Death to Videodrome! Long live the new flesh.
Uncle Jess and his three ring circus malaise eroding the centre of the Franco/Rollin coin and letting the cum coated sleaze and ethereal moonlight eroticism bleed together into a guilty melancholic woe of naked flesh, inverted mourning and illusory spectral reckoning.
Fragmented unreality floating along the current of vast spacious lingering, allowing cursory glances at Franco's obsessions. Ghostly and vague, shadowy and lonesome; A Virgin Among the Living Dead lives in an unlived existence, barely holding on to the line…
Aimless chateaux wandering for a reason made abstract by the ravaging of death. Objects bleed from tactile catalysts into visions not quite recognised as memories. A love lost in all but a miniscule light in the form of an idea of an idea of an understanding. Solid reality solely an instinctual need to kill and to feed; fingers made into implements of slaughter, bleeding others dry from throats, eyes and abdomens. An existence of frustration in the midpoint of the…
Mano a mano cat and mouse post crime of impulsive passion. Revenge seeked on foot through rural Canada as wits try and dam the flow of an inevitable violence unwanted by both men.
Moustaches and rifles become the stars of the show of increasing desparation, dragging collateral damage into the fray on a farm of deceit and panic. Unkempt appearances bleed into minds in a situation foreign and never before considered.
A real gritty-looking gem hidden in the scrub of one-and-done personnel, shining bright with a realism not often seen in revenge thrillers, much less in 70s exploitation form.
Tetsuo, Brazil and live action David Firth cartoons held under the surface of a pool of mescaline melt by stop-motion hands. Bubbles of whimsical air dance around the noses and mouths of the submerged keeping them alive as parallel lines wobble and geometric shapes fail in their most basic premises. Over the tannoy of the pool room falls the sounds of Trout Mask Replica, faint and tinny yet sporadically deafening in all its discordant nonsense. The walls occasionally decorated with…
The absolute pinnacle of exploitation cinema, and so much more besides that.
Dismemberment, real execution footage, real animal killings, rape, murder, genocide, drugs and a disgusting lack of morality are all on show, without even thinking about the actions of the tribe of cannibal savages the film shows.
Cannibal Holocaust trancends exploitation, Italian cannibal films, video nasties and found footage films and becomes something luridly beautiful.
This is because, whilst being complete exploitation in its purest form, it goes beyond…
The glowing eyes of radioactive rubber monsters, drooling and covered in lube elevated by the piss-soaked graffiti and seedy passersby of scuzz-coated 80s NYC sending ripples of heroin swirls through the puddle of stagnant liquid sludge with every footstep.
Plughole blood explosions and hanged teddy Westies. Heirarchies of the homeless stretching into subterranean nightmares of government waste disposal. Underground sets as labyrinths of death and beheadings and stretched neck viscera.
The jagged teeth of the dehumanised and the dehumanisers bared…