Sep 13, 2016

Communion




Even years before the premiere of The X-Files when I was a little kid that just learned how to ride a bike without training wheels, I was obsessed with extraterrestrials, UFOs, and especially Grey Aliens. Indeed, when the love of my life told me when we first met that she stopped eating red meat as a child because of alien cattle mutilations, I knew I had found my soulmate.  In fact, I unwittingly developed a nearly decade long obsession simply because I randomly happened upon the iconic grey alien graphics used by the skateboard company Alien Workshop (AWS). Even with my later adult obsession with the most arcane and impenetrable of experimental and arthouse cinema, I can still say without hesitation that my favorite TV series of all time is still The X-Files, though I must admit that the last couple of seasons were rather pathetic. In fact, after recently watching the somewhat disappointing 2016 tenth season entitled ‘The Event Series,’ I could not help but subsequently re-watch every single episode of the entire series, which I followed up with every single episode of the somewhat underrated but nonetheless inferior NBC UFO conspiracy theory–based sci-fi television series Dark Skies (1996-1997) starring Eric Close and Megan Ward. Featuring a movie-like pilot that was directed by Tobe Hooper, Dark Skies is unfortunately plagued with unintentionally kitschy special effects that pale in comparison to those of The X-Files, yet they are still largely superior to those of the flagrantly flawed, sometimes nonsensical, and oftentimes unintentionally humorous cult item Communion (1989) directed by French-born Jewish-Australian documentarian turned horror/exploitation trash auteur Philippe Mora (Mad Dog Morgan, Pterodactyl Woman from Beverly Hills).  Probably best known nowadays for the uniquely horrendous Howling (anti)sequels Howling II: Your Sister Is a Werewolf (1985) and Howling III: The Marsupials (1987), Mora might be described as a sort of Mel Brooks of Aussie horror trash, hence why Communion—a film based on the 1987 ‘nonfiction’ novel of the same name by Whitley Strieber—is such a rather ridiculous flick as a unbelievably convoluted cinematic work with next to nil plot that attempts to take an ostensibly serious approach to the depiction of an extra neurotic and eccentric Christopher Walken receiving alien anal probes and dancing with so-called ‘Little Blue Doctor’ aliens, among other things.



 Feeling like the marvelously misbegotten result of an atheistic nonbeliever of the UFO religion trying in vain to make a relatively realistic alien abduction drama that is supposedly based on a true story but instead siring a pseudo-psychoanalytic psychodrama featuring tons of reference to degenerate art about a wholly fictional eccentric Jewish NYC comedian type that seems nothing like the real-life Strieber who is on the brink of a total mental breakdown and attempts to blame it on rectum-reaming little green men, Communion is an unequivocal cinematic disaster that is somehow compelling due to the film's leading man Christopher Walken’s singularly whacky performance, primitive pre-CGI in-camera special effects, and the overall awkward and emotionally schizophrenic tone. Notably, long before the film or the novel it was based on were ever conceived, director Mora and writer Strieber began what would become a longtime friendship after meeting each other in a sort of London beatnik scene during the late-1960s (notably, Mora also befriended the film's composer Eric Clapton around this same time).  While the two apparently lost contact at same point during the next two decades, Strieber reunited with Mora in the 1980s after the latter just completed his fairly weak war drama Death of a Soldier (1986) starring James Coburn and confided in him that he believed that he had been abducted by aliens, so the filmmaker recommended that he both write about his experiences and see a psychiatrist (or as Mora stated himself, “He didn’t know whether he should get a psychiatrist or publisher . . . And I encouraged him to get both.”). After taking various lie detector tests and receiving extensive testing for temporal lobe epilepsy and other brain abnormalities, Strieber—a horror writer who, somewhat suspiciously, already became famous for novels like The Wolfen (1978) and The Hunger (1981), which were both eventually adapted into movies, before he was ever abducted by aliens—became thoroughly convinced that he indeed made contacts with visitors though, as Mora’s movie makes quite clear, he has always been conflicted with the exact nature of his experiences (for instance, Strieber is not even sure if they were actually aliens and has hinted that he might have been a lifelong victim of government intelligence and/or military agencies). 



 While Mora found Strieber’s claims to be somewhat dubious (as the director has noted in various places, while he does not doubt that his friend is telling the truth, he doubts the circumstances surrounding his claims), Mr. Walken—a mensch that seems far too cynical and smug to believe anything that he cannot see, buy, touch, eat, fuck, and/or kill—is a total unbeliever and in the film it totally shows. Undoubtedly, Communion seems like it was made more as platform for Walken to go wild and express his deepest and darkest emotions than to take a serious look at the reality of the alien question. In fact, Strieber, who comes off as a fairly normal and sedate WASP, saw nothing of himself in Walken’s performance and was dissatisfied with the film before it was even released, not least of all because it features scenes of improvisation that sometimes resembles bad avant-garde performance art (rather revealingly, when Strieber confronted Walken with his concern that he was making him seem a little too bit crazy, the actor apparently arrogantly replied, “If the shoe fits”).  Undoubtedly, it is not a bad sign when a director creates a film based on a true story about a longtime friend and that friend is completely disappointed with it.  Additionally, it is not a good sign when a mainstream movie based on a longtime #1 New York Times bestseller is both a commercial and critical failure.

Ultimately, Communion feels like a sort of preposterously pretentious psychological horror-comedy disguised as a sci-fi-cum-drama that features the novelty of a quite pompous and Jew-y NYC intellectual type with marriage problems that collects shitty overpriced modern art being abducted by aliens, but then again one could argue that the movie is really about a megalomaniacal human dildo that mentally deteriorates on the weight of his own insanely inflated ego. While Strieber apparently collects the sort of tasteless modern art that is featured in the film, he seems nothing like the sometimes insufferable and egocentrically unhinged neo-dandy dickhead that Walken portrays in the film. Of course, as a film that features the famously quirky Hollywood actor being anally probed and in a S&M-like scene where he is strapped naked to a sort of makeshift alien experiment table, Communion is indubitably both the foremost film for Christopher Walken fetishists and a potent piece of evidence that Mr. Mora might be a latent homo (after all, in his debut feature Mad Dog Morgan (1976), the filmmaker would include a scene where Dennis Hopper is brutally raped in prison). 




 Interestingly, in a 1951 letter to an American friend, alpha-psychoanalyst C.G. Jung—a somewhat unexpected innovator in the field aliens and UFOs studies who began collecting data on the subject as early as 1946—wrote, “I’m puzzled to death about these phenomena, because I haven’t been able yet to make out with sufficient certainty whether the whole thing is a rumor with concomitant singular and mass hallucination, or a downright fact. Either case would be highly interesting. If it’s a rumor, then the apparition of discs must be a symbol produced by the unconscious. We know what such a thing would mean seen from the psychological standpoint. If on the other hand it is a hard and concrete fact, we are surely confronted with something thoroughly out of the way. At a time when the world is divided by an iron curtain—a fact unheard-of in human history—we might expect all sorts of funny things, since when such a thing happens in an individual it means a complete dissociation, which is instantly compensated by symbols of wholeness and unity. The phenomenon of the saucers might even be both, rumor as well as fact. In this case it would be what I call a synchronicity. It’s just too bad that we don’t know enough about it.” In Mora’s Communion, there is not the faintest piece of evidence that aliens and spaceships are the product of the protagonist’s unconscious, as it is only when he has made ‘contact’ and been ‘abducted’ that his mind begins to deteriorate.  Additionally, the protagonist is more petrified at the thought of being mentally ill than being experimented on by aliens, hence why he comes to almost like the extraterrestrials once he realizes that he has indeed been abducted.  After all, the film is set in Reaganite America when hedonism, materialism, escapism, and Hollywood fantasy were at an all-time high and the Cold War began to cool as a result of ‘perestroika’ and ‘glasnost’ appeared in the Soviet Union, thus it should be no surprise that it fails to take a Jungian approach and explain the psychological and cultural implications of alien abduction.

As a film made in the age of friendly extraterrestrial likes the eponymous alien of Spielberg's E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial (1982), the film could not have been made at a worst time, hence its abject commercial and critical failure. Despite being supposedly based on real events, Communion features completely abstract moments of darkly humorous quasi-Fellini-esque surrealism that come completely out of left field in what seems to be auteur Mora’s semi-cryptic attempt to critique the entire subject of the film. While the aliens in the film have dubious intentions that involve anal play, they are quite cartoonish (for example, the grey aliens seem like they were designed for the clay animation franchise Gumby) and are hardly grotesquely sinister in physical appearance like the disgustingly erotic extraterrestrials of Xtro (1982) and Alien (1979). Featuring a protagonist that has a bizarrely intricate form of writer’s block where he begins to question both his own sanity and entire life, Communion feels like what might happen if a man with the mind of Larry David and the body of Walken was abducted by perverted extraterrestrials that read too much Freud and not enough Jung, hence the film's Judaic auteur. 




 The year is 1985 and despite being a successful NYC writer that is rich enough to own original pieces of degenerate modern art, Whitley Strieber (Christopher Walken) is beginning to have dubious psychological problems as revealed at the very beginning of the film after he wakes up in the middle of the night as a result of feeling some sort of presence in his bedroom that he cannot quite wrap his mind around. It all starts on October 4 while Strieber is writing on his computer and it “fucks him” by crashing, thus causing him to lose a day’s worth of work. Indeed, when his wife Anne (played by Lindsay Crouse, who was notably married to Zionist writer David Mamet at that time) and his young son Andrew (Joel Carlson) come home, Strieber complains with an exaggerated Yiddish accent, “oy vey what a day” and then goes on to describe how he believes “the computer turned off for a reason” because “the book I’m writing is no good.” While Strieber does not know it yet, he is indeed correct as he will have an inexplicable experience that night in his cabin that will eventually lead to him writing a very different sort of novel. After firefighters arrive at his apartment as a result of him burning dinner, Strieber drives his wife, son, friend Alex (Andreas Katsulas), and Alex’s lady friend to his remote cabin in the woods of upstate New York. That night while lying in bed and acting like a jackass, Strieber attempts to get his wife to say something “dirty” by asking her, “Can you say erection?,” but the fun and games soon come to an end after everyone falls asleep when a bright light randomly fill the inside of cabin and the protagonist soon sees an almond-eyed ‘grey’ (who is actually dark yellow) peeping at him from behind a cabinet in his room. While everyone is awakened by the aliens and a grey even ‘zaps’ Strieber on the head with some sort of instrument, no one in the house can recollect exactly what happened the next day, though everyone seems to suspect something strange happened.  As a result of he and his lady friend being completely spooked by something that they cannot quite describe, Alex, who is a sort goofy foreign Hebrew with a ridiculous fake accent, becomes inordinately belligerent and angrily demands, “Take us home, Whitley.” As Strieber will eventually discover while under experimental hypnosis, he was the victim of aliens with a bunghole fetish. 




 While everything initially seems normal after the unexplained cabin experience, it becomes quite obvious a couple weeks later that things are not quite right when Strieber freaks out and screams at a 13-year-old girl sporting a fly mask at a Halloween party after he mistakes her for a sinister insectoid alien. Indeed, as a result of making a supreme ass of himself in front of their mutual bourgeois friends, Strieber’s wife Anne berates him and declares in a fashion that reveals that she is not a fan of motherhood, “I’ve got one child. I don’t need another.” No longer acting like the Woody Allen-esque smart ass that she married, Anne also bitchily declares to Strieber, “You know, you used to be funny” after he gets extremely moody and yells at her simply because she attempts to be nice and do her wifely duties by cleaning his extremely cluttered work space. Naturally, Strieber’s son Andrew also begins to realize that something is wrong with his father and eventually asks him why he is always “sad,” but he lies and simply states, “I’m having a hard time, you know, with my writing.”

When the family goes back to their cottage right after Christmas, Strieber has another abduction experience where he begins to become convinced that he is being experimented on by extraterrestrial beings. Indeed, while in bed, Strieber is abducted by cloaked ‘little blue doctor’ aliens with grotesque negro-like faces while his hysterical wife looks like she is having a hellish orgasm while in a seemingly semi-paralyzed state. The next day, Strieber, who is beginning to realize what is happening to him, becomes sick and suffers a horrible migraine. Upon looking at her husband’s head, Anne finds a strange mark on Strieber’s head that looks like a spider bite that ultimately proves to be a scar from an alien implant. As a result of his moody and erratic behavior, Anne berates Strieber that night by mocking him for being “scared of shadows” and then demands to him, “you come back to me,” as if she believes that he has totally lost him mind.  Determined not to become a victim of enigmatic beings for a second night during his Christmas vacation, Strieber whips out a shotgun while his wife bitches at him, “I’m sick of this macho bullshit. You’re so self-indulgent.” Ultimately, Strieber almost blows a hole in his wife with his shotgun after seeing a little blue doctor hiding behind a vase in his cabin, thus leading to the family heading back to NYC so that the protagonist can get so much needed help. 




 When her son Andrew asks if god exists and Anne replies, “I hope so […] but nobody knows,” it becomes clear that the little boy was also visited by the aliens after he replies, “So were all alone, except for the little blue doctors. They come to the cabin. They have big black eyes. They’re really scary. They said, ‘We won’t hurt you,’ but I prayed for them to go away but they kept just shining their lights on me. God didn’t make them go away.” After talking to his wife, Strieber reluctantly agrees to see a psychiatrist that “specializes in rape cases” named Dr. Janet Duffy (Frances Sternhagen). Like the Strieber family, Dr. Duffy collects degenerate modern art, though she also seems to have a stereotypical white bourgeois liberal fetish for primitive tribal African art. Indeed, the various pieces of art in Dr. Duffy’s home make the place almost seem more extraterrestrial than the interior of the alien's spaceship. When Strieber visits Dr. Duffy and she recommends that he receive hypnotic regression therapy, he initially refuses and arrogantly declares to his wife, “I’d stick pins in my eyeballs before I’d let that whacko woman fool with me […] She should pay me.” After becoming annoyed with his irrational behavior, Anne decides enough is enough and makes the following ultimatum to her “selfish prick” husband: “I’m gonna tell you something. You’re gonna go back in that woman’s office, we’re going to find out what is wrong with you, or we’re not going to have any marriage left.” Needless to say, Strieber reluctantly agrees and soon discovers the true nature of his abduction experiences. 




 During his first session of hypnotic regression therapy, Strieber experiences both vivid literal flashbacks and sort of surreal nightmares that inspire him to nonsensically proclaim, “The world is blowing up. My boy is dead.” Totally unable to deal with the experience, Strieber quits the session before he really discovers anything truly insightful and proclaims to Dr. Duffy, “I don’t need this. Bad dreams.” Indeed, it is only when Strieber talks to his son about “little blue doctors” and “tall thin ones” and realizes that he is more afraid of the aliens than his little boy that he gets the testicular fortitude to once again go under hypnosis. While Andrew finds the aliens to be somewhat “scary,” he also describes them to his father as being, “soft and perfect.” While under hypnosis, Strieber recalls being anally probed by one of the little blue doctors with a high-tech vibrator that is pulled from a hole in the wall of a spaceship. Upon realizing his anal cavity is about to be assaulted by a scary shiny object of unknown origin, Strieber tries in vain to reason with the aliens by stating, “Can we talk this over? It looks like you’re gonna sing White Christmas,” but naturally the aliens have no interest in arguing with smart ass NYC intellectuals.  The aliens also strap Strieber’s nude body to an operating table where they proceed to conduct dubious experiments. As a result of Strieber’s ‘successful’ hypnotic regression therapy, Dr. Duffy becomes convinced that he is indeed a genuine victim of alien abduction and invites him to become part of a support group for fellow abductees, which include a paranoid policeman and a couple whiny Jewesses. During the group session, Strieber meets a woman that claims her unborn fetus was stolen from her by aliens and talks to another that mentions that both her daughter and granddaughter were also been abducted.  Eventually, Strieber begins to believe that he was first abducted when he was a little boy and that his son is also being abducted.




 While dressed like a sort of culturally confused Gothic Latino pimp and seeming inordinately jubilant like a Bipolar person that is suffering from a manic episode, Strieber declares to his wife that he is going out for “a pack of cigarettes” even though he does not smoke and then heads to the woods of upstate New York so that he can confront his alien tormentors. Rather magically and inexplicably, Strieber somehow manages to effortlessly find the aliens, who are inside what looks more like an extravagant outhouse than a spaceship. Instead of being afraid, Strieber is quite friendly with the aliens and greets them with high-fives and a present in the form of a camcorder, thus inspiring the extraterrestrials to dance like autistic toddlers. Before Strieber knows it, he finds himself confronted by his doppelganger, who is dressed like a magician and who is no less arrogant than the protagonist. When Strieber remarks, “I am the dreamer and you’re the dream,” he gets somewhat of a shock when his doppelganger replies, “The only thing that matters is what I’m about to show you” and then reveals to him a partially unmasked grey alien, which has grotesque flesh that looks like something in between that of an insect and a rotting human corpse. When the doppelganger then reveals that it is not actually the alien’s face, Strieber humorously replies, “You’re not gonna let us see you. That’s a good idea.” Apparently, the alien’s true head is something like a Russian nesting doll (aka matryoshka doll) though, like with everything else regarding his abductions experiences, Strieber is not sure what is actually true.   As far as Strieber is concerned, he is just glad that he is not insane.





 After his eventful experience with the alien doppelganger, Strieber goes home happy as if he has a experienced a massive life-changing revelation and proudly declares to his wife that he was “chosen” by the aliens. At this point, Anne seems to have finally accepted that her husband is not actually nuts and their deteriorating marriage begins to repair. Notably, the married couple go to an art museum where Strieber stands in front of a Jackson Pollock painting while his wife fittingly stands in front of a Lee Krasner painting. At this point, Strieber reveals his true feelings regarding his extraterrestrial experiences by softly stating, “It would be narcissistic of use to feel alone in the universe. People used to think the world was flat – it’s the center of things. It excludes the possibility of visitors. It’s really another kind of the same kind of thinking. The world is getting so small that it would be nice to meet someone new,” to which his wife supportively replies, “I don’t know what you saw. It doesn’t matter. It’s just god. You saw something extraordinary. There are many faces of god. Masks of god.” Anne then tells her husband he is “different” and that, in regard to the aliens, “I think they gave you a gift. You better use it.” Naturally, Strieber soon begins writing a new book, which would ultimately be what the film was adapted from. In the end, Strieber thinks that the aliens have come to visit him one night, so he more or less forces his wife and son to follow him to the top of their apartment building to greet the extraterrestrial begins, but he is ultimately disappointed when he does not find any aliens on his roof. Of course, everyone knows that aliens do not abduct people in overpopulated cities where they would be easily spotted. 




 For better or worse, Communion is probably the most thoughtful and abstract film that has ever been made on the subject on supposedly real-life aliens, even if it is an incoherent and singularly unintentionally humorous mess of a movie that was directed by a man that seems to have about as much as interest in real-life alien abductions as Tarantino does in cinematically portraying authentic human pathos and eros. Notably, auteur Philippe Mora has described the surreal scene near the end of the film where the protagonist actively confronts the aliens as an ‘ode’ to Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968).  Although seemingly impossible to tell while watching the scene, it should also be noted that Mora opted to have the protagonist’s doppelganger dressed as a magician because he believes that any act of contact between aliens and humans would have to be a “magical” experience. Personally, I believe that this strangely zany magic act is just one of the many indications in the film that Mora does not believe that his friend Strieber was actually abducted by aliens, as if the director wanted to distance himself from the ostensible reality of his friend's experiences as much as possible lest he be labelled a UFO nutjob.  Surely, it is hard for me to imagine someone watching Communion and then coming to the conclusion that Strieber is a reliable victim of alien abduction and all it entails.  If I were to guess, I would assume that Strieber was more than victim of too many youthful acid trips than alien anal probes.  As if to make a feeble attempt to capitalize off of the marginal cult status that his feature would eventually acquire, Mora would later go on to direct a quasi-documentary with the rather revealing title According to Occam's Razor (1999) where he spends a good portion of the time debunking UFO nuts in what is ultimately a glorified home movie that reveals more about the director’s psyche than anything about the fact and fiction of extraterrestrials. 




 As someone that is fairly familiar with most of Mora’s cinematic oeuvre, I can only assume that the only thing that the filmmaker truly believes is that Uncle Adolf was the most evil man that ever lived as indicated by his documentaries and especially his arguable magnum opus Snide and Prejudice (1998), which more or less depicts an abridged history of the Third Reich as acted out by mental patients portraying Nazi leaders and fittingly presided over by a flagrantly Jewish psychoanalyst named Dr. Cohen that indubitably acts as a stand-in for the director.  Surely no novice to the subject of National Socialism, the film makes references to the more esoteric elements of Nazi history, including the somewhat enigmatic völkisch occult group the Thule Society, which acted as the genesis of what would eventually become the National Socialist German Workers' Party (aka Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei aka NSDAP). The son of a French Jewish Resistance fighter turned restaurateur and gallery owner whose first important film was the Nazi doc Swastika (1973), Mora may have spent most of his filmmaking career directing low-camp kitsch and hokey horror trash, but Snide and Prejudice reveals that he has a striking pathological obsession with Hitler and National Socialism that seems to rival that of the average UFO conspiracy theorist. Needless to say, Mora’s doc According to Occam's Razor, which has an entire segment dedicated to the Third Reich, attempts to make the dubious claim that the Nazis met aliens and that an Arno Breker statue might have been the very first depiction of a nude human body that aliens had ever seen.  In short, Mora's doc unequivocally demonstrates that he believes that UFO conspiracy theories are a sad and laugable joke and that he probably only went to the effort of directing Communion to capitalize off of the great success of his friend Strieber's hit novel.





 Interestingly, in his published letter On Flying Saucers, C.G. Jung wrote, “What astonishes me most of all is that the American Air Force, despite all the information it must possess, and despite its alleged fear of creating a panic similar to the once which broke out in New Jersey on the occasion of [Orson] Welles’s radio play [The War of the Worlds], is systematically working towards that very thing by refusing to release an authentic and reliable account of the facts. All we have to go on is the occasional information squeezed out by journalists. It is therefore impossible for the uninitiated to form an adequate picture of what is happening. Although for eight years I have been collecting everything that came within my reach, I must admit I am no further forward today than I was at the beginning. I still do not know what we are up against with these ‘flying saucers.’ The reports are so weird that, granted the reality of these phenomena, one feels tempted to compare them with parapsychological happenings. Because we lack any sure foundation, all speculation is worthless. We must wait and see what the future brings. So-called ‘scientific’ explanations, such as Menzel’s reflection theory, are possible only if all the reports that fail to fit the theory are conveniently overlooked.” To quote Fox Mulder’s famous poster in response to Jung's remarks, “I Want to Believe,” but rather unfortunately the evidence is strangely lacking. While ostensibly depicting the real-life abduction of a mainstream horror novelist, Communion also features a semi-cryptic believer-skeptic dialectic and that is arguably the greatest and most revealing attribute of the entire film, but then again one also cannot go wrong with Christopher Walken bitching to aliens about being anally probed.  In its glaring inclusion of awkward and seemingly nonsensical scenes, including Walken putting on a grey alien mask and telling his doppelganger, “I am the dreamer and you’re the dream” in a segment that can hardly be described as a literal depiction of an alien abduction, Mora's film also anticipates the sort of postmodern meta elements of the more satirical episodes of The X-Files, which is surely fitting considering that both Strieber's book and Mora's movie are parodied in the classic third season episode “Jose Chung's From Outer Space,” which is notable for featuring Mulder screaming with a faggoty falsetto voice upon discovering what he assumes is a dead grey alien corpse.


In his essay UFOs In Modern Painting, Jung noted in regard to what he perceived as the nihilistic apocalyptic degeneracy of modern art,  “Whilst I was collecting the material for this essay, I happened to come across the work of a painter who, profoundly disturbed by the way things are going in the world today, has given expression to the fundamental fear of our age—the catastrophic outbreak of destructive forces which everyone dreads. It is, indeed, a law of painting to give visible shape to the dominant trends of the age, and for some time now painters have taken as their subject the disintegration of forms and the ‘breaking of tables,’ creating pictures which, abstractly detached from meaning and feeling alike, are distinguished by their ‘meaninglessness’ as much as by their deliberate aloofness from the spectator. These painters have immersed themselves in the destructive element and have created a new conception of beauty, one that delights in the alienation of meaning and of feeling. Everything consists of debris, unorganized fragments, holes, distortions, overlappings, infantilisms, and crudities which outdo the clumsiest attempts of primitive art and belie the traditional idea of skill. Just as women’s fashions find every innovation, however absurd and repellent, ‘beautiful,’ so too does modern art of this kind. It is the ‘beauty’ of chaos. That is what this art heralds and eulogizes: the gorgeous rubbish heap of our civilization. It must be admitted that such an undertaking is productive of fear, especially when allied to the political possibilities of our catastrophic age. One can well imagine that in an epoch of the ‘great destroyers’ it is a particular satisfaction to be at least the broom that sweeps the rubbish into the corner.”  Of course, Jung's analysis, especially in regard to, “debris, unorganized fragments, holes, distortions, overlappings, infantilisms, and crudities which outdo the clumsiest attempts of primitive art and belie the traditional idea of skill,” is a great way to describe the oftentimes captivating cinematic disaster that is Communion, which was not directed by the son of a degenerate artist mother and galley owner father for no reason.  Additionally, it is no coincidence that the film references artistic works ranging from Giorgio de Chirico to Pollock to primitive African tribal art.  Indeed, only a sick and self-destructive society with an apocalyptic death wish could glorify the infantile tribal expressions of negro savages or the glorified finger-painting of a Jewess-loving shabbos goy pricks like Pollock, just as only a troubled and disturbed world could produce mass delusions about little grey men that anally assault dumb hicks from the sticks.  While I would love to believe, my cynicism tells me that Jung was probably right when he soundly speculated that the UFO phenomenon is largely the expression of post-religious Occidental man's disturbed collective unconscious. Either way, Communion is infinitely more entertaining than Spielberg's Close Encounters of the Third Kind (1977) where Monsieur Truffaut makes contact with the most banally benign aliens of cinema history.

  


-Ty E

Sep 4, 2016

Der Bunker




Aside from a couple major exceptions like the late great kraut Renaissance man Christoph Schlingensief and underground arthouse-splatter auteur Jörg Buttgereit, Teutonic film has mostly been a dreary wasteland since the death of Rainer Werner Fassbinder in 1982 and, in turn, New German Cinema with it. Indeed, the films of the so-called ‘Berliner Schule’ (aka Berlin School) are mostly a sad, pretentious, and plodding joke that seem to reflect the worst cliches of the arthouse world, or as Oskar Roehler—a decidedly degenerate director that has at least directed a couple of somewhat worthwhile films, including Agnes und seine Brüder (2004) aka Agnes and His Brothers and Atomised (2006) aka The Elementary Particles—once rightly said regarding the largely anti-cinematic and equally soulless works of the Berlin School, “they are always slow, always depressing, nothing is ever really said in them.”  Luckily, things have been changing somewhat in the German cinema world as reflected in genuinely entertaining, original, and highly re-watchable films like Katrin Gebbe’s Tore tanzt (2013) aka Nothing Bad Can Happen and Till Kleinert’s bizarre killer tranny genre-bender Der Samurai (2014). Undoubtedly, one of the most bold and entertaining contemporary Aryan actors is Kleinert regular Pit Bukowski who, despite being quite apt at playing waywardly eccentric characters as demonstrated by his uniquely unflattering performance as the eponymous character of Der Samurai, revealed in Greek-German auteur Nikias Chryssos’ unclassifiable art-trash chamber romp Der Bunker (2015) that he can also play lame and annoyingly passive-aggressive college students. A film with a title that humorously inspires images of Uncle Adolf contemplating his final days in the infamous Führerbunker, Chryssos’ debut feature is as immaculate and idiosyncratic as first films come.  Featuring highly memorable moments of absurdist family awkwardness and obscenely outmoded sets that rival David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977), grotesque characters that might be best described as crusty kraut equivalents to the mad Baltimorons of John Waters’ Pink Flamingos (1972), and unhinged quasi-incestuous eroticism and dementedly humorous family affairs that might fit somewhere in the same universe as Nikos Nikolaidis’ Singapore Sling (1990), the film is somewhat paradoxical in the sense that it is so patently preternatural yet also a rare contemporary German flick that could be enjoyed by American philistines that are allergic to reading subtitles or not used to watching films that do not feature token cardboard negro and/or arab characters. Like a Teutonic apocalyptic Napoleon Dynamite (2004) set in a creepily quaint dystopian fairytale land where a sort of metaphysical autism pollutes the atmosphere, Der Bunker is a film that somehow manages to simultaneously chill, bewilder, agitate, titillate, disgust, and humor, among other things.  Part narcotizing nightmare and part foul fantasy, Chryssos’ debut is also probably the only film that manages to reconcile the semitic slapstick of the Marx brothers with the low-camp homo humor of Herr Waters.



 If it were not for underrated New German Cinema filmmaker Hans W. Geißendörfer (Jonathan, Der Zauberberg aka The Magic Mountain)—a largely unknown auteur that had the distinguished honor of directing tragic white liberal Jean Seberg in her very last feature—and his daughter Hana acting as the film’s co-producers, it is very doubtful that Der Bunker would have ever been made. As a man that made his debut as a filmmaker with a darkly comedic anti-fascist vampire flick featuring real-life animal-killings and beauteous gothic pastoral scenes that resemble Caspar David Friedrich paintings at a time when his Aryan contemporaries were creating banal commie docs and static quasi-Godardian twaddle, old mensch Geißendörfer could probably appreciate Chryssos’ determination to make an insanely idiosyncratic film with a soul in an era where soulless Berlin School bullshit is all the rage among Deutschland’s spiritually sterilized and emotionally glacial cultural elite. Indeed, Der Bunker certainly was not directed by someone that jerks off to Sartre novels or seriously considers Marxist mischling agitpropagandist Harun Farocki to be a wise old cinematic elder. Despite being an audaciously bizarre piece of cinema that was co-produced by an old auteur that has directed films featuring hardcore incest and interfamilial fecal matters (e.g. Schneeland (2005)), Chryssos has credited a number of Hollywood and/or otherwise fairly mainstream movies as influencing the film. For example, the film features an emasculated father that wears a woman’s apron whilst doing woman’s work that was inspired by Jim Backus' insufferably pathetic character in Nicholas Ray’s Rebel Without a Cause (1955). Likewise, a strangely intense scene featuring a ‘boy’ cheating on a country capital verbal quiz was inspired by a famous showdown from Sergio Leone’s The Good, the Bad and the Ugly (1966). Undoubtedly, in his striking talent for paying homage in a uniquely unpredictable yet fairly seamless way to classic Hollywood films, Chryssos follows in the postmodern post-Hellenic tradition of Nikos Nikolaidis. It should also be noted that Chryssos has expressed in various interviews an appreciation for more impenetrable arthouse works ranging from Spanish junky auteur Iván Zulueta's cult masterpiece Arrebato (1980) to the classic Jap doc The Emperor's Naked Army Marches On (1987) to Belgian auteur Fabrice Du Welz's hellish anti-Heimat horror show Calvaire (2004) aka The Ordeal to Aleksey German's celluloid swansong Trudno byti bogom (2013) aka Hard to be a God



 Sort of like a delightfully demented dystopian update of a Brothers Grimm fairytale as assembled for a decidedly deracinated generation of Germans that sees their own rich culture and history as an intangible and outmoded novelty that is no longer applicable to the hopelessly Americanized Aryans of today (notably, the film makes references to great German thinkers ranging from Nietzsche to Heidegger in a variety of less than respectable ways, including kitschy busts and ridiculous philosophical lectures), Der Bunker is more or less like a short trip to a dark corner of postmodern Occidental purgatory in a insanely zany celluloid form. A cinematic work that works as both a trashy yet artsy exploitation flick and an esoteric art-trash parable that features a somewhat erratic emotional range the falls somewhere in between the darkly humorous anti-bourgeois absurdism of Luis Buñuel, the grade school Hollywood sentimentalism of The Goonies (1985), and the mirthfully grotesque eroticism of great polack pervert Walerian Borowczyk, Chryssos’ debut is a seemingly immaculate film that is, for better or worse, completely unforgettable. The bizarrely bittersweet story of a young college student that rents a room in what ultimately proves to be a WWII era forest bunker in the hope of getting the peace and quiet he needs to commence work on some arcane cross-field scientific theory, only to find himself being coerced into becoming the professor of a supposedly 8-year-old boy whose incredibly demented and equally delusional helicopter parents are grooming him to be the president of the United States despite the fact that he is a mentally disabled German retard that somehow resembles a misbegotten cartoon character from some forgotten Nickelodeon TV series from the early 1990s, Der Bunker is, at the most fundamental level, an anti-authoritarian film that was written and directed by a chap that is clearly glad he did not have a traditional Prussian education. Set in an surreally anachronistic maniac microcosm that is ruled over by a mentally unhinged matriarch who uses both her perky lactating tits and a demonic being that may or may not actually exist named ‘Heinrich’ as a means to control and manipulated everyone in her fairly small household, the film also critiques cults and cult-like families and how the heads of such groups will oftentimes use religion and/or some mythical ‘higher being’ as a justification for their dirty deeds. Thankfully, quite unlike many films that critique religion and discipline, Der Bunker is not obnoxious, condescending, or heavy-handed in its execution. Of course, in its depiction of a deranged cold cunt as the dictator of the household, the film also makes for an apt tribute to Angela Merkel era Germany. 



 Der Bunker begins with an unhinged wuss of beta-bitch father (David Scheller) absurdly talking about the “life-affirming” quality of a fried egg while eating breakfast with his wife and son in the kitchen of the titular home in a scene juxtaposed with Chopin’s Nocturne Opus 9, Number 2. The nameless ‘Father’ is a patently pathetic eccentric with a goofy outmoded mustache who is more or less the servile bitch of his strangely sexy yet creepily psychotic wife (Oona von Maydell) who does nothing around the house aside from dictating orders via a supposedly supernatural open wound in her thigh.  In terms of mentally unsound mommies that engage in sexually dubious activities with their sons, the Mother of the film cannot really compared to any other character in cinema history aside from possibly porn star Georgina Spelvin's character in Chuck Vincent's underrated non-pornographic horror-thriller-drama hybrid Bad Blood (1989) aka A Woman Obsessed.  While she does not engage in S&M style rape with her son like Spelvin's character in Vincent's film, the matriarch in Chryssos' flick does seem to derive great sexual satisfaction from breastfeeding her overgrown son.

The decidedly dysfunctional married couple of Der Bunker has big plans for their seemingly half-retarded, oversized 8-year-old son ‘Klaus’ (Daniel Fripan), who they are ruthlessly preparing to one day become the president of the United States despite the fact that he is a quasi-autistic kraut gnome with a fiercely flat affect who cannot even memorize the capitals of neighboring European nations. Indeed, despite the fact that homeschooling is strictly illegal in post-Hitler Deutschland, little Kraus is being groomed by his pseudo-intellectual father—an eccentric dilettante that dresses like a hobo who wants to give off the impression that he is actually a misunderstood genius—to be the leader of the world's foremost military and economic power. As an uniquely ugly little boy with a marvelously mediocre personality, horrible temperament, and low IQ that physically resembles the mutant hate child of Andy Warhol and Angela Merkel, Klaus has very little going for him but his mother suffers the grand delusion that he is exceptionally ‘gifted.’ As the film reveals as it progress, the nameless mother is under the ‘spiritual guidance’ of a nasty wound on her leg that is supposedly from another galaxy named ‘Heinrich’ who tells her how to run her family. When a nameless student (Pit Bukowski) makes the major life-changing mistake of renting a room in the eponymous home of the distinctly dysfunctional family in the hope of getting some much needed peace and quiet while he works on developing a groundbreaking cross-field scientific theory that involves Higgs boson, he soon finds himself being coerced into being both Klaus’ professor and the family's all-purpose domestic bitch, yet somehow by the end of the film things fall into place for all those involved in what is ultimately one feverishly fucked family farce. 



 While the Student was expecting to have a nice quaint room with a lake view, he is somewhat disappointed to learn upon arriving at the bunker that he will be living in a cold and damp unfinished room with a low ceiling that looks like it would be a great place to store a bunch of naked emaciated Jewish corpses in some shitty Hollywood holocaust movie. Immediately upon arriving at the house, the Student also begins acquiring an ever growing debt due to not having enough for the rent advance, though the scheming Father, who clearly has unsavory ulterior motives, tells him it is no big deal since he can “help around the house” and then gives him a nice quasi-homoerotic foot bath. Unbeknownst to the Student, the Father, who is more miserly than an elderly widowed Jewess, immediately begins keeping careful tabs on his debt, including whenever he uses a napkin or eats a dumpling during a family dinner. Ultimately, the Father uses the Student's debt as a means to guilt trip him into teaching his son. Indeed, after confiding in ‘Heinrich,’ the Mother, who seems to believe that the open wound in her leg is some sort of all-knowing god, demands that the Student become Klaus’ new instructor despite the Father’s feeble protests. Despite the Student’s refusal to teach Klaus when initially asked by the Father, the Mother manages to manipulate the protagonist into doing her bidding by shedding phony tears and less than subtly hinting at potential sexual favors. Undoubtedly, judging simply by her appearance and especially actions, the Mother is the sort of woman that would have been burned at the stake during medieval times under the suspicion of being a wicked witch. After all, it is not often you meet a woman that is compelled to abuse her husband and child because she is demonically possessed by a wound in her leg.  Indeed, in a somewhat strange way, the Mother is a hot bitch that is begging to be buggered, yet she is ultimately creepier than any of the devilish she-bitch hags featured in Robert Eggers' The Witch (2015).  A lazy erotomaniac that mostly lounges around the house while her eerily emasculated spouse incessantly cleans the place, the Mother's sexual depravity seems to go hand-in-hand with her Führer-esque need for total control as a woman who seems like she has a super clit that puts her pathetic husband's cock to shame in terms of sheer size.



 While Klaus’ schoolroom is adorned with kitschy busts of Shakespeare and Nietzsche, his parents are hardly interested in having him receive an eclectic Occidental education. Indeed, while the Student tries in vain to teach Klaus about the philosophy of Martin Heidegger and the history of the U.S. Federal Reserve, his parents are mainly concerned with having their son memorize the capitals of countries since they believe it will provide him with the knowledge that he needs to become the president of the United States. Of course, it does not take the Student long to realize that Klaus might have some serious learning disabilities and thus acts accordingly by helping the creepy little lad cheat on a quiz.  Indeed, after the Student writes the names and capitals of various nations on his hand, Klaus manages to trick his parents into thinking he has finally learned something.  As a reward for demonstrating that he is ostensibly capable of mindless memorization, Klaus' parents proudly treat him and the Student to the timeless family ritual of  ‘Joke Night,’ which involves the Father dressing up like a sexually disturbed clown and reciting horrendously hokey jokes from a seemingly ancient joke book.  When it is eventually discovered that Klaus cheated, the Father beats both him and the Student over the ass with a wooden cane as punishment in a hilarious scene that really highlights how passive and pathetic the supposedly intellectually gifted protagonist is.

Completely fed up with Klaus’ complete and utter hopelessness as a pupil, the Student (or, as Klaus calls him, ‘Mr. Student’) also begins using corporal punishment and even actually manages to get the grotesque 8-year-old to memorize the capitals of various countries by brutally hitting him in the hand with the wooden cane every single time he gets an answer wrong.  While Klaus' hands and fingers are left completely bloody and brutalized as a result of the tough lesson, the little lad is so happy that he actually learned something that he is completely joyous as a result of the experience and proudly boasts to his parents about his new skill. As a reward for achieving the seemingly impossible by teaching her son to memorize the capitals of a number of fairly obscure countries, the Mother pays a special visit in a foxy fur coat to the Student late that night and then proceeds to fuck his brains out in what seems to be a rather long and eclectic sensual session that proves to be both sexually and intellectually exhilarating. Indeed, aside from allowing him to drink milk from her tits just like Klaus, the Mother’s sexual powers prove to be so inspirational to the Student that he manages to get tons of science work down while he is in the middle of fucking her. Notably, before having sex with the Mother, the Student had made nil progress on his work, but after being given a special sort of carnal knowledge from the seemingly insane woman the protagonist gets fairly close to completing all of his work.   Unfortunately for the Student, fate has different plans for him that has more to do with women's work like vacuuming carpet than elementary particles.



 Of course, all good things must come to an end, or so the Student learns after making the unwitting mistake of teaching Klaus how to play. Indeed, as the unfortunate child of an almost sinisterly stringent pervert matriarch who dictates a whole set of bizarre rituals for the entire family, Klaus never had the opportunity to live like a normal child and play, hence his innate joylessness and overall lack of personality. When the Student takes the effort to play with him in a variety of goofy childish ways that includes piggyback rides and sword fighting, Klaus develops a sense of individuality and eventually begins rebelling against the strict rules of his family, thus throwing the entire social structure of the house out of equilibrium. Needless to say, the Mother immediately becomes alarmed by her son's newfound love of playing, so she naturally confides in Heinrich and is told to kick out the student lest she risk losing her little boy Klaus. On Klaus’ birthday, the Father awards the Student a phony diploma declaring that he is retired and thus no longer needed by the family. Of course, Klaus’ entire birthday is ruined when he learns that his parents are kicking out his new best friend, who is so angered by the entire situation he calls the father a “sick fool” and then proceeds to physically assault him in what proves to be a rather impotent fight between two very different yet nonetheless similarly weak and ineffectual men. While the Student and Father are fighting, Klaus collapses and becomes extremely ill as a result of his mother’s abusive attempts at forcing him to dance by spinning him around in circles in what ultimately proves to be a sick way to celebrate the poor socially retard boy's birthday. 



 Not surprisingly, the Student becomes the scapegoat for all the family’s problems and the parents demand that he leave the house that night after Klaus collapses during his ill-fated birthday part. Unfortunately for the Student, he has developed an almost brotherly affection for Klaus and decides to rescue him from his family by kidnapping him. Of course, the Mother, who demonstrates pseudo-supernatural powers of awareness that make her seem like a cross between the vampire of Noseratu and one of the voluptuous vampire sluts in a Jean Rollins flicks, manages to awake just before the Student can escape and ultimately uses her sexual powers to virtually hypnotize the young scholar, who she severely wounds by stabbing in the gut just before he attempts to kiss her on the lips. With the Student left bedridden and, in turn, completely dependent on the family, as a result of his injuries, Klaus, who has finally developed a personality of his own, seizes the opportunity to leave his home for good, though not before kicking his mother in her ‘Heinrich’ and making her cry like a little bitch. In the end, the Student seems to be happy to be the new family slave, as he takes over the Father’s housework duties and acts as a sort of more useful replacement for Klaus, thus leading him to not having to worry about stressful things like discovering breakthrough scientific theories.  Not unlike with the death of the eponymous protagonist of Rainer Werner Fassbinder's Händler der vier Jahreszeiten (1972) aka The Merchant of Four Seasons, Klaus' abandoning of the family proves to be to the overall benefit of the family as a whole as the Student makes for a most apt replacement and the Mother and Father seem to now have a normal loving marriage.  Indeed, instead of acting like dickless dictator, the Mother begins wearing makeup and flirting with her husband in an overtly loving fashion that seemed totally improbable before Klaus left.




 As a work of aberrant absurdist comedy, Der Bunker is seemingly perfect, but I have to wonder about what sort of message Chryssos is trying to make. Don’t get me wrong, I consider helicopter parents to be a wholly corrosive social pestilence that has contributed to a generation of socially and sexually autistic cripples that cannot even tie their own shoes or find a clitoris, but the film also seems to have a dubious slacker message about the supposed need for one to not strive for greatness or reach their peak in terms of personal accomplishment or intellectual prowess. Indeed, in the film’s depiction of a protagonist that initially strives for intellectual brilliance but ultimately gives up and becomes a meek man-slave as a sort of relief from the stress and hard work that comes with acquiring said intellectual greatness, one suspects that Chryssos has somewhat of a loser defeatist attitude that is contra to the sort of innate Übermensch philosophy that once made Germans great in the past, thus making it somewhat fitting that the film references both Nietzsche and Heidegger.  Of course, one can only assume that Chryssos associates Nietzsche and Heidegger, who were both innately anti-liberal and philosophically revolutionary thinkers, with National Socialism, hence why he and many modern Germans would misguidedly subscribe to a slacker Weltanschauung.  Notably, while researching the film, I discovered that, quite unfortunately, Chryssos is an enthusiastic leftist ethno-masochist of sorts that regularly tweets and retweets on Twitter about imaginary anti-Semitism and anti-towelhead sentiment in contemporary Deutschland, as if he is totally oblivious to the fact that his nation has been completely colonized by hostile Islamic hordes, but I digress.

 Also, one almost gets the sense while watching Der Bunker that the director is brainwashed by the typical German leftist narrative and believes that homeschooling is an evil, as if public schools do a better job rearing kids (obviously I have never attended a German public school, but any American can tell you that public schools are all about indoctrination and mindless memorization, hence why girls tend to do better in school and so many Americans graduate from high school despite being illiterate or sub-literate). After all, homeschooling is illegal in Germany because the government is afraid of supposed “parallel societies” that abstain from the quasi-commie public school objective of so-called “lived tolerance.” Of course, the great irony is that anti-homeschooling law is Nazi-esque legislation that was created specifically for the prevention of parents raising their kids to be National Socialists, just as so-called hate speech laws in Germany are an overtly fascistic means of attempting to prevent fascist sentiment.  To Chryssos' credit, he does hint at the joke that is modern education in his depiction of Klaus being forced to do mindless memorizing, which any monkey can do and proves nothing about an individual's true intellectual prowess.  Of course, if modern public schools actually taught students how to think for themselves instead of what to think, they might begin to question classic oxymoronic liberal slogans like “diversity is our strength.”




 Judging simply by his depiction of homeschooling in his debut feature, one can only assume that Chryssos is the stereotypical kraut leftist lemming who naively believes in the same Judaic Allied Powers propaganda that has been fed to Germans since 1945. Somewhat ironically, despite being a fairly subversive genre-bending comedy, Der Bunker demonstrates in its grotesque depiction of outsiders that live off the grid the same sort of conformist mentality and naivety that is stereotypically German and ultimately led to the collective support of the Third Reich. Indeed, to make a truly subversive and socially insightful Teutonic comedy that reveals what is truly sick and unnatural about the Fatherland, one would have to make a film featuring an emasculated pink-haired German boy that sports an Israel t-shirt who gladly accepts being sodomized on a playground by a gang of Somalian negroes because he was taught in public schools that whites are evil exploiters and rapists that must atone for the sins of their ancestors by dedicating their lives to the perpetual comfort and coddling of angry and ostensibly oppressed brown-eyed and black-haired peoples from the Global South. Indeed, only in contemporary German will you find a political movement like ‘Antideutsch’ (aka ‘anti-Germans’)—an innately anti-Teutonic social disease that is heavily influenced by kosher commie theorists like Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer—that hold protests where they celebrate the killing of German civilians and firebombing of German citizens by holding banners featuring an image of RAF commander Arthur ‘Butcher’ Harris that read “NO TEARS FOR KRAUTS.”

Naturally, I was not surprised to discover a photo from the set of the Der Bunker shoot featuring an Antifaschistische Aktion (aka Antifa) flag in the background, thus indicating that Chryssos is probably a proponent of fascistic antifascism.  Of course, only Chryssos knows what is going inside his head, but it amazes me that a man that could make such an uncompromisingly wayward flick could be such a stereotypical conformist bitch when it comes to politics, but then again, as the career of Hans-Jürgen Syberberg sadly demonstrates, you cannot be taken too seriously or respected as a filmmaker in Germany unless you subscribe to something that is at least as left-wing as the mainstream (neo)liberal narrative. After all, even a miscegenating homo anarchist like Fassbinder was accused of being racist, misogynistic, and antisemitic during the 1970s.  That being said, Chryssos deserves credit for managing to make a German film that features an all-German cast and not a single Turk or negro, even if the Teutons are portrayed in a less than flattering fashion that recalls the grotesque anti-German caricatures of super smug kraut commie George Grosz.





 Notably, in his article A Note On Comedy In Experimental Film featured in the summer 1963 edition of Film Culture magazine, avant-garde artist and filmmaker Sidney Peterson (The Petrified Dog, Mr. Frenhofer and the Minotaur) wrote, “Given the activist approach, the tendency to exploit the intrinsic and often misleading comical-diabolical attributes of the medium is almost overwhelming. Thus, we get film-makers’ films in which the basic elements are as ill-matched as Boehme’s flesh and the devil. And because they are ill-matched, the consequences are inevitable. New and perhaps unintended subjects emerge […] Perhaps 90 per cent of all experimental [film] work is, from this point of view, in its very nature, comical. It is unnecessary to mention particular works. Some are funny, some funnier. It is partly a question of when. Inconsequence has a way of becoming consequential, and the most illogical sequences may lose their irrationality by merely becoming familiar. Thus, new unintentions emerge from an original lack of intent, and the process may continue indefinitely, with the same eyes never regarding the same film.” Undoubtedly, the ‘genius’ of Der Bunker, which is more of an experimental comedy than an ‘experimental film,’ is that the viewer oftentimes finds themselves questioning the director’s true intent, as it is a film that simultaneously makes laughing feel awkward and awkwardness laughable. In other words, the film derives it greatest strength from its extreme open-endedness and unwavering ambiguity of intent, though it should be noted that the director once confessed in an interview with Lola magazine, “I want to use humor as a means of anarchy.” Indeed, in stark contrast to the director’s conformist cultural Marxist political persuasion, Der Bunker is the closest thing to a kraut arthouse equivalent to a Million Dollar Extreme (MDE) movie. Like the anti-liberal anti-comedic skits of the MDE boys, Chryssos’ film depicts an innately sick and dysfunctional world that is only made even remotely tolerable through the most absurd approach to humor. In fact, I suspect that autistic mass murders like Adam Lanza, Elliot Rodger, James Holmes, and Chris Harper-Mercer might have been less apt to snap had they been exposed to movies like Chryssos,’ which would have probably been solacing to their distinct mental wiring.  I also think that Todd Solondz would find Der Bunker to be a great masturbation aid.




Easily the greatest film ever released by Artsploitation Films aside from possibly Kleinert’s Der Samurai, Der Bunker hopefully represents a sign of a new renaissance in Teutonic cinema, though my cynicism leads me to think otherwise.  More recently director Nikias Chryssos directed a short 10-minute doc entitled The Double Feeling about a Las Vegas fleshlight factory, thus underscoring his somewhat refreshing lack of seriousness as a filmmaker (of course, considering his politics, it is probably for the better).  If Chryssos continues making warped aesthetically autistic dark comedies, he might have the potential to evolve into an evil Greco-Aryan Mel Brooks.  After all, the last thing that the Fatherland needs is another ethno-masochist twat that directs serious ‘experimental films’ about culturally schizophrenic Turkish feminists and children with Down syndrome.  Indeed, I might be the only one that holds this opinion, but arguably the greatest and most singular accomplishment of Der Bunker is that it proves that someone that is totally brainwashed by the leftist narrative, the false faith of Holocaustianity, and the multicultural myth can still make a seemingly immaculately constructed and somewhat politically correct film that is not totally tainted by bogus blue-pill bullshit.  Surely, one cannot go wrong with a film that seems like it was directed by the strangely Americanized heterosexual brood of Werner Schroeter and Ulrike Ottinger, as Der Bunker is like an aesthetically decadent arthouse film for exploitation fans that hate arthouse films, which is certainly no small accomplish, especially in a nation where the hyper humorless and humdrum films of the Berlin School are considered the height of cinematic cultivation.  While Germany will probably never produce another Nietzsche or even a Fassbinder, it certainly has room for a Mel Brooks or a John Waters, though hopefully Chryssos will evolve into something more idiosyncratic and red-pilled.



-Ty E