Random Bests...

Best: Animal Child Exploitation

The Chipmunk Adventure (1987)

I've always been baffled by the reality of the Chipmunks. A full grown single man, a human no less, adopts three orphan chipmunks, dresses them in coordinating body sweaters and pushes their recording career. Caretaker David Seville is either a loving humanitarian, or the Michael Lohan/freakshow carney of 80's animated entertainment.

It seems that Alvin, Simon and Theodore are the only chipmunks in a world that resembles our own, outside of their competitive mirror coupling, The Chipettes. The Chipettes have more variety in their wardrobe, but their bizarre love interest/band rivalry is weirdly incestuous, and who even takes care of them? If it's the out-of-touch babysitter Miss Miller, then it's proof that these girls are in need of social services, and Brittany, the lead vocalist, is acting out. An especially high-pitched episode of VH1's Behind the Music writes itself. They live in the real world - touring Switzerland, Rio, Egypt - surrounded by vibrant culture (crude stereotypes of foreigners) and remain the only chipmunk children in existence. Yet they're still involved in consistently sexualized and flirtatious interspecies encounters, even though they're always referred to as "children" no matter the continent. It's a world that's charmingly naive, and just a little bit gross.

It's a Mad Mad Mad Mad World filled with aimless rich people exploiting youth. Taking full advantage of this, and putting Dave to shame, are the wealthy brother/sister duo, Klaus and Claudia Furschtien. They drink, they chain smoke, they plot evil, nonsensical schemes out of the local diner.

Bored with endless money and their global diamond smuggling ring, they decide to make a wager on the Chipmunk children's competitive edge. How wonderful a world to be so rich that you hire animal children to fly competitively across the globe in hot air balloons to random, treacherous destinations to gather specially made doll replicas of themselves filled with cash and diamonds, and leave them at other remote destinations for the winning haul of $100,000. I admire Claudia's sense of humor, utter tastelessness and innovation. I also admire her willingness to ask the question, "What could possibly go wrong?" without irony. Not the best business sense perhaps, but they're doing well enough to live in Kyle MacLachlan's mansion from Showgirls.

It's exploitation at its best. Most evident when the Chipettes fall into the clutches of an underage Egyptian prince who holds them hostage and plans to make them his brides. Upon completing their mission and finding out that there's something suspicious about their suspicious trip, the girls fall into a snake pit. A terrifying prospect turns into a righteous band gig as the snakes take a liking to the girls and slink into synchronized motion.

You'd think the film was made by Disney considering all the weird sexual content crossed with hyper-emotive animals. The girls are surrounded by slithering snakes, belting out, "Wanna get lucky with you! Gettin' lucky is what it's all about! Gettin' lucky is something I can't do without." Before Britney Spears, the Lohans and Miley Cyrus, before sexting and tabloid crotch shots outside limousines, The Chipmunk movies were highlighting the sexual corruption of kids in the industry.

Not to mention gay acceptance.

Obscure Beauty: Dario Argento (Vol. III)

Fact: I love Dario Argento's films about as much as this girl loves the Bee Gees.

(Costume Design by Giorgio Armani. Seriously!)

We all must wish a Happy 70th Birthday to the one and only Dario Argento! Born September 7th, 1940, I'm forever indebted to his sensory, cinematic sort of alchemy. Here's to his masterful ability to pluck images from our innermost nightmares and steep them in eye-popping atmosphere. And technicolor!

So much beauty in a single frame! My eyes bleed.

(Editor's note: Frames more beautiful/visible when clicked to enlarge.)

More Argento visual delights here and here.

-- And, as always, syncing to my brain is JA over at My New Plaid Pants, who found similar inspiration in Argento's "memory cocktails" on this special day.

Return of the Living Retro Posters!

ANGEL

"High School Honor Student by Day.
Hollywood Hooker by Night."

So many bumper sticker options:

Proud Parent of (Reasonably Priced) Honor Roll Student

or, Proud Parent of a Hooker with Straight A's

CARNIVAL ROCK

"NO! don't touch me."

Rock out with the freaks!
Like everyone's favorite: "Clingy Divorced Guy!"

YOUTH AFLAME

"See... what happens to 100,000 teen-agers yearly!
Shocking Drama of Flaming Youth"

Fact: 100,000 teen-agers suffer yearly
from spontaneous combustion
and/or overt homosexual tendencies.

WHAT THE PEEPER SAW

"What he saw is what he did."

Upon seeing a woman drowning in her kiddie pool,
The Peeper did likewise.

DEADLY SUNDAY /
THE NIGHT AFTER HALLOWEEN

Nobody respects a desktop calendar.

--For more ravishing retro posters, check out the always addictive Wrong Side of the Art!

Eat, Pray, Retch

Virgin Viewings for the Month of August.

The Human Centipede (First Sequence)

What to make of a film where medically suctioning mouths to anuses seems old hat? Such is director Tom Six's already notorious story of a mad scientist hellbent on witnessing ultimate degradation by melding three bodies together to walk, eat, shit and die as one. Is Dr. Heiter merely a staunch believer in team sports, or did he just have too much time on his surgically-skilled hands?

The Human Centipede: First Sequence was bound to be a minor sensation in this Internet age. The concept seemed written in the stars -- or rather a gutter filled with needles and used condoms. Pure, excessive filth made for impure, simple thrills. It's a joke fit for a college dorm, a vulgar cartoon drawn on a bar napkin, "2 girls 1 cup" stretched to feature length. So why is the eventual film such a slog to get through? It's a wonder when the audience is left to say, "Get to the shitting already!" Vulgar films breed vulgar viewers.

It's almost like Tom Six knew that concept was enough to get twisted viewers in the door and keep them there. The rest of the plotting is as tired and worn out as the three lead characters after a long day of crawling around, defecating in tandem. Once our lead females (a truly dim duo of tourists) have car trouble in the backwoods, there's a sinking feeling that the film's thin conceit will remain just as thin until those obligatory shock scenes. Six's direction is detached and clinical, even somewhat restrained considering, but therein lies the problem. It's an exploitation film that wants you to purge in disgust, but rarely revels in its own shit -- no matter how much that shit is central to the plot. The film's central mad doctor (Dieter Laser) is delightfully odd and depraved, but the rest of the horror is inevitable rather than immersive.

This doesn't seem to be a Salo-like affair; there isn't the subtext or social commentary, or if it's there it's been diapered, bound and gagged more than the film's scientific monstrosity. Perhaps the impending sequel, The Final Sequence, will realize the strengths of its shock concept by not relying solely upon it. When all is said and done, The Human Centipede isn't awful, but it sure as hell should be.

A Serbian Film (Srpski film)

What sort of film could make The Human Centipede seem almost life-affirming? Leave it to some angry Serbians named Aleksandar Radivojevic and Srdjan Spasojevic, and their ode to family, snuff porn, and the intense urge to die. Cinematic therapy or cinematic torture? You decide, if you have the distaste to experience it -- or ever forget you've experienced it. In fact Centipede's central gross-out hardly measures up to the heinous acts that occur in A Serbian Film. To list any of them would destroy the film's primary merit and reason for viewing: It's fucking sick! And I put that as eloquently as this film would.

The basis is that a family man and retired porn thespian, Milos, is called back to the biz for a suspicious new project that promises to show the "art" in pornography. If he can keep it hot and hard, he gets tons of cold hard cash. The catch (there's always a catch when you're in Serbian snuff porn) is that the film's content will remain unknown to him. Needless to say his unspoken project ends up being unspeakably horrifying. You have to admire when a film builds to a character literally holding his own penis hostage.

For at least four or five of its many incendiary moments, I was genuinely repelled. As someone who seeks out this reprehensible breed of cinema, A Serbian Film still manages to pack a hateful punch. It's that rare breed of shock cinema that will gain a long lasting reputation -- like Cannibal Holocaust, the Nekromantik films, Irreversible, Salo, August Underground, and countless other films that aim to punish viewers into dying just a little inside.

I can't say A Serbian Film is as great (or awful) as a few of those, but it does include some of the most grim and vile acts ever witnessed on-screen. Some are done with skill, others are quite laughably obscene. Given the occasional shoddy prosthetic or sheer extremes of the content, I did laugh once or twice. Inappropriate behavior for a truly inappropriate movie. The most infamous scene -- which sets off a string of infamous scenes -- is also perhaps its least convincing. Known lovingly as "Newborn Porn" (the next great thing we're told), it's a scene so pointedly awful, and so pointedly cheap, that it cannot be taken as seriously as the act itself should merit. It's also worth noting that Milos (while wonderfully performed by Srdjan Todorovic) isn't really sympathetic. He knows full well that what he's getting involved in will be beyond despicable. What exactly is the best case scenario for a secret, underground Serbian snuff film? But in the end, A Serbian Film never aims to be sympathetic.

After Milos walks in on his son watching one of his own porn films, his wife lends the support, "It's a cartoon for the grownups." I feel somewhat similar in describing A Serbian Film. It's so over-the-top, excessive and aggressive toward the world that it exists in some sort of heightened state. It offends and it wants to. There's rape (to put it very lightly), murder, abuse, and it's all compounded to make the audience feel absolutely miserable. The creators claim it's all a metaphor toward the current state of Serbian life. I can accept that, whether or not I feel that at all justifies the literal translation into sodomizing mothers, infants and the deceased. In any case it works as a full on assault, and the filmmaking is more adept than one might anticipate. It's skillfully paced, wonderfully scored, well-acted, and the tone is manically vicious when it wants to be. Just as the snuff film director has his strange discussions about what is "art," so will viewers upon approaching A Serbian Film. If art is meant to provoke, then this is art. Icky, depressing art covered in blood, bruises, genitals and socioeconomic unrest.

Don't Let Anyone Say I Have Taste

Virgin Viewings for the Month of June

TROLL (1986)

directed by: John Carl Buechler

written by: Ed Naha

How odd that the irrelevant sequel to John Carl Buechler's irrelevant movie Troll has far surpassed it -- even with its lack of trolls or anything resembling a good movie. And yet I would never argue against that film's success. It's still in theatrical release due to a rabid cult following singing its praise and insurmountable weakness. Accordingly I have much love for its high-octane story of an innocent family exchange program and the anti-vegetarian hotbed of Nilbog (that's Goblin spelled backwards for you respectable types, or those of you living under a bridge). But it should come as no surprise that this, its predecessor, is in name only. Troll 2's chlorophyll buffets and triumph-by-bologna brilliance is in no way tied to this story of an apartment complex run afoul by witches, wizards and woodland trolls. The only thing in common is the sensation of being on bad shrooms -- of which this one has cast in a supporting role.

A little girl crosses paths with a troll in the laundry room of her family's new apartment building. Possessing her body with the aid of a mystical ring, the trolls infiltrate the complex and wage war to win back their magical realm. Along for the fantasy is Julia Louis Dreyfus as a an actress turned forest nymph, and Sonny Bono as a player turned... some cheap makeup effect.

Director Buechler (Friday the 13th, Part VII: The New Blood) creates an inoffensive fantasy filled with practical (and practically all unappealing) visual effects. It's charming in the way of many mid-80's films of its ilk -- an all nonsense romp that aims to be childlike and excessive in equal measure. It's like the dollar bin version of Gremlins, whereas Troll 2 would feel more at home in the discount bin of a 98 cent store. Troll will be discovered for years to come with the success of Troll 2, only to leave fans disappointed when they realize that Buechler was far too aware of the film he was trying to make. Even if the best thing it has to offer is Sonny Bono turning to mold, it makes Troll 2 look far worse by comparison. And in the same weird way, infinitely better.

TRIP WITH THE TEACHER (1975)

directed and written by: Earl Barton

The smallest class ever goes on a trip across California to see the majestic sights, embrace the native culture, and flee rapist bikers in the exploitation flick Trip with the Teacher. If you've done your homework, there's not much here you haven't seen in the grindhouse cannon, but the same pleasures and disgust to be found here as in flicks like I Spit On Your Grave. Throw caution to the wind (as well as your knowledge of pace and editing) and hop on the bus!

Four schoolgirls tag along with their teacher, with a course load consisting largely of the finding out who's the bigger slut. Along for the ride is (short)bus driver Martin, and two maniacal bikers with a need for speed and sex with minors. It's a fun afternoon of waving from the bus (and murdering gas station attendants) before the bus breaks down and our pretty pupils are left to rely on the help of the devious duo, Pete and Al -- as well as another stray biker who unwittingly joins the fold. The doom-struck stars have aligned... or is that alined?

A brief lesson in spelling?

Marvin the bus driver is also struck -- unfortunately it's by a motorcycle at top speed. To cover their tracks, Pete and Al turn the road trip into a crash course on torture and sexual degradation. The teacher Miss Tenney uses her mental strength to try and free the girls, while the students have their own unique approach. The primary slut's gung-ho method is to fuck the psychopaths into leaving her alone, while the more chaste students decide just to make a run for it. Miss Tenney unintentionally gives her girls a rounded education, but who'll live long enough to graduate?

If you can bear all the rape and interminably lengthy shots, Trip with the Teacher is an amusing detour. The delight is in the dated, anti-stylistic bumbling, funky music cues, editing flubs and shoddy T&A. The latter of which seems almost too tame given the exploitative aim of the "script." Even if it's about schoolgirls, this film has anything but class. It's nasty to be sure, but then it doesn't always rub your face in it.

The Town That Dreaded Retro Posters!

(Road Games)

"Animal... Vegetable... Or MURDER?"

Oh, it's just Jamie Lee Curtis fashionably impeding traffic.

(The Alternative)

"As sensitive as it is provocative..."

Let's hope there's an alternative for

these porcelain doll fetishists and

the world's last remaining collectible figurine.

(Maniac)

"Killing is his passion,

Money is his motive."

Exposing himself to sunsets is just his hobby.

(The Ladies Club)

"The rapists who attack these women are

about to have their lives permanently altered."

Official Ladies Club Meeting:

When: After midnight (vengeance permitting)

Where: A dark alley

BYO: Side dish and castration device (to share)

(The Jesus Trip)

"Waco's bunch rode hard and fast to meet their fate...

and Sister Anna rode with them!"

There's nothing easy about this easy rider!

She's headed for heaven like hell on wheels!

Rich People Spoiling Themselves... and the City

Samantha makes a "Lawrence of My Labia" joke. Check.

As Carrie and Big sit at home, snuggling close to watch black and white classics like It Happened One Night, I'm reminded of the fact that 80 years from now I'll be longing for the same simple delights: a film where the subtlety of an exposed leg during a cross-country fling exuded all the sexuality and cinematic sparkle lacking when a character fellates a hookah, and riding a camel becomes obvious punning of someone's camel toe.

A film like Sex and the City 2 shouldn't be treated with the scathing reviews it's getting perhaps (such as the one you're currently reading), when it so aggressively thrusts its superfluous extremes in our faces. We're told by the marketing that this franchise is merely an excuse for women to get together and hang with their cinematic girlfriends. Go shopping without leaving the theatre, cruise men too hot to meet in public, and relish in the daily drama. We're supposed to relate to this fabulous foursome, but it's really hard to emotionally connect with a piece of clothing. Fun to look at, good for a night out, but so easy to hang back in our closet and forget about. And I've absolutely no desire to wear it a second time.

We are living in a material world and she is a material girl.

Our dire economic woes are a narrative excuse for these characters to splurge and spend innocuous amounts of money in other countries. So why is this massively popular, escapist entertainment acknowledging the strife of the American people, all the while making excessive consumerism its central draw. Does a third world country need to go broke so I can see cute handbags on a thirty foot screen? The fifteen dollar ticket price seems to coincide. I'm bitter and penniless as I watch these women spend their annoyingly endless incomes with reckless abandon. They buy thousands of dollars worth of cute, over-dramatized dresses to ride camels across the Abu Dhabi desert. Who are these women trying so desperately to impress? More importantly, why is anyone impressed?

Any vulgarity comes less from the stale innuendos than it does from the lack of awareness in these characters. Where once this series had massive heart, wit and style, there's a giant cardboard landscape tacked with glitter. As the celeb cameos come fast and furious, the fantastical flights of fancy a constant, it exposes the hollow core of these films. Such a great ensemble, admittedly opulent design, once sharp and savvy writing (Michael Patrick King needs a comeback Valerie Cherish style) has been traded for lavish consumerism and a shred of plot here and there. This isn't so much a movie as a gaudy catalogue of things you don't need and can't afford. For a film that's purely light fluff, it's as bulky and awkward as one of Carrie's eye-searing hats.

Robin Leach recommends scaling it back.

I'd be sold on the spectacle if it were tied to some emotional restraint. Simply put: Stop shrieking, Charlotte! Your child won't stop screaming with good reason: it's genetic. Stop overcompensating, Samantha! If you're a strong, sexy, independent woman who can have any man she wants, you probably don't need to deep throat whatever's in your vicinity to snag a man who already bought you dinner. Stop being a know-it-all, Miranda! Just because you quit your job doesn't mean you're now a Wikipedia entry on fucking everything. As for Carrie, she pretty much stays true to her character. Falling into old patterns of deceit, fear of being boring (if she only knew), and running from relationships right at the point when real feelings start to translate.

Even the admirable attempts at female empowerment are consistently undermined by the fixation on finding ways to show off their tits in designer gowns in a country that views it with disrespect. No self-respecting American woman would argue the limitations of a country that forces women to eat french fries from behind a veil, but it's a hideous thought that behind these burkas are the same vain, materialistic women and Dior labels. Please ask your Muslim girlfriend if she's a Carrie, a Miranda, a Charlotte or a Samantha. A love for excess and fashion shouldn't be on par with having a voice, and when it comes to Carrie's neurotic prattling and Charlotte's judgmental breakdowns, there are times when a vow of silence should be honored. The vitriolic New Yorker reviews in the film are about the only shred of self-awareness offered up.

So what to take from the overpriced popcorn drama that is Sex and the City 2? What once was seminal series about strong women and stronger cocktails is now just another manufactured label. And all women, as this movie will tell you, are obsessed with labels. A certain level of excess was always part of the series, but I always sensed the creators were more invested in emotions than in promoting the new iPhone. Until these women officially become The Golden Girls they were inspired by -- trading in their platforms for polyester -- we can expect more generic tourist pamphlets for the mega rich. What's left then? The men, ironically. Gorgeous bodies, winning smiles, and a whole lot of subtle sex appeal (Samantha's new Danish man, Max Ryan, is worth her incessant raving about hot flashes). As just another of the film's superfluous visual delights, at least they're not hidden by labels. Or clothing for that matter.