Oct 1, 2014

Boots & Saddles (1982)




From Kenneth Anger’s homoerotic bike boy classic Scorpio Rising (1964) to Italian auteur Liliana Cavani’s tragic yet titillating S&M themed dark romance The Night Porter (1974) aka Il portiere di note to totally tasteless exploitation excrement like Ilsa, She Wolf of the SS (1975) to the Danish-Swedish skinhead-themed gay drama Broderskab (2009) aka Brotherhood starring popular Danish Thure Lindhardt, Nazis and Nazi imagery have more than proven their worth in terms of filmic fetishism, so it should be no surprise the shadow of Uncle Adolf’s 12-year-long millennial Reich would also darken the gay pornography world, especially in regard to the leather-bound sadomasochistic realm. Indeed, a typical yet somewhat standout example of this is the gritty fag fuck flick Boots & Saddles (1982), which is the third film of a four part tribute to gay porn icon ‘Scorpio’  by Cream of the Crop Entertainment that should not be confused with the 1975 homo hardcore flick by Zachary Strong of the same name.  Directed by the sexually flexible pornographic auteur John Amero of the Amero brothers (Christopher Street Blues, Killing Me Softly) under the pseudonym ‘Francis Elise,’ this sub-low-tech porn piece depicts what happens when a bourgeois bitch boy falls prey to the decidedly depraved desires of a long-haired neo-Nazi lunatic with a foul fetishism for brutally beating strangers with big black dildos and raping the mouths beta-boys while posing in a Breker-esque fashion next to his beloved swastika flag.  If Amero and his straight brother Lem (Checkmate, R.S.V.P.) somehow managed to turn New York City into a foreboding psychedelic Gothic nightmare for his masterful heterosexual experimental blue movie Bacchanale (1971), he opted to utilize the sleaze, slime, and true grit of the rotten Big Apple to give Boots & Saddles a rawer and more realistic vibe. Starring old school porn icon ‘Scorpio’, who previously starred in Amero’s morbid male-only chamber piece The Death of Scorpio (1979), as a sadistic neo-Nazi that cruises local gay bars for potential victims that he can bring home, tie up, and bugger in front of a large portrait of Hitler and a swastika flag, Boots & Saddles is surely a sicko classic that reminds the viewer that maybe William Friedkin was not that out of hand when he sparked protest with his absolutely savage sodomite slasher flick Cruising (1980). The closest thing to an urban gay revisionist western and the perfect companion piece to Friedkin’s Cruising, Amero’s film was made at a time when the gay porn industry had still had some testicular fortitude and was not afraid of scaring queens with depictions of unhinged masculinity.  The most warped and sexually perverse reworking of the western genre since Neuer Deutscher Film alpha-auteur Rainer Werner Fassbinder's underrated racially-charged work Whity (1971), Boots & Saddles certainly makes the few gay erotic westerns that exist like Song of the Loon (1970) seem like castrated sentimentalist celluloid swill.



Beginning with a shot of a pair of Gestapo-esque boots sitting in front of a white background, Boots & Saddles—a film that borrows its name from the name of the bar that the characters regularly ‘cruise’ for urban cocksucking cowboys—then cuts to an shot of sadomasochistic gay neo-Nazi ‘Karl’ (Scorpio) walking down a New York City street while sporting a maroon bomber jacket (the typical ‘uniform’ of neo-Nazis), black leather boots, and a National Socialist iron cross necklace. Indeed, for whatever reason, Karl has a rare “Spanish Cross” aka “Spanienkreuz” in silver, which was awarded to German troops who participated in the Spanish Civil War on the side of the nationalist general turned Spanish dictator Francisco Franco. Somewhere, not far away, an effete bourgeois type from Albany named ‘Bob’ (Chip Kingsley) visits the apartment of a female business associate, but as he learns from her exceedingly extroverted neighbor Jack Wrangler, who is outside sweeping in an uncommonly jubilant fashion, the woman moved away three months ago. When Bob asks Wrangler where he can get some “good Irish coffee,” he says, “yeah, right up stairs,” and then the two proceed to dine upon one another’s bodies upon entering the rather messy flat. While the two men share oral pleasure via 69, fuck, and cum again, Bob freaks out when he finds a letter while looking for matches sitting around the apartment revealing that his new joy boy has a venereal disease. When Wrangler asks him if he found the matches, Bob replies in a bitchy fashion, “I sure did. Thanks for nothing, I hope” and then proceeds to run out of the apartment in fear that he might have contracted an STD. Ultimately, Bob decides to head to a gay bar called ‘Boots & Saddles’ where he will inevitably meet a menacing psychopath with a fetish for swastikas, iron crosses, and bound boys.



While hanging out the bar, Bob watches as the Bartender’s hustler boyfriend (played by Roy Garrett) enters the bathroom followed by a cocksucking cowboy who proceeds to suck him off to the fitting sensual sounds of “Like an Eagle” by gay porn star turned disco singer Dennis Parker aka Wade Nichols. Naturally, the Bartender gets rather pissed by his Hustler’s boy toy’s “riding” of the cowboy and complains to him, “Listen, you dumb bitch…where do you get the balls to fuck around right in front of my face? When we moved in together, we agreed that you would hustle and I would bartend. Well, your ever faithful lover wants a piece of it and he wants it now!” Indeed, the Bartender and Hustler go up stairs and bang next to a bunch of boxes of Heineken beer. Eventually, Scorpio arrives at the bar and wastes no time cruising Bob and coercing him to come back to his apartment with him.  Despite the fact that he thinks he has probably just contracted an STD, Bob has no problem blowing Scorpio. Meanwhile, Wrangler calls around looking for Bob and discovers that he was spotted at the Boots & Saddles bar. When Wrangler arrives at the bar and asks about Bob, he learns from a bartender that he left with “that crazy one with the cross.” After complaining that “Karl…that fucking Nazi” has taken his beloved new beau Bob, he naturally makes his way to the fag Führer’s swastika-adorned apartment.



When Bob notices the portrait of Hitler and the Nazi flag that are hanging in Scorpio’s apartment wall while being sucked off by the sadistic would-be-SS-man, he complains, “You know, I don’t feel so good. I think I better go” and attempts to make his great escape, but he does not get far. After telling Bob, “You’ll leave when I’m through with you and not a moment before,” Scorpio handcuffs his victim to a chair and forces him to fellate him while he wallows in pleasure and glory next to his swastika flag. To the grating sounds of Marlene Dietrich singing in German, Scorpio perniciously penetrates Bob’s man-cunt. After blowing his load on a meager untermensch, Scorpio begins beating Bob with a giant black dildo (!) and states to his victim in a sinister fashion, “this should help you get your rocks off.” Of course, Wrangler soon shows up at the apartment and yells, “open up you twisted bastard!,” while beating on Scorpio’s door. After breaking down the door, Wrangler knocks out Scorpio, calls him a “twisted bastard” again, and rips his swastika flag off the wall, thus causing a fire to start when the flag lands on a candle (since Scorpio is a sadistic creep, he likes to have tons of candles lit while ritualistically raping men in an almost satanic fashion). When Scorpio becomes conscious again, he gets in a physical struggle that results in his balls and bunghole being burned. Ultimately, Wrangler handcuffs and leaves him in the middle of his apartment so that his landlady will find him. As a completely humiliated would-be-Übermensch who has been beaten and defeated, Scorpio cries out, “Mein Gott” in German. In the end, Bob and his hero Wrangler discuss living with one another. Indeed, as it turns out, the chivalrous Wrangler apparently no longer has a STD and only kept the letter as a “souvenir.”



While depicted as a brutal ‘blond beast’ of the savagely sexual and marvelously masculine sort in Boots & Saddles and various other fuck films, Scorpio was apparently an effeminate mamma’s boy in real-life who worked as a hair stylist after retiring from porn. Of course, Scorpio was also as far from a National Socialist as a person could be, as a sort of gay chauvinist who even refused working with “gay for pay” porn stars, as demonstrated by his remark, “I'd rather work with a complete gay cast, instead of straights. I don't like straight people in a gay film. I want someone that's going to reciprocate. I don't need a 'do-me queen.'” As he described himself in the documentary Wrangler: Anatomy of an Icon (2008), Jack Wrangler was a quarter Jewish (his paternal grandfather was a Jew) and he somewhat identified with his Judaic side, thus his role in Amero’s film as a heroic character who saves his beloved from a nefarious neo-Nazi and then literally burns the balls and buttocks of said neo-Nazi had more personal significance to him. In fact, that is not the only way the film had personal meaning for Wrangler, as his half-Jewish father Robert Thurston Stillman was a Hollywood film and TV producer who produced a western-themed TV series called Boots and Saddles (1957-1958), hence the assumed tongue-in-cheek origin of the title of Amero’s film, as well as its unconventional use of genre conventions. Indeed, any John Ford would know almost immediately upon watching Boots & Saddles that is a sort of wanton reworking of the western genre, albeit set in urban NYC instead of the rural Wild West and featuring neo-Nazis instead of Indians as villains. After all, one of the main settings of the western genre is a saloon, which is largely where Amero’s film is set. Of course, the appearance of a rowdy and raunchy urban cowboy who uses a hustler like a cowgirl, Boots & Saddles also gives a cynical nod to John Schlesinger’s Midnight Cowboy (1969). With its curious cocktail of Nazi leather-fags, gay disco music, hustler-humping cowboys, men with mustaches, and seedy gay bar inhabited by rugged men, Amero’s film features a virtual catalog of vintage gay stereotypes and clichés, thus making it mandatory viewing for any self-respecting fan of porn chic era fuck flicks. 



-Ty E

Sep 30, 2014

Maps to the Stars




 Despite the fact that he directed his first feature, Stereo (1969), 45 years ago and has been making mainstream films with Hollywood stars since the late-1970s, Canadian auteur David Cronenberg (Videodrome, Eastern Promises) had never shot a single frame in the United States, let alone Hollywood, until recently with his latest and long-in-coming work Maps to the Stars (2014) aka Bailey's Quest aka Hollywood Nightmare, though he only spent 5 days in Los Angeles and Beverly Hills directing it, with the rest of the film being shot in the filmmaker’s native city Toronto. Of course, considering the film is one of the most pathologically venomous and shockingly scathing assaults on Hollywood in decades, Cronenberg could not have picked a more tactical and befitting time to finally shoot in Tinseltown. Based on a script turned novel by novelist, actor, screenwriter, producer, and director Bruce Wagner—a man that has demonstrated that he is one of the keenest and remorseless critics of his home city as demonstrated by his writing credits ranging from Paul Bartel’s savage satire Scenes from the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills (1989) to the underrated five-hour dystopian mini-series Wild Palms (1993)—Maps to the Stars languished in pre-production for six years before Cronenberg could get the funds to make it because no Hollywood producer wanted to touch such a biting work that negatively portrays Hollywood as festering with incest, schizophrenia, teenage drug addiction, sadomasochism, and general psychopathic behavior. Unquestionably Cronenberg’s most humorous work to date, albeit in a brutal fashion that will probably make most viewers feel guilty for laughing, the film makes Robert Altman’s The Player (1992) seem like a silly Disney romp and Paul Schrader’s The Canyons (2013) seem like a Hughes-esque teen drama by comparison. Indeed, next to Maps to the Stars, John Schlesinger’s The Day of the Locust (1975) and Roman Polanski’s Chinatown (1974) seem like nostalgic sentimentalist depictions of Hollywood during the good old days. As a rabid hater of Hollywood and everything it stands for, Cronenberg’s film proved to be a rather therapeutic experience for me. The multilayered tale of an ambiguously Jewish Hollywood dynasty and related intertwined Sunset Boulevard scum who are probably better fit for work in a Gulag than getting paid millions of dollars to star in films that contribute to the moral degradation and infantilization of virtually the entire global population, Maps to the Stars ultimately seems like Cronenberg’s unconscious argument as to why he never decided to work in Hollywood, even though he probably could have flourished there as a fellow member of the Hebraic tribe. Indeed, I like to think the film is a prophetic work about holy-wood’s capitulation.




The Weiss family has some serious problems, which probably has largely to do with the fact the mother and father are brother and sisters and their children are inbred demon seeds. To the Weiss’ credit, they did not know they were brother and sister until after they fell in love, but that did not stop them from spawning schizophrenic children. The patriarch of the family is Dr. Stafford Weiss (John Cusack), a celebrity psychotherapist and seemingly psychopathic alpha-conman who has managed to successfully con the masses into buying his bogus ‘hocus pocus’ books because he has so many high-profile clients. Dr. Weiss’ sister/wife is Cristina Weiss (Olivia Williams) is the archetypical ‘controlling mother’ in many ways in that she has masterminded the rather lucrative career of her internationally famous child star son Benjie (Evan Bird), who is an obscenely arrogant yet somewhat intelligent 13-year-old recovering drug addict, sort of like a composite of Macaulay Culkin and especially Justin Bieber. Benjie has an estranged schizophrenic sister named Agatha (Mia Wasikowska), who he has not seen since he was a small child when she tried to kill him and the entire family by burning their house down, but not before giving him an overdose of drugs before setting the family homestead ablaze. Badly scarred by the fire she set seven years previously, Agatha has to always wear leather arm-length gloves and is completely scarred on the left side of her face, which she tries to hide with her goofy pseudo-flapper haircut. Unbeknownst to the Weiss’, deranged daughter Agatha travels from her Florida-based mental institution in an exceedingly hopeless attempt to reunite with her family. Naturally, it will ultimately have tragic consequences.




Ultimately, lapsed pyromaniac Agatha takes a job as a personal assistant from her father’s client Havana Segrand (Julianne Moore) after being introduced to the batshit crazy burn victim via an exceedingly overweight Carrie Fisher (playing herself). Among other things, Havana is a once-famous, has-been Hollywood actress of the psychopathically self-absorbed sort who literally jumps for joy when her rival’s toddler son drowns to death, thus enabling her to get a role in a remake of a 1960s classic entitled Stolen Water that her belated mother Clarice Taggart (Sarah Gadon) starred in and received various prestigious film awards for. Clarice died young in a fire and Havana, who resents her mother’s fame and dubiously blames her being supposedly molested as a child, regularly sees her appear as a ghost who constantly taunts her about her glaring insecurities and lack of talent. One of the reasons that Havana hires Agatha is because she was a ‘victim’ of a fire just like her mother, thus making her think she will somehow be able to get over her progenitor’s ghost if she employs the externally and internally damaged dame. Upon arriving in L.A., the first thing Agatha does is visit the home that she burned down seven years before. Agatha also starts a ‘romantic’ relationship with a struggling actor named Jerome Fontana (played by Robert Pattinson in a role based on screenwriter Bruce Wagner’s own experiences before he became famous in Hollywood) who she met after hiring him as a limo driver. Of course, soft-spoken gentleman Jerome, who is the closest thing to a ‘likeable’ and ‘sane’ character in the entire film, is just using Agatha for “research” purposes, as he wants to further develop his acting chops.




Meanwhile, Bieber-esque bitch boy Benjie is on his way to being just as insane as his sister Agatha. Indeed, not longer after visiting a terminally ill girl named Cammy (Kiara Glasco) in the hospital and asking her how she got AIDS even though she has non-Hodgkin lymphoma (NHL) in what is an elaborately planned publicity stunt to bolster his career for paid press he has gotten as a result of being a 13-year-old that had to enter rehab, Benjie finds himself haunted by the ghost of the terminally ill fan whose deadly disease he could not bother to look up. Benjie is famous for starring in a Home Alone-like film franchise ‘Bad Babysitter’ and his mother Cristina has managed to secure him the lead role of the latest sequel, but he soon finds himself resenting the project after being shown up by an enterprising up-and-coming 4-year-old redhead runt named Roy (Sean Robertson). Of course, Benjie gets back on drugs again in no time. After finding out that she came to visit Benjie, Dr. Weiss decides to confront Agatha and more or less threatens her to stay away from the family. Of course, as the film ultimately reveals, Dr. Weiss seems to resent his daughter more due to the fact that she knows his dark secret about being married to his sister/her mother than the fact that she tried to kill the entire family by burning the house down. Indeed, Dr. Weiss’ entire charismatically vomited “self-help” spiel seems to be a sort of instinctive self-defense mechanism to cope with the deep dark secret that he married and had children with his own sister. Ironically, Dr. Weiss’ most famous book, which he arrogantly describes as “a classic,” is called “Secrets Kill” and as the conclusion of the film will reveal, indeed they do. Indeed, while Maps to the Stars might not be in the spirit of Cronenberg’s old school “body horror” flicks, that does not mean that the film does not have a similarly large body count.  Indeed, not unlike the half-braindead teenagers featured in countless c-grade slasher flicks from the 1980s, you just cannot wait until these innately insufferable, inane, and grotesquely vain characters are put of their misery and snuffed out for good.




In terms of technique and ‘artiness,’ I have never really found David Cronenberg to be a particularly gifted filmmaker. What makes his films interesting are the unnerving subjects he chooses, be it William S. Burroughs’ magnum opus or the sex life of ‘Aryan Christ’ Carl Jung. Indubitably, despite being the director’s first film shot in Hollywood and a rare attempt by the filmmaker to take a stab at satire, Maps to the Stars is archetypically Cronenbergian to the core as a work that takes an unwaveringly unflattering look at the darkness of humanity and the sensitivity of human flesh, be it coming in contact with fire or the used-up genitals of a would-be-MILF over-the-hill fire-crotched actress. Personally, I found nothing particularly striking about Cronenberg’s direction and would even argue that Schrader’s similarly themed failure The Canyons proved to be a more aesthetically pleasing and gripping experience, yet Maps to the Stars is still a far more superior film. Indeed, while a work of celluloid fiction, the film still manages to iconoclastically demystify the mythmakers of Hollywood. Like a more coherent and less esoteric twist on David Lynch’s Mulholland Dr. (2001) meets a Barton Fink (1991) set in contemporary times, Cronenberg’s film should be playing at every single movie theater in America as a sort of mischievously frolicsome deprogramming tool that lets the masses know that their filmic heroes are sexually depraved junkies with a weakness for incest.




Interestingly, Cronenberg also hints at the self-loathing that has been an innate part of Hebraic Hollywood since the beginning as documented in the rather insightful book An Empire of Their Own: How the Jews Invented Hollywood (1989) by Neal Gabler. While never mentioning it overtly, it can be inferred that the central family featured in Maps to the Stars is of the Judaic persuasion as hinted by their stereotypically Jewish surname ‘Weiss.’ In one rather hilarious scene early on in the film, egomaniacal brat Benjie—a little scrawny turd who, like many Hollywood Judaic types, bleaches his hair to make himself look more ‘Aryan’—verbally assaults his stereotypically fat, swarthy, and unkempt middle-aged Jewish assistant, Arnold (Joe Pingue), hatefully stating in a sarcastic fashion: “Great Rabbi…death and dying. Man of wisdom…Zen fucking Arthur. I’ve got a new nickname for you: “Museum of Tolerance.” When Arnold tells the little turd to watch his mouth, Benjie replies, “Why don’t you show me your cunt, huh? I know you have one. Jew faggot.” Of course, considering his less than flattering depiction of Jewish atheist messiah Sigmund Freud in A Dangerous Method (2011), Cronenberg has never been particularly fond of mindlessly supporting his people’s great “culture-distorters” like most of the Hebrews in Hollywood. Additionally, in Eastern Promises (2007), Cronenberg cast the so-called “Russian mafia,” which is a Jewish entity, in the most brutal of lights. Of course, it is doubtful that Cronenberg is a ‘self-loathing Jew’ but just a sensible mensch that is critical of the more unsavory elements among his people.  In fact, Cronenberg has even gone so far as to distance himself from the cliche money-grubbing Hollywood Hebrew type, stating in an 2007 interview with nypress.com, “A sell-out is a personal thing. Ivan [Reitman] was always destined for Hollywood. That’s what he wanted. I never wanted that.” In the same interview, the director also remarked, “I’m always aware of [being Jewish]. It’s always on my mind, but not obsessively. When you’re threatened because of one aspect of your nature, whether it’s your sexuality or your gender or your ethnic background, you become acutely sensitive to it for that moment. But it doesn’t necessarily mean that’s what defines you as a person.” Indeed, it seems that Cronenberg is “acutely sensitive” to the fact that his people are not only brainwashing the masses with their neo-Trotskyite propaganda and promoting every form of moral degeneracy and metaphysical affliction imaginable, but that they are also degrading and exploiting the artistic medium for those purposes. With that being said, I like to think that Maps to the Stars is the director’s sort of unofficial indictment of insipid Zio-ganda and aesthetic worthlessness of Hollywood, as well as his argument as to why he has avoided working in Hollywood his entire life despite the fact that he could have easily ascended to royal status among the upper echelons of the Hebraic hegemony over Hollywood.




Featuring an aging actress of the borderline psycho-biddy sort being beaten to death with her own film award trophy, a burnout and drug-addicted 13-year-old child star attempting to strangle to death his 4-year-old rival, a fading actress suffering severe flatulence and constipation as a result of taking too many painkillers, an aspiring actor screwing a severely scarred burn victim in an attempt to advance his career and fine tune his acting talents, and a hyper hysterical actress trying in vain to outdo her long deceased mother in terms of popularity, Maps to the Stars is ultimately the closest thing to a film in the spirit of Kenneth Anger’s hilarious hidden history book Hollywood Babylon (1959).  Indeed, as the screenwriter’s other works like Wild Palms and Scenes from the Class Struggle in Beverly Hills also readily demonstrate, Bruce Wagner is surely one of the greatest, if not the greatest, critic of Hollywood working today and thus he should share credit with Cronenberg in terms of being the auteur behind Maps to the Stars. The fact that Wagner—a mystical-minded man who was a member of the inner-circle of Carlos Castaneda and studied under Indian Hindu guru Ramesh Balsekar—has described the aspiring actor character played by Robert Pattinson that literally and figuratively whores himself out as being of a semi-autobiographical nature just goes to show that even a man who has more or less built a career on mocking Tinseltown cannot even escape the debasing powers of Hollywood. Notably, Cronenberg once stated regarding his film, “Hollywood is a world that is seductive and repellent at the same time, and it is the combination of the two that makes it so potent.” Personally, I find nothing particularly seductive about contemporary Hollywood, nor the fictional one depicted in Cronenberg’s film, but the Hollywood of Sunset Boulevard (1950) is a different story.  Indeed, the Hollywood of today is far too vapid, plastic, and uncultivated to produce deranged yet dignified divas like Norma Desmond.  Instead, we have fat ass Hebraic slobs like Jonah Hill, neo-Cro-Magnon morons like Channing Tatum, unattractive and untalented pseudo-diva bitches like Julia Roberts, phony Uncle Toms like Will Smith, scheming neo-vaudevillian sub-smut-peddlers like Friedberg and Seltzer, ethno-masochistic baby-negro-collectors like Angelina Jolie and her beau Brad Pitt, racially ambiguous mystery meat like Wentworth Miller and Vin Diesel, and Asperger-addled blockbuster philistines like Steven Spielberg and Michael Bay.  Needless to say, if Hollywood were to burn to the ground as depicted in one of the posters for Maps to the Stars, it would be no great loss.



-Ty E

Sep 29, 2014

Crawlspace (1986)




As a mensch whose father was of Polish extraction (the original family surname was ‘Nakszynski’) who dubiously claimed in his autobiography that he made the conscious decision to desert the Wehrmacht and who was one of the first Germans to visit Israel (with National Socialist era auteur Veit Harlan’s ethno-masochistic son Thomas), Klaus Kinski is probably the least likely actor to hold any sort of National Socialist sympathies, yet that has not stopped various hack filmmakers from hiring him to play Nazi mad men. Of course, with his ‘blond beast’ appearance, piercing blue eyes, and discernibly deranged persona, Kinski is a Hollywood hack’s kosher wet dream in terms of being the ultimate archetypical screen Nazi. Perhaps the most patently pathetic example of kraut Kinski’s craziness being exploited in a cheap, tasteless, and decidedly dishonest attempt to depict the innate evilness of the Nazis is the actor’s unintentionally humorous performance in the horrendous horror-thriller Crawlspace (1986) directed by horror hack David Schmoeller (Catacombs, Netherworld). Probably best known today as the ‘auteur’ behind the cult horror classic Tourist Trap (1979) and Puppet Master (1989) where he would demonstrate the best of his meta-mediocre directing talents, Schmoeller—an archetypical left-wing horror hack who, unlike wine but certainly like many of his genre contemporaries, has only gotten worse with age—originally intended Crawlspace to be an anti-Vietnam War flick but schlockmeister producer Charlie Band, who is Jewish (he even named one of his sons ‘Zalman’), demanded that he change the film to feature a Heeb-hating Nazi antihero. Apparently a huge Kinski fan, Schmoeller agree to change the film if Band could get the German actor to be in the film, which he did, and the rest was history. Of course, as Schmoeller would recollect in his would-be-humorous documentary short Please Kill Mr. Kinski (1999)—a sort of poor man's equivalent to Werner Herzog's (anti)love letter to the actor, Mein liebster Feind - Klaus Kinski (1999) aka My Best Fiend, which was somewhat suspiciously released the same year—Kinski caused so much havoc, pain, and chaos on the set of Crawlspace that one of the Italian producers proposed killing the actor and cashing in on the insurance money. When Kinski died, Schmoeller’s negative remarks about him were featured in the actor’s obituary, thus acting as a sort of posthumous revenge against the raving screen renegade. A rather rancid celluloid horror turd of the shockingly horrific sort, Crawlspace is a hokey and almost wholly derivative hodgepodge of horror flicks ranging from Michael Powell’s masterpiece of voyeuristic horror Peeping Tom (1960) to Willard (1971) and its sequel Ben (1972) to William Lustig’s classic slasher flick Maniac (1980) that is only worth viewing to see Kinski get kinky with lipstick, hordes of rats, Russian roulette, and nihilistic post-Auschwitz ramblings about life and death. Indeed, in spite of Mr. Jesus Christ Savior’s disruptive behavior on the film’s set, Kinski is the only thing about Crawlspace that saves it from being the cinematic equivalent of prostate cancer. 




 Karl Gunther (Klaus Kinski) is a crazed nihilistic kraut who has a portrait of Friedrich Nietzsche hanging in his office in a spot where a picture of Jesus Christ would normally be and whose Nazi surgeon father used to exterminate Heebs, thus it should be the apparent to the Hollywood-lobotomized viewer that he epitomizes all that is truly evil and rotten in this god forsaken world (or something).  Indeed, apparently after learning he liked killing people while working as part of the Nazi euthanasia program, Gunther Senior developed fetish for wasting yids.  Like all the evil genius Hitlerite wackjobs featured in Hebraic Hollywood movies that put the propaganda of the real National Socialist propaganda films to shame, Karl is independently wealthy and owns an apartment building which he has rigged with secret passageway (hence, the title ‘Crawlspace’), booby traps, and nonsensical torture device that he likes to play with when not deriving an almost erotic satisfaction from reading his naughty Nazi father’s journal entries regarding euthanasia and the killing of kikes. At the beginning of the film, one of Gunther’s beautiful blonde Aryan babe tenants accidentally walks into a room containing the good doctor’s personal pet, a dyke-like chick named Martha White (Sally Brown) who’s had a forced glossectomy and is confined to a cage, all courtesy of Herr Doktor, who wanted a permanent companion that would not talk back. Of course, Karl is saddened he has to kill beauteous babe, not to mention the fact that he has to go to the effort to rent out her room to somebody else. Ultimately, Gunther rents the room to a somewhat lesbo-like chick named Lori Bancroft (Talia Balsam) after lying to a rather bitchy prospective male tenant (played by the director in an uncredited cameo role) and telling him that the room is no longer available. Like virtually everyone else in the film aside from Kinski’s character, Lori seems to have no personality, thus she does not elicit even the vaguest sympathy from the viewer. 




 Luckily for Gunther, most of his tenants are dumb sluts with either sexually impotent boy toys or old sugar daddies who are too big of candy asses to properly please their ladies. Of course, while hanging out in the various elaborate crawlspace tunnels he has strategically placed around the building, Gunther becomes accustomed to eavesdropping on his titillating tenants' less than impressive sex lives. Meanwhile, a nauseatingly nerdy and ambiguously Jewish “Nazi Hunter” type named Josef Steiner (Kenneth Robert Shippy) shows up at Gunther’s building and accuses him of killing his brother. Steiner also goes on about how he is a “very tenacious” man who spent three entire years of his assumedly rather banal life looking for him and during his research he discovered that the doctor’s father was a SS man that was executed for “crimes against humanity” after the Second World War.  Apparently, while working as the chief resident at a hospital in Buenos Aires, Argentina, Karl killed 67 people, including Steiner’s brother. Luckily, Gunther eventually kills Steiner and, like most of his victims, leaves a poorly drawn swastika on his face. An unhinged Übermensch, Gunther likes to make pseudo-Nietzschean ramblings like, “I’m fascinated by the delicate balance between life and death...good and evil” and “I’m my own god…my own jury…and my own executioner.” Of course, as one can expect from such a patently predictably hack horror work, Gunther’s executioner is ultimately ‘empowered woman’ Lori. 




 Featuring scenes of Klaus Kinski getting off to watching old newsreels of Uncle Adolf like it is pornography, every holocaust and Nazi ‘war criminal’ cliché imaginable, corpses covered with swastikas, braindead blonde Shiksa sluts, and even a Hebrew lament that is played throughout the film, especially when the Nazi murderer is contemplating the crimes of his SS war criminal father, Crawlspace would be a kosher wet dream, especially for philistine Zionist types like torture-porn hack Eli Roth, but the film is just too god damn awful to appeal to the Semitic sensibilities of Teutonophobia. Indeed, as much as I hate to even reference the site, Rotten Tomatoes has the film at a 0% ‘rotten’ rating. Of course, that has not stopped director David Schmoeller from pretending it is a serious film, even going so far as to state of Italian composer Pino Donaggio’s Hebrew lament that it was designed to, “remind the viewer of the terrible tragedy of the Holocaust.” Judging from Schmoeller’s surname, I assumed he was a member of the tribe, but after watching him complain about Kinski in Please Kill Mr. Kinski, I’m convinced he is just some ethno-masochistic queen of a shabbos goy who whored himself out to Semitic smut-peddler Charles Band and who gets off to trashing his racial kinsmen because he got his ass regularly kicked as kid for being an exceedingly effete pansy. Unquestionably, any entertainment value that Crawlspace features is to the credit of Herr Kinski and I do not blame him for being an intolerable egomaniac on the set as a man who has starred in some of the greatest films of the post-WWII era and thus shouldn't have to tolerate American hacks telling him what to do. If you’re a big enough Kinski fan (and/or masochist) to endure Crawlspace, make sure to watch Schmoeller’s micro doc Please Kill Mr. Kinski right after. As Schmoeller rightly describes in the documentary, Kinski hated directors. Ironically, the last film Kinski starred in, Kinski Paganini (1989), was also his directorial debut. While Kinski Paganini is not a masterpiece, it certainly demonstrates that Kinski was a much more talented filmmaker than Schmoeller ever was. Indeed, as much as I typically hate actors and see them as vain and vapid cattle that should be exploited by good directors, Kinski’s talents transcended that of the onscreen whore, even if he was a deranged psycho whose own daughter accused him of molesting her as a child. 



-Ty E

Sep 28, 2014

3 A.M. (1975)




While he did splice a couple single-frame erect cocks in the iconic montages featured in his ‘modernist horror’ masterpiece Persona (1966), and had somewhat of a talent for erotic tension when need be, Swedish master auteur Ingmar Bergman never directed a porn flick. Unquestionably, the next best thing to a Bergman blue movie, however, is the erotic melodrama 3 A.M. (1975) aka 3 a.m.: The Time of Sexuality directed by Gary Graver (Garage Girls, Indecent Exposure) under the pseudonym ‘Robert McCallum.’ It should be noted that the film was not directed by just any hack pornographer, but a protégé of none other than Orson ‘Citizen Kane’ Welles. Indeed, on top of starting his filmmaking career by working on the unfinished Welles feature The Other Side of the Wind, Graver appeared in and did still photography for F For Fake (1973) and the cinematography for Filming Othello (1978). In fact, Welles felt so indebted to Graver for working on The Other Side of the Wind that he gave him his 1941 Oscar which he had won as the co-writer of Citizen Kane. On top of working with Welles, Graver was the second unit camera operator for Curtis Harrington’s underrated Oedipal serial killer flick The Killing Kind (1973), camera operator for John Cassavetes’ A Woman Under the Influence (1973), director of photography for Paul Bartel’s Renoir reworking Eating Raoul (1982), and countless other cult classic, exploitation flicks, and even Disney films. While best known as a cinematographer that worked with everyone from Roger Corman to Ron Howard, he would truly master directing pornography, with 3 A.M. being arguably his greatest and most mature work. Indeed, if it were not for the graphic sex scenes and pseudo-Anglo American accents, the film would easily be mistaken for a European high drama. Featuring arguably the most lavish and exquisitely lit ‘shadowy gold’ cinematography that I have ever seen in a fuck flick and set mostly in a beach house in an unnervingly beautiful yet melancholy location that looks like it could have been shot on the other side of the island featured in Bergman’s Through a Glass Darkly (1961), 3 A.M. is certainly a lecherous yet equally lavish ‘posh porno’ that makes the oftentimes pretentious works of Radley Metzger seem like pseudo-aristocratic phony twaddle by comparison. Indeed, if there is a fuck flick that will offend the vulgar and philistinic sentiments of the Lumpenproletariat, it is Graver’s elegantly titillating assault on the ultra-urbane American upper-middleclass, as well as an amorous depiction of bourgeois angst. 



 Kate (genuinely talented actress Georgina Spelvin of Gerard Damiano’s 1973 crossover hit Devil in Miss Jones fame) is an old spinster with graying hair, but she is certainly not a sexless virgin as she has been carrying on a hot and heavy love affair with her brother-in-law Mark (Frank Mauro) who, with his curly black hair and overall swarthy Semite appearance, looks sort of like a more masculine and muscular version of Hebraic would-be-ladykiller Norman Mailer. As Kate intimately narrates at the beginning of 3 A.M. while she can hear her brother-in-law and sister Elaine (Rhonda Gellard) have sex: “My name is Kate and I live in this house. This is my sister Elaine and her husband Mark…and this is their home. I have lived with them for a longtime…long enough to help raise their son, Ronnie…long enough to help raise their daughter, Stacey. This is me, Kate…and I have lived here long enough for Mark and I to have been having a love affair for 15 years. I knew loneliness…I didn’t want to hurt Elaine, but I desperately need Mark’s love to help me fill this void. I used my loneliness to justify many sins. I knew the love of other women…even Stacey, my own niece…but this night was to inalterably change the lives of each of us…and the end began at 3 a.m….” Indeed, after having passionate (and secretly recorded) sex with Elaine that concludes with him accusing his wife of being a “half woman” and declaring to her, “what I want to do is be as far away from you as I possibly can…for the rest of my FUCKING LIFE. That’s what I want,” Mark heads to his boat where he meets and has carnal fun with his mistress Kate, but things get ugly from there. After Mark declares, “I left her [Elaine] and I’m leaving you and I’m finding me!,” like some over-the-hill beatnik suffering from a midlife crisis, Kate hysterically declares, “You’re not going to leave me! I want you!,” and proceeds to hit her secret lover over the head with a large bottle, thus leading to his death via drowning after he falls unconscious and falls overboard. 



 Flash forward “Several Days Later,” and the bourgeois family of 3 A.M. is suffering a crisis due to the tragic and rather dubious death of patriarch Mark; indeed, so much so that the circumstances will erupt into an orgy of melancholy incestuous sex. Not surprising considering the unexpected death of her great, beloved husband after the two had a nasty fight that they never had the opportunity to resolve, Elaine is a self-destructive suicidal mess, declaring “I want to die” and downing some pills with liquor as a chaser, which pisses her sister Kate off so much that she calls her a “silly bitch” and forces her vomit in a sink. While all by her lonesome and thinking about past sex with Mark, Kate declares regarding her sister, “How could you know…you’ve never known love,” and proceeds to hump her pillow. Of course, Kate “swings both ways” as demonstrated by the fact that she gets in a heated carpet-munching session in a shower with some random hippie bull-dyke who randomly shows up at the beach house. Somewhat wantonly warped, Kate is also carrying on a lurid lady-licker love affair with her fire-crotched teenage niece Stacey (played by porn star/exploitation actress Clair Dia, who starred in the strange 1972 experimental porn anthology flick Ramäge (Mobility Cathexis)). 



 Meanwhile, Widow Elaine is a total mess due to her loneliness and inability to mourn her husband's death, so she ends fornicating with some dorky hippie dude who wants to buy her late hubby’s boat.  In fact, despite her sorrow over the death of her beloved, Elaine bangs the guy on the very same boat that her husband was in before he drowned.  Despite having sex with her, the hippie beach boy more or less tells Elaine that having sex with random men won’t help her find what she is looking for and that, “The peace will come…when you learn to accept you loneliness.” After his sister Stacey attempts to seduce them after a beachside horse ride, teenage bourgeois bitch boy Ronnie (played by Charles Hooper, whose sole other film credit is Graver’s 1979 fuck flick Tangerine) starts an affair with an ex-model named Vicki (Sharon Thorpe), who tells Elaine that she saw a woman with Mark on the boat the night he drowned. Needless to say, lovelorn Kate eventually becomes so plagued by guilt and sadness due to her accidentally killing of her great love Mark that she records a confession on a tape, which her nephew Ronnie walks in on her doing. From there, Kate leaves the beach house, strips off her robe, and commits suicide by walking into the sea, but her nephew Ronnie makes no real effort to save her, even stopping his sister Stacey from helping. While Elaine and Stacey scream for Kate to comeback, Ronnie gets the cassette his aunt recorded and throws it into the ocean with her, thus forever burying the truth behind the tragedy that lead to his father and aunt’s deaths. 



 While clearly specially tailored for a more cultivated audience that expects more out of their fuck films, 3 A.M. is easily the greatest pornographic condemnation of the bourgeois that I have ever seen, even making Cecil Howard’s classic works like The Final Sin (1977) and The Scoundrels (1982) seem rather redundant by comparison. Indeed, in its depiction of the cowardice of the bourgeoisie, especially when it comes to perennially living a lie and not confronting open secrets that ultimately result in easily preventable tragedies and heartbreak, Graver’s work certainly recalls Bergman, though, aesthetically speaking, it also resembles the early pre-Hollywood works of Roman Polanski. Arguably, the most telling scene of the film is when protagonist Kate’s teenage nephew complains, “Nothing’s ever different,” as a young man who’s already come to realize that, due to his class background, he is plagued with a life of softness and domestic banality. Undoubtedly, 3 A.M. also has a somewhat vague ‘counter-culture’ vibe about it as is especially apparent in a “spirit of ’69” scene wherein siblings Ronnie and Stacey mutually exchange oral sex 69 style to the less than soothing sounds of generic psychedelic rock. Unquestionably, it is easy to believe that the film was assembled by a protégé of Orson Welles who mainly worked as cinematographer. Indeed, the warmly lit cinematography of 3 A.M. is immaculate and, pornographically speaking, the storytelling is fairly fluid, though I can certainly see why Graver found his niche in the pornographic realm as the film’s greatest weaknesses lie in its acting performances (though Georgina Spelvin is characteristically great as the somber spinster) and structuring. If you ever wonder if wantonness and Weltschmerz can be seamlessly blended together for a curious celluloid combo that is more bitter than sweet but wholly sensual, Graver’s porn chic era blue movie masterpiece of upper-middleclass decadence is probably your best bet.  Indeed, if the hallmark of a great hardcore flick is that you forget it is a hardcore flick while watching it, 3 A.M. indubitably one of the best porn pieces ever assembled.



-Ty E

Sep 27, 2014

Cabaret Sin




Since one of my girlfriend’s favorite films is Ridley Scott’s Blade Runner (1982), it was only natural that she would dig up a hardcore rip-off of the classic cyberpunk flick. Indeed, the stylishly salacious, vintage shot-on-video hardcore science fiction flick, Cabaret Sin (1987) aka X TROP, directed by one-time porn auteur Philip O'Toole, was such a hit upon its release that it was later re-edited and released in a non-pornographic cut under the title Droid (1988) a year later, with the director deciding to adopt the pseudonym ‘Peter Williams’ and claiming a bogus British background, as if it would make him seem more cultivated or something (of course, as far as I know, the Brits have never made a decent fuck flick, so adopting an English persona might be a wise choice for a filmmaker that is attempting to the obfuscate the dubious history of their sex flick turned sci-fi flick). With about 10 minutes of extra hardcore footage and a conspicuously ‘cooler’ name, I naturally opted for watching Cabaret Sin over the fuck-free flick Droid. Typically, I try to stay away from any post-porn chic, shot-on-video fuck flick, especially if it seems like it was made to appeal to the banal tastes of virginal Trekkies and related sexually autistic nerds whose greatest fantasy is getting laid by Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan, yet when I saw screenshots from O'Toole’s seemingly vaguely imaginative bargain bin blue movie, I could not resist. A nude neo-noir flick that seems like it was created by some sort of psychopathic preteen genius with easy access to an entire bordello of whores and the props of his local high school’s theater department, Cabaret Sin is a strangely charming work that, due to its aesthetic ambitiousness and wanton weirdness despite its discernible lack of budget and asinine acting performances, has to be seen to believed. Like Liquid Sky (1982) as directed by someone who does not know a god damn thing about new wave, new romanticism, or underground music/culture in general as molested by the post-apocalyptic pornographic cult classic Café Flesh (1982) directed by ‘Rinse Dream’ (aka Stephen Sayadian) meets countless popular 1980s Hollywood sci-fi blockbuster, O'Toole’s decidedly decadent piece of eccentrically erotic dystopia ultimately defies all forms of cinematic sanity as a seemingly aesthetically apocalyptic work that combines most of the worst clichés of dystopian sci-fi cinema, the meta-kitschy essence of late-1980s music videos, and an army of perturbingly plastic would-be-pretty people sporting mullets and other forms of obscenely odious outmoded Reagan era mullets on their seemingly empty heads. Indeed, if you ever wanted to experience the worst of 1980s dystopian sci-fi in a playfully pornographic package that strives to be, orgasmically speaking, out-of-this-world but more resembles the thematically impotent and incoherent yet nonetheless endlessly enthralling fantasy of an autistic American west coast take on Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome (1985) with a nihilistically nostalgic softspot for the worst elements of Stars Wars (1977), Cabaret Sin is a pure and unadulterated cinematically spastic win of the third cinematic kind as a hardcore-sci-fi hybrid. 



 The year and setting is Los Angeles 2020 and, as he narrates in a pseudo-noirish fashion, mullet man ‘Taylor’ (Greg Derek in what is clearly his most ‘famous’ role)—a horrible Harrison Ford/Mel Gibson hybrid played by a clear non-actor who seems like he was randomly discovered by the casting agent while working out at Gold's Gym—is a futuristic cop called an ‘Eliminator’ who works for the government as a lone wolf assassin.  Although he hates to admit it as a macho killing machine that is not supposed to have emotions (of course, this is a reference to the Replicants of Blade Runner) despite the fact he is a flesh and blood human and not a robot like a good portion of the assassins around the superlatively shitty west coast city, he is a lethally lovelorn lad who longs for his beloved whore ‘Nicola’ (played by pseudonymous German buxom brunette ‘Krista Lane’), who eloquently smokes her fag in a fashion almost worthy of Sean Young à la Blade Runner. As Taylor narrates about himself in a less than impassioned manner: “Its not that I’m a good cop…I’m a tired cop…tired of this dome, this job, this planet, but I still did what any good cop tried to do. Stay alive.” Unquestionably, the L.A. of 2020, not unlike the real L.A. of today (which seems worse, with its apocalyptic hodgepodge of impoverished Hispanics, disillusioned and culturally cuckolded whites, negro gangsters, East Asians, IT-inclined Indians, 711-running Arabs, and other assorted forms of mystery meat) is a decadent dystopian hellhole of the culturally and racially mongrelized sort suffering from a severe case of malignant multiculturalism as demonstrated by the fact that rather culturally confused individuals like meaty Mestizos wearing goofy pseudo-Japanese clothing and white Islamic towelheads sporting business suits can be found everywhere. Aside from ‘Eliminators’ like Taylor that drive goofy futuristic hovercrafts that do not seem to move, the L.A. of this salacious piece of non-celluloid sci-fi is inhabited by angry androids called ‘The Reformers’ that have flashing beady red lights for eyes, black helmets, and black uniforms, thus making them seem like a cross between a futuristic Gestapo soldier and Darth Vader. Needless to say, Taylor seems like a second-rate crack-addled pop-country singer compared to the Reformers. 



 In a scene parroting the famous space alien cantina scene from Star Wars, Taylor enters a stylish, eclectically themed strip club with the less than creative name “Pleasure Dome” where he sees a Jap geisha (Kristara Barrington) doing pseudo-Kabuki theater in front of a giant bald retro Jap head.  Not surprisingly, the ‘master of ceremonies’ of the club is a creepy smirking midget that waddles around with an equally creepy ventriloquist doll affixed to his shoulder. While lurking around the Pleasure Dome in a moody and broody manner in the hope that he will run into one of his targets, Taylor also watches in seeming boredom as a superficially amorous chick in an aesthetically vulgar Ancient Egyptian outfit, Azteca (Lorrie Lovett), strips and fucks for the adoring audience. When a girl goes up to Taylor, sits on his lap without permission, and asks, “Didn’t I pleasure you?,” he robotically replies, “Business before pleasure,” but of course, as the film later reveals, the coldhearted cop is in love with naughty Nicola, who peddles her puss to a tyrannical towelhead named ‘The Turk’ (played by veteran Hebraic hardcore star Herschel Savage), who owns a sleazy local club. 



 While brooding at the Turk’s club and watching a trombonist named Tammy Dorsey (Bunny Bleu) handle her instrument on stage as if it is a boner instead of a trombone in a scene that delightfully degenerates into a threesome where the fetishistic front-lady begins banging her band members for the discernibly aroused audience members, Taylor reminisces over his love for Nicola and complains to himself, “There I go again…getting all emotional…just when I thought I had forgotten her.” In easily the most memorably and perversely potent segment of the film, Taylor recalls romantically slow-dancing with Nicola prom-style in a scene juxtaposed with a heated fuck session between the two jaded lovers. When Taylor finally gets the testicular fortitude to approach his beloved Nicola, she does not accept him warmly and lovingly but berates him rather viciously, complaining, “You’re just like everyone else…you belong here. You’re gonna die here. I’m going to do anything I can to get out of her.” Indeed, as it turns out, Nicola is working for the enemy and after being nearly killed by a Reformer robot at the behest of the terrible Turk, the killer cop prepares to shoot his great ladylove with more than just good old fashioned baby batter. Of course, ‘love conquers all’ in the end and Taylor declares like a true punk poser, “fuck the system” after deciding that the woman he loves is more important to him then the dead-end job that he loves to hate. In the end, in the middle of Nicola sucking off Taylor in his rather hazy and almost otherworldly Greek-statue-adorned apartment, a Reformer android breaks down the door and the film concludes with the predictable inter-title: “To Be Continued…” 



 Of course, as one can expect from successful films, especially porn films, a sequel was made to Cabaret Sin entitled Empire of the Sins (1988), though it was directed by a dude named Kirdy Stevens (Little Me and Marla Strangelove, A Taste of Sugar) instead of Mr. O'Toole. In fact, scenes from both films were edited together to make the non-pornographic work Droid, which is vaguely more coherent than the two other films, though at the decided detriment of hopelessly 80s style hardcore debauchery. It should also be noted that both Empire of the Sins and Droid feature quasi-campy elements from the Naziploitation sub-genre. Of course, if 1980s style retrograde sci-fi is your thing, all three videos make for virtuous vices of the pleasantly post-apocalyptic sort that make the Mad Max films seem like the platitude-ridden product of an impotent Mormon mercenary. Indeed, in its own wayward way, Cabaret Sin is sort of ‘outsider’s art’ as assembled by people with very little artistic talent who seemed to put their all into an erotic effort with eccentric tableaux that may have been made to appeal to the rather particular sentiments of virginal sci-fi nerds whose sole sexual outlet is masturbation, but was clearly made with a ‘free’ and ‘determined’ spirit that will surely act as inspiration to any aspiring filmmaker or synth-pop musician. Through its sappy and seemingly intentionally cliche melodramatic romantic subplot and reckless aesthetic and thematic theft from countless 1980s sci-fi flicks, not to mention its inclusion of a totally random scene featuring an upside Casablanca (1942) poster hanging on the wall of a futuristic fuck club in a charmingly sleazy scenario that one might describe as ‘cinematic heresy’ (at least to those many individuals that think Michael Curtiz's film is one of the greatest cinematic masterworks ever made), Cabaret Sin also manages to make a mockery of Hollywood history and formulaic film conventions, which is certainly something I can respect. Of course, Los Angeles has only become all the more racially, culturally, and socially apocalyptic since the film was released over a 1/4 century ago as a result of the ‘Reconquista’ of the city by the supposed ‘Aztlán,’ the general mass colonization of the United States by third worlders of every stripe and creed, and the further spread of the neo-liberal metaphysical disease, among countless other things, so I think it is only natural that a remake of Cabaret Sin should be in order, though, considering the sorry state of the contemporary porn industry, it would probably be a reeking pile of anti-erotic bile steeped in miscegenation, cuckoldry, fake lips and tits, and ugly swarthy meathead dudes with monstrous dicks.  Indeed, Cabaret Sin may make the L.A. of 2020 seem like a conspicuously corrupt culturally bastardized shithole where killer robots run rampant and creepy dwarfs are considered chic, but it pales in comparison to the real dystopia that waits the so-called ‘City of Angels.’



-Ty E