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


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