Oct 14, 2019

10 to Midnight

While it can certainly be argued that an immaculate exploitation film is an innately oxymoronic concept, some fucked flicks, not unlike porn sluts or fast food joints, are certainly better than others, even those produced by the fine kosher smut-peddlers of Cannon Films. Indeed, despite my increasingly disillusionment with the value of virtually all forms of trash cinema, I recently saw two exploitation films, Gary Sherman’s Vice Squad (1982) and J. Lee Thompson’s 10 to Midnight (1983), that reminded me that sometimes you need the cinematic equivalent of a big sloppy juicy back-alley blowjob from a cheap worthless whore. While both films involve a deranged white villain that butchers wanton white bitches with a certain penetratingly uncanny tenacity, these sexually unsound murderers have quite different motivations and pathologies. Whereas Vice Squad features the grand delight of featuring Wings Hauser portraying a violently unhinged pimp that mutilates the genitals of mainly gutter-dwelling white whores (but also the occasional bumbling negro male), 10 to Midnight features a terminally pissed-off proto-incel of sorts that uses a knife as a sort of compensatory phallus against beauteous young babes that dared to make a mockery of his irreparably broken masculinity. Needless to say, the latter is easily the better of the two films, which largely has to do with Gene Davis’ performance as the killer and director J. Lee Thompson’s surprisingly competent directing abilities.

While surely a hack of sorts that was responsible for directing such lame franchise sequel films as Conquest of the Planet of the Apes (1972) and Battle for the Planet of the Apes (1973), he also directed some quite notable cinematic works ranging from the WWII epic The Guns of Navarone (1961) to the campy Shirley MacLaine whore show What a Way to Go! (1964). Certainly more importantly, Thompson has demonstrated a talent for horror and thriller cinema with an inordinate sort of pathos and perversity, including the original Cape Fear (1962) starring Gregory Peck and Robert Mitchum, the spiritually incestuous The Reincarnation of Peter Proud (1975), and the slightly underrated canuck slasher flick Happy Birthday to Me (1981), among others. While I am not sure if I would cite 10 to Midnight as the director’s single greatest achievement, it is unequivocally his most tasteless and, in turn, wildly entertaining film and surely a notable accomplishment in that the filmmaker only agree to direct the film the night before shooting began after the original director was apparently let go (notably, Thompson previously worked with lead Bronson on films like St. Ives (1976) and The White Buffalo (1977)). A sort of super sod slasher on steroids that is big on the sensual and sensational in a largely unabashedly morally retarded fashion, the film oftentimes feels like it is set in the same sexually sociopathic universe as William Friedkin’s killer cocksucker classic Cruising (1980) as both are pleasantly politically incorrect flicks featuring gay serial killers that never defer to bourgeois bitch taste. Additionally, both films star Eugene M. Davis—the somewhat lesser known (and seemingly gayer) younger brother of actor turned AIDS victim Brad Davis (Midnight Express, Querelle)—and surely benefit from it (notably, lapsed teen idol Leif Garrett also auditioned for the role in 10 to Midnight and luckily he did not get it). 

 While I am not sure if Davis was also sexually abused by both of his parents like his brother Brad apparently was, he certainly does demonstrate a seemingly innate proficiency for portraying patently perverse characters (which probably explains his fairly uneven and rather limited acting career that includes roles ranging from a virtual man-whore in Roger Vadim's obscure Night Games (1980) to Nicolas Winding Refn's somewhat underrated Fear X (2003)). Indeed, whereas Davis portrayed a bitchy leather-clad quasi-tranny hooker in Cruising that surely could never pass for a woman despite how unconventionally ‘pretty’ he is, he’s especially believable as an autistic psychopath that likes making dirty phone calls and killing bitchy cunts that won’t give up their cunt despite the fact that he seems about as straight as a circle. Made long before the LGBT monster shot its viral load on unholywood, the film features what might be described as an ‘ambiguously gay’ serial killer that not only leaves queer porno mags on his toilet but who was also clearly modeled after Richard Speck who infamously gleefully spent his prison years as the tranny whore of a negro cocaine dealer (notably, this was not the first film inspired by the Speck murders as indicated by the curious exploitation flick Naked Massacre (1976) directed by Denis Héroux and starring German arthouse stars Mathieu Carrière and Eva Mattes).  Just like Speck, the killer targets a group of nubile nurses.  Unlike Speck, the killer receives quick and swift justice for his less than gentlemanly crimes.

Despite being a reasonably handsome guy with a muscular body and sculpted physique, the killer is a glaring creep that could not smash a gash if he had a hundred horny ovulating hos begging to be banged standing before him as he lacks a certain organic masculine heterosexual assertiveness, hence his compensatory need to penetrate women with sharp inanimate objects while in the nude. Rather curiously, aside from the female lead, most of the ill-fated chicks that the psychosexual killer kills with his virtual metal prick are hardly likeable ladies, thus adding to his incel cred. Not surprisingly, the film was supposed to feature more homoerotic content, including a scene where the killer is hit on by a flaming fagola and another where Bronson was supposed to wrestle a very naked Gene Davis (also, not surprisingly, Bronson was apparently not up for grappling with an unclad pretty boy). While the film is not quite as hyper homoerotic as A Nightmare on Elm Street 2: Freddy's Revenge (1985) as far as 1980s genre cinema goes, there is no doubt that the killer is an involuntary member of the pink team, hence his miserably misguided homo-cidal rage.

 Maybe it is simply because he has a less than aesthetically pleasing Asiatic appearance (he had Lipka Tatar roots), overall lack of martial charisma, and/or hardly intimidating stature/physique, but I have never been particularly fond of Charles Bronson, even if I can superficially appreciate the sentiments of a film like Death Wish (1974).  Since I can’t really back Bronson or the sort of philistine films he is best known for, I found it to the great benefit of 10 to Midnight that his shamelessly corrupt and callous cop character is fairly unlikable one. Indeed, I would go so far as to say that the character is so intrinsically unlikable that, in the end, I found myself rooting for the psychotic serial killer in all of his ambiguously gay naked glory. In fact, it even somehow comes as a genuine great shock at the end of the film when Bronson gets so high on his own unhinged self-righteousness that he puts a bullet in the brain of the mad muscular twink when he is not threat after being apprehended shortly after he massacres some nurses à la Richard Speck. In short, 10 to Midnight is a surprisingly sick (not to mention simultaneously gritty yet aesthetically slick) flick that some lame spiritually castrated LGBT film theorist could fairly easily argue has an identifiable anti-sod subtext in a sort of subtly hysterical homo-hating fashion to the point where one might believe it inspired a brief trend of fag-bashing in Kentucky.  As a film drenched in gratuitous violence and nudity—and, quite nicely, combines the two—it is also the sort of the movie that would entice Gaspar Noé, even if it does not go quite as far as Gerald Kargl’s endlessly entrancing serial killer fever dream Angst (1983) in terms of plunging the viewer's mind into the deep dark abyss that is the psyche of a raging renegade aberrosexual. 

 Warren Stacy (Gene Davis) is an undeniably handsome yet strikingly autistic young man that is an abject failure when it comes to the ladies and he knows it, but now he has decided to take revenge against the wanton whores, sidewalk slags, and conniving cum-dumps that will not even give him a meager crumb of pussy. Indeed, pathologically obsessed (as indicated by spastic fragmented flashbacks that are inter-spliced with shots of his very feminine grooming habits) with a bimbo bitch named Betty (June Gilbert) that dared to throw coffee in his face after some sort of failed romantic advance, wayward Warren carries out a revenge plan that involves murdering both the girl and her beau at a local park on a nice sunny day. In what is surely symbolic of his sexual perversion, Warren kills Betty while he is completely naked and—rather fittingly—she also happens to be completely unclad due to being interrupted while in the middle of fucking her boyfriend in a car.  Due to leaving behind no forensic evidence due to being naked (hence his reasoning behind his completely bare butchery) and creating the perfect alibi by talking to some bitchy babes at a movie theater, escaping throw a bathroom window unnoticed to carry out the murders, and then making his way back to the movie theater before the movie ends so the same bitchy babes can testify that he was there that evening, Warren is a fairly clever unhinged chap and that really pisses off hardened cynical cop Leo Kessler (Charles Bronson) who knows a guilty pervert when he sees one.  As a broody old bastard that is clearly approaching retirement, Kessler clearly has little time for bureaucratic bullshit and a whiny weirdo like Warren proves to really get his goat, thus inevitably leading to an intense showdown between the two quite different (yet arguably equally, if dissimilarly, socially obnoxious) loner types.

Indeed, when Warren comes under his radar, Kessler immediately knows that the agile autist is unequivocally guilty but he has to struggle with the annoying complication of working with a young idealistic cop named Paul McAnn (Andrew Stevens)—a handsome yet hopelessly normal young stud—that sincerely believes in law and order and does everything completely by the book as if his life depended on it.  In fact, aside from catching bad dudes and bringing them to justice, Kessler doesn’t really seem to care about anything, including his own unconventionally beautiful student nurse daughter Laurie Kessler (Lisa Eilbacher) who, rather conveniently in terms of the film's plot, is acquainted with Warren’s victims. Needless to say, when his young partner Paul becomes romantically interested in his daughter Laurie, Kessler also does not seem to give a shit about that, but luckily wacko Warren eventually develops an obsessive interest with the police detective’s daughter due to being constantly hounded by him to an almost fetishistic degree, as if the crusty old cop also has his own set of subconscious perversions that he is attempting to compensate for. Needless to say, the film concludes with Warren attempting to butcher Laurie while Kessler and Paul try to save her while simultaneously trying to bring down the ambiguously gay naked killer. Thankfully, despite its flaws, 10 to Midnight is not a film that pussies out in the end and instead closes on a shockingly politically incorrect note that reminds one that a single bullet can do so much more for humanity than a Talmudic Kafkaesque legal bureaucracy where a sort of neo-Sanhedrin reigns that caters to criminals and debases victims. 

 While crazed closet-case Warren Stacy is indubitably a bad dude that indeed deserves the bullet that ruptures his gray matter, I find it hard to not be at least superficially sympathetic to the savagely psychotic little sod as he is not totally delusional as clearly depicted in the film's deplorable dystopian realm of intrinsically irrational gynocentric terror where any dumb cunt with a room temperature IQ feels free to shame and debase any unfortunate male that does something she might find even the slightest bit unfavorable.  In that sense, the film is strangely prophetic for what amounts to a seemingly immaculately polished piece of celluloid trash.  In fact, Warren is certainly more sympathetic than, say, hopelessly hapless hapa incel messiah Elliot Rodger—a spoiled yet seriously self-loathing victim of miscegenation that, on top of being autistic, resented the fact his mom was Asian—who, unlike the film’s protagonist, did not have enough testicular fortitude to even try ask a girl out yet felt he was somehow entitled to premium grade Europid pussy because his white daddy bought him a fancy Bimmer. Undoubtedly, if Warren simply started hanging out at the sort of savage gay clubs featured in Cruising, Jacques Scandelari's New York City Inferno (1978), or Fred Halsted's A Night at Halsted's (1982), all of his problems would be solved as he would have an outlet for his sadistic sexual violence and he would not even have to really deal with dreaded women again outside the dreary dames from his lame office job. In short, Warren is, not unlike many gay serial killers that include John Wayne Gacy and Jeffrey Dahmer, among countless others, a pathetic victim of his own self-denial and self-deceptions. Despite being handsome and in good physical shape, Warren inspires horripilant in women because of his intrinsically repugnant personality traits and complete and utter lack of instinctual male heterosexual qualities. Of course, the irony of 10 to Midnight is that, despite the filmmaker’s best intent, Warren is no less repugnant than some of the women he kills, thus underscoring the all-around decidedly dysfunctional nature of the sexes in the post-sexual liberation America where many misguided young people feel completely obligated to embody some shallow (and oftentimes soul-destroying, especially for women) sexual (pseudo)ideal as if pornography and MTV are virtual guides to healthy living. After all, a fiercely fucked freak like Warren would probably feel less inclined to act homicidally as a closeted homo had he grown up in a pre-counterculture environment where there was less pressure on a man to prove his sexual prowess and penetrate as many worthless thots as possible, but I digress. 

 Undoubtedly, one of the most potent aspects of 10 to Midnight is the fact that the killer dispatches his victims whilst completely au naturel, which certainly has a particularly primal quality that transcends the sheer banality of serial killer genre convention. As to why unclad killing is interesting, degenerate Nietzschean anarchist Georges Bataille made the interesting argument in his text Erotism: Death and Sensuality (1957) that, “Stripping naked is the decisive action. Nakedness offers a contrast to self-possession, to discontinuous existence, in other words. It is a state of communication revealing a quest for a possible continuance of being beyond the confines of the self. Bodies open out to a state of continuity through secret channels that give us a feeling of obscenity. Obscenity is our name for the uneasiness which upsets the physical state associated with self-possession, with the possession of a recognized and stable individuality. Through the activity of organs in a flow of coalescence and renewal, like the ebb and flow of waves surging into one another, the self is dispossessed, and so completely that most creatures in a state of nakedness, for nakedness is symbolic of this dispossession and heralds it, will hide; particularly if the erotic art follows, consummating it. Stripping naked is seen in civilizations where the act has full significance if not as a simulacrum of the act of killing, at least as an equivalent shorn of gravity. In antiquity the destitution (or destruction) fundamental to eroticism was felt strongly and justified linking the act of love with sacrifice […] I must emphasize that the female partner in eroticism was seen as the victim, the male as the sacrifice, both during the consummation losing themselves in the continuity established by the first destructive act.” Undoubtedly, the way Bataille describes simple nakedness also makes it seem strangely comparable to the art of bullfighting which, rather fittingly, is an obsession of whacked-out Warren’s to the point where he has learned Spanish in tribute to his (assumedly second) favorite form of ritual slaughter. Indeed, Warren is the sort of guy that would probably jerk-off to Francesco Rosi’s artful documentary The Moment of Truth (1965).  Bullfighting aside, Warren's acts of unclad killing certainly have a ritualistic quality and ultimately betray his reputation as an insufferably uptight autist, as if stark-naked slaughters act as the sole relief he has from a loser life of involuntary celibacy and latent homosexuality.  Needless to say, such a fucked fellow would never stop killing, hence why he grisly end almost seems mandatory, if not overkill.

 Being what is essentially a glorified exploitation film on sleekly stylized sleaze steroids, 10 to Midnight does suffer from its fair share of problems, namely its tasteless tacked-on ‘good guy badge/bad ass vigilante’ ending where Bronson pulls-off a degenerate Death Wish-esque dispatching of the villain so that the audience can feel self-satisfied that the closeted cocksucker killer is as dead as Jeffrey Epstein's infamous libido. Indeed, in the end, deranged broken boy killer Warren—naked and pulsating like a thoroughly aroused cock that is about to blow a load that is so massive that it would impregnate the entire world with visceral hatred for vaginas—goes on a bitchy mocking rant to Bronson boy about how he is going to evade justice by using his mental illness as an excuse, thereupon inspiring the already-quite-infuriated no-bullshit cop to unload copper in his brain. Seeing as that, by the end of the film, Warren has completely transformed into a virtual modern-day Berserker—high on his own visceral hatred and seemingly immune to all attacks via his unclad body—and lost all contact with rationality and reality, it would seem more likely that he would fight to the death instead of allowing himself to be apprehended by his arch-nemesis. After all, his freedom and, in turn, life is over and such an inherently insane and individualistic individual would not fare too well inside any sort of government institution—be it a prison, mental institution, or otherwise. After all, as Bronze Age Pervert—a curiously shadowy and ambiguously gay individual that loves buff unclad bros—wrote in his manifesto Bronze Age Mindset (2018), “A beautiful death at the right time is the only key to understanding a life, its only hidden ‘meaning.’ It is a beautiful death to die after accomplishing a great feat for the glory of one’s city, family and for the gods, but it’s greater still to die in one’s prime, at the height of your powers and at the acme of their discharge. A beautiful death in youth is a great thing, to leave behind a beautiful body, and the best study of this pursuit you find in the novels of Mishima, a real connoisseur.” In short, Warren could have gone out like a sort of crazed killer cracker Mishima but instead he dies pathetically like a low-level negro gang-banger, but of course not many films tend to glorify the deaths of gay serial killers. 

 Notably, the life and death of the film’s first murder victim, Betty (June Gilbert), somewhat parallels that of failed tragic actress Christa Helm who, not unlike the fictional character, left behind a detailed personal love diary of sorts regarding her personal sexual and romantic consequences, hence why some believe she was murdered to cover up certain unsavory facts about sleazy bigwig Hollywood types. Despite dating powerful men like Joe Namath and Warren Beatty, Helm suffered a rather brief and forgettable acting career that included a small debut role in successful porn auteur Gerard Damiano’s non-porn horror turd Legacy of Satan (1974) and tiny cameos on tiresome hit TV shows like Starsky and Hutch and Wonder Woman. Immersed in the darker side of Hollywood, Helm also lived with porn auteur Jonas Middleton (Through the Looking Glass) and even apparently co-wrote the script for his second fuck flick Illusions of a Lady (1974), but quit the production when the filmmaker opted to make it a full-on hardcore film. While all this might seem like barely-related frivolous trivia in relation to 10 to Midnight, it all ultimately adds further context to film’s overall malefic mystique and exceedingly evil essence, as if this virtual glorified exploitation film is really much more as a semi-esoteric expression of the post-counterculture zeitgeist and superlatively sick collective unconscious of Hollywood during that time. Of course, this explains the popularity of actors like Charles Bronson—a symbol of atavistic vengeance against such degeneracy—even if he physically resembled a sort of half-bourgeois Charles Manson. The fact that lead Gene Davis’ brother previously starred in Fassbinder’s S&M sod swansong Querelle (1982)—a film that, despite its certain camp qualities, is imbued with a sort of sexually apocalyptic essence that was clearly influenced by the Todestrieb-inclined spirit of its forsaken auteur—only a year before further confirms the hopelessly collectively necrotizing state of the Occident at that time.

Dubious ancestry aside, Bronson is ultimately a sad symbol of reactionary boomer impotence and nothing more, hence how Hollywood went from churning out films like Cruising and 10 to Midnight to Brokeback Mountain (2005) and Call Me by Your Name (2017) in a mere couple decades as homo-hating is no longer vogue and homos have been homogenized enough to make for sound subject matter in mid-brow films for sentimental grandmothers. In a dying civilization where even a fictional Warren Stacy seems more sympathetic to a real-life Elliot Rodger or Alek Minassian—two misbegotten creatures that, unlike the film character, did not even exhibit a warped masculinity as they are both devoid of masculine qualities altogether—and their impotent perennially blue-balled “Beta Uprising” campaigns, the film is ultimately a delightfully dejecting reminder that things can always get worse and that—no matter the circumstances—there’s few things more patently loathsome than a man that cannot procure pussy of some sort. After all, Warren Stacy might have been a raging closest queen with insane standards, but there are always fat chicks with fat asses! 

-Ty E

Sep 2, 2019


Although Gaspar Noé would probably never admit it, if there is anything that ties all of his films together thematically, it is how they, quite glaringly, depict the pre-apocalyptic decline of the Occident, especially the auteur’s adopted homeland of France. In fact, I would argue that Noé is probably the most perfect choice to direct an adaptation of Jean Raspail's classic racial dystopian novel The Camp of the Saints (1973)—a surprisingly darkly humorous and even salacious and scatological yet decidedly dejectingly prophetic work that depicts the destruction of Western Civilization via hostile invading third world hordes that are encouraged by ethno-masochistic traitors, nihilists, and ressentiment-ridden miscegenation victims—but we don’t live in a perfect world and thus just have to be satisfied with the auteur’s undeniably debasing yet nonetheless delectable works like his latest frenetically fucked dance-hall-horror feature Climax (2018) starring an ostensibly eclectic cast of mostly melanin-privileged non-actors of various shades (mostly dark!). Indeed, the film virtually (if not possibly unintentionally) depicts a sort of raunchy racial apocalypse of sorts in a sort of degenerate dance microcosm where sex and drugs lead to irrational race-hate, brutal murder, death of a child, and even grisly suicide, among other uniquely unsavory things that one has come to expect from a Noé flick. By no means Noé’s greatest feature (in fact, out of all the director’s previous works, his last feature Love (2015) is probably the only one that is clearly inferior), the just-over-90-minutes-feature has somewhat ironically received the best reviews of the auteur’s careers, as if the terminally ‘woke’ mainstream film critics missed the glaringly subversive racial subtext (or, even worse and not improbably, they enjoyed seeing a black-majority dance troupe commit quite literally savage hate crimes against mostly innocent whites, including a hot pregnant chick at the hands of a barbaric baldheaded black beastess). In short, as the film's title hints, Climax is an allegorical depiction of the French racial climate where all the vices of modern-day frogland—which range from gay pederastic miscegenation to Sapphic promiscuity to (sometimes involuntary) collective drug binges—act as a sort of convergence of social catastrophes that ultimately light the flame of genocidal race hate. Of course, considering this is a Noé flick, this ugly and dejecting material provides for endlessly enthralling and even sometime darkly hilarious material, as if the auteur was attempting to provide indelibly bittersweet therapeutic entertainment with plenty of raw and raunchy razzmatazz for Occidental Armageddon in the form of a quite literal (neo)Danse Macabre on bad psychedelic dope.

Not without good (and quite obvious) reason, ‘dance horror’ is an almost nonexistent sub-genre with only a handful of entries that include works ranging from Fulci’s tastefully tacky Murder-Rock: Dancing Death (1984) aka Slashdance to Peter Del Monte’s undeservedly obscure Etoile (1989) aka Ballet (as well as Aronofsky’s obscenely overrated rip-off Black Swan (2010)) to Tobe Hooper’s somehow watchable dystopian Masters of Horror entry Dance of the Dead (2005) to, of course, Dario Argento’s Suspiria (1977) and Luca Guadagnino’s 2018 remake. Of course, the above mentioned films range from insipid mindless trash to phantasmagorical gothic arthouse-horror, yet none of these cinematic works come even close to Climax in terms of seemingly perfectly interweaving dance with narrative and ultra-violence with pathos. A mere five-pages of script stretched out to 97-minutes of perversely pulsating orgasmic audio-visual potency, the film also manages to feel like a virtual filmic dance-of-drug-addled-death, as if the viewer is transported to the the realm of savage sensuality, senseless sadism and spiked sangria that positively pollutes the miserably multicultural blood-sweat-semen-and-urine-drenched dance floor. Additionally, while the film was shot in a mere 15-days, it takes the Rope (1948) route in terms of giving the impression that it was shot in a single night via one-take (apparently, the film was apparently actually inspired by the single-shot German film Victoria (2015) directed by Sebastian Schipper).

As one can be expected from Noé’s first feature to actually receive a mere R-rating, it is also his least explicit and arguably most accessible, though it is certainly not his worst and its rather curious racial politics are arguably more subversive than any of the more graphic scenarios from the auteur's arguable magnum opus Irréversible (2002) like the 10-minute long take rape of Monica Bellucci or the S&M sod getting his skull literally crushed with a fire extinguisher. In that sense, Noé makes fellow New French Extremity auteur Bruno Dumont—a pedantic (yet undeniably talented) intellectual that cannot help but constantly depict contrived ‘white racism’ in his films, as if that is some serious problem in the conspicuously cucked continent of Europa—seem like a timid little bitch boy that, despite his ambitious experimental approach to the cinematic form, strangely subscribes to an insufferably banal and ball-less basic bitch narrative when it comes to race, thereupon unfortunately irreparably tainting his entire oeuvre. Instead, the film has more in common with the first three features of Dumont’s underrated cinéma du corps superior Philippe Grandrieux, especially the beauteously brutal dance-and-synth-heavy La Vie nouvelle (2002) aka A New Life.

Undoubtedly, one of the most refreshing things about Noé is that, despite being an arthouse auteur of sorts, he is an inordinately unpretentious filmmaker that has no qualms about exposing his greatest cinematic influences. In fact, as his various films demonstrate, the auteur loves boasting about his personal cinematic favorites and Climax—an experimental exercise in both cinematic form and excess that only Noé could have conjured—is certainly no different in that regard. Indeed, at the beginning of the film, there is a shot of a vintage TV that is flanked by various vintage VHS tapes, including copies of Luis Buñuel’s Un Chien Andalou (1929), Kenneth Anger’s Inauguration of the Pleasure Dome (1954), Lucio Fulci’s Zombi 2 (1979) aka Zombie, Fassbinder’s Fox and His Friends (1975) and Querelle (1982), David Lynch’s Eraserhead (1977), Pasolini’s Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (1975), Jean Eustache’s The Mother and The Whore (1973), Argento’s Suspiria (1977), Christiane F. (1981), Jan Kounen’s Vibroboy (1994), and Gerald Kargl’s Angst (1983). Noé also apparently intended to include VHS tapes for crucial influences like John Guillermin’s The Towering Inferno (1974)—a film he credits as having an imperative influence on Climax—and Cronenberg’s Shivers (1975), but he unfortunately did not have copies of these cinematic artifacts.

Additionally, the TV is also surrounded by various vintage paperback books, including works ranging from Oscar Wilde’s prison ‘letter’ De Profundis (1905) to Georges Bataille’s classic (anti)erotic novella Story of the Eye (1928) aka L'histoire de l'œil to Carlos Castaneda’s pseudo-anthropological best-seller The Teachings of Don Juan: A Yaqui Way of Knowledge (1968) to Patty Hearst’s memoir Every Secret Thing (1982). Naturally, the auteur’s collection also includes some film books, including Lotte H. Eisner’s classic text Murnau (1973) and Luis Buñuel’s short but sweet cinematic memoir My Last Sigh (1982), among others. Undoubtedly an eclectic mensch, Noé also displays works by French Enlightenment philosopher Denis Diderot, gay (ex)Surrealist artist Pierre Molinier, French film critic and sometimes filmmaker/Jean Rollin associate Jean-Pierre Bouyxou, Swiss-German writer Fritz Zorn (of the decided downer of an autobiography Mars (1977)), Russian anarchist Mikhail Bakunin and, sadly, Freud. Personally, I was glad to see Noé’s collection of works by Teutonic philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche and his all-the-more-cynical virtual spiritual protégé E.M. Cioran. Aside from Nietzsche’s classic Beyond Good and Evil (1886) and the study Nietzsche (1925) by Austrian Jew Stefan Zweig, Noé curiously displays a copy of the literary forgery My Sister and I (1951). Purported to by written in 1889 or early 1890 during Nietzsche’s stay in a nut-house in the Thuringian city of Jena, the largely asinine apocryphal text, which reads like an unhinged parody’s of the philosopher’s writing, probably intrigues the auteur because it alludes to incest and other forms of degeneracy (apparently, David George Plotkin—the son of a rabbi—confessed to ghostwriting the book, which includes a number of obvious factual inaccuracies, including the Teutonic philosopher's unrequited love Lou Andreas-Salomé being described as a “Jewess”).  Undoubtedly, in terms of its various imperative cinematic, literary, and philosophical references, Climax can be seen as Noé's most overtly fan-boyish work which, in this case, is not a bad thing as he at least has respectable taste that does not involve the fetishization of superheroes or cartoon characters.

It is especially fitting that Noé included a copy of Cioran’s The Trouble With Being Born (1973) as the Romanian philosopher once described Paris as an “apocalyptic garage,” which is a pretty good way to describe the setting of Climax (of course, “apocalyptic school turned dance hall” is even more fitting for modern-day France considering the intellectual and racial deterioration of the country). The film is actually set in abandoned school that resembles some sort of snuff film factory in the largely culturally banal year of 1996 (and very loosely based on true events from that time). Opening with a clearly ironical title that reads “A Proudly French Film” juxtaposed with a French flag that covers the entire screen, the film is so innately and undeniably un-French that the so-called racial minorities are the majority and classic frog stereotypes like elegant romance and intellectual sophistication are completely nonexistent. Indeed, on top of only a couple of the character being actual white indigenous frogs, the majority are negroes who ultimately demonstrate many of the same grotesque negative racial stereotypes as their Afro-American counterparts (rather humorously, many of these black characters express the desire to travel to the United States as if compelled by some atavistic collective unconscious yearning). For example, every single interracial attack involves a negro irrationally brutally assaulting and/or stabbing a white, including an incestous black brother that brutally beats a white dancer for virtually no reason and then, in a moment of insane (yet all-too-common) irony, accuses him of “racism” and brands his forehead with a poorly drawn swastika. In short, whether by (possibly subconscious) intent or accident, the film unequivocally reveals the true contemporary racial climate of the Occident where indigenous whites are victimized while so-called minorities absurdly play the victim. Indeed, as belated French right-wing theorist Guillaume Faye noted in his penetratingly incisively theoretical swansong Ethnic Apocalypse (2019), “Out of sheer resentment, frustrated self-victimization, a decidedly vengeful and vindictive mentality and racism too, many of their members abhor France and long to destroy it from within.” Undoubtedly, the abandoned school setting of Climax certainly acts as a microcosm of France, so I don’t think Noé could have missed the grating irony when he opted to open intro to said setting with a large fancy title reading, “A Proudly French Film,” but then again Noé is a drug-addled dude and he might just be depravedly clueless enough to believe such an outstandingly absurd statement. On the other hand, the film also includes a inter-title reading “living is a collective impossibility” after the racial chaos erupts and I doubt that is a coincidence.  In short, the film demonstrates that diversity is a disease that metastasizes like a cancer until is breaks down the organic national body.

While I did not realize until after watching it for a second time, Climax manages to do the seemingly impossible by being a great film despite not having a single sympathetic or likeable character as if it is set in the real world where most people are not much more than uninteresting meat puppets looking to get fucked by other seemingly uninteresting meat puppets. Indeed, while I would typically like to root for the lone white dude David (Romain Guillermic)—a fairly stereotypical-looking swarthy frog that would be easy to forget in terms of appearance were it not for his curious skinhead-esque wardrobe, which includes a bomber jacket and Dr. Martens boots—I found him to be a fairly sleazy, low-class, and loathsome piece of rotten frog excrement and he almost deserves the nonsensical beating from the colored gentleman. Initially, kraut cunt ‘Psyché’ (Thea Carla Schøtt)—a slightly chubby blonde with a butch dyke hairdo and blank stare that hints at drug-induced psychosis/sociopathy—seems fairly reasonable as she explains how “I don’t want to end up like Christiane F” and doesn’t want to succumb the same incessant acid-dropping that has apparently consumed her Berlin buddies, but by the end of the film it becomes fairly clear that she is a completely crazed carpet-muncher that senselessly unleashed the LSD nightmare on the unwitting members of her violently ‘vibrant’ dance troupe. Indeed, as her compatriots are fighting, killing, being sexually reckless, and committing suicide and other forms of self-harm, Psyché manages to spend the entire night dancing her tiny dead cold heart out, though she does piss on the floor at one point in an arguably symbolic scenario that underscores her value and contributions to French society. On top of assumedly spiking the sangria with LSD, Psyché is a total cunt to her pseudo-blonde mystery meat girlfriend Ivana (Sharleen Temple), who rightly tells her “you’re so fucking fake” as she is a character that is completely devoid of organic personality and her recklessly venomous spiking of the sangria is in complete contradiction to her interview confession that she left Berlin to escape drug debauchery.  Meanwhile, David watches the Sapphic cat fight and rightly remarks to his negro pal ‘Omar’ (Adrien Sissoko), “Dyke stuff never works. They need cock. Both of them together, fuck it.” In the end, Psyché drops LSD into eye while her girlfriend Ivana cheats on her with arguable lead Selva (played by Sofia Boutella, who is the only real actor in the film). Needless to say, this film does not do much to help the cause of lesbianism, or so-called ‘alternative lifestyles’ in general, but that is what one has come to expect from a great post-sanity amoralist like Monsieur Noé.

While Hollywood and the grotesque globohomo elites love portraying negresses as glamorous ‘queens’ and other patent absurdities as arguably most insufferably exemplified in Theodore Melfi's tedious historical revisionist turd Hidden Figures (2016), Climax actually dares to depict a black woman as a brutal beastess of the most primitively evil form via a deathly dark dame named ‘Dom’ (Mounia Nassangar) who reveals certain sadistic self-control issues that involve attempting to kill unborn white babies. Indeed, in what is one of the more shocking scenes of the film, Dom—a baldheaded brute that might as well have a dick (and surely has a monstrously large clit)—brutally assaults a white chick named ‘Lou’ (Souheila Yacoub) in form of a couple kicks to her pregnant stomach. Unwillingly to believe that Lou didn’t drink the spiked sangria because she is pregnant, Dom not only attempts to give her a virtual abortion via kick-to-stomach, but also gets her negro friends to encourage the scared white girl to kill herself in one of the film's more disturbing scenes that is likely to infuriate any sane racially conscious cracker. Unable able to handle the racial hostility from Dom and her pack of predatory LSD-addled darkie dancers, Lou turns a knife on herself after initially attempting to fend off her attackers and eventually concludes the film in a bloody hysterical state crawling out of the building into the snow as if being brutally birthed from the fiery cunt of jungle juice hell into the relative safety of cold lonely white death. Of course, not all the interracial encounters are violent, as a fag negro DJ named ‘Daddy’ (Kiddy Smile)—a large yet goofy and (seemingly) harmless ‘black bear’ type—reveals a sort of depraved tenderness by deflowering a young gay boy of dubious racial ancestry name ‘Riley’ (Lakdhar Dridi) that was hoping to have his boy-pussy popped by straight white boy David. As for all the bizarre racial hostilities, they probably could have mostly been avoided were it not for the superlatively sleazy scheming of disgustingly degenerate white Aryan woman Psyché who would have been better suited for her parents' generation as a member of the Baader–Meinhof Gang. Either way, Climax is a film with a cast of apocalyptically cringey characters that inspire absolute aposematism and really underscore the sad (anti)humanist joke that is so-called multiculturalism. As the film (seemingly unintentionally) demonstrates, H.P. Lovecraft was certainly right when he wrote, “Race prejudice is a gift of nature, intended to preserve in purity the various divisions of mankind which the ages have evolved.”  After all, not a single character in the film would be in the shitty situation they find themselves in were it not for the existence of a Kalergian Europa;or, anti-Imperium par excellence!

Apparently, I am not the only one that noticed the film’s rather savage racial (sub)text, as a dumb twat that writes neo-commie claptrap for Yahoo Movies UK bitched in regard to the film, “Noe has said he wanted to show the regression of human nature, and CLIMAX does that, but in doing so he’s made black people look like the most violent and primitive race, and that’s the hardest thing about this movie to watch. It feels like an ugly step backwards when in recent years we’ve seen a cinematic movement to show the beauty of black culture which has served to ameliorate a faux image forced upon its people.” Of course, as this racially dubious lobotomized little lady fails to realize, all crime stats (not to mention good old-fashioned common sense) demonstrates that the film is completely accurate in terms of depicting the color of crime and race hate on the street level, especially in France where Africans and Arabs mostly excel in extralegal excesses and good visceral ultra-violence, among other things that the French media and culture elite do their darnedest to cover up (in fact, in the French Republic, it is even illegal to perform census in regard to racial and religious background). Surely, it is hard to imagine that average white French woman brutalizing the pregnant belly of a bulbous black beauty, but I digress.

Needless to say, the French have certainly forgotten the hard lessons of the so-called Haitian Revolution (aka ‘colonial Caribbean frog genocide’).  Had Noé gone the Hollywood-esque Bizarro World route and depicted an anti-reality dance floor of the damned where black scientists where preyed on by pretty-faced white boys in the same vein as kosher-certified crap like The Purge franchise, he would no longer be an artist and instead a spiritual eunuch-cum-whore that worships lies over truth like so many Tinseltown hacks. Needless to say, when Noé recently confessed that he hated the unintentionally absurd Afrocentric Marvel abortion Black Panther (2018)—a movie based on a comic book superhero that, not coincidentally, was sired from completely kosher, as opposed to colored, minds—and had to “escape the cinema after 20 Minutes” partly due to it being plagued with R&B music, all the usual suspects accused him of racism, thereupon confirming that Hollywood has finally indoctrinated enough mentally feeble automatons that aesthetic taste is now completely irrelevant and even denying liking big budget celluloid shit can cause you to be seen as a virtual thought criminal among the moronic mainstream.

Not long after first seeing Climax for the first time, I had the grand unexpected pleasure of wallowing in Marcel Carné’s coldly romantic masterpiece Port of Shadows (1938) aka Le quai des brumes. Despite featuring a number of dark elements, including art fag suicide, sexual exploitation, and a decidedly dejecting (yet nonetheless quite fitting) ending where a beautiful fresh young love affair is swiftly annihilated after the male lover is coldly gunned down like a rabid dog in the streets, Carné’s film contains a certain hope and romance that Noé’s nihilistic danse macabre is completely devoid of, thus underscoring the complete and utter spiritual degeneration of France as a whole. Indeed, had a fire broken out and every single character burned alive while screaming in great agony, it would still be impossible to care for the lost souls and miscreants of Climax—a film that is only orgasmic in the same way as a Viagra-driven moneyshot in a cheap contemporary fuck flick is. In short, Noé has his finger on the pulse of frogland, but there seems to be no heartbeat.

Notably, in his penetratingly incisively theoretical swansong Ethnic Apocalypse, Guillaume Faye argues, “Just like a baby viper that breaks its egg shell, the coming racial civil war is only in its humble beginnings […] The responsibility for this ethno-racial civil war, which has already been kindled, will be borne by our political, intellectual and mediatic elites and a statal apparatus that have conjointly been tolerating and enabling this colonizing immigrational flooding for a period of forty years. But remember—he who sows the wind shall reap the whirlwind.” Far from deserving to reap some sort of whirlwind, Noé, quite unlike any other modern-day French-language filmmaker, has consistently created films that are viscerally symptomatic of an innately sick and increasingly racially anarchic society that act as cinematic canary in a coal mine of sorts for a dystopian future that arguably can be seen as a sort of Haitian Revolution 2.0, albeit Islamic and more morbidly multiculti. I just hope that the auteur, not unlike his family emigrating from their native Argentina to France in 1976, manages to flee frogland before it is too late lest he experience something à la The Camp of the Saints that make the scenarios in Climax seem like good-humored child’s play.  Rather unfortunately, not unlike the characters in Noé's film, it seems there are very few places to run as globalization, reverse colonialism, and anarcho-tyranny has already engulfed most of the West.

In one of his most impossibly poetic aphoristic scribblings, Friedrich Nietzsche—a painfully introverted mad man that was probably too shy and timid to dance—declared in regard to the seemingly otherworldly quality of dance, “What a host of things can be accomplished by the state of intoxication which is called by the name of love, and which is something else besides love!—And yet everybody has his own experience of this matter. The muscular strength of a girl suddenly increases as soon as a man comes into her presence: there are instruments with which this can be measured. In the case of a still closer relationship of the sexes, as, for instance, in dancing and in other amusements which society gatherings entail, this power increases to such an extent as to make real feats of strength possible: at last one no longer trusts either one’s eyes, or one’s watch! Here at all events we must reckon with the fact that dancing itself, like every form of rapid movement, involves a kind of intoxication of the whole nervous, muscular, and visceral system. We must therefore reckon in this case with the collective effects of a double intoxication.—And how clever it is to be a little off your head at times! There are some realities which we cannot admit even to ourselves: especially when we are women and have all sorts of feminine ‘pudeurs.’ . . . Those young creatures dancing over there are obviously beyond all reality: they are dancing only with a host of tangible ideals: what is more, they even see ideals sitting around them, their mothers! . . . An opportunity for quoting FAUST. They look incomparably fairer, do these pretty creatures, when they have lost their head a little; and how well they know it too, they are even more delightful because they know it! Lastly, it is their finery which inspires them: their finery is their third little intoxication. They believe in their dressmaker as in their God: and who would destroy this faith in them? Blessed is this faith! And self-admiration is healthy! Self-admiration can protect one even from cold! Has a beautiful woman, who knew she was well-dressed, ever caught cold? Never yet on this earth! I even supposed a case in which she has scarcely a rag on her.”

 Of course, in Climax a dancer crawls in the cold as she bleeds out and a darkie danseur even freezes to death, which is quite fitting as Noé’s nasty little celluloid dance number feels like the sardonically vengeful ghost of Cioran ruthlessly raping his one-time-hero Nietzsche’s inordinately elegant words, though these characters would caught by what might be charitably described as a ‘triple intoxication’ and it is hardly of the relatively wholesome sort Nietzsche alludes to.  Undoubtedly a film with a deceptively simple title that inspires many meanings, Climax—an oftentimes uncomfortably captivating cinematic work that is certainly not the Nietzschean ideal of Dionysian yet Dionysian nonetheless—depicts the last gasp of the Occident in a maniac microcosm where Mother Africa quite literally delivers a blow to a pregnant France (carrying, rather fittingly, a literal bastard) and where there is not white man to provide the white women the appropriate dance ‘intoxication’ (in that sense, the degenerate ghetto dance numbers are quite apt as they allegorically express the aesthetically and culturally debauched state of France as a whole).  After all, as Noé once said himself,  “all history is written in sperm and blood.”  In the end, it will not just be France and its indigenous white population that are swallowed up by the multiculti nightmare, but eventually everyone and everything just like virtually every single character in the film.  Until then, one can only hope that Noé continues to devour drugs and and remember that, “one must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.”

-Ty E

Jul 31, 2019

The Beach Bum

As of late, it has become quite trendy among certain circles to hate the so-called ‘Baby Boom Generation’ (aka people born between 1946 and 1964) and—considering the current super sorry pre-third world state of the United States—rightly so. Sure, subsequent generations like Generation X and Millennials are certainly not much better, but it was ultimately the Boomers—the most spoiled and, in turn, narcissistic and materialistic, generation in all of recorded human history—that was responsible for gleefully disposing of the ostensible ‘everyday fascism’ of traditional values and embracing so-called ‘free love,’ feminism, abortion, xenophilia/multiculturalism, and pretty much every single other social ill that has led to the steady decline of the United States, especially among the nation’s increasingly dwindling white majority.  Needless to say, the stereotypical boomer mentality is innately insufferable but of course Hollywood—the innately anti-Occidental social engineering system that regularly churns out infantile agitprop disguised as mindless entertainment that is responsible for brainwashing these people their entire lives, hence their total devotion to glaringly socially deleterious things ranging from the counterculture movement to greasy fast food—has rarely dared to openly outright mock its greatest supporters, at least until relatively recently in a somewhat unexpected form. Indeed, with his latest feature The Beach Bum (2019), (ex)junky auteur Harmony Korine—a Judaic director that has demonstrated a somewhat strange but not unexpected lifelong disdain for white people in general both in interviews and cinematically—has directed what might be the anti-boomer film par excellence to the point where he even managed to get boomer icon Jimmy Buffett to appear in the film. More than just an assuredly absurdist assault on boomers and their spiritually hollow pseudo-pagan hyper hedonistic tendencies and asinine aesthetic interests, the film also makes a mockery out of various other white American (pseudo)cultural trends since then, including negrophilia, JNCO jeans, lame mainstream rock like Creed, cracker-safe pop rap like Snoop Dogg, soulless extravagant weddings (that soon predictably end in divorce), beach party chic metrosexualism, and the most uniquely uncultivated form(s) of libertinism, among various other ludicrously loathsome things that remind one just how painfully culturally and spiritually retarded the United States really is.

As I regrettably predicted well over a decade ago, Korine seems to have suffered the same auteur curse as Orson Welles in terms of being unable to top his debut film Gummo (1997)—the lapsed junky filmmaker’s indubitable magnum opus—though I would argue that his latest couple more-mainstream-friendly films are certainly an improvement from where his career was headed for a while. Indeed, while his second feature Julien Donkey-Boy (1999) was a worthwhile experiment that highly benefited from an unforgettable acting performance from Werner Herzog, his third feature Mister Lonely (2007)—his first flick in almost a decade of sad dope-addled stagnation—was mostly a contrived bore and fourth Trash Humpers (2009) seemed like a half-hearted kosher con and rip-off of the organically grotesque aberrant-garde camcorder excursions of Hollywood actor turned true lumpenprole auteur Giuseppe Andrews like Trailer Town (2003) and Period Piece (2006). While Korine demonstrated some promise with the occasional interesting short like the jungle bunny fever dream Act Da Fool (2010) and Umshini Wam (2011) starring zany South African wigger rap group Die Antwoord, it was only with Spring Breakers (2012) that Korine refined his new aesthetic and managed to make a relatively mainstream film that knowingly and winkingly (and, some might say, cynically) mocks the mainstream. Undoubtedly, The Beach Bum, which features a somewhat similar nasty neon Florida aesthetic to Spring Breakers, goes even further and takes a humorously hypnotic approach to what can probably best described hyper hokey hyperrealism.  Indeed, featuring sun-soaked hick hobos and preposterously wealthy and equally effete negro dope dealers in their own totally tasteless and tacky vision of heaven, Korine's latest cinematic effort is a surprisingly feel-good-flick that paradoxically manages to inspire a magnificent misanthropy, as if the glistening sunny shots featured throughout the film are a sort of slyly sardonic foreshadowing of the apocalypse.  The film also manages to reinvent the stoner film in the sense that it will probably completely dumbfound the average stoner and completely ruin their much undeserved ‘good vibes.’

Virtually borrowing its ostensibly seductively sleazy melodramatic shell from the hit David Duchovny Showtime TV series Californication (2007-2014) in its degenerate dramedy approach to a hedonistic once-popular struggling writer (or, in this case, pothead ‘poet’) with a similarly fucked family life that includes a reluctant soulmate and a sassy daughter, Korine’s undeniably visually flavorsome flick also winks at (or, probably more accurately, goofily mocks) such classic pothead pictures as Richard Linklater’s Dazed and Confused (1993) also starring Matthew McConaughey, the Coen brothers’ The Big Lebowski (1998), and Terry Gilliam’s Hunter S. Thompson adaptation Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas (1998). Indeed, just as Korine seemed very much stuck in the late-1990s MTV realm when he directed Spring Breakers (in fact, in interviews, Korine explained that he was at least partly inspired to direct the film due to personally missing this rather retarded rite-of-passage as a kid), The Beach Bum feels very much like the result of the auteur getting the idea for the film after binge-watching classic 1990s pothead flicks while high on weed, LSD, and/or Pabst Blue Ribbon (which, rather fittingly, is featured prominently throughout the film). Ironically (or not so), the film is also just as re-watchable as the most re-watchable of these classic cult stoner films, as if Korine wanted to ensure that the film would also become a timeless THC-tinged classic for the dope fiend filmgoers that it so merrily mocks. Considering that the boomer generation seems hopelessly stuck in the past (as marijuana abuse tends to do that to people), it is only fitting that the titular antihero portrayed by McConaughey is an exceedingly emotionally immature and infantile culture vulture that is like a virtual shit-magnet for virtually every superlatively shitty fashion and cultural trend from the late-1960s to late-1990s. In that sense, it makes perfect sense that the film stars such outmoded Afro-American pop culture figures as Snoop Dogg and Martin Lawrence alongside lame boomer ‘yacht rock’ favorites like Jimmy Buffet and Bertie Higgins. In short, like with his greatest films, Korine reveals with The Beach Bum that he is a sort of Talmudic alchemist by turning radically rancid goy shit into strangely refined kosher comedy gold.  Despite being indubitably Korine's most ludicrously lowbrow cinematic effort to date, there is a certain meta-tacky genius to the processions that really underscores the auteur's particular pathology-ridden ‘genius.’

 As pretty much everything about it, most notably its title and the character’s appearance, demonstrates, the film’s antihero is supposed to be a lovable-piece-of-hyper-hedonistic-hippie-white-trash-shit that is strangely traditionally American due to his somewhat dubious underdog status and shameless lack of cultivation and pretense, but an early scene in the film unequivocally exposes the fact that ‘Moondog’ (Matthew McConaughey)—a deceptively merry man that seems to bask in the idea of living in a modern-day Sodom of sun, surf, and semen—is a much more malevolent and malefic figure than his ‘hippie hobo chic’ persona and ‘perennial party’ lifestyle hints at. Indeed, while at a less than jamming Jimmy Buffet gig where he is a sort of low-key guest of honor, Moondog gets on stage and engages in a little self-described “poetic foreplay” and declares with a sort of sordid sinister smirk and understated foreboding menace, “One day, I will swallow up the world [laughs] And when I do, I hope you all perish violently,” thereupon demonstrating with one easy-to-miss line of dialogue that he is actually a very evil, albeit lazy, man the fetishizes a sort of savage Armageddon and ultimately the extermination of mankind as a whole.  Undoubtedly, what becomes immediately obvious about Moondog is that, despite apparently having a legendary reputation as a poet, his ostensible poetry basically ranges from incoherent gibberish to pornographic swill and he even prides himself on stealing great lines from great poets of the past. For example, Moondog brags to his best friend ‘Lingerie’ aka ‘Rie’ (Snoop Dogg)—a pathetically pot-plagued drug dealer and rapper whose ghetto-flavored arrogance is only transcended by his effete excess—that he once plagiarized D. H. Lawrence for a 7th grade poetry contest and proudly “won that motherfucker.” Despite his relative lack of pretense, Moondog—a sort of severely sun-tanned Shmendrik boomer king—is also not beneath berating his hobo homies for not immediately recognizing the decadent poetry of Charles Baudelaire.  Despite usually being so stoned and/or drunk that he can barely stand properly on both feet (in fact, the character has a peculiar posture and similarly goofy gait in general), Moondog is also not beneath putting up a preposterous tough guy front and stating unintentionally humorous things to wimpy Hebraic lawyers like, “I write poetry you little bitch.”

In short, Moondog is like a modern-day American equivalent to French decadent Symbolist poet Arthur Rimbaud if Rimbaud kept writing poetry well into middle-age instead of quitting at age 21 and sans the poesy prowess. Of course, even as a young teenager, Rimbaud never wrote anything nearly as retarded as Moondog self-satisfied words, “I was thinking about you. And I got up at about 4:00 a.m., and I had to take a piss, as guys do, and I looked down at my dick…and I had such affection in my heart when I did. Knowing that it had been inside you twice today…made me feel beautiful.” Notably, Rimbaud, who was also heavily influenced by Baudelaire, did seem to live by a personal poetic philosophy at the age of 16 that is quite similar to Moondog's as indicated by his words in a letter to his benefactor Georges Izambard: “I'm now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I'm working at turning myself into a seer. You won't understand any of this, and I'm almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It's really not my fault.”   Of course, while Rimbaud knew when to quit and decided that being a wandering merchant would be a much more preferable trade to scribbling lines before dying at a fairly premature age, Moondog is essentially a whacked-out wastrel living on borrowed time, or so he discovers after being forced to confront the complete and utter unsustainability of his particularly parasitic existence after his sugar momma unexpectedly croaks.

 Not unlike many self-described ‘artists’ and ‘poets’ in the United States, Moondog is, above all else, an all-consuming lecherous leech that is only able to maintain his hippie dip-shit poet lifestyle because he is wealthy; or, more specifically, he is very much the piss poor product of misguided generosity and lives off the wealth of his wanton mud shark wifey Minnie (Isla Fisher), who is actually deluded enough to believe that her serial philanderer hubby is a ‘genius’ and ‘great man.’ In other words, the only reason that Moondog is able to posture as a poet instead of a bum and maintain an extravagant lifestyle of unhinged bacchanalian buffoonery is because he lives off his would-be-hot-and-hip whore heiress wife, so naturally the antihero is placed in a somewhat precarious situation when his spouse tragically dies in a car crash and he is forced to fend for himself in what ultimately proves to be his own sort of softcore sativa-driven ‘mein kampf’ and the central (non)plot of the film. Indeed, for the majority of the film, the viewer watches as Moondog wanders around aimlessly and recklessly while he attempts to finish “the next great American novel” so that he can obtain his inheritance, which is frozen in escrow. Wisely (and, ultimately, quite prophetically) fearing that Moondog would “piss away her family fortune,” Minnie put a special clause in her will that her husband would not be able to obtain his inheritance until he cleaned up his life and finished his latest book. As can predicted in an anti-Hollywood film disguised as a Hollywood film that devilishly plays with mainstream genre conventions to the point of practically projectile-vomiting these mostly negligible narrative ingredients onto the viewer's face, Moondog naturally accomplishes this relatively simple task with a certain grotesque burn-out gusto, but not before going on an absurdist odyssey of magnificent idiocy to pothead purgatory that involves arrests, court-ordered drug rehab, escaping from rehab with the help of pyromaniacs, degenerate dolphin tours, and dauntingly dumb drug-smuggling flights with old blind negro pothead pilots, among other moronic missions. Needless to say, Moondog naturally kind of just falls into certain situations as he is a high time preference moron that seems incapable of planning ahead and instead just goes with the flow, especially when he has a steady flow of pot and booze as fuel. In fact, even Moondog’s new book is nothing more than recycled crap from his various drunken readings at seaside dive bars, as he is not the sort of guy that expends too much energy on anything, including his great ‘gift’ of the written word. Rather humorously and in a fashion that makes a grand mockery of the entire positively positive happy endings of hollow Hollywood films, Moondog even manages to secure the coveted Pulitzer for his latest collection of infantile scribbling, but then again Tyehimba Jess also once won one thereupon making the prize seemingly worthless nowadays. 

 There are many less than noble traits that epitomize boomers and the conclusion of The Beach Bum is certainly quite symbolic of the most loathsome of boomerisms. Indeed, after finally securing his inheritance of $50 million, Moondog buys a big boat that he idiotically names “success” and has the rest of the money placed on boat for a huge party involving fireworks, or as he states, “None of that sparkler bullshit that impresses lesbians, pregnant women and babies. No, no, no, let’s-let’s Valhalla this motherfucker.” Needless to say, Moondog, who is no Nordic god, destroys the money by setting it on fire in an allegorical scene that echoes the boomer propensity towards mindless consumerism and wasting money in general whilst refusing to plan for the future (hence why so many boomers are unable to retire and/or do not plan on leaving their children any sort of inheritance despite their relative financial success in life). Like the eponymous bum played by Michel Simon in Jean Renoir’s classic subversive frog comedy Boudu Saved from Drowning (1932)—a film that clearly had an imperative influence on The Beach Bum—Moondog merely drifts away on a raft in the end and, to quote the classic frog comedy, the antihero is, “back to his old vagrancy, a free spirit once more.” 

 Admittedly, I lost a lot of respect for Korine after seeing him on a 2010 episode of the show Into the Night with... where he routinely complains about “white people” and even becomes noticeably dejected when Gaspar Noé informs him that he is not of the Hebraic persuasion as the Judaic director had long assumed. Undoubtedly, such sentiments hint that he was merely mocking the hopelessly hapless honkies in his magnum opus Gummo and Trash Humpers was nothing more of a grotesque continuation of such keen kosher supremacist sentiments, as if the aberrant auteur saw elderly Caucasian confederates as the most horrific (subhuman)beings in the entire world. Despite these glaring Hebraic hostilities, Korine has unequivocally demonstrated a sort of playfully savagely sardonic contempt for people of various races and creeds, including his own. Indeed, in the film, Jonah Hill—arguably the most insufferable young kosher comedic actor working today—portrays Moondog’s superlatively sleazy (and covertly kosher) agent ‘Lewis,’ who reveals himself to be the ultimate walking-and-talking Der Stürmer-esque stereotype by bragging with a certain awe-inspiring combination of hubris and chutzpah, “You know what I liked the most about being rich? You can just… be horrible to people, and they just have to take it.” Indeed, lecherous Lewis, who apparently once attempted to molest Moondog’s (then-underaged) daughter, looks and sounds like the mud-dwelling Cajun wigger nephew of Harvey Weinstein in what is probably the sole tolerable performance of Hill's mostly radically repugnant career.

Korine also playfully mocks the stereotypical bourgeois Jewish nuclear family unit in the form of the less than lovable Lipschitz family, who have their own atonal theme song that is proudly sung by their fat and bald doctor patriarch that seems like the sort of physician that would have secret cameras hidden around their practice. Luckily for the lovely Lipschitz family, they have enough money to go on an ostensible ‘dolphin tour’ where they pay witness to the fact that sharks like dark meat after a negro named ‘Captain Wack’ (Martin Lawrence)—a singularly inept (supposed) Vietnam War vet and dolphin tour guide dude that, despite accidentally causing the deaths of a number of his previous patrons, somehow always manages to get his permits reinstated (or so he gleefully brags)—has his foot bit off by a shark in a scenario that provides Moondog great grotesque giggles. Undoubtedly fulfilling various highly negative racial stereotypes, Captain Wack not only feeds his pet parrot cocaine and has had only license revoked numerous times due to the deadly nature of his sub-amateur dolphin tours, but he is also so supremely and surreally stupid—to the point of savagely mocking similar beloved black characters from stereotypical semitic stoner flicks—that he sincerely believes he that loses his foot as a result of dolphin with sharp teeth as opposed to a gam of sharks, but of course no character is more patently pathetic and insipidly idiotic as the titular antihero. 

 While The Beach Bum superficially depicts Moondog as a mostly harmless fun-loving Florida Keys freak whose ludicrously lurid ‘laissez-faire’ approach to life is supposed to be admired, the film gives the viewer enough clues to make it quite clear that the protagonist is nothing if not a putrid piece of shit of the ludicrously lonely and sorry sort and his hyper hedonism is nothing more than a pathological coping mechanism for such innate internal misery. Indeed, at the beginning of the film, Moondog not only frankly admits to his wife that, “I’m a bottom-feeder. I got to go low to get high. You know that,” but he also rather revealingly confesses in a rare candid non-clownish moment of pathetic self-reflection, “I don’t have any friends.” Indeed, while Moondog is almost always depicted with other degenerates and debauchees, these supposed friendships are nothing more than displays of mutual parasitism and exploitation where they merely encourage drug abuse and mindless/loveless sexual savagery. Arguably most revealingly, despite presenting himself as a sort of tie-dye Don Juan that is down to drive his dick into any wet and wild hole, Moondog is a literal emasculated cuckold whose wanton wife carries on a long-term affair with his supposed best friend (also, rather revealingly, Moondog is depicted simply performing lifeless cunnilingus and slavish foot fetish shit on his wife, as if he is simply incapable of asserting himself on her like a real man). Naturally, the same best friend, Lingerie—a dope-dealing gangster with his own personal thug mercenary force—not only talks Moondog into making a total fool of himself by encouraging him to wear drag (notably, it is ultimately for no reason, as the antihero's drag garb is almost indistinguishable from his everyday colorful crap kitsch costume), but he also gets him involved in possibly deadly behavior, including smuggling drugs in a plane flown by an elderly and nearly-blind Rastafarian negro in what seems to be Korine's ironic nod to the Snoop Dogg celluloid turd Soul Plane (2004).  Undoubtedly, virtually all of Moondog's behavior ultimately demonstrates that he has very little concern for human life, especially his own, but of course such is the natural result of the pathetically outmoded “Turn on, tune in, drop out” Weltanschauung that he so slavishly abides by.

 While The Beach Bum can certainly be compared to such prestigious films as Boudu Saved from Drowning and the rare bawdy guido cult flick like Pasolini's protege Sergio Citti's Casotto (1977) aka Beach House, it also manages to be quite comparable to some of the worst celluloid trash in film history, including the somehow-sometimes-entertaining celluloid turd National Lampoon's Last Resort (1993) starring Corey Feldman and Corey Haim. Also, if the eponymous corpse of Weekend at Bernie's (1989) was reanimated as a dope zombie that fed on cheap beer, expensive weed, and piss poor untermensch pussy instead of human brains (which he could surely use), the creature would not be far off from Mr. Moondog as such a soulless scum-sucking sod barely carries any qualities that can admirably be described as human. In short, the sort of Sunshine State surrealism of The Beach Bum makes for an insanely ironical aesthetic when one considers the sheer and utter blackness that is indelibly marinated into Moondog’s sad little forsaken heart, subtly splenetic psyche, and cobwebbed abyss-like soul. Of course, one should not expect anything less from a film where slapstick humor is derived from the senseless abuse of elderly women and the brutal beating and robbery of paraplegic boomers by JNCO-sporting-and-Creed-loving evangelical pyromaniacs.

When Moondog literally burns his entire fortune at the end of the film, it almost seems like a moment of great allegorical purity as if to symbolize the complete and utter incineration of the plastic post-hippie pseudo-culture that pretty much epitomizes every single generation since the boomers, though that would be too generous of an interpretation, especially considering that the protagonist—like so many (self)destructive white trash types—survives the ordeal. Instead, Moondog’s coastal cash holocaust more symbolizes the all-consuming and all-destructive force that is demonic boomer plague than any sort of ‘Baptism by Fire.’  Undoubtedly, the cultural, aesthetic, and racial retardation of this plague is probably best highlighted in a scene where Jimmy Buffett and Snoop Dogg sing a song together in what is arguably the most accursed and cringe-worthy duet in all of human history. In that sense, Korine has certainly further refined his aberrant anti-aesthetic since Spring Breakers, as no one could dream up such dauntingly disgusting audio-visual vile with a sound mind, thus confirming the auteur’s place as America’s greatest and most artistically ruthless Judaic troll. Indeed, Korine does for his tribe what Sam Hyde and Million Dollar Extreme do for good goys and gals in terms of his anarchistic use of anti-humor, including the implementation of lovably grotesque racial caricatures that rape and ravish the soul with a twisted smile. 

 Undoubtedly, it is hard for me to imagine any intelligent person watching Korine’s film and not coming to the logical conclusion that the success of Snoop Dogg—both the real ‘man’ and his clearly quite autobiographical character ‘Lingerie’—symbolizes the height of clown world absurdity and mass cultural retardation in that that someone so decidedly dope-addled, dimwitted and delinquent could be so rich and famous to the point of being an ostensibly wholesome household name, which is one of the things The Beach Bum (seemingly unintentionally) really underscores in its hyper hokey hyperrealist hysteria. Of course, whereas Snoop Dogg epitomizes every negative stereotype of the ‘successful’ American negro as a self-centered snake that has gotten wealthy off promoting various forms of degeneracy to his own people (not to mention that various white philistines that love him), Moondog—a racially deracinated doper that is ruthlessly cuckolded by his beloved wife and supposed best friend—is a sort of anti-Faustian man as a proudly aimless anti-mensch that represents that antithesis of every great quality of white European men of the past. In short, Moondog is a spiritually castrated pile of dog shit that has even eclipsed Nietzsche’s last man in terms of abject worthlessness and passivity. While Moondog seems to be mindlessly striving for a completely intangible state of immaculate Ataraxia, he really just enjoys basking in the nefariously necrotic asshole of Sunshine Sodom, especially since it requires the least bit of physical and mental exertion to embrace such a licentious loser life. An excremental expression of the moronic mongrelized Hollywood joke of American (anti)alchemy, Moondog is human manure preposterously elevated to the level of a sort of great literary aristocracy that lives a hedonistic lifestyle worthy of ten debauched kings; or, in short, Korine's most ambitious joke yet.  Unfortunately, it is still no Gummo—joke or no joke.

 While it is well known that Korine is an (ex)junky, his pothead status seemed slightly more dubious, at least until he released Spring Breakers and especially The Beach Bum, the latter of which could have only been misbegottenly conceived by a full-fledged ganja glutton. Notably, out of all the Hebrews that I have ever personally known, every single one of them was a full-fledged pothead, including accountants, social workers, robotic students, and self-loathing anti-Zionists far-left wankers (notably, one chosenite I briefly befriended, whose father was apparently a bigwig at the Smithsonian Institution, claimed his entire family smoked, including an elderly uncle that was some sort of ‘weed scientist’ that hooked up all his other family members with high-grade pharmaceutical dope). Of course, the pathetic proliferation of cannabis-crusted kosher comedies reveal that there is a sort collective reefer madness among the tribe and Jewish film scholar Nathan Abrams has highlighted this less than flattering fact in his book The New Jew in Film: Exploring Jewishness and Judaism in Contemporary Cinema (2011). For example, when discussing Hebraic hack Judd Apatow’s miscegenation abortion Knocked Up (2007), Abrams notes, “Rogen plays another schlubby (Yiddish: clumsy, stupid or unattractive) Jewish stoner, Ben Stone […] Unemployed, his Jewish and homosocial daily life is characterized by routine drinking and smoking weed […] Apatow is unapologetic about Stone’s stoner qualities, lovingly detailed in the opening sequence. Indeed, the film celebrates Stone, as he, somewhat surprisingly but entirely in keeping with cinematic tradition, sleeps with an attractive blonde, professional shiksa.” In short, the United States has become such a glaringly semitic stoner dystopia and kosher cultural wasteland that hydro-laced Judeocentric fantasies, especially of the considerably insufferable Apatovian ‘Jew Tang Clan’ variety, are even the norm for the dumb (and probably stoned) white goy majority. Thankfully, Korine manages to at least transcend the sorry cinema of bong breath banality by taking it to such a sickeningly surreally silly extreme that one can only hysterically laugh at—as opposed to with—the rasta rabble and space cowboy untermenschen it depicts, though apparently that was not really the auteur’s true intent. 

 Apparently suffering from his own idiosyncratic onset of Trump Derangement Syndrome is what largely influenced Korine to make The Beach Bum, or as the filmmaker told IndieWire while seemingly possessed by the retrograde spirit of his kinsman Bob Dylan, “I started to feel like the times were changing, things were darker, everything was feeling more intense. I thought, maybe it’s time to laugh. I figured I’d just go for it and make my version of a comedy.” In short, the film is, like virtually all stoner comedies, a piece of inelegant excess-ridden escapism, albeit with an obvious meta-autistic Korine-ian touch. Of course, as everything from his debut acting role as the date-rape-drug-dealing club kid ‘Fidget’ in Larry Clark’s Kids (1995) to his various vaudevillian appearances on Late Show with David Letterman to his experimental ‘novel’ A Crack Up at the Race Riots (1998) to 2000 black-metal-inspired art exhibition The Sigil of the Cloven Hoof Marks Thy Path demonstrate, Korine is and has always been the ‘badken.’ A Yiddish word for “a professional fun-maker, jester, entertainer, verbose Jewish jokester and showman,” ‘badken’ certainly better describes Korine than auteur at this point in his career and the titular antihero of The Beach Bum indubitably acts as a sort of sociopathic boomer gentile equivalent to it. As to how Korine went from directing films featuring gay black dwarfs and Burzum to washed-up mainstream black comedians and Jimmy Buffet, one is certainly more than a little tempted to speculate that it was one-too-many bong hits. After all, weeds has especially deleterious effects in terms of lowering one’s standards and causing one to tolerate, well, crap, which explains how Korine has gone from citing great auteurs like John Cassavetes and Werner Herzog to insipidly stupid and soulless shit like the moronically merry multiculti marijuana movies of swarthy dip-shit duo Cheech & Chong as cinematic influences (indeed, Korine has referenced the films of the colored Cannabisseur partners as an imperative influence on The Beach Bum). 

 Notably, in a 1999 interview with Sean O’Hagan, Korine expressed rather high hopes in terms of his future place among the greats of cinema history, or as he explained in regard to his natural evolution as a cineaste, “I’d see a Fassbinder film, then go and get a book about him out of the library, and find out that he was into melodrama and Douglas Sirk. Then I’d go and seek out all of Sirk’s work. That’s how I figured out there was a continuum in cinema and directing that, hopefully, I’m part of today.” Unfortunately, it has been over two decades since Korine directed his masterful debut Gummo and none of his subsequent works are even in the same universe in terms of unbridled idiosyncratic majesty, unhinged unforgettably, and grotesque comedic gold. After finally kicking Cocteau’s kick, getting married, and becoming a father, Korine seems to have been finally tamed and The Beach Bum is the unequivocal proof that he is now a sort of ‘spiritual boomer’ as opposed to the perennial enfant terrible most of his fans hoped he would forever be. Still, The Beach Bum provides enough raunchy retarded fun to make for an aesthetically autistic double feature with The Big Lebowski (1998). From Gregg Araki’s embarrassingly stale stoner girl odyssey Smiley Face (2007) to the positively putrid anti-white multiculturalist agitpop of the heeb-helmed Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle (2004) to the beta boy buffoonery of Kevin Smith’s Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back (2001), the stoner comedy is arguably the most insufferable and aesthetically worthless subgenre of all–time so for there to be a film like A Beach Bum that is actually highly re-watchable is almost a miracle of sorts. Also, Matthew McConaughey deserves credit for a singular acting performance that is like a modern-day Charlie Chaplin on LSD after being raped by a pack of crack-ridden rasta negroes.

As to why one should loathe stoners and everything they represent, I think Teutonic philosopher Oswald Spengler said it best when he wrote, “The common man wants nothing of life but health, longevity, amusement, comfort—‘happiness.’ He who does not despise this should turn his eyes from world history, for it contains nothing of the sort. The best that history has created is great suffering.”  In short, nothing good comes out of mindless happiness, especially of the artificial drug-induced sort.  Of course, Moondog—a man that cannot even muster a tear when his great love dies probably because he is too inebriated and is no longer in touch with normal human feelings—is a shitty poet because he does not know what it means to suffer.  Likewise, Korine's artistic stagnation seems to also be the result of his lack of suffering as the auteur seems to now be at his most stable and least self-destructive as a result of becoming a drug-free family man.  Luckily, Korine does not seem to be pot-free, which has resulted in two of the ‘greatest’ pothead flicks of all-time.  Indeed, it is kind of good to know that, as the fiery climax of The Beach Bum demonstrates, there are a couple films one can watch and laugh at while the world is in flames.  After all, while Hollywood and its films are harbingers-cum-symptoms of clown world, Korine's films at least bask in clown world and remind one that one is not insane to recognize that the modern world is simply insane and that there is no harm in sharing the occasional laugh from it.  In fact, it can certainly be argued that the fact that Korine's films even exist are a sure sign of end times and, even more than sad Slavs like Tarkovsky and Żuławski, they represent an apocalyptic aesthetic.  Judging by Korine's latest film, the world seems to end with nervous laughter as opposed to a whimper.  As for boomers, it is quite unfortunate that most of them will probably not live long enough to see the apocalypse that their nasty combination of narcissism, materialism, hedonism, and cosmopolitanism helped to ignite and accelerate.  On the bright side, thankfully John Lennon was assassinated long ago before he could perform an updated version of “Imagine” with Snoop Dogg.  In short, when Ludwig Klages decried the ascent of, “the post-historical mankind of the merely pseudo-living larva,” he still never could have foreseen a creature as wretchedly rakish and ruthlessly reprobate as the titular antihero of The Beach Bum.

-Ty E