within this, Emmerich works in some little pieces of cleverness, like nods to his friends in the community of jabbering nutjobs who actually believe in this 2012 shit. A subtle one is a quick hint that Princess Di was assassinated. There are little preemptive digs at critics and a few funny lines. A Russian tycoon on why he didn’t buy his ex-wife a seat on the arks meant to preserve humanity: She said she never wanted to see me again for as long as she lived. So be it! Maybe my favorite moment came during the destruction of my own city. Our equivalent to the White House and the Vatican, here in LA? The giant doughnut on top of Randy’s Donuts which is sent rolling down the street. Yeah, LA Story made essentially the same joke, but it’s still funny.  PS, the burgers and fries at the run-down place next to Randy’s might be the best in the city

Box Office Predictions:

I actually enjoyed the film, so the smart money says that it will bomb. However, I think it will exceed projections in spite of the handicap of being a pretty good movie. Firstly, this is the film Emmerich was born to make. If this doesn’t do well, his career is finished because he can do no better and there aren’t a lot of cities to smash after all of them. But I think he’s still a viable commercial director, so it stands to reason that his definitive film will make money. Secondly we love the idea of the world coming an end because we are such conceited little animals. Living in the End of Days is probably tied with having a three way with sisters for the most persistent fantasy of all time. Not only does it fulfill our secret belief that the world could not possibly manage to go on without us, it also means we had great timing. If there’s no future after us, then we didn’t miss anything. Plus, we get to witness the coolest thing imaginable: the Apocalypse.

How bad was it really?

It’s the best massively budgeted Hollywood film I’ve seen in at least two years. I’m not an authority on these movies, but I can say that this is much better than Iron Man or the last Indy movie. I also liked it better than Godzilla or Independence Day. I won’t rush out to see it again, but I can imagine coming across it in a few years on TV, where I think I’d find this freshly enjoyable. Even though you pretty much know what’s going to happen next, you’re eager to see it. For example, I was excited to see the arks and the film doesn’t disappoint. We see them, there’s a lot of time spent inside them, they crash into each other and they are pretty awesome. It should go without saying that there are tons of flaws, particularly the great show of man’s nobility at the end. But I had a good time, as advertised. So it’s nice that, for once, Hollywood ringing the doorbell  doesn’t mean they’ve left a flaming sack of shit at the door like they did the last fifteen times. One of these days, I might even give The Dark Knight a whirl.

Everyone loves a good zombie movie for the torrents of blood, the guilt-free murder sprees, and the long periods of tension where ordinary people are provided the opportunity to prove their worth in a battle to the nihilistic finish. In a zombie apocalypse, we can fulfill our true potential, as the muted and suppressed office drones give way to the ass-kicking gun-totin freedom fighter within us all. Or we would become obsessive rapists. There is that dark side of the coin, where in a world freed from immediate responsibility beyond survival, we would do some truly fucked up things to serve our desire for power or pleasure. So instead of taking up some creative weaponry to kill at will, perhaps we would capture a zombified version of that bitch who dumped us in high school and plow that shit like a payloader. In Deadgirl, this response to a zombie encounter is explored in a question regarding the human character, or perhaps the entire film is a rape fantasy. I have yet to decide which one it is, though the fact that for 90 minutes of its running time, an undead girl is strapped nude to a table… well it is difficult to argue against the latter.

High school dimwits Rickie and JT skip school to hang out in an abandoned mental hospital that has been decorated by Pyramid Head. Rickie is a soft-headed douche who still believes in true love and has a thing for some ginger girl in his class who really would not piss on the best part of him. JT is a sociopath trapped in a society that is big on rules irrelevant to his needs. The two break into the boiler room and find a litmus test for whether there is such a thing as human morality: a nude girl strapped to a table. As it happens, they both fail this test in different ways. JT refuses to report the still-breathing girl to the police in favor of the old in-out, while Rickie actually pussies out and leaves JT to it and tells nobody. Sounds ridiculous to a grown man who is gainfully employed, but to the average high school embryo, this is a difficult choice to make. The ‘right thing’ is a moving target at best, and one must fear the potential alienation from the few people who can stand you. It takes two decades at least to form some sort of value system, and when it comes to rape, many men still have to grapple with it. JT has his way for hours, but discovers that when he attempts to kill the witness, she simply will not shuffle off the buffalo. He has discovered the perfect victim, a zombie. Well, perfect as long as you keep her tied down. No food or water necessary, and she can take all the spunk you can leave in her carcass. Just don’t try the mouth, since that is kind of how zombies multiply.

As additional men populate this sordid exercise, more questions pop up. How difficult is it to convince a man to become a rapist if he can be assured he will never be caught? Two meatheads end up double-teaming our heroine, except that they end up paying dearly for taking advantage of her. When she bites down and starts an infection that culminates in the quarterback voiding his intestinal tract, one can hear the geeks in the audience cheer quietly. The sociopath manipulates these assholes in a situation they can not understand, and one of them becomes a zombie. Once JT figures out how to make more of them, you can see the rape factory wheels spinning in his mind. As always, Rickie is impotent to do much to alter the course of events because he is a passive vagina. And why is he unable to do or say anything to stop JT? He does not debate the moral principles very well, nor does he act forcefully until it is too late. Perhaps he quietly envies JT’s ability to see the world in a way that allows him to take advantage of opportunities, shady though they may be. After all, he ‘loves’ that girl in class, but JT has a plan that will result in making a fuck toy out of her. And JT is correct in that she would never lay a hand on Rickie unless she were forced. The whole film is like this, a series of moral conundrums that can be asked only in the context of a non-human victim.

After all, if she is truly dead or undead, is it really a crime? If she is no longer human, is it still rape? Well, yes, since sex with animals is technically illegal since they cannot consent. Legality aside, it is not the same act, and is free of the ethical considerations. So the rape fantasy takes flight as the men in this story are free to become who they truly are. The film telegraphs this agenda well enough in one of JT’s monologues about why Rickie should be enthusiastic about building a little zombie farm starting with the chick who has little use for him in human life. If consent and free will are things you value, then this film will gain no traction in your busy viewing schedule. If rape fascinates you in the least, then you will watch with sickening allure. After all, Deadgirl is the ideal woman for many men. She doesn’t speak, wants nothing, has no use for marriage or mortgage, and will not die no matter how violently you ravage her innards. This could very well be the only film ever made to regard rape objectively.

There may be more to this than the rape fantasy, however. In one scene, JT and his friend attempt to recruit a whore to their farm. She is lured to their car, and one of them clubs her in the head with a golf club. She responds by beating the plasma out of both of them and going back to work. Deadgirl finally breaks free and mauls every man in sight, with the exception of Rickie, before fleeing the hospital. Did the film mutate into a feminist screed while I was out having a slash? Perhaps the director can have it both ways – Catherine Breillat would hardly disagree. She noted once that men are repelled by liberated women, “Does it mean they can only desire a slave?” The term rape can be applied to any situation where there is an imbalance of power, if you want to be didactic about it. When shackled in place, Deadgirl gives her silent consent, but wrecks shit the moment she has a hand free. Perhaps a comment on how women of power have little use for sex, or that there is more pleasure in inflicting pain. In the end, she seemed to be watching the little boys play their games, all the while keeping in sight the bigger picture of the zombie apocalypse.

Though Deadgirl is not entertaining in a conventional way, and lacks the insight of Breillat’s films, it does attempt to tackle the roots of sexuality and desire by focusing on a woman who is technically not a woman, removing her from the equation entirely. What do men desire – conversation and human connection, or a willing recipient? The answer is not black and white, rather somewhere in between. This is why some happily married couples feel a need to trade spouses or utilize bondage gear whilst roleplaying. Behind closed doors, more of us than are willing to admit like to have it both ways.

One of the interesting things about America is that it can still have subcultural movements that become enormous without anybody else noticing until way after they generate more money per year than Central America. Sometimes this is a racial thing. My mom has no idea who Tyler Perry, the world’s richest man, is. Maybe you remember when the movie, The Original Kings of Comedy came out, and every review began with something like, “apparently, the highest grossing comedy tour in history happened last year and it was headlined by such African American stars as Bernie The Entertainer. What makes this even more incredible is that black people won’t even cough up money to eat at restaurants with waiters or go to basketball games–but this thing packed those same arenas to the rafters.” This also happens with stuff for kids. Somehow every child and parent in America finds out about a musician who never performs in mainstream media, and one day you read an article about how some guy named Race Car Steve made $86 Million last year. It’s pretty impressive that these social networks  can function at least somewhat independently and build something that huge. Similar social networks exist among many groups, including people who are actually retarded. Occasionally, you’ll learn about some guy who you have never seen or heard of, like the late, unlamented Danny Gans, who has a $20 million a year contract in Vegas to do impersonations of Jack Nicholson, Elvis and Richard Nixon. Most of these people eventually break through to the mainstream by sheer volume. But someone like Dr. Laura was already well known in the retarded community and mega-rich before she really showed up on the radar of sentient beings.

The horrible reality of Jeff Dunham hit me when I learned from Dan, an Armenian degenerate, that Dunham’s new show was Comedy Central’s biggest debut ever, carrying the channel to ratings victory over all other cable channels.  Unfortunately, I decided to look for some of his act on youtube. It is possibly the worst act I’ve ever seen. Also, Dunham has really odd, fake hair. Let me couch that by saying I’m not a big fan of stand up in general and therefore, not the least bit snobby about it. While it is a legitimate craft, and very difficult to do well, I hate comics who think they are serious business and get all upset about Dane Cook being more popular than Brian Regan. I don’t give a shit. To me, Dane Cook is just kind of a generic, mildly amusing comedian who (apparently) possesses a lot of charisma. I found Caliendo’s Madden and Barkley impersonations to be kind of funny, the first few hundred times. Bill Hicks, allegedly on the other end of the spectrum, was also pretty funny but I don’t think he was a genius just because I agreed with some of his political views and he got cancer. So my standards for stand up are about on par with a Night Ranger roadie’s standards for one night stands. And it is from this perspective that I say, “The Jeff Dunham Show” is an abortion sandwich.

I’ve seen two of his puppets in action. I watched the old man puppet, Walter, again on youtube and it was just agonizing. Like, I have literally never seen anything less funny on TV. Dunham enters a massive tie with a bunch of other things that were not funny at all, like the “Dateline” report on Matel having union organizers murdered in it’s Malaysian factories, and the Bears’ losing the Super Bowl, but behind things that were just the slightest bit funny, like the Geico Cave Man Sitcom. For example, the old man puppet–get this–complains about his wife!! While watching this video, I was honestly taken aback and, almost confused, as the audience laughed hysterically at jokes that were barely jokes and certainly not at all funny.

Walter: I could get a real job.

Jeff: Yeah, what would you do?

Walter: I could be a greeter at Wal-Mart.

Get it? Because he’s old. Dunham actually had to stop for laughter, then delay resuming the bit  as a second wave of laughter swept over the audience. I was dumbstruck. People find this hilarious. Apparently the way to revive ventriloquism was to somehow come up with cornier, more worn-out and boring material than the guys used during the seeming death farts of the genre. Not, “how can I do something creative with this old approach,” but “how can I come up with something lamer than the dummy calling the ventriloquist a dummy.”

The other Dunham puppet I’ve seen, both on youtube and in a clip from the new show–more than enough self-sacrifice to qualify for writing a review–is of Achmed The Dead Terrorist. This routine is vaguely right wing, but not as much as you would think. It’s too bland for that. What Dunham has done here is discover the territory that people who are actually retarded believe to be edgy. Achmed is a dead terrorist, which is vaguely un-PC in itself. The puppet tells a couple of jokes about Jews and Catholics, and a joke about Michael Jackson being a pedophile. Runs something like this. Two Jews would fight over a penny. Two priests would fight over a little boy. But they’d have to fight over the little boy with Michael Jackson, who also likes little boys. All of this is doubly hilarious because foreigners have funny accents, and therefore, so does Achmed. But don’t tell the PC police! I bet they would be outraged!

Nothing this guy does even brings a hint of a smile. If I just saw the act without the audience reaction, I would actually feel horrible for the guy, imagining him to be bombing in historical fashion after putting so much work into making those puppets. But this is a major crossover hit, breaking Dunham free of the retarded subculture once and for all. So now I hate Dunham and hope the swine flu kills everybody on earth. If you think I’m exaggerating, watch this youtube clip of Dunham’s act.  Note that this clip is closing in on 100 million views.

Actually, I couldn’t bring myself to link to the Dunham clip because it really is that terrible. Hope you enjoyed that one.

Besieged Fortress is the most violent film in recent memory. As two armies battle for survival, the soldiers are impaled, enucleated, dismembered, decapitated, poisoned to die agonizing deaths while body parts are severed and carried away for consumption on the battlefield, and a body count that numbers well into the hundreds as corpses fill the vista or are carried away by muddied streams. That the combatants are driver ants and termites is beside the point – watching the massive jaws of a driver soldier (which equal its body length) puncture the head of a termite newborn and inject copious amounts of formic acid while the victim writhes on the ground is no less cringe-inducing than any undercooked scene from the dying torture porn genre. These shots are, of course, quite real, and the pain felt by those vanquished are all the world left in their fleeting lives. Besieged Fortress was shot on location in Burkina Faso, using microcamera techniques to bring the craft to the level of the insect, and is edited creatively in the style of March of the Penguins to telescope the events into an efficiently paced story. There is the possibility that some of the events were staged, but if so, they are to the film’s credit in creating a tightly plotted narrative that uses juxtaposition of various characters inhabiting the African savanna to develop a tension unimaginable for a documentary about bugs. If only films using human characters could generate this level of drama. The edge of your seat will be well-utilized, and the climax will leave you in stunned disbelief. First, however, comes the dawn of an empire.

Termites build the largest structures in the world not made by humans; some mounds exceed nine meters in height, and are crafted entirely from mud and digested wood. Some 4000 species inhabit subtropical regions, the Isoptera group lineage that predates ants utilizes a decentralized swarm intelligence to organize a colony that numbers in the millions. The body of a termite is soft, and individuals are subject to predation; the queen is immobile and is essentially an egg-laying machine that drops thousands of eggs per day which develop into workers, soldiers, and reproductive individuals. Together they build arboreal or earth mounds that are hardened fortresses against the elements and predators. So complex are these homes that they provide thermoregulation that protects those within, circulate air, and keep out enemies while allowing access to food and water. Of utmost importance are protecting the queen and a garden of mushrooms that assists in cellulose digestion. Such a titanic enterprise begins with a tiny couple, one of thousands who take to the air during mating season, then burrow into the ground to begin their work. They shall never again see daylight.

Driver ants are native to central and eastern Africa, forming colonies of up to 50 million individuals. Theirs is a nomadic existence, moving constantly in search of food in highly organized groups that appear to take their cues directly from the queen. Workers and soldiers work in systems too complex to be instinctive, forming adaptable bridges, tunnels, and temporary armored walls to move swiftly or protect the queen behind a rampart of stinging jaws. Any animal caught in their path that is incapable of flight is quickly immobilized and dismembered, the body parts saved to feed the ravenous column. As Besieged Fortress opens, one such colony of driver ants leaves a parched plateau for greener pastures, and detects the fragrant waft from the termite mound. The hunt is on, and as sedentary animals, the termites have no escape – only defense.

Structured like a disaster film, the termites must endure challenges from all quarters that threaten the survival of the entire complex. Animals can tear open the nest to attack, and so soldiers are always at the ready to protect a breach while workers seal the cracks. A tree is struck by lightning, which breaks open the top of the mound, choking the lower levels with dust. Rain enters the wrecked castle, drowning individuals by the thousands and bringing asphyxiating mud to the very chamber of the queen. Even at the best of times, the termites labor to maintain the nest at fairly constant temperatures to protect the nymphs, the food supply, and tend to the mushrooms. At the worst, the queen lays eggs prodigiously to replete those lost to the weather or to marauding ants or other predators. They must withstand regular raids by a local ant colony. All of these sacrifices yield an annual reward: the winged offspring, the princes and princesses, take flight under ideal weather conditions to mate, and those lucky enough to withstand the ordeal will establish a new colony with a massive fortress as the fruit of their extraordinary labor. Besieged Fortress brings home the essential lesson that survival at the frontier of these interlocking evolutionary arms races is anything but guaranteed.

As the driver ants approach the termite mound and sweep aside anything in their path, you will have difficulty watching the impending slaughter; there is a strong human desire to see a triumph against impossible odds. There is no protagonist or antagonist here – just warring factions attempting to garner a niche in the unforgiving savanna. I am projecting, of course, but watching the driver ants tear other insects to pieces, rendering the giant body of a snake into bite-sized segments, I found my heart sinking, just considering the cruel fate in store for the termites just a short distance away. They have a soldier class as well, but termites do not stand a chance against such an adversary with superior numbers and weaponry. As the assault begins, the suspense is terrible as the ants coordinate the attack with a surprisingly sophisticated battle plan. The queen is at all times connected to the soldiers via a combination of sound and chemical signals; the termites are overwhelmed and the bodies fill the holes and tunnels as the soldiers and workers fight desperately whilst being impaled and ripped apart, succumbing to poisonous injections. The queen cannot move, and so much as a single wound would cause a massive bleed of lymph from which she would not recover. The siege progresses relentlessly despite a desperate defense, right into the royal chamber itself.

Now, I would not dream of spoiling the entire story for you, but the termites are canny and prepared to throw it all into the most audacious of counterattacks imaginable. Life goes on for some in the African wilderness, and nature itself is indifferent to whom is able to suffer the onslaught.  The work is imperfect – the narration is not great, and could have been excised entirely in favor of captioned factoids. The action and the intricate photography that penetrates the inner workings of the complicated termite world carries this feature. It is the equal of Luc Jacquet’s The Tick and The Bird, or some of David Attenborough’s Life series. Anthropomorphizing may occur in the process, but this is not for the camera to judge – we do this ourselves when we identify with a thing, an event, an animal, or a struggle. We see ourselves in the masterpieces of nature, and are the richer for understanding how it all fits. As a film, this is cracking entertainment. As a meditation on the power of the survival instinct, it gives the viewer much to consider as part of their own personal struggle, or the greater drive of evolution. And if you care about none of the above, you will be entertained by a riot of violence that approaches poetic abandon.

Though sometimes accused of misogyny, we at Ruthless will happily march arm-in-arm with our sisters when the cause is just–whether it be for more nudity in JCVD films or against reactionary, sexist propaganda, such as Gremlins. We have always opposed criticism that over-thinks or politicizes films to meet the agenda of the reviewer.  Yet, the patriarchal propaganda that is Gremlins is too transparent to ignore.  With a little analysis, we can see that the message of Gremlins is that society cannot function without a rigid patriarchy that produces obedient women. Given free reign, female behavior will land somewhere between that of animals and children and society will descend into anarchy.

The central figure in Gremlins is, of course, Gizmo, a mogwai. Mogwai represent women in a neutral state. The superficial similarities are obvious. Gizmo is cute, seemingly harmless and vulnerable and calls upon our protective instincts. We want to take Gizmo in, provide for him and snuggle up in bed with him. To grouchier feminists, this initial presentation of Gizmo/woman might seem condescending, but it is not so far from the reality of many male/female relationships. At worst, this depiction is conventional or conservative, but it is the starting point of a deeply reactionary fable.

The extreme, patriarchal expression begins with the three rules of “owning” a Mogwai/woman.

1) Don’t get them wet. Water, a classic symbol of fecundity, is taken a step further and is also a symbol for actual semen. The well-trained Gizmo avoids water. This is because Gizmo has been raised in a firmly patriarchal society (China) and both literally and figuratively kept in a box. But freed from control and supervision in the decadent West and left in the care of an immature man who lacks a firm hand, even virtuous Gizmo can’t avoid coming into contact with water. He goes into an accelerated labor, and painfully ejects his offspring. One minor slip up, and Billy suddenly finds himself with several more mouths to feed. The poorly managed woman, even if virtuous,  is portrayed as a source of ever-increasing burdens.

Gizmo’s offspring lack his strict upbringing and revert to their natural, insatiable desire for water/semen and offspring. Each poorly raised mogwai is governed by a mad desire to reproduce, but the most burning urge belongs to Stripe, who is a stand in for Reagan’s mythical “welfare queen.” Stripe reproduces indiscriminately, seeking water from any source available, including a public pool (bathhouse). He cares little for his offspring and even abuses them, but he expects the rest of society to provide for them. As Stripe’s spawn absorb the town of Kingston Fall’s resources, the remainder trickles up to Stripe who helps himself to the best of it. A rigid patriarchy is essential. A single generation without it leads to a cycle of reckless breeding as one batch of valueless baby factories passes it’s behavior to still larger broods in the next, dragging society into economic collapse, then chaos.

2) No bright lights, especially sunlight. The metaphor here is more subtle but again, sunlight is a common enough metaphor for openness and exposure. This rule is more patriarchal than misogynistic, as mogwai, and even gremlins, must be kept from exposure to light for their own protection. The analogous duty is protecting your women by not allowing them excessive exposure to the outside world. According to the worldview of Spielberg, writer Chris Columbus and director, Joe Dante, women left to their own devices will invariably dress like prostitutes, literally exposing their skin to sunlight or worse, the pulsating lights of “da club.” Of course, the immediate danger is not sunlight itself (though decadent women quickly become obsessed with “tanning,” and risk skin cancer), but the fact that men are entitled to rape women who dress in such a way. Even if such a woman is somehow not raped, a man like Spielberg or Dante will assume she has been violated and is therefore soiled and useless, effectively ending her life. Also note that one of the most common ways gremlins are killed by light exposure is with flash cameras, which is analogous to a woman appearing in pornography or (in 2009) posting shameful pictures of herself on the internet. While camera flashes and significant sunlight are lethal to the mogwai, women who are allowed excessive freedom will immediately demean themselves for sexual attention, couple with shady men or, less commonly, grow intellectually curious and absorb dangerous ideas.  Any of these things can render them useless as daughters, sisters or wives. As the keeper of a mogwai/woman, it is your responsibly to rigidly control their exposure to harmful elements so that they might maintain their virtue and purpose.

3) Do not feed after midnight. The lesson here is not to overindulge your woman and spoil her. Women who are allowed to live modestly are grateful to their breadwinners for sustaining and sometimes even treating them, as Gizmo is to Billy. We see this in Billy’s mom as well, as she remains grateful and respectful towards Billy’s dad, even though he is a poor provider and the family lives modestly. Billy’s mom is the uncritical representation of the homemaker portrayed by Friedan. She is fully occupied maintaining the home, excels at it and is a force for order. As though cleaning up after her husband’s destructive inventions was not enough, she is able to use her household appliances–most memorably a blender and microwave–to dispatch some of the first gremlins. Only Billy, however, is allowed to wield the sword against the gremlins, in his first step towards authentic manhood.

Though women’s willing contributions are essential to maintaining the patriarchal order, boundaries must be drawn. Once overindulged, women become insatiable, greedy and entitled. Because the patriarchy is ultimately victorious in the film, most human women are prevented from reaching the gremlin stage, but a human woman who is “fed after midnight” would turn out like Paris Hilton or Kim Kardashian. Sustenance is not only taken for granted, but becomes a vehicle for aimless ostentation and excess. This is exacerbated by the fact that women care little for practical or intellectual gifts, favoring hallow expressions of exclusivity, wealth and idleness (We get a glimpse of this in the movie with Mrs. Deagle’s motorized chair up her stairs), in accordance with Veblen’s account of conspicuous consumption in women. When they become spoiled, their desires easily spin out of control. As their wants become impossible to satisfy, they become unhappy no matter what they are given. For example, a diamond ring has no purpose other than conspicuously displaying of the expenditure of resources. Perhaps one or two such items can be given to a woman to mark special occasions, but if there are no limits the display becomes increasingly meaningless, and therefore increasingly gross and unsatisfying until the woman is adorning her dog with expensive jewelry to show her total disdain for the labor and resources that have gone into it. So, indulged without limit, the woman has moved from a contented being, grateful for sustenance to a monster of consumption and waste–from Gizmo to a gremlin. Just as the overindulged woman will buy expensive clothes to wear once, or often not at all, gremlins destroy as much as they consume, smashing glasses after they drink from them, then demanding more. The gremlin/spoiled woman would neither dream of working for the resources they consume, nor pay the slightest respect or consideration to the effort of those who do work to provide those resources

Women with money, mistaking their luck for superiority and consumed by status, are notoriously callous and cruel to service and others they deem beneath them. This is demonstrated in the film by the relentless and shortsighted abuse dished out by the greedy heiress, Mrs. Deagle. Deagle, clad in ridiculous furs, is clearly unhappy herself and abuses her power at the bank. By hastily foreclosing local businesses and being inflexible with borrowers, she is a threat to the long term survival of the local economy and ultimately the bank itself. We see similar behavior as the gremlins torment Kate (Phoebe Cates) as she tries her best to serve them in the local bar which they destroy in a shortsighted display of power and excess. Kate has emerged as a virtuous woman in a corrupt society. This is only because Kingston Falls is an idealistic depiction of 1950s nostalgia: a representation of what is being lost. In any case, the Gremlins take special joy in harassing a modest and contented woman, just as they do her analog: Gizmo. Of course women who have been “fed after midnight” tend to express similar disdain for, say, housewives or working women.

So we can see the collision between the patriarchy and the liberation of women on a few fronts. First there is Kingston Falls itself: small, almost magically anachronistic town, not yet soiled by the general “progress” of American society and the 1960s in particular. Even the music played on the radio in Kingston Falls is pre-Woodstock. The town teeters between the traditional, patriarchal society represented by China, and the corruption of post-feminist America. It is no coincidence that Gizmo is brought in from Chinatown in New York City.

The faces of patriarchal order are Mr. Wing, the revered father figure who is ignored at first, then vindicated and acquiesced to and Gizmo, the figure of the woman who is content and happy to literally live in the box created by the patriarch. Billy represents the weakened male who no longer knows how to control the new generation of mogwai/women.  So they become gremlins: ungoverned women who erode society, almost to the breaking point, never realizing that their uncontrolled desires are ultimately self-destructive. In reigning in the anarchy created by the gremlins, Billy becomes a real man. Importantly, Billy needs the help of Gizmo and Kate, female figures who understand their place and therefore are as much a part of the patriarchy as he is. Only then, is Billy able to both restore order and begin a relationship with Kate, who intimidated him when he was in his weak state. Also important is that part of Billy’s maturation is realizing that he must take a secondary position in the patriarchal structure, in deference to Mr. Wing and hope that Wing is right in saying, “perhaps someday, you may be ready.”

“Any resemblance to real events, to persons living or dead, is not accidental. It is DELIBERATE.”

Z is, quite simply, the finest movie about politics and political struggle ever made. With apologies to Battle of Algiers, thrilling in its own right, Z is a masterwork of satire, a vitriolic lash against the suffocating fascism which gleefully masquerades as democracy, and brimming with the sort of dark humor that thrives upon tragedy and exhilarates with disasters. The film is unique in seeming action-packed with fast-moving scenes of people who mostly talk or sit still; this is high-impact politics where two immovable objects collide and annihilate. Just as he did with the exemplary Missing, Costa-Gavras brings a powerful voice to cinema and excels at examining the difficult nature of politics while never losing sight of the human core that is crushed underneath the weight of a conflict.

The opening quote from above is only the first of many playful salvos to assure you that this is not the sort of timid work that avoids provocation to maximize the size of an audience. Loosely based on events in Greece in the 1960s, Z is meant to take place in Anynation, during any time period. In 1963, popular leftist deputy Gregoris Lambrakis was assassinated in Athens, and an investigation by Christos Sartzetakis found connections between the assassins, the police, and fascist extremist elements in Greece. The far-right government of Greece consolidated power by military dictatorship in 1967 and Sartzetakis was imprisoned. The junta remained in power until 1974 with the help of military and economic support from the United States. Throughout, Lambrakis’s memory remained fresh in the minds of the citizens, and the symbol ‘Z’ became a rallying cry, meaning ‘He (Lambrakis) is alive’. Sartzetakis became an icon of integrity, but it is important to remember that while he was imprisoned and Lambrakis murdered, they were both known as communist villains under the junta while the murderers were ‘rehabilitated’ as heroes of the nation. It only takes a bit of repetition and on-message bloviating to rend even the largest personality asunder, changing their legacy with the help of demagogues. Z is about not only the intrigue surrounding the aftermath of a political assassination, but the attempt to bury a legacy and the extraordinary sacrifice required to simply maintain the truth.

The immortal Yves Montand plays the charismatic physician-turned-politician whose is poised to win the presidential vote. He attends a rally that has been sabotaged by the police. Threats and bureaucracy have denied them a proper venue for a rally, and thugs are dispatched to ensure a violent scene that can be blamed on the communists. In front of a frenzied crowd, with a phalanx of policemen watching idly, a truck speeds into the square and an assailant clubs the contender on the head. He falls to the ground, never to regain consciousness. As the right wing government moves to cover up the incident as a drunken accident, the leftist party tries to release the information, and the man’s wife watches silently as her whole life ebbs before her eyes. Often movies that focus upon politics forget that real human lives are lost and the twisted scar of broken families is easily forgotten. It is to Costa-Gavras’s credit that Montand’s character is always at the center of the story and its outcome. He dies, and his party is prevented from making any further statements by the police. All would have been lost were it not for the work of an investigating magistrate who discovers that the autopsy shows not that he was struck from the side by a moving vehicle, but from above with a club, making murder the only likely possibility. A photojournalist uncovers the connections between a right-wing extremist group and the police, and the structure collapses in a breakneck paced procedural ending in a finale that will have any reasonable viewer on their feet as the sacred cows of the administration are indicted for premeditated murder. All of that was possible due to the magistrate being a trusted member of the legal system, and a fastidiously apolitical judge. Testimony from known leftists is tossed out as unreliable, and pressure from conservatives is ignored. He methodically builds a factual case that catches the corrupt police chief and his minions off guard. The labyrinth of lies collapses in impressive fashion as the viewer is pulled rapidly through the mess.

The film does not end there, however, balancing the relief of seeing justice done with the cold and unsentimental truth that justice is rarely complete. The magistrate is replaced, witnesses are murdered, perpetrators exonerated, and the junta takes power and bans peace movements, music, labor unions, sociology, Tolstoy, Sophocles, Chekov, Pinter, the free press, and the letter Z. The viewer is jailed in a wall of text from all those things reactionaries find so hateful. Depressingly, this is the only way events could go. Conservative ideologues, for all their bleating of democracy and freedom, have little use for either once their power is threatened.

Costa-Gavras is anything but subtle, and his dark and unforgiving tone has been criticized as the voice of a cynic. I am not sure if that is even something one can criticize in a director. Z is his most famous work, and is a gem of progressive filmmaking. Despite its expeditious pacing, it would be a distressing slog were it not for a vicious sense of humor. The film opens with a montage of increasingly ridiculous medals, all made to cover the blunt corruption and dishonor of those who wear them as talismans against their own worthless nature.The intellectual poverty of the right wing is repeatedly attacked with a series of sly jokes, starting with a rather silly and dull lecture about diseases to an administrative forum. The ‘isms’ so dangerous to deeply conservative politicians are compared to fungal diseases in crops, which must be sprayed with copper sulfate to prevent their spread. That a right-wing extremist government cannot tolerate competition from populist movements is but one facet of the commentary. That the extremists find this sort of thing edifying is funny in itself. When recalling the scene of the murder, the right-wing thugs, policemen, and politicians all use the same phrasing in a clever play upon their inability to think independently. When several of the members of the murder plot are indicted, they attempt to leave the magistrate’s chamber through a door to the left, which is locked. They are uncontrollably driven to the right whilst being photographed by the press, soon to be banned. Not the most subtle symbolism, but considering the density of these references, this quality makes the film accessible. In the final bleak aftermath scene, the journalist telling the story of the investigation (as to a television audience) becomes part of the photographs as his arrest is announced. Sardonic wit is all one has to view a tragedy in motion without becoming depressed.

Still, no story ends – not even somber ones. The junta fell eventually when anti-American sentiment and pro-democracy movements started to gain ground. Intellectuals exiled by the dictatorship, the enormous popularity of the 1969 release of Z, and pressure from other European nations opened a factional split in the junta, leading to a counter-coup, loss of support of key military officers, and a collapse of the dictatorship. That a right-wing extremist government that utilized torture and denied basic human rights (cough) was seen as an ally against Communism was embarrassing to the Western Bloc of NATO, and delayed the incorporation of Greece into the European Union. Most importantly, the history of this dictatorship stands as a reminder that such things can happen rather easily under the right circumstances. For this unfortunate reason, Z is timeless, and will never lose its relevance.

“Thanks for coming out today…” – Larry Craig addressing a press conference to assure the nation that he was still in the closet

There will be few documentaries this year as openly provocative regarding the peculiarly retarded mental gymnastics required to be both gay and publicly homophobic whilst mired in the American power structure. This denial is both practical and soul-destroying, part of a conspiracy to downplay the existence of gay Americans and cover up homosexuality when present in inconvenient politicians. When someone speaks of conspiracy, it connotes a back room meeting presided over by cigar-smoking movers and shakers. This is not what I had in mind – it is a conspiracy even if it’s only a gentlemen’s agreement widely held amongst heterosexual and closeted bisexuals and homosexuals to keep any hint of gay shit at a very long arm’s length. And so it is in Washington, D.C.,  perhaps the second most fabulous and gay city in America, where gay pages and chiefs of staff prop up the social conservative agenda as they reconcile their ambition with their identity. And so it is with any gay male or female who wishes to acquire power within this sexually confused empire of outwardly homophobic churchgoing bible-fondlers who secretly crave le gateau de boeuf.

Outrage is a tightly constructed and well-made film that examines the culture of closeted gay men in power, the damage they cause to gay rights issues, and the effort to loosen the hinges on the aforementioned closet. The latter issue has generated some controversy, controversy which Mike Rogers (of blogactive.com) has embraced, regarding the outing of gay politicians who have a demonstrable anti-gay rights voting record. This is considered a violation of privacy by many. That right-wing activists push for laws (and most recently a Constitutional amendment to ban gay marriage) that make normal private life for gay and bisexual impossible is a tad ironic. But then, the maxim “Equal Protection Under the Law” utterly baffles the conservative lawmakers who actually believe this shit.

Notable features include former governor Jim McGreevey, who discusses the enormous relief that has come from admitting his homosexuality after resigning. No longer burdened with leading the double life that erodes the soul, he cannot stress enough just how harmful it is to deny one’s identity and suppress the most basic of human desires – the sex drive. If you think closeted gay men hurt themselves, just imagine how much they can hurt those around them by harnessing that self-loathing to drive public homophobia. This could be either true self-hate or perhaps the desire to deflect curiosity about whether they themselves are cruising leather bars. The lies politicians say in public create a Byzantine patchwork of ‘truth’; the lies they say to themselves are far more bizarre. Of course, the oddest of all these relationships are those of the spouses of closeted gay politicians, caught in public and having to put on a behavioral dog show for the cameras. The sheer fanatacism present in the eyes of Mrs. Larry Craig leapfrogs over creepy into the truly disturbing.

Outrage builds the case of a conspiracy well, including the way the media declines to comment upon sexuality, the words used to avoid suggesting homosexuality, the elaborate dances required of gay politicians to appear hetero enough to win elections. Charlie Crist, widely considered a frontrunner for the 2012 presidential bid, is surrounded by rumors of a gay lifestyle. He described himself as a ‘moderate’ in response to these rumors, prompting Barney Frank to quip, “Sure, just like I marched in last year’s moderate pride parade and went to a moderate bar last night.” He picks up young and attractive women whenever he is in the midst of an election, only to drop them shortly after winning. One such woman divorced him, and declined to answer any questions regarding where Crist keeps his cucumber, but did say “Come back in ten years, and I’ll tell you a story.”

Apart from these politicians being untrue to themselves, closeted gay people in positions of power tend to use that power to deny equal rights to American citizens for no reason other than to keep from being called a fag by their fellow closeted gay social conservatives. Needless to say, most are Republicans, depending upon the support of Christian organizations and other similarly odious twits who demand absolute freedom from government while insisting on invasion of privacy when consistent with their religious beliefs. Their voting record consistently declines HIV research funding, blocks the right for gays to marry, and denies the need for hate crime laws regarding gays. Social Conservatives demand freedom from government and push religion via government, crusade against pornography and prostitution unless one of their own is caught with a hooker, and deplore the ‘gay agenda’ while hiding boyfriends from wives. Essentially, push to outlaw all that makes us human while indulging in secret shame. With their collective head so far up their collective ass, the Klein bottle that is the Social Conservative movement has redefined America as a sexually confused self-loathing frat boy with an itchy trigger finger.

Outrage is not a fair documentary to the other side, those people who feel that gays should live in disgraceful darkness, should never be allowed to adopt or take any part in society, and should burn in hell for all eternity. Is there any way to be fair to people who have this attitude? What would their response be to the filmmakers if they were being interviewed? We have all heard these diatribes before, about how God will deliver swift punishment for tolerating the wicked gay lifestyle (still waiting on that brimstone, by the way) or how homosexuality is a choice and an agenda designed to corrupt the minds of children. These people should kindly get fucked if they don’t already in a back alley far from the eyes of their obedient wives. I suppose Pat Robertson can remember the time when he decided to stop sucking cocks in men’s bathrooms, but I certainly didn’t reach that branch in my decision tree. Gay rights is about the freedom to pursue happiness in its most basic form – being left the fuck alone. For this reason, exposing closeted homophobic gay politicians remains a worthy goal, by preventing these creepy fucks from denying this right to a huge segment of America.

www.blogactive.com – for more information on who in Washington is buggering their pages

www.house.gov/frank/ – because we fucking love Barney Frank

If you’ve ever wondered what would happen if Takashi Miike made a video game… you are a virgin.  But Izo is yo’ answer. This is the tale of a samurai who is crucified and punctured with spears, which he feels is unfair.   So Izo becomes a “half-dead,” almost invincible spirit and travels through time butchering people.  He rampages through social strata and institutions much like the levels of a video game, in search of “divine retribution.” Initially he lectures the “boss” of each level about the failings and hypocrisies of their viewpoint before dispatching them, but as he proceeds he becomes more demonic and almost completely  inarticulate.  He massacres judges, generals, clergy, yakuza, police, a street gang, political leaders, families and a flock of cowering business leaders. Also, his old boss and his mother. There’s some politically tinged dialog along the way that is pretty much all over the map, but here’s a sample.

Teacher: Okay then, Ms. Sato what is a nation?

Student: Yes.  A nation is a vicious delusion that exists only in human minds.  It is an imaginary notion of falsehood only there to control and govern people that instinctively gather into flocks.  It is the basic principle of the fiction that requires one side to be sacrificed.

This might also answer the question, “what if Bakunin made a video game?”

As is often the case, half my motivation for writing this is reading several other reviews, all of which were terrible.  One reviewer told of seeing  Izo with a bunch of film school types and how they were laughing derisively at its “absurdity.”  This tells us that, somewhere, there is a film school that must be discredited, if not burned to the ground. I mean, let’s give them an enormous free pass for not going into the film familiar with Miike and how he works.  Even then, maybe people who study or teach film should be able to discern that, when the protagonist, a samurai ghost, is woken from a slumber in a cave by two dorky guys in suits who try to sell him a retirement property, then he impales one of the real estate salesman, then the real estate salesmen turn into vampires and start girlishly giggling as they pull out knives and stab the guy like 80 times, which doesn’t kill him because he’s a ghost, then he kills the vampires and one of them says, “hell is in your heart, salvation is not in this world. My blood is gushing…” with his last breath, the scene is not meant to be taken 100% seriously.  Maybe it is supposed to be absurd.  Another, very subtle clue is how 20 different characters say things like “Izo is loathsome nonsense.”

There are certainly philosophical themes present in Izo.  “History is written in blood,” is the message of one opinion-maker.  I honestly forget if Izo kills that guy, but he does kill 90% of the people who appear on screen, so there’s a  good chance.  In any case, one can certainly take that as a general theme, especially with the footage of historical monstrosities worked into the film against microscope footage of teaming sperm.  I don’t think Miike’s ever really out to bestow lessons and deep thoughts, though, so much as he is out to cheerfully destroy them.  If you want to get wonky, it’s a deconstruction of deconstruction.  All of the norms, morals and institutions are bogus, based on assumptions geared to benefit those in power.  Izo takes them down.  To what end?  Obviously, none.  Total revolution is universal oppression.

I don’t know if I would even go that far, though.  Miike just likes to piss all over everything, thus the inclusion of a little parody of the old samurai fight scenes.  Other elements, most notably the conclusion, look to me like very funny spoofs of “deep” films ranging from The Matrix to 2001.  After killing everyone, Izu arrives at a chamber occupied by celestial beings, dressed in splendorous clothing of old Japan.  He decapitates one woman, butterflies swarm from her head and a screen opens revealing an enormous moon.  Then her carcass transforms into a caterpillar. It’s all very beautiful and I don’t think you’d be foolish to look for some symbolism, but you have to realize that Miike is always, always taking the piss even when he is kind of being serious.  I think that when you are as funny as he is, you just can’t help it. I’m going to stop here and write an essay that should help you feel relatively comfortable with this guy and his movies.  Ready? According to wikipedia, Takashi Miike’s favorite film is Starship Troopers.

Not that I think he’s all that hard to “get” or that I’m a genius for roughly understanding Miike’s films.  But reading other reviews of his work certainly makes it seem that way.  But I’m sure that you, reader, are not nearly as stupid as the average film reviewer.  You know, Starship Troopers went over most of their heads too.  Seriously.  Go look at the old reviews.  Miike also lists Lynch as a big influence and there’s a similar problem in viewing him. People feel like there should be something to “get” and if they don’t get it, there must be some kind of fraud afoot.  In this case, they conclude that Miike is just arbitrarily shocking and he’s famous because everyone is afraid to say so.  As with Lynch, my advice is to forget all of that. If deeper thoughts are stirred, all the better.  But don’t be caught up in subtext that is or isn’t there and deny yourself the pleasure of shots and scenes that are, just by themselves, highly entertaining or even beautiful.  There’s some undeniable artistry to this shot…

Then, boom!  It’s fucking Bob Sapp!  If you know who Bob Sapp is, ( MMA’s most [only?] lovable star who is very famous in Japan because all Japanese are racist and they see him as a King Kong figure) this is unbelievably great. But Bob Sapp is still Bob Sapp even if you’ve never heard of him. Just look at him!

As with Lynch, I can understand why Miike might not be for some people.  This film doesn’t  have much of a plot and I wouldn’t really say it’s a must see for anybody.  Miike has done better.  But, while hundreds are killed, there is relatively little gore (even Bob Sapp being chopped in half is minimally graphic) or sexual perversion, so watch it with the kids.  There are a good number of very funny scenes and beautiful or absurdist shots that demand appreciation. Just don’t be one of these idiots who thinks they are too smart to enjoy it.  Be honest with yourself. Do you want to see a ghost samurai running amok on the streets of Tokyo, slicing and dicing a flock of businessmen for no good reason?  Of course you do.

I’m not sure the zeitgeist is (or ever was) waiting in the fetal position, sobbing for yet another KISS record to hit America’s hungry shelves, but as the DVD sales of Family Jewels have not met industry projections, here we are again, eleven years running since Psycho Circus inexplicably conquered the charts with its own special brand of mediocrity. The CD is Sonic Boom, and if the title alone weren’t enough to part you from your hard-earned money, remember that this is one more in a long line of Wal-Mart exclusives, forcing you to add the guilt of patronizing the devil’s workshop to the fact that you are, at whatever age, still listening to KISS. And are willing to pay for the privilege. Well count me in, as if I had nothing better to do than help line the criminally deep pockets of the one Jew on planet earth who would not have been above buying stock in Zyklon B as a way to hedge his bets. Yes, Gene Simmons, still inserting his 60-year-old Hebrew National into whatever orifice will release the most coin, remains the ageless wonder of rock; a strutting, scamming, holy roller of indestructible marketing timber who shuns alcohol and drugs not out of any moral sense, but because he wants to be the one sober man at the bargaining table. His comrade-in-arms, 57-year-old Paul Stanley, is once again on board, though I imagine he might actually need the money, what with the royalties for Love Gun not paying off like they used to. Two other musicians have signed up for the inevitable gravy train, but as they’ll be replaced like spare parts for an oil-burning Impala whenever Gene tires of paying union wages, it’s best not to get too familiar.

Gene and Paul, not to be confused with John and Paul, are once again peddling their wares as the rock world’s worst lyricists, but I’ll be damned if that isn’t part of the charm. After all, few grandfathers would attempt to get away with the line “I know the way you made the others break, but lovin’ me would be your first mistake.” Maybe Philip Roth. But in the disc’s opening round, “Modern Day Delilah,” Paul is doing exactly that, asking us not to wince as he describes his lustful affair with some woman he first saw “across the room.” As played, it’s a nasty, adrenaline-charged cut that breaks KISS tradition by forcing all female pegs into whorish holes. It’s hard to believe that our crew haven’t learned their lesson, what with a good 10,000 conquests under their belts, but God love ‘em for still trying. “Russian Roulette” humps the same note on the rock piano, as Gene dares trot out the oft-used “Out of the frying pan, into the fire” line to convey his irresistible senior appeal. “One pull of the trigger is all you’re gonna get,” he groans, as if any woman, high or low, would complain about not enough trips to the Simmons well. Most men his age who sport the same haircut or propensity for spitting up blood are swiftly hospitalized, not rewarded with a fifth house in Beverly Hills.

“Never Enough” sets the record back on track, showing that women, in addition to submitting, deferring, and acquiescing in every manner possible, are likely to “light the fire below” even though the man “won’t slow down.” Sex aside, this is also one in a 35-year series of KISS anthems to equate breaking all the rules with true liberation. “I won’t stop till I make it to the top,” Paul roars, wondering how high the pile of money must get before he rests. “Yes I Know (Nobody’s Perfect)”, as much as I’d like it to be Gene’s atypical flirtation with humility, sours the instant it reveals that the source of regret is not that he fucked so often, but that he didn’t fuck enough. His failure to reach the ideal is because, contrary to all logic, there a few holdouts to his nutsack. And, if he will admit to any flaws, it’s that not every chick has agreed to take off her clothes. He isn’t providing any answers, but we can only assume they didn’t care for the disco record. “Stand”, one of the few to avoid fucking altogether, is the closest the disc comes to an arena crowd-pleaser, as it furthers the notion that loyalty is mankind’s greatest attribute. “Stand by while I make a shitload of money” might have been more accurate, but overall, Gene and Paul have never been this overtly generous. They even admit they’ll do anything they’re asked to do, without a trace of an invoice to be found.

“Hot and Cold” is all Gene, which from the beginning has our hero interrogating a chick just long enough to see her naked. “I will seduce you my treasure” is perhaps the band’s most confident lyric, though it’s quickly followed up by, “I know you’ll ask me for more and more” as a strong runner-up. And when the hypothetical woman is pushed to “Feel my tower of power,” the song flirts with a mild sexism quickly erased by a chorus of accusatory insults. Once you hop into bed, don’t you dare bring your conscience. Few things grate like a cold woman. Though in “All for the Glory,” KISS admit to “playing to win”, even if no one likes it. Who, exactly, is complaining? Gene and Paul might as well have been sealed in a tomb for a quarter-century for all the current events they so blithely ignore, and if rebellion is your game, who is the audience? KISS isn’t about to win new fans, for fuck’s sake, so is it really appropriate to lecture your aging audience about the need  to let loose with retirement just around the corner? Yeah, they could buck the system and not pay their bills, but millions are doing that already, even without the band’s help. “Danger Us” helps rub salt in the wound, as it points out the impossible-to-swallow reality that a man having even less talent than you for just about every artistic endeavor under the sun makes more money on the shitter than you do in several decades of humiliating labor. All that (and ugly to boot), and still swimming in pussy after all these years.

I don’t really need to tell you that “I’m An Animal” is about a woman damn near dying after being fucked by Gene, what with him being “made of fire, made of heat” and all. “I am free”, he says, furthering the disgust you felt at the disc’s halfway point. Still, and it cannot be minimized, this is a wild, fast-paced album, pushing its pounding rhythms miles away from even the hint of a power ballad. “When Lightning Strikes” ups the ante further, equating Gene’s penis to TNT, electricity, high voltage, and cataclysmic earthquakes in turn, though I could have done without the song’s final allusion, which may or may not reveal Gene as mankind’s true savior. All of this, however, has been leading up to “Say Yeah”, the KISS army’s call for revolution, so long as you believe chanting “Yeah, yeah, yeah” in the streets will get you anything but arrested. The world can be such a bore, Paul squeals, so why not join the crowd and pierce the air with your defiance? It’s impossible to imagine when this band was  perceived as a threat; when loving these “Knights in Satan’s Service” was the surest way to be grounded or cast aside as a wild child. Did these cultural watchdogs ever bother listening to the songs they so feared? Sure, having sex is worse than murder for some, but amidst the crazy boots, armor, fire, and gallons of face paint, stood a band more Ayn Rand than Abbie Hoffman. Fuck, fuck off, and fuck some more, but keep your eye on the real prize. It’s Gene’s way, and apparently we’re still buying into it.