Apr 29, 2017

Streamers




Due to both political and aesthetic reasons, I have always had somewhat mixed feelings for American auteur Robert Altman (M*A*S*H, McCabe & Mrs. Miller), but I can at least admit that the majority of his films, including rough early projects like That Cold Day in the Park (1969) and disastrous failures like his (anti)teen comedy O.C. and Stiggs (1987), are at least interesting to some extent. On the other hand, Altman—a sort of experimental anti-perfectionist that loved improvisation and did very little takes who tended to only use screenplays as a general guideline—seemed incapable of directing an immaculate masterpiece and was not exactly an unrivaled master when it came to mise-en-scène and intricate tableaux. Indeed, many of Altman’s films resemble glorified filmed theater, so it should be no surprise that some of his most potent (and underrated) films are claustrophobic low-budget chamber pieces, including Come Back to the Five and Dime, Jimmy Dean, Jimmy Dean (1982), Streamers (1983), and Secret Honor (1984), which were more or less made back-to-back during a low period in the director’s career after the mixed reception of his big budget musical Popeye (1980) starring Robin Williams when he could no longer find work in Hollywood as a result of being virtually unofficially blacklisted. While many Altmanphiles might disagree, I would certainly argue that Streamers is unequivocally one of Altman’s most unnervingly intense, subversive, nihilistic, and perverse films, even if it takes place entirely in one ugly scantily decorated room that resembles the barracks of some ungodly third world death camp.  A sort of gay bastard brother film to the first act of Stanley Kubrick's Vietnam War flick Full Metal Jacket (1987), Altman's film is also notable for being a rare cinematic work set during the the Second Indochina War that does now wallow in pseudo-humanistic antiwar cliches and instead focuses on the internal struggles and senseless tragedy that arise in a morose military microcosm as a result of fags, crypto-fags, and heteroflexible colored gentlemen being forced to live with one another.  Needless to say, Streamers is a film that, quite thankfully, does nothing to help further the multicultural cause.

Quite unlike most mainstream Hollywood liberal potheads, Altman was by no means a pussy, as he was a World War II veteran that flew on more than fifty bombing missions as a United States Army Air Forces crewman on a B-24 Liberator with the 307th Bomb Group in Borneo and the Dutch East Indies (notably, only 30% of crewmen survived thirty missions, yet Altman somehow managed to survive fifty). In short, unlike his whiny liberal (and largely kosher) colleagues, Altman actually earned the right to bitch about the military due to his own personal experience, but with his (anti)war flick Streamers he managed to achieve something that totally transcends petty party politics and superficial pot-addled pro-peace sentiments. While adapted by David Rabe from his 1976 play of the same title, Streamers was a somewhat personal film for Altman, or as he confessed in an interview with David Thompson featured in Altman on Altman (2006), “When I was in US Air Force as a pilot during World War II, I was eighteen years old. There was always the threat of being attacked by the Japanese, though I was never in that kind of situation. But I remember being in a barrack room and sleeping next to somebody I didn’t know, and that can be frightening because you’re not sure of yourself and you try to act the way a bunch of rough fellas do. Being an individual can lead to a lot of problems. The boys in STREAMERS are in a real pressure cooker. Everything is based on fear. It was more about that than Vietnam.” A cinematic work that makes the first act of Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket seem like it was directed by Steven Spielberg due to its refreshingly pure and unadulterated essence and freshingly raw depiction on unfiltered emotional vulgarity and vulnerability, Altman's exceedingly emotionally erratic Vietnam War era exercise in military barracks bickering and brutality is questionably one of the greatest cinematic examples as to why the auteur was a singular master when it came to dealing with actors (notably, the entire cast won the Best Actor award at the 1982 Venice Film Festival).  While Matthew Modine starred in a number of popular Vietnam War flicks, including Full Metal Jacket and Alan Parker's Birdy (1984), the actor undoubtedly gives his greatest and most memorable performance in Altman's rarely-seen film.




 Sometimes seeming like a perversely psychosexual poofter-plagued episode of The Twilight Zone where every single character, whether it be a white bourgeois pansy or ghetto negro thug, is sexually neurotic and seems to rate somewhere between a 3 and 6 on the Kinsey Heterosexual–Homosexual Rating Scale, Streamers is ostensibly about how a small group of soldiers deal with the fact that one of their comrades is a flagrant flaming faggot, yet ultimately every single character seems to be a closet case, latent homosexual, or self-loathing sod. Aside from being a meditation on the perils and precariousness of homosocial behavior in a strictly male environment where being a homo is the ultimate sin against masculinity, the film also deals with the stressful anxieties of interracial housing and the seemingly innate impossibility of a black man and white man forming an authentic friendship where racial hang-ups do not come into play. Thankfully far from politically correct in many regards despite having a vague humanistic tone, Altman’s film depicts a socially discordant microcosm where blacks attempt to dissuade other blacks from hanging out with whites and soldiers rather pretend that their comrade is not a cocksucker even though he’s a raging queen that constantly hits on them in the most shameless, albeit somewhat cryptic, of ways. As many of his films, including his most famous cinematic work M*A*S*H (1970)—an oftentimes mirthfully morbid movie where a suicidal latent homosexual is ‘cured’ of his sexual perversion after his friend guilt trips a chick into fucking the gayness out of him—clearly demonstrate, Altman had somewhat of a fondness for poking fun at poofs, which probably at least partially explains the absurdly awkward and oven oftentimes unnerving tone of Streamers. Indeed, the viewer is made to feel just as unsettled as the characters in the film in terms of the oftentimes suffocating and pathologically sexually schizophrenic nature of this fairly minimalistic psychodramatic chamber piece. 




 Notably, in his October 9, 1983 review of the film for The New York Times, Vincent Canby complained, “STREAMERS, Robert Altman’s screen adaptation of David Rabe’s tough, bloody, sorrowful stage play, is a maddening movie. It goes partway toward realizing the full effect of a stage play as a film, then botches the job by the overabundant use of film techniques, which dismember what should be an ensemble performance . . . Mr. Rabe’s play, one of the major hits of the 1976-77 New York theater season, is confined to a single set, a bleak room in an Army barracks where five soldiers, under the bleary eyes of two boozy old sergeants, are awaiting assignment to Vietnam.” I don’t know if Canby saw the same film, but Altman’s adaptation is indeed set entirely in a single ugly and aesthetically barren room that really underscores the claustrophobic misery and melancholy that plagues the characters in what is ultimately an exquisitely emotionally grotesque ensemble performance piece that really obsesses over the darker side of human vulnerability and the games that people way when it comes to maintaining a generic social identity. Aside from close-ups and a couple tracking shots and signature Altman-esque zoom shots, the film is fairly conservative in terms of its direction and stylization and I can only imagine that it would be painfully slower were it not for the director’s very precise techniques, especially in regard to certain character nuances that are highlighted via said filmmaking techniques. Indeed, among other things, Altman forces the viewer to bask in the dread and embarrassment of a hopelessly effeminate gay boy as he buries his head in a pillow like an upset toddler while he is being mocked by his friends due to his unfortunate sexual vices. Likewise, Altman effortlessly demonstrates the sick chemistry of the queer boy and a hyper neurotic ghetto negro by including close-up shots of the two playing an extra repugnant game of gay interracial footsies. In short, Altman subtly exploits many of his signature cinematic techniques to his advantage and makes the viewer feel like another awkward bitch recruit in the most spiritually barren of military barracks.  For better or worse, Altman's film is like an aberrosexual boot camp in cinematic form.



 Streamers begins with a somwhat understated depiction of a slightly shocking scenario where a seemingly gay and Jewish recruit named Martin (Albert Macklin) demonstrates his dissatisfaction with the military by half-heartedly slitting one of his wrists in the bathroom of his barracks. A fellow effeminate fag named Richie (degenerate Jewish pop artist Roy Lichtenstein’s gay mischling son Mitchell Lichtenstein) stops Martin from finishing the job and forces him to get help.  Of course, instead of simply comforting Martin, Richie also bitches at him in a stereotypical gay queen-ish fashion for being so melodramatic. While barrack mate Billy (Matthew Modine) seems to be rather disturbed by Martin’s actions and even offers to help him, his sassy colored comrade Roger (David Alan Grier in a pre-fame role) his hardly moved by the rather lackluster attempt at self-slaughter and gleefully describes it as, “Ain’t no thang’ but a chicken wing.” Despite being members of rival races, wussy white boy Billy and gregarious smooth-talking negro Roger have developed a fairly playful friendship of sorts that oftentimes involves them speculating as to whether or not Richie is an authentic fudge-packing homo.  While fairly militant in their condemnation of butt banditry, Billy and Roger strangely agree that Richie is “cute.”  As men that seem like they might be latently gay themselves, Billy and Roger want to give Richie the benefit of the doubt, but the effortlessly effete queen is obsessed with flaunting his rather refined faggotry and thus naturally does ridiculous things to draw unnecessary attention to himself, including wear a goofy hat that he proudly describes as an “authentic Greek fishermen's cap.”

Indeed, as his incessant request for movie dates demonstrates, Richie has a crush on Billy, but the latter is in denial about this forbidden crush. As for Billy's sexual proclivities, he seems like a self-loathing closet-case, especially after he tells a long dubious story about he and a supposed pal named ‘Frankie’ used to scam queers out of money on a regular basis, only for said supposed friend to later become queer as a result of coming to the following absurd rationalization, “What does it matter who does it to you? Some guy or some old broad, you close your eyes, a mouth’s a mouth.” Naturally, as a cocksucker with a crush, Richie believes that Billy is really the ‘Frankie’ of the story and even goes so far as asking him.  Needless to say, Billy, who is ashamed of the fact that he is a college-educated dork, does not take it too well when Richie accuses him of having a gay past.  In fact, Billy becomes so enraged that he yells in Richie's face, “You are really sick, you know that? Your brain is really, truly rancid. You know there’s a theory now it’s genetic, that it’s all a matter of genes and shit like that? You, man. You and the rot that’s make out of your feeble fucking mind.”



 Aside from the occasional half-ass suicide attempt and drunken buffoonery of certain goofy commanding officers, the boys in the barracks do not really experience problems until a new negro recruit named Carlyle (Michael Wright of Sugar Hill (1994) and HBO’s Oz (1997-2002)) from a different unit begins lurking around and causing problems of both the racially and sexually orientated sort. Arguably the most hyper histrionic black character in all of cinema history, Carlyle is a shameless race-hustler, would-be-pimp, depressed dipsomaniac, and sexual degenerate that soon develops an overwhelming desire to sodomize Richie, which naturally disgusts both the white and black characters. While in the company of his fellow brother Roger, Carlyle bitches that his unit is full of “pale boring motherfuckers” who are “short on soul.” Carlyle believes that the army is controlled by evil white racists and when Roger notes that the First Sergeant is an authentic negro, he sarcastically replies in a savagely smug fashion, “That’s good news, blood. I heard Hitler was a Jew, too.” A pathetic bully that always has a bottle of cheap liquor in his hand, guilt-ridden conman Carlyle loves forcing his degeneracy onto other people and he even coerces Roger into drinking by insinuating that he is an ‘uncle tom’ if he doesn’t take a sip. While ostensibly a bad ass nigga, Carlyle makes a pathetic fool of himself the very first day he is there by sneaking into the barracks late at night while exceedingly inebriated and crawling on the ground with a bottle of liquor in his hand whilst crying hysterically, “They are gonna send my fucking ass to fucking Vietnam and kill me.” Although he wants people to think he is a tough thug that doesn't take shit from anyone, Carlyle is really an emotionally hysterical neurotic coward that clearly has been severely psychologically damaged as a result of growing up fatherless in a nasty negro ghetto, so it is no surprise that his petty determination to prove he is a bad ass alpha-nigga ultimately has tragic consequences. While Billy and Roger go so far as to describe Richie is “cute” despite their homo-hating sentiments, Carlyle incessantly describes him as a “punk” and almost immediately expresses his desire to fuck said punk. Needless to say, Billy and Roger refuse to see such a uniquely unsavory display of bestial gay miscegenation take place in their barracks, but Carlyle is not exactly the sort of guy that takes no for an answer, especially when it is an issue of getting his ‘nut’ from a feminine limp-wristed cracker boy that likes reading books about Ingmar Bergman.

 Despite his fairly belligerent anti-white racism, Carlyle is somewhat willing to critique his own race and even insightfully blames the collective failure of negroes on hyper-emotionalism, stating, “That’s my problem. Maybe that’s the black man’s problem altogether. You ever consider that? Too much feeling. I mean, it’s like he too close to everything. You know, too close to his body, his blood. Man, it ain’t like he got no good mind or nothing. It’s just that he believes in his body.” At the same time, Carlyle's anti-fag and anti-white taunting gets so extreme that even meta-wuss Richie gets pissed and makes the racially-charged statement to Billy right in front of the nasty negro, “He’s one of them who hasn’t come far down out of the trees yet, Billy. Believe me.”  As the film hints also in regard to the characters' masculinity (or lack thereof), Carlyle's beloved ‘blackness’ acts as a sort of artificial pseudo-identity that gives him a misguided sense of belonging, even though other negroes don't even seem to like him.  Indeed, the initial reason Carlyle begins lurking around the barracks is because he learns a fellow black brother lives there, though he has a hard time actually remembering Roger's name.  Somewhat ironically, it is ultimately gay boy Richie that Carlyle develops the closest bond with, thus underscoring the absurdity of his racial prejudices.  Of course, as a man with a massive inferiority complex, Carlyle also seems especially excited by the prospect of sexually brutalizing a smart, cultivated, and handsome white boy, hence the sick trend of black-on-white prison rape.  After all, people tend to try to defile and/or destroy those things that make them feel a sense of inferiority.



 Aside from all the recruits seeming like closet rectum-reamers, middle-aged officers Rooney (Guy Boyd) and Cokes (George Dzundza)—longtime friends that fought in both World War II and the Korean War together—can’t keep their hands off one another and seem like old lovers. Incessantly playing games of drunken grab-ass, Rooney and Cokes delight in mocking the admiring young recruits while bragging about their dubious military conquests. For example, Rooney gleefully boasts about how fat fuck Cokes is a “fucking hero” that took out “47 chinky-dinky chinese gooks,” including one sly young slant-eye that was hiding in a spider hole. Coke also recounts how a comrade named O’Flannigan did not get to sing “Beautiful Streamer” (hence the title of the film) as a result of falling to his death due his parachute failing to open after jumping out of an airplane. Unlike the young recruits, the officers seem to love the military lifestyle as if they are part of some degenerate Männerbünde where ‘boys can be boys’ without the nuisance of feminine energy and pheromones, mammary glands, and the scent of warm wet vaginas.  Somewhat curiously, Rooney and Cokes also have a tendency to sleep together in the same small room.

While Rooney and Cokes only seem to need each other and never once mention the carnal pleasures that they can acquire from members of the opposite sex, Carlyle coerces Roger and Billy into going to “a cathouse that is full of cats” for a little bit of “sex, drugs, danger, danger.” Somewhat ironically, gay boy Richie, who has little interest in the ‘fruit that made man wise,’ ends up paying for the three recruits to patronize the low-budget negress pussy-peddlers. Unfortunately, serious trouble arises when the boys get back and Richie demands that both Roger and Billy leave the barracks so that he can be sodomized by sexually insatiable spade Carlyle. Indeed, as Roger mockingly states, “Richie is one of those white boys that want to get fucked by a nigger.” Of course, the two refuse to allow gay interracial buggery to occur in their barracks and Billy even goes so far to describe Carlyle as a “fucking animal,” to which the hyper horny negro hysterically replies like a savage beast on the verge of murderous impulse, “I want my fucking nut. I want my nut, man! What the fuck you so uptight for, huh? He wants me. This boy here wants me. Richie wants me, man. Who the fuck are you to stop it?” 




 Rather predictably, things escalate terribly when Carlyle is denied his opportunity to anally annihilate the queer cracker boy. An unequivocal ghetto child with a special talent for esoteric street (anti)logic, Carlyle gets so enraged when Billy makes a failed attempt to throw a shoe at him that he takes a knife and slashes the palm of the rather naïve young cracker’s hand. After falling into a state of shock and hiding in the barracks bathroom for a little bit, Billy makes the ultimately fatal mistake of coming back out and stating in what is ultimately his most potent line of dialogue in the entire film, “Jesus H. Christ. You know what I’m doing? You know what I’m standing here doing? I’m a 24-year-old college graduate—goddamn intellectual type, and I got a knife in my hand, thinking about coming up behind one black human being, and I’m thinking nigger this and nigger that. I want to cut his throat. That is ridiculous, man. I never faced anybody in my life with anything to kill them. You understand me? I don’t have a goddamn thing on the line here.” Unfortunately, Billy then makes the seriously stupid mistake of dropping the knife and then hatefully yelling in Carlyle’s face “sambo.”

As can be predicted, Carlyle grabs the knife and immediately stabs Billy in the stomach after he calls him “sambo” in what almost seems like an instinctive reflexive response that really highlights the colored character's racial sensitivity.  Of course, Carlyle does not stop there, as he also stabs Rooney in the stomach after the poor drunk bastard randomly stumbles into the barracks and threatens to stab him with a broken bottle upon noticing that he has fatally wounded Billy. When the MPs eventually show up after Richie goes for help, both Billy and Rooney are already both dead, though they eventually catch Carlyle, who is covered in the blood of his victims, wandering around the base like a chicken with its head cut off. Completely in denial that he has just brutally murdered two people and more or less ruined his entire life in a matter of minutes, true blue dindu Carlyle rather ridiculously, if not predictably, maintains his innocence and even demands to be immediately released, absurdly stating with a sort of quasi-crackhead ghetto elegance, “Look, I’ve had enough of this. Listen, all you guys are going to have to be going now, all right? Seriously. Now, if you just kindly remove these cuffs from my hands. Get me a bus ticket home. I’ve quit the Army. I’m not going to be quit. I have quit the army.” 



 After the corpses are removed and Carlyle is forcibly taken away in handcuffs, both Roger and Richie are forced to stay in the barracks, with the former immediately rebuking the latter for not owning up to being a faggot and, in turn, partially unwittingly igniting the horrific events that took place that night.  Indeed, Roger ultimately blames Richie for all the homoerotically-charged mayhem that has occurred.  Before the two manage to fall asleep, Cokes, who is drunk as a skunk and has no clue his best bud has just been brutally murdered, sneaks into the barracks and then proceeds to shock the recruits by emotionally breaking down after Roger mentions that Richie is a queer. Indeed, upon seeing Richie sobbing like a little girl that has misplaced her dolly, Cokes attempts to comfort the boy by misguidedly stating, “There’s a lot more worse things than being a queer in this world. I mean, you could have leukemia. That’s worse. I keep thinking if there was something I could’ve done, if it was different. If I’d have killed more gooks or more krauts or more dinks—or if I had a wife, I had kids—I never had any. My mother did. She died of it anyway. That if I let that little gook out of that spider hole he was in I was sitting on—I’d let him out now if he was in there. But he ain’t. How am I ever going to forget it? That funny little guy.” As demonstrated by his confession, it seems one of the reasons that Cokes drinks so much is because he has not gotten over the fact that he barbarically killed a goofy gook boy that reminded him of Charlie Chaplin. In the end, the survivors of the micro-massacre all seem emotionally defeated.  Undoubtedly, what makes all of these characters, including unhinged jigaboo Carlyle, seem all-too-human in the end is that they are all slaves of their own distinct fears, vulnerabilities, impulses, and traumas.  Indeed, even Carlyle—an insufferable piece of untermensch excrement that practically personifies all of the qualities that whites cannot stand about certain low-class negroes—comes out looking like a tragic victim whose horrific actions were the natural consequence of a lifetime of ghetto negro debasement.




 From the Sacred Band of Thebes in Ancient Greece to the merry Mediterranean adventures of Lord Byron to the sexually sadistic leadership of the Sturmabteilung (SA) Brownshirts, there has always been a curious link between militarism and homosexuality, but in Altman’s Streamers there is certainly nothing even remotely romantic about it.  Of course, it could argued that the film is just as much about (post)Puritan America’s long history of anxiety and erotic schizophrenia when it comes to all-things-sexual, as none of the characters have a healthy outlook on sex, let alone romantic relationships (which are never even really discussed). On the other hand, despite revolving around homophobic hysteria, the film is also a sort of sick fag fantasy, especially in regard to ghetto negro Carlyle's rather vocal eagerness when it comes to getting his “nut” via an effete boy (indeed, despite what Hollywood tells you, homo-hating is the norm in the black community, thus ostensibly heterosexual negroes that have sex with men prefer to be on the ‘down-low’).  Aside from the most masochistic of homos and cocksucking cucks with a fetish for dark meat, the film is also probably the ultimate celluloid anti-aphrodisiac for the majority of gays.  Indeed, Carlyle is certainly no twink.

Surely, it is doubtful that such a thematically subversive film could be made today, as it features somewhat unflattering depictions of both gays and negroes, as well as naughty words that might cause seizures in the easily triggered. Indeed, aside from depicting blacks as innately racially hysterical and just plain racist (of course, whites are also depicted as such, albeit in a different way), the main gay character is a manipulative masochist that uses a poor ghetto negro as a tool in a feeble attempt to make his ambiguously gay Caucasian crush jealous. Undoubtedly, if anything can be learned from the film, it is that interracial harmony is an absurd communist fantasy and gay men and straight men are from different universes and thus can never be true comrades. In an age where both poor negroes and flamboyant faggots are presented by Hollywood and American public schools as perennial victims and the height of moral superiority, Streamers indubitably makes for an insightful flick that exposes racial and sexual problems that are completely hidden in the mainstream. While Altman might have been a lifelong leftist pothead, but he was not afraid to be politically incorrect and speak his mind.  After all, only a couple years later, Altman would direct his badly botched yet nonetheless sometimes entertaining (anti)teen comedy O.C. and Stiggs (1987), which is notable for poking fun at pretentious poofs, deranged Vietnam War veterans, rambling black bums, and even Mariticide, among other things. 


 Notably, the virtual bible of gay cinema, Images in the Dark: Encyclopedia of Gay and Lesbian Film and Video (1994) by Raymond Murray, features a fairly favorable review of Streamers that reads: “Director Robert Altman utilizes the intensity of the theatrical experience with the opportunities offered through film in this adaptation of David Rabe’s award-winning play. STREAMERS is an ensemble piece, set in a claustrophobic Army barracks, featuring four ill-assorted young soldiers waiting for assignments to Vietnam. The men must grapple with their hidden fears and prejudices, which, in turn, generate sexual intolerance, racial distrust and a misunderstanding that leads to violence.” While written by a gay left-winger, the review unwittingly exposes the perils of so-called ‘diversity’ as is emotionally erratically yet somehow elegantly depicted in Altman’s film.  After doing a little bit of background reading, it seems that most reviewers of the film seem to have completely missed the film’s most important insights.  Indeed, in his relatively favorable review featured in Time Magazine, Richard Corliss absurdly wrote, “Michael Wright glides through the barracks like a hipster on a death mission,” which sounds like he is describing some lame counterculture satire like Altman's own M*A*S*H.  Personally, I think it would be more accurate to say that whacked-out homo negro Wright demonstrates his murderously mad racial sensitivity to some uptight college-educated cracker prick that committed the dual negro sin of denying him unhealthy STD-ridden sex and calling him “sambo.”

Despite a lifetime of cultural Marxist propaganda, most people seem to realize on at least a subconscious instinctual level the Orwellian neo-commie slogan ‘diversity is our strength’ is a grotesque lie that is an insult to all of human history.  After all, even Robert D. Putnam—a leftist WASP that is so pathetically deracinated that he actually converted to his wife's religion of Judaism—had to admit in his magnum opus Bowling Alone: The Collapse and Revival of American Community (2000), which he postponed publishing for years because he was afraid to reveal his less than kosher findings, that so-called multicultural has led to the complete and utter destruction of civic, social, associational, and political life (aka ‘social capital’) in the United States, hence the overall lack of cohesion among the largely isolated white majority and destruction of virtually every American city due to black criminality and white flight.  At the most fundamental level, the barracks in Streamers acts as a sort of symbolic microcosm of the socially necrotizing madhouse that is multicultural America, so naturally it is no surprise that the film concludes with completely senseless interracial murder because some poor helpless minority could not handle being called a couple big bad mean words (notably, the made-up phrase ‘white fragility’ is quite popular among contemporary leftists, which is rather funny since whites, quite unlike blacks and Jews, do not tend to commit violent crimes and/or suffer mental breakdowns as a result of experiencing name-calling or imagined racial insensitivity).  Despite the commie lie that people are completely malleable and can be brainwashed and manipulated enough to the point where they magically shed their most intrinsic biological instincts, straight white males will always prefer straight white males, ghetto negroes will always prefer ghetto negroes, and effeminate homos will always prefer effeminate homos, or so one learns while watching Streamers.

More sophisticated and nuanced than similarly themed cinematic works like Jack Garfein’s The Strange One (1957), John Huston’s Reflections in a Golden Eye (1967), and John Flynn’s The Sergeant (1968), Streamers is unquestionably flawed but is undoubtedly the sort of Grand Illusion of the rather preternatural self-loathing gay military subgenre.  Not unlike his Sam Shepard vehicle Fool for Love (1985), the film is indubitably one of Altman's most underrated flicks and evidence that the auteur was at his most subversive when working with a small budget and away from the constraints of some big Hollywood studio.  I certainly cannot think of another rampantly heterosexual American auteur that would have the gall to make an extremely awkward film about the dangers and dilemmas of ‘Dorian love,’ especially one like Altman that incessantly used fags as a source of comic relief in his films.  Indeed, when the time finally arrives when some Jewish tranny or triracial feminist dyke academic gets the gall to attempt to discredit leftist cynic Altman by portraying him as some sort of sinister German-American homophobe with cryptic antisemitic tendencies (after all, he dared to wage war against the very kosher Hollywood studio system and even directed films featuring grotesque Yid gangsters), I would not be the least bit surprised if they attempted to present Streamers as the virtual Jud Süß of gay war movies.



-Ty E

Apr 21, 2017

In the Realm of the Senses




Unlike many modern-day white men around my age, I have never really suffered from strange fetishistic plague of ‘yellow fever’ or even considered dating an Asian girl, let alone marrying and/or having children with one (after all, the last thing that world needs is more deranged hapa spawn). Indeed, aside from a Slavic-looking green-eyed ¼ Japanese girl when I was in middle school, I have never really found myself fantasizing about defiling the largely curveless bodies of oriental chicks, so naturally I have never wanted to actively seek out Asian pornography of any sort, hence my initial disinterest in seeing the Franco-Japanese flick L'Empire des sens (1976) aka In the Realm of the Senses directed by Nagisa Ôshima (Night and Fog in Japan, Death by Hanging). Of course, considering it is a fairly (in)famous film and I am a huge fan of the director’s preternaturally homoerotic (anti)war flick Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence (1983) starring David Bowie, it was only a matter of time before I watched erotically wayward flick. Needless to say, as someone with a huge fetish for dames with large shapely derrieres, hourglass figures, and (to a somewhat lesser extent) large tits, I initially did not expect to find anything even remotely erotic about Ôshima’s film, yet upon watching it I somehow found myself enamored with female lead Eiko Matsuda’s petite yet surprisingly curvy physique. In short, Matsuda is like a Japanese Venus, but arguably the most erotic thing about In the Realm of the Senses—a film best known for featuring tons of unsimulated sex and an unconventionally climatic castration scene—is the hot, heavy, and slightly homicidal ‘mad love’ romance that is unequivocally the main focus of the film.

 Notable for gaining Ôshima internal acclaim in the cinema world and more or less transforming him from a Japanese filmmaker to a relatively cosmopolitan one (though his work would ultimately suffer as a result), the film is loosely based on the real-life story of Japanese Geisha-cum-prostitute Sada Abe and the huge scandal that she caused in Japan during the 1930s when she erotically asphyxiated her lover, Kichizo Ishida, chopped off his penis and testicles, and then carried them around with her in her kimono as if they were sacred good charms. Like one big long, erratic, and deleteriously intoxicating coital session that concludes with a such an enrapturing transcendental orgasmic climax that the inordinately virile male protagonist loses both his life and genitals in a sickening scenario that somehow seems logical in the end in the context of the lovers' lurid and insanely intense romance, In the Realm of the Senses is a film that is, above all us, about a totally raw and visceral chemistry based sexual love affair that is so dangerously potent and explosive that it can only end in death due to the ever increasing intensity of the crazed couple’s singular carnal majesty. Indeed, although a rather fittingly titled film since the debauched duo lives in a totally intoxicating and solely sensual-based hermetic demimonde, I still think it might be better renamed ‘La petite mort.’ 




 Undoubtedly, one of the aspects of Ôshima’s film that I found most intriguing and, to some extent, relatable is the fact that the two leads seem to lie together in bed for eternity, as if they would love nothing more than to completely cut themselves off from the rest of humanity and spend the rest of their days in a perpetual state of heightened carnality, hence the film's almost autistically literal title. Indeed, out of all the girls I have been with, only one did I never eventually get sexually bored of, even though some of my previous lovers were gifted with comparable pulchritude. In fact, as the years passed, our sexual chemistry and mutual attraction only seemed to grow while our relationship became more ‘complicated’ in other ways. Even to this day years later, an hour cannot pass with me being reminded of her touch, smell, and sensual warmth. Surely, what makes In the Realm of the Senses so delightfully darkly romantic is that the couple, which lives for perpetual mutual copulation, chooses death while they are at the height of their otherworldly erotic compatibility instead of allowing themselves to be broken up by society or something else (like the heroine's mental illness!), as if they can subconsciously sense that Japan will be eventually firebombed and nuked in dubious Allied air raids.

While I sincerely expected the film to be pretentious artsy fartsy Jap pornography of the rather revolting sort disguised as a ‘mature’ arthouse flick, it proved to be, at least in my opinion, one of the few films ever made in cinema history where the sex scenes are an innate and imperative ingredient to the point where it would completely fall apart at the seams were it not so delicately explicit. Indeed, instead of watching two sex fiends fucking to simply fuck, Ôshima’s shockingly mirthful celluloid orgasm treats the viewers to two strangely sympathetic weirdoes making love to one another simply because they are so hopelessly in love and see virtually everything else in life as completely pointless. In short, even the most inordinately artful of porn flicks like Lasse Braun’s Body Love (1978), Cecil Howard’s Neon Nights (1981), and Stephen Sayadian’s Café Flesh (1982) seem like tasteless fucks flicks when compared to the exquisite eros of Ôshima’s arguable cinematic magnum opus. Bataillean in an oftentimes surprisingly humorous egg-in-a-pussy sort of fashion and almost pathologically politically incorrect in an oftentimes sadomasochistic fashion, In the Realm of the Senses also somehow manages to be almost just as absurdly comical as it is erotically cultivated and decadently romantic. In fact, the film is almost savagely sadistic in its humor as a uniquely unforgettable flick that features small children teasing an elderly bum by pocking his exposed shriveled prick with a flag stick, an insanely unmotherly heroine that sexually abuses a wee toddler by aggressively squeezing his genitals to the point where the little lad screams in pain, and a male protagonist that has no qualms about randomly molesting, raping, or sympathy-fucking Geisha gals of all ages and sizes while in the company of his beloved, among other things.  Somewhat ironically, while I have always found the sort of absurdly sordid sexual fetishism depicted in Japanese cinema to be nothing short of insufferably ridiculous, if not downright sexually autistic, In the Realm of the Senses—a film that is certainly beyond vanilla as far as sexuality is concerned—proved to be an almost shockingly accessible film for me.  Indeed, the flick might have been directed by a leftist degenerate of sorts and produced by a dubious Hebraic frog, but it certainly has something archaically universal about it in the way in manages to succeed where most pornography fails in its depiction of organic sexual obsession.  It is also a rare film that demonstrates what it means for a man to find a cunt that feels and smells as natural and imperative as his own cock and vice versa.




 Unlike many more conventional cinephiles that seem incessant on looking solely to the Criterion Collection  (incidentally, they were response for releasing In the Realm of the Senses on DVD/Blu-ray in the United States) for what they regard is notable cinema, I have rather mixed feelings about Japanese cinema in general and hardly have a hard-on for Akira Kurosawa, who is more or less the Jap John Ford and certainly the most Americanized of the great Japanese filmmakers. Naturally, I was immediately interested in Ôshima when I discovered that he largely hated Japanese cinema and even much of his own cinematic works, so it is only natural that his most well known film, In the Realm of the Senses, has never been released in its complete and uncensored form in his own native country. In fact, the film—a rare Franco-Jap production—only managed to bypass Japan’s anti-pornography laws by having the undeveloped footage shipped to frogland where the film was processed and edited (not surprisingly, the film was produced by French-Polish-Hebrew Anatole Dauman, who also produced some of Polish erotic maestro Walerian Borowczyk's classic films). Notably, at the very end of his rather polemical and borderline anti-Jap BFI documentary 100 Years of Japanese Cinema (1995), Ôshima concludes the film by more or less expressing his longing for dissolution of an organically Japanese national cinema and identity, even stating with not even the slightest hint of irony, “The first hundred years of Japanese cinema have been the period of its youth. It will certainly stay young for the next hundred years. And in these hundred years, the Japanese film will free itself from the spell of Japanese-ness, and will come abloom as pure cinema.” Of course, the great irony is that In the Realm of the Senses—a quasi-pornographic period piece featuring bisexual Geisha orgies and archaic Jap folk music—is hopelessly Japanese in terms of its aesthetic essence and bizarre fetishism. After all, only in Japan does a woman become a famous celebrity after chopping off her beau’s balls and bald-headed bandit. Certainly, when I think of Japanese cinema, my mind always comes to Ôshima and Shûji Terayama before the relatively tame samurai cinema of Kurosawa and Masaki Kobayashi. As a lifelong leftist extremist of sorts that was born to an ancient aristocratic family with notable samurai ancestors, Ôshima is certainly a degenerate of sorts, albeit a distinctly Japanese one that tested the bounds of cinematic civility and artistic expression.  Certainly, if there ever was a sort of Jap Pasolini, it was Ôshima.




 For better or worse, In the Realm of the Senses features one of the most believably depraved and sexually insatiable yet somehow compulsively cute and eccentrically erotic divas of cinema history and I say that as someone that has never had a fondness for yellow flesh. Indeed, Sada Abe (Eiko Matsuda)—an unhappily married ex-prostitute turned domestic ‘servant girl’ that works at a hotel who was forced to peddle her pussy after her businessman hubby lost all of his money—is immediately revealed to be an unhinged bitch in the very first scene of the film where she stares into space with great unhinged fury, as if she is about to explode at any second for the most trivial of reasons. While she might be a pervert of sorts that could fuck all day if she had the right cock inside her, Sada is rampantly heterosexual as demonstrated by the fact that she rebuffs an aggressively Sapphic coworker that begins randomly fondling her tits. In fact, after the lesbo coworker realizes she is not into the ancient art of carpet-munching, she takes Sada to a peephole so that they can spy on their boss Kichizō Ishida (Tatsuya Fuji) while he fucks his wanton wife. It seems that Sada likes what she sees, as she soon starts a hot and heavy romance with hyper hedonistic sex-master Kichizō. Indeed, one day after Sada attempts to stab one of her coworkers for calling her a “whore,” Kichizō physically manhandles her, suggestively states, “Why hold that knife when you could be holding something else?,” and then forces his fingers inside her assumedly less than wet cunt. Shortly after warning her, “I like the sway of your hips. I bet you’ve broken many a man’s heart. I will pierce you through,” Kichizō more or less rapes Sada but she really likes it and soon transforms from a passive lover into a highly aggressive one as a result of her complete and utter obsession with her employer's seemingly eternally erect member. As the two soon realize, it is virtually love-at-first-fuck as the two become almost permanently attached at the cock and cunt to the point where they completely forget about all the other people and concerns in their respective lives. 



 Undoubtedly, both Kichizō and Sada are eccentric social misfits of sorts and it does not take long before they get lost in their own hermetic demimonde of hyper horniness.  Of course, the lovers are nothing if not happily imprisoned in their own two-person pandemonium of pleasure and it is ultimately only death that can separate the two.  As a rather emotionally erratic woman that seems to suffer from Post-coital tristesse (PCT) and is prone to violent outbursts and emotion breakdowns when she is not having her meat curtain rammed with her beau’s seemingly permanently erect blue-veined custard chucker, Sada quite literally lives to fuck and only wants to fuck to the point where even her lover begins to get a little too physically tired from all the juice-draining orgasms. Luckily for Sada, Kichizō has the sexual prowess of a virtual samurai army and is always down for dipping his Don Cypriano into Sada’s seemingly perennially wet passion pipe, even when he is literally falling asleep. While initially a seemingly happily married man that enjoys giving his wifey what she most desires, it does not take long for Kichizō to abandon his needy wife and completely devote himself to his mistress Sada. Indeed, Sada is an unrepentant bitch of the grotesquely jealous sort and even bitches to Kichizō during one of the first time they have sex, “you’re going to make love to your wife later, aren’t you? What a slut, having sex every morning […] I won’t let you go until you’ve cum.” When Kichizō’s wife attempts to ‘mark her territory’ by intentionally fucking her hubby in front of the heroine, Sada becomes so enraged that she instantly fantasizes about violently murdering the broad.  Luckily, Sada has more creative ways to demonstrate her love for Kichizō, including dipping her food in his sexual juices and vice versa.  Unfortunately for Kichizō, Sada would prefer killing them than to allow him to be in the general proximity of another woman's cleft of flesh.



 Kichizō may be married to an oversexed sexpot, but that does not stop him from marrying Sada in a sort of mock wedding attended by half-a-dozen seemingly sexually demented Geisha girls and some goofy old fart that resembles an anorexic mummy. In fact, the wedding ceremony is so special that the newlyweds fuck in front of the guests, which ultimately turns the Geisha girls on so much that they collectively strip a virginal member of the group named ‘Kosome’ and deflower her with a somewhat quaint bird-shaped dildo.  Not surprisingly, the wedding eventually evolves into a full-blown orgy that concludes with a sea of lifeless naked bodies lying on the floor. Despite their incessantly professed love for one another in a decidedly fleshy form, Sada temporarily leaves Kichizō to visit her hometown for the sole purpose of peddling her puss to her former school principle. An extremely elderly and unattractive man that she apparently deeply respects due to his prestigious reputation, Sada demands that the principle slap her, twist her nipple and pull her hair, which ultimately arouses the heroine so much that she gets horny enough to ride his ancient cock. Before leaving Kichizō for her fancy date with the principle, Sada forces him to trade kimonos in what is indubitably a silly yet nonetheless potent symbolic display of their mutual undying love and affection for one another. Although she is not beneath selling her cash for gash to dirty old men, Sada soon becomes so irrationally jealous that she whips out a knife and threatens to cut off Kichizō’s cock in a somewhat foreshadowing scene that underscores the heroine's deep-seated unhinged sadism and how it seems irreparably intertwined with her sexuality. 



 Indeed, Sada seems especially obsessed with the sadistic act of cutting off Kichizō’s cock while it is inside her cunt, at least until she realizes that she has a special fondness for the savage art of ‘breath control play,’ which ultimately leads her to getting the opportunity to castrate his creamstick and love-spuds. Indeed, the beginning of the end of the couple’s hot and heavy romance occurs when Sada comes more in touch with her growing sadistic side and realizes that she receives especially potent orgasms while strangling Kichizō while he is inside her. After abandoning his wife and trapping himself in an increasingly deleterious yet completely intoxicating psychosexual affair that blurs the line between heaven and hell, Kichizō almost seems to welcome his demise as he has unquestionably reached the greatest heights in the realm of the senses, with death during sex being the next sensible route for the romance to take. When the pain involved with erotic asphyxiation proves to be too much for poor Kichizō, he tells Sada, “If you strangle me . . . don’t stop midway. It’s too painful afterward.”  Somewhat curiously, Sada seems more interested in the potency of her orgasms than the survival of the man that gives her said orgasms.  After Kichizō succumbs to asphyxiophiliac excess, Sada quasi-ritualistically dismembers her lover’s cock and balls and then writes “SADA AND KICHI TOGETHER FOREVER” on his chest with his own blood.  Notably, the film concludes with a shot of Sada lying next to Kichizō’s dismembered body juxtaposed with auteur Ôshima himself narrating in a somewhat monotone fashion, “For the next four days, Sada carried his severed organ from one Tokyo inn to another. She was still smiling radiantly when she was arrested. The story shocked all of Japan. The sympathy of the public made her strangely popular. These events took place in 1936.” 



 Undoubtedly, I think the best way one can argue for the legitimacy and absolute imperativeness of the unsimulated sex scenes featured in In the Realm of the Senses is to compare it to Ôshima’s subsequent film Empire of Passion (1978), which features a similar ‘mad love’ orientated romance sans the sexually explicit imagery. The second film in a fairly respectable diptych that was created when Ôshima was surely at the height of his artistic powers, Empire of Passion is a quasi-horror flick that also stars Tatsuya Fuji as a ‘sexual outlaw’ of sorts, yet it is not as nearly immaculate and ultimately lacks the fluid pacing of the director’s previous effort. Additionally, Ôshima’s penultimate feature Max, Mon Amour (1986)—a goofy comedy about a loony love affair between Charlotte Rampling and a chimp that was penned by Luis Buñuel’s later era screenwriter Jean-Claude Carrière—seems like a retarded pseudo-Buñuelian joke compared to the eloquent erotic excesses that the auteur achieved in the past. Indeed, somewhat ironically, only in the relatively sexless film Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence (1980)—a work that elegantly depicts the homoerotic tensions between an uptight Japanese POW camp commander and a Hakujin POW played by an extra gay David Bowie—does Ôshima come anywhere near to depicting a love story as potently idiosyncratic as he did with In the Realm of the Senses. Personally, I find most pornography to be completely phony and extremely alienating and anyone that has ever read about the behind-the-scenes degeneracy that goes into producing fuck flicks will realize that there is nothing even remotely sexy about it, yet I never got that sense while watching Ôshima’s film. In short, it took me nil effort to suspend my disbelief and accept that the two people on screen are consumed with completely organic l’amour fou



 I have noticed that a number of film critics have praised Ôshima for his sort of far-leftist iconoclasm and active destruction of traditional Japanese mores and taboos, yet I certainly did not read In the Realm of the Senses as some sort of fierce feminist statement as some (e.g. Jonathan Rosebaum) have, namely because the heroine is a violent and sadistic hypersexual whore that does not think twice about strangling to death her beloved just so that she can achieve the ultimate orgasm. Additionally, the male protagonist—a fairly weak and lazy would-be-Don-Juan that lives off women and lets them constantly push him around—is not exactly a hero.  After all, pleasure is a weakness, yet it seems to be the only thing that the male protagonist is capable of striving for, hence his idiotically tragic yet somehow strangely touching downfall. In a rather notable symbolic scene towards the end of the film, the horny hero is depicted walking in the opposite direction with his head down while a lines of soldiers march stoically down the street as they are celebrated by young adoring Jap chicks in a scenario that really underscores the character’s hopeless alienation from Japanese society and overall fantasy-like existence. While this scene seems to be Ôshima’s attempt at mocking the supposedly dehumanizing Jap war-machine and how it ostensibly alienates hedonistic people like the protagonist, it is ultimately said protagonist that seem rather ridiculous in the end, but then again I must confess that I still found their raunchy romance to be singularly touching.  Indeed, one of the greatest accomplishments of  Ôshima’s film is that it successfully manages to depict true love between two preternatural lunatics that have somehow managed to find each other in a world that rejects them.  Of course, Ôshima, not unlike Pier Paolo Pasolini, was no mindless leftist ideologue, or as Donald Richie (Dead Youth, Five Philosophical Fables), himself a director of subversive Japanese avant-garde erotica, noted in his essay In the Realm of the Senses: Some Notes on Oshima and Pornography in regard to the filmmaker, “All of Ôshima’s films are criticisms of society and the political assumptions that form it. He is interested in reform but rejects the social agendas that often accompany it. He sometimes castigates the left as well as the right, and always assumes that it is the individual and his or her needs that must be politically addressed.” 



 In the dark and depraved eyes of literary degenerate Georges Bataille, who clearly influenced the film (e.g. egg in pussy), the male hero Kichizō of In the Realm of the Senses is the mostly erotically bravest of men as revealed in the frog novelist’s words, “It takes an iron nerve to perceive the connection between the promise of life implicit in eroticism and the sensuous aspect of death.” After all, the male protagonist not only sees this connection but fully embraces it to the point of self-obliteration, thus bringing new meaning to the French phrase ‘La petite mort.’ Of course, what makes the character’s death truly disturbing, at least for Japanese people of the 1970s, is that the couple rejects the traditional Japanese ‘Shinjū’ and instead demonstrates a sort of deracinated romantic nihilism that Ôshima seems privy to. While probably not the director’s intent, Kichizō is, in many ways, certainly symbolic of the death of true Japanese masculinity, thus it is only fitting that the film is set right before Japan suffered the most emotionally, spiritually, and physically brutal defeat of their entire history.  As contemporary Japanese society and culture certainly demonstrates, WWII more or less resulted in the spiritual castration of the country.  While maybe an unrivaled Übermensch in the bedroom in terms of sheer sexuality virility, Kichizō symbolizes Nietzsche’s ‘last man’ as a sort of anti-prophet that anticipates Japan's post-samurai crypto-dystopia where frigid women give orders, testicular fortitude has been replaced with technology, and people in general no longer seem interested in establishing a legacy by having children. Certainly, it is no coincide that the heroine Sada eventually completely castrates Kichizō after threatening to do so at various points, as if the only value her lover had was his cock, hence why she kept it as a special souvenir. While Kichizō might be a dai-sensei of sensuality, he basically lacks virtually every other quality that any sane woman looks for in a prospective lover. Of course, as a disgraced pussy-peddler that is not beneath sexually abusing children, Sada is no exactly good wife material.

As a completely cosmopolitan man descended from a respected samurai family that sympathized with Korean invaders, worshiped female power, actively sought to uproot organic Japanese culture and law, and directed what is arguably the least intrinsically Japanese film ever made (Max, Mon Amour) by a native Japanese filmmaker, Ôshima was the ultimate degenerate and a sort of contra Mishima as an artist that virtually made a career out of mocking and exploiting his own race and culture.  After all, Yukio Mishima was certainly no puritan, yet he managed to find a way to seamlessly interweave the degeneracy of Occidental modernity with traditional Japanese aesthetics.  Whereas Mishima infamously ended his life when he was at the height of both his artistic and physical powers, Ôshima degenerated into a sort of novelty ‘Uncle Wong' that merely faded away after only managing to direct one more feature over an almost three decade period before his death in early 2013.  Of course, the greatest irony of Ôshima's legacy is that he will be best remembered as a weirdo Jap filmmaker that made weirdo Jap films and not as some highly successful cosmopolitan artist that was able to transcend both his race and culture. Surely, the auteur led the way for distinctly degenerate Japanese artist and chef like Mao Sugiyama, who underwent elective genital-removal surgery, cooked his dismembered cock and balls, and then served them to about half-a-dozen people at $250-a-plate during what can only be described as a carnally cannibalistic dinner party. As In the Realm of the Senses—a film that features a brief scene of non-cannibalistic culinary carnality—certainly demonstrates, only a Japanese filmmaker could make a rather rapturously erotic film where the characters spend the entire time fucking on a floor.



-Ty E

Apr 11, 2017

Betrayed




Admittedly, it is not that often that a subpar Zionistic Hollywood movie inspires me to read a 400-page book co-written by two less than literally gifted small town journalists, but such is certainly the case with the largely forgotten shit flick Betrayed (1988) directed by Greek-French auteur Costa-Gavras (Z, Hanna K.) and penned by exceedingly ethno-masochistic and seemingly spiritually castrated Hungarian-American screenwriter Joe Eszterhas (Basic Instinct, Showgirls). Indeed, a fairly typical example of Hollywood raping facts and molding them to fit their own post-Trotskyite Zio-ganda agenda, the film—a virtual Gone with the Wind of Zionist produced neo-Nazis flicks—is loosely based on the thrilling real-life story of white nationalist martyr Robert Jay Mathews and his underground European-American revolutionary group Brüder Schweigen (aka Silent Brotherhood aka The Order) and their rather insanely ambitious attempt to rage war against the U.S. government and reclaim the United States for Europids. After initially watching Costa-Gavras' debut Hollywood feature, I was appalled by the film’s absurd distortions and decided to read The Silent Brotherhood: Inside America's Racist Underground (1989) by veteran Denver reporters Kevin Flynn and Gary Gerhardt so that I could at least learn the basic facts in regard to the rise and fall of Mathews and the Brüder Schweigen.  While I expected Mathews and his motley Männerbünde to be moronic Hitler fetishists and demented dope-addled criminals, The Silent Brotherhood revealed a truly tragic story about somewhat misguided yet hardly ignorant men with patriotic spirits comparable to America's founding fathers.  Although involved in rather ambitious bank robberies, counterfeiting operations, and political assassinations over a period of about a year between 1983 and 1984, most of the men in the Brüder Schweigen lacked any sort of criminal record and its member included mailmen, war veterans, former high school basketball stars, farmers, deep sea divers, college scholars, etc. In short, the admittedly quite bad ass bros of Brüder Schweigen were not brain-dead skinheads with shitty homemade tattoos that listened to third rate punk music, but largely likeable and respectable men that truly believed in what they were doing and, in some case, ultimately accepted death over defeat and perennial incarceration to cowardly snitching.

As Flynn and Gerhardt’s book reveals, the actions of the Brüder Schweigen make the neo-cowboy bank-robbing depicted in David Mackenzie’s Hell or High Water (2016) seem terribly trite by comparison. A sort of real-life (and less autistic) white nationalist equivalent to the character Dignan from Wes Anderson’s debut feature Bottle Rocket (1996), Mr. Mathews was, despite his flaws, a relatively pure of heart man that was virtually unanimously beloved by his followers and who practiced what he preached to the point where he literally sacrificed himself for them and became a martyr to the cause.  Indeed, after a very long and intense standoff with 75 armed federal law enforcement, Mathews was burned alive as a result of an FBI agent firing three M-79 Starburst flares inside the house that he barricaded himself inside. Needless to say, Costa-Gavras’ highly fictionalized depiction of Mathews and the Brüder Schweigen is a grotesque injustice in terms of sheer historical fact, yet the film is not without its intriguing elements, namely its depiction of the FBI as more or less a morally bankrupt outfit led by power-hungry nihilists that lack principles and are just as criminally-inclined as the lawless terrorists that they so ruthlessly seek to destroy.  In short, Costa-Gavras might hate fascists, but he seems to hate the FBI and United States government just as much.  After all, as the Betrayed reveals, while the FBI agents have sold their souls to a corrupt government, the white revolutionaries at least have ideals and are fighting for a cause that they truly believe in.




 Admittedly, I am no Costa-Gavras connoisseur and have come to the conclusion that the auteur spent at least the first decade or two of his filmmaking career attempting to remake Judaic Guido Gillo Pontecorvo’s commie classic La battaglia di Algeri (1966) aka The Battle of Algiers (in fact, Costa-Gavras would collaborate with the film’s screenwriter Franco Solinas on his anti-American agitprop piece État de siege (1972) aka State Of Siege), but I have come to the conclusion that, socio-politically speaking, Betrayed is not your typical Hollywood political-drama-thriller and certainly benefits from being helmed by an (ex)arthouse auteur. Additionally, Costa-Gavras’ revolutionary heritage (his father was a card-carrying commie that, among other things, fought in the Pro-Soviet branch of the Greek Resistance) is certainly to the film’s advantage. Indeed, instead of simply depicting them as solely braindead knuckle-dragging neo-nutzis like most Hollywood movies, the white nationalists in the film are at least depicted as genuine revolutionaries that are fighting against an innately corrupt government, albeit for their race and community instead of the superficial intellectual abstraction of the proletariat. While the white nationalists are portrayed as hardworking proles that love their country, the FBI members are depicted as deracinated opportunistic yuppies, snobs, and psychopaths that crave power for power’s sake and are more than willing to do the government's dirty weak to obtain said petty power.

Of course, Betrayed is also plagued with some disgusting absurdities, including a sickening scenario where a group of white nationalist hillbillies hunt down and kill a negro in the woods with a certain sadistic glee, as if they are hunting for deer for sport.  While the Brüder Schweigen assassinated an enemy and killed a traitor, they certainly were not prone to targeting random negroes or other nonwhites, as they considered such senseless savagery to be counterproductive to their cause. It should be noted that the film’s screenwriter Joe Eszterhas is a pathetic ethno-masochist of sorts who refused to visit his own father, Hungarian aristocrat Count István Esterházy, on his deathbed because the old man was once a member of the nationalistic Arrow Cross Party. Indeed, not unlike Eszterhas’ subsequent cinematic collaboration with Costa-Gavras, Music Box (1989), Betrayed features a rather dubious message that it is morally righteous to betray a loved one and/or family member to a corrupt government if that person shares certain less than politically correct political views. On top of that, both films feature a laughably insipid feminist message that becomes all the more patently absurd when one realizes that Eszterhas penned such compulsively sleazy films as Basic Instinct (1992) and Showgirls (1995). In short, Eszterhas is probably the most to blame for the films’ rather retarded post-shoah pseudo-moralizing. 




 Undoubtedly, you know a film about an infamous white nationalist revolutionary group is going to have certain insufferable Zionistic and cultural Marxist agitprop properties when the very first inter-title reads, “An Irwin Winkler Production.”  As his discernibly Hebraic name clearly indicates, Winkler is a pride member of the Judaic tribe and he has even produced a number of films glorifying Jewish criminals, including The Gambler (1974) penned by James Toback and directed by fellow tribesman Karel Reisz and alpha-shabbos goy Martin Scorsese's sick Zio-fantasy The Wolf of Wall Street (2013).

At the beginning of Betrayed, an odiously obnoxious Jewish radio show host based on Alan Berg—a loathsome figure whose assassination was also depicted in Oliver Stone's largely forgotten celluoid turd Talk Radio (1988)—is gunned down in a parking garage shortly after he gets done finishing a show where he baits anti-Semites by stating things like, “Jew-boys. Anti-Semitism, racism, hate. I know there’s a lotta kike-haters among you nice Gentiles.” Needless to say, like the real Herr Berg—a seemingly quasi-sociopath with a fetish for black women who was supposedly gunned down by Brüder Schweigen member Bruce Pierce with a MAC-10 in his own driveway—the Jewish radio host, who makes Howard Stern seem like a cultivated gentlemen and scholar by comparison, is a hardly sympathetic character, but since he is a high-profile individual the FBI begins investigating his mysterious murder and ultimately hires a less than dainty dame named agent Catherine Weaver (played by real-life Jewess Debra Winger) to infiltrate a small Midwestern farming community to see if some of its populous are part of an underground white nationalist network that is suspected of the incendiary Israelite's murder.  Since the assassins spray-painted “ZOG” on both the Jewish radio host's corpse and car, the FBI is convinced that white nationalist carried out the murder, but they have no evidence to support their suspicions.  A cold and oftentimes highly irritable childless single woman that seems to be emotionally impenetrable, Catherine has nil family member because she lost both of her parents in a car crash when she was just a wee babe, thus she makes the perfect undercover FBI agent due to her lack of familial responsibilities and seemingly deep-seated longing for a family of her own.  Unfortunately for Catherine, she does not expect to be effortlessly seduced by the Midwest's foremost white revolutionary.



 While working undercover as a combine driver—a hopelessly blue collar job that demonstrates beyond any reasonable doubt that the heroine is a less than dainty dame with an incurable case of penis envy—under the phony name Katie Phillips, Catherine soon finds herself falling in love with the local white revolutionary leader and acquiring a sort of adopted nuclear family where she feels complete for the first time in her exceedingly lonely life. Indeed, widowed Vietnam War veteran Gary Simmons (Tom Berenger)—the leader of the revolutionary group and a character that is very loosely based on real-life white national martyr Robert Jay Mathews—has not touched a woman in years since his wife died under dubious circumstances, but he immediately becomes entranced with Catherine upon first meeting her and it is practically love-at-first-sight, even though Catherine is a somewhat frigid bitch who seems disgusted at even the thought of a man daring to hit on her. Unfortunately for Catherine, Gary is a passionate, confidant, devilishly handsome, and charismatic charmer that knows how to get what he wants. Naturally, Catherine refuses to believe wholesome and sensitive family man Gary is a hateful killer, especially after he makes love to her and makes her feel like a real woman for the first time in her entire life. Of course, no unlike Mathews, Gary is a dichotomous individual with a dark murderous side that is well hidden beneath his rather welcoming and charming Adonis-like exterior. Additionally, like Mathews, Gary believes everything he says and is completely convinced that he is doing the Lord’s work by leading a white nationalist militia that is responsible for assassinating the world’s most obnoxious Jewish radio host.  Needless to say, like Mathews, Gary seems to have been inspired by the white revolution depicted in the racially apocalyptic dystopian novel The Turner Diaries (1978) written by pseudonymous writer Andrew Macdonald (aka physicist turned National Alliance founder William Luther Pierce).



 Catherine works for an exceedingly arrogant twat named Michael ‘Mike’ Carnes (John Heard) who, despite being an (ex)lover of the heroine, has no problem whoring her out to a ‘lowly’ blue collar mensch that he despises and wants to destroy. Indeed, Catherine is Mike’s hot twat honeypot, though he gets extremely angered when he discovers that she has begun a real romantic sexual relationship with handsome alpha-male Gary, who has a natural sort of raw masculinity energy that the somewhat bourgeois self-absorbed FBI stooge lacks. A deracinated WASP that is more or less the opposite of Gary when it comes to the cultural, racial, and spiritual, Mike naturally has no problem having a quasi-sociopathic negro named Al Sanders (Albert Hall)—an inordinately cold and stoic spade that seems like he could be the big brother of the psychopathic serial killer ‘Pluto’ played by Michael Beach in Carl Franklin's One False Move (1992)—as his right-hand man.  As Al's action ultimately demonstrate, he is a remorseless killer that is able to get away with coldblooded murder simply because he works for the FBI. As big black Al tells Catherine when she expresses great discomfort as a result of being whored out by the FBI and being put in a very potentially deadly situation, “Everybody uses everybody, girl. It’s just a matter of what you’re being used for. What it is . . . is the only important thing.”  Undoubtedly, Al would certainly be labelled an ‘Uncle Tom’ by the average urban negro, even if he kills white nationalists, as he has sold his soul to the FBI.  While both Mike and Al are cold and calculating cynics that have no problem putting the lives of innocent citizens in danger if it benefits their careers, they seem to thrive on crushing Gary and his crew because they are a serious threat to the bureaucratic anti-working-class machine that they serve. Indeed, they are operatives of what Gary describes as “ZOG” (aka ‘Zionist Occupied Government’).  Undoubtedly, if it was somehow proven to Al and Mike that the United States was unequivocally under the control of Zionist Jews that put Israel before the U.S., they would not mind as they are unscrupulous opportunities that live solely for personal gain.  Indeed, while she never clearly articulates it in a specific way, Catherine has serious doubts about the intentions and methods of her bosses and coworkers.



 The patriotic son of a vocal tax resistor and Sons of Liberty member that committed suicide after the IRS put a lien on his farm and depriving him of his livelihood, Gary has good reason to loathe the government and the people that serve it.  As a Vietnam War veteran that received an award for being wounded and almost received the Medal of Honor for bravely killing a bunch of gooks on a suicidal mission, Gary practices what he preaches and is not some sort of hypocritical armchair warrior.  Unbeknownst to Catherine, Gary has taught his young children Rachel and Joey to hate Jews, black, other assorted mud people, queers and race traitors. Due to the fact his wife left him because of his political views, Gary decides to completely indoctrinate Catherine into the cause shortly after they become a couple, thus soon tainting the heroine's love for him. Indeed, under the pretext of going on a ‘hunting’ trip, Gary horrifies Catherine by more or less tricking her into get involved in brutally murdering a young negro man with other members of his revolutionary group. When Catherine emotionally breaks down after witnessing the coldblooded murder of the colored gentleman and expresses her horror and disgust in regard to the incident, Gary makes a feeble attempt to comfort her by stating, “Aw, come on, Katie. Come on, now. It was just a nigger. Don’t make too much out of it. There’s plenty more where he came from. I didn’t want there to be anything between us. I love you that much that I wanted you to come. If you love me, I got nothin’ to worry about. But if you don’t, I don’t’ care about goin’ to jail. But one thing’s for sure; we’re gonna kick the hell outta ZOG […] Zionist Occupation Government. It means the goddamn Jews are runnin’ our country with their nigger police.” At this point, Catherine resolves to immediately run away from Gary and seeks comfort in her less than comforting fellow FBI employers, but Mike tells her that she most go back so that they can build up their case and destroy the white nationalist cell. To make matters worse, Gary’s pal Wes (Ted ‘Buffalo Bill’ Levine in a fairly underrated role)—a convicted felon that is known for raping men and attempting to wage war against native negroes in South Africa—rightly suspects that Catherine is an informant or undercover agent of some sort (or what Gary describes as a “grasshopper”), especially after she nearly runs him over with her large pick-up track while fleeing from Gary.  Luckily for Catherine, Gary loves her too much to take Wes' claims seriously.




 Like Robert Jay Mathews and the Brüder Schweigen (which managed to snag nearly $4 million in less than a year during their robberies), Gary comes up with an elaborate plan to begin robbing banks so that his group can build up a war chest and have the monetary means to cause serious destruction to the United States government.  Indeed, Gary hopes to start a racial civil war of sorts that will result in America becoming a completely racially and culturally homogeneous judenfrei Aryan utopia. Somewhat absurdly, Gary wants Catherine to take part in the robbers, as he wants to her to be a part of every aspect of his life.  During their first bank robbery, the FBI monitors the area yet opts not to intervene so Catherine is forced to shoot a fat elderly security as a result. To make matters worse, FBI house negro Sanders shoots Wes, who ultimately dies an extremely painful and agonizing death in Catherine’s arms.  Despite their previous animosity, Catherine and Wes started to bond a little bit before the bank robbery, so the heroine is naturally horrified by the murder and especially by the fact that the rather quirky revolutionary died in her arms. In fact, negro Al even proudly brags about killing Wes and describes the experience to Catherine as “terrific” and being “Like cleaning something off my shoe.”  Naturally, with murderously arrogant government employed negroes like Al, it is easy to see why there are cutthroat revolutionaries groups like Gary's.

 Indeed, not unlike Gary and his group in regard to nonwhites and race traitors, the FBI has dehumanized Gary’s gang to such an extreme degree that they derive sadistic glee from killing its members in cold blood. Naturally, as a decidedly duplicitous dame that lives a virtual schizophrenic existence where she finds it impossible to become totally loyal to either the FBI or Gary’s group, Wes’ murder only further compounds Catherine's growing resentment and disillusionment towards her emotionally parasitic and obscenely opportunistic employers to the point where her mental stability begins to become compromised and she questions everything that she is doing.  On top of loving Gary, Catherine has developed strong emotional bonds with certain members of the group, including a benign grandfather-like figure named ‘Shorty’ (John Mahoney) who, despite loathing violence and murder, decided to join the revolutionary group after a bank stole his farm and the Vietnam War claimed his sole son. Like many of the members of the Brüder Schweigen, the members of Gary’s group have legitimate personal grievances against the government, which is using the IRS to systemically destroy Midwestern farmers and dispossess them of their farms and livelihoods. In short, the government and its anti-citizen/anti-farmer/anti-white policies are directly responsible for the growth of white nationalist movements, or so the film clearly insinuates.  Indeed, while the film is obviously anti-Nazi, it also dares to reveal that the white revolutionaries are the natural consequence of a corrupt globalist government that cares nothing for its most loyal and patriotic citizenry.




 Not unlike Costa-Gavras’ subsequent collaboration with Joe Eszterhas, Music Box (1989), Betrayed concludes with an unintentionally absurd twist of cold feministic betrayal. Indeed, when Gary reveals to Catherine that he has discovered that she is an FBI agent just before he aims his rifle at a corrupt politician with dubious hidden ties to white nationalism that he plans to assassinate, Catherine responds by whipping out her service revolver and killing him with a single bullet in a somewhat unconventional demonstration as to why female careerism is totally toxic when it comes to male-female relationships. Notably, right before Catherine kills him, Gary cries, “Oh, God! I loved you, Katie” and finds it impossible to shoot her first even though he knows she is a traitor that has been secretly keeping tabs on him and his group.  Of course, it also does not help that Catherine agreed to Gary's proposal of marriage only a couple days before.

In the end, Catherine is so emotionally tormented by the entire experience that she immediately quits the FBI because she rightly believes they exploited her female wiles and then hits the road to wander aimlessly like some degenerate Beat poet.  Not surprisingly, Catherine, who genuinely loved the man she killed, is so haunted by Gary that she thinks she sees him at a random bar, as if she will be forever tormented by his figurative ghost. In the very last scene of what is indubitably completely senseless sappy and sentimental feminist swill, Catherine actually gets the gall to pay a visit to Gary’s daughter Rachel despite the fact that she murdered the little girl’s father, thus leaving her and her older brother with no parents. Indeed, somewhat ironically, although she suffered the loss of both of her parents at an early childhood, Catherine did not think twice about consigning a helpless little girl to the same sorry fate, thus contributing to the vicious cycle of bastardization. Of course, the message of Betrayed is that it is much preferable to have dead parents than neo-Nazis ones, but I guess that is what one should expect from a film that was penned by a man that disowned his own father and even refused to pay him a final visit on his deathbed due to his political views. 




 Undoubtedly, I think it is a fairly auspicious time for me to review a film entitled Betrayed about the parasitic menace of ZOG. Indeed, with President of the United States Donald J. Trump’s recent betrayal of all of his follows and campaign promises, removal of White House Chief Strategist Steve Bannon from the National Security Council and disposal of Bannonism, and siding with warmongering neoco(he)ns and his insufferably smug candy ass Jewish son-in-law Jared Kushner—the Zionist extremist son of a convicted felon with ties to ultra-evil international chosenite George Soros—American certainly seems plagued with a Zionist Occupied Government that puts the interests of a foreign welfare state, Israel, over its own citizenry. Undoubtedly, Trump’s grave betrayal is exactly the sort of thing that provides credibility to Robert Jay Mathews and Brüder Schweigen, as it demonstrates that peaceful political change is a fantasy, democracy is a laughable charade, and that all politicians are shabbos goy puppets that work for Israel first and America second, hence the groveling support of the Hebraic apartheid state among both democrats and republicans.

Needless to say, Costa-Gavras’ film is, in a somewhat conventional way, a piece of big budget Zionist propaganda that depicts Midwestern farmers as potential terrorist and blames sociopathic WASPs for the corruption of the extremely pro-Zionist FBI. Surely the film’s depiction of white revolutionaries hunting and killing a negro for sport is nothing short of a grotesque leftist fantasy that bears no relation to any of the actions taken by the Brüder Schweigen, which actually forbid its members from senselessly attacking nonwhites. In fact, the scene is so senselessly stupid that lifelong leftist and negrophile Robert Ebert was even offended by it, or as he wrote in his 1988 review, “Another element that bothered me much more was a particularly disgusting and violent scene in which Berenger and his right-wing buddies capture a black man and then stage a ‘hunt’ in which they chase him through the forest at night and finally kill him. It is reprehensible to put a sequence like that in a film intended as entertainment, no matter what the motives of the characters or the alleged importance to the plot. This sequence is as disturbing and cynical as anything I’ve seen in a long time – a breach of standards so disturbing that it brings the film to a halt from which it barely recovers. I imagine that Costa-Gavras, whose left-wing credentials are impeccable, saw this scene as necessary to his indictment of the racist underworld he was exposing. But BETRAYED is not a small, brave political statement like Z, it is a Hollywood entertainment with big stars, and vile racist manhunts have no place in it.” Indeed, the only purpose of the scene is to instill an irrational of the white revolutionaries in the viewer, which of course is quite typical of post-Eisensteinian Hollywood Zionist propaganda. 




 It should be noted that, out of all the great films he starred in, Tom Berenger regards Betrayed as his personal favorite and even off shrugged the film’s detractors by stating, “It was exactly what it was meant to be.” As a rare Hollywood actor with genuine masculine attributes, it is easy to see why Berenger would like the film, though one can only speculate as to whether or not he sympathized with his character. By all accounts, the real-life Mathews was a charismatic man’s man that was respected by everyone that knew him to the point where many of them risked their lives and freedom for him, hence why Brüder Schweigen immediately fell apart after he was murdered. Needless to say, quite unlike the protagonist of the film, Mathews never had his estranged wife killed or engaged in big-black-game hunting, among other libelous absurdities. Additionally, Mathews and his men only targeted degenerate parasitic entities with his robberies, including porn shops, dope dealers, and banks. A sort of white nationalist Robin Hood, Mathews was also quite generous and was always willing to help out a friend in financial trouble, even before he began robbing banks. In fact, Mathews, not unlike Berenger’s character, was kind and honest to a fault to the point where he refused to believe that one of his followers, low-class Philadelphia bum Tom Martinez, had become a FBI informant to save his own sorry ass from imprisonment after being hit with counterfeiting charges (notably, William Baldwin portrayed Martinez in the weak made-for-TV movie Brotherhood of Murder (1999) featuring Peter Gallagher portraying Mathews). After reading The Silent Brotherhood: Inside America's Racist Underground by Flynn and Gerhardt, I can only come to the conclusion that Mathews was a tragic individual that could have lived a long and fruitful life were it not for his overwhelming longing to engage in a David and Goliath scale war against a corrupt government that he somewhat rightly believed was waging a war against his people and slowly but surely transforming his nation into a multicultural third world dystopia.  Undoubtedly, over the three decades since Mathews' untimely death, America has degenerated into untermensch cesspool of sorts, thus completely confirming his greatest fears.




 Ultimately, Mathews was burned alive on December 8, 1984 in a house near Freeland, Washington on Whidbey Island by the FBI after a standoff that lasted about two days that involved 500 FBI agents and cops. While surrounded by FBI agents in the house he would soon die in, Mathews managed to pen a suicide letters of sorts that more or less expresses Berenger’s character’s sentiments and the nature of the white FBI agents in the film.  Indeed, Mathews' final words read as follows: “We all knew it would be like this, that it would be our own brothers who would first try to destroy our efforts to save our race and our terminally ill nation. Why are so many white men so eager to destroy their own kind for the benefit of Jews and the Mongrels? I see three FBI agents hiding behind some tress to the north of the house. I could have easily killed them, I had their faces in my sights. They look like good racial stock yet all their talents are given to a government which is openly trying to mongrelize the very race these agents are part of. Why can’t they see? White men killing white men, Saxon killing Dane; When will it end? The Aryans’ bane? I knew last night that today would be my last day in this life. When I went to bed I saw all my loved ones so clearly, as if they were there with me. All my memories flashed through my mind. I knew then that my tour of duty was up. I have been a good soldier, a fearless warrior. I will die with honor and join my brothers in Valhalla. For blood, soil, and honor. For faith and for race. For the future of my children. For the green graves of my sires. Robert Jay Mathews.” 




 Undoubtedly, the story of Robert Jay Mathews and the Brüder Schweigen could make for a truly great epic political-thriller, but Betrayed is unfortunately not that film. Somewhat ironically considering his Hebraic background, William Friedkin—a rare Hollywood filmmaker that has never been afraid of politically incorrect or morally dubious subject matter as his sod S&M slasher flick Cruising (1980) clearly demonstrates—would certainly make for a fit director for such material, but of course a reasonably objective movie about a group named Brüder Schweigen will never be made in the Bizarro World nightmare factory known as Hollywood.  After all, as the great anti-communist Russian novelist Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn once wrote, “For a Jew, nothing is more insulting than the truth.” In terms of the basic facts and interviews with actual members of the Brüder Schweigen, the rarely-screened ABC News doc Inside the Hate Conspiracy: America's Terrorists (1995) is certainly watchable, at least as far as Zionist produced propaganda is concerned.  In a semi-covertly Zionistic nation with the largest Judaic population in the world, a mostly exclusively Israelite-owned mass media, and a seemingly all-powerful lobby group known as American Israel Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC) that has cuckolded the United States Congress and both major political parties, the Brüder Schweigen will always be depicted as boogeymen while members of the partly Jewish leadership of the commie terrorist group the Weather Underground Organization (WUO) currently teach at American universities and brainwash white kids into hating their race, culture, and history.  In terms of his sheer character and selflessness, Mathews also makes for a much better revolutionary hero than cowardly mass murder and rapist Che Guevara (who, incidentally, had a rather low opinion of negroes).  Indeed, only when teenagers begin wearing Robert Jay Mathews and Francis Parker Yockey t-shirts will American youth have finally discovered a legitimate form of rebellion and not the sort of phony and self-destruction pseudo-rebelliousness that is fed to the by the sub-literate neo-minstrel performers, debased wiggers, limp-wristed white liberal ethno-masochists, and Hebraic hipsters of Hollywood and the entertainment industry.

Franco-Grecian commie Costa-Gavra' sort of carelessly convoluted hick Hollywood answer to Alfred Hitchcock's Notorious (1946) starring homely Hebrewess Debra Winger as the Ingrid Bergman character, Betrayed is reasonably entertaining, features semi-sexy characters, and even includes the nice little novelty of self-described “hillbilly Jew” Ted Levine portraying a murderously paranoid neo-Nazi with a gay rapist past, yet it is also a work of audaciously asinine agitprop that unwittingly gives credence to the theory that America is under the control of a Zionist Occupied Government that is systematically destroying and dispossessing American's white working-class backbone, hence the birth of the Brüder Schweigen in the first place.  Indeed, the last thing white proles need after a long hard day of work is to be confronted with the condescending and hypocritical anti-white celluloid garbage that is being incessantly vomited and defecated out by the liberals and Jews of Hollywood, or so Alan Berg learned the hard way after spewing out years of anti-goy vile to his thoroughly debased listeners.



-Ty E