We Kill for Love: The Erotic Thriller Doc

They were quite a thing in their time, but they could not survive the double-whammy of the collapsing video store market and the rise of puritanical woke-ism. Somehow, low-budget horror has weathered the perfect storm, but sexy thrillers with words like “deadly,” indecent,” “eyes,” “body,” and “night” in their titles just could not maintain market share. The filmmakers and stars who worked prolifically in the genre look back on their work in director-producer-editor Anthony Penta’s documentary We Kill for Love, which releases tomorrow on VOD.

The genesis of it all was Brian de Palma’s Dressed to Kill, which established just about all of the genre’s tropes and motifs. Lawrence Kasdan’s Body Heat was its Citizen Kane and Basic Instinct and Fatal Attraction were its Star Wars-sized hits. In between, there were a lot of cheaper films, promising, but not necessarily delivering naughty thrills, for customers of independent video stores and late-night cable TV.

The phenomenon was well underway during the mid-to-late-1980s, but it maybe reached its peak in the early 1990s. Andrew Stevens is a major reason why. He leveraged his notoriety as an actor (from films like The Fury and Death Hunt) to get his screenplay produced. He also starred in Night Eyes, which is definitely one of the documentary’s touchstone films. To Stevens’ credit, he is a good interview subject, who can discuss his career with self-aware perspective and a sense of humor.

Occasionally, there is some horror crossover in We Kill for Love, mainly thanks to Fred Olen Rey. Penta and his academics (whose political commentary on the 1980s is often dubious) also convincingly identify straight-to-video erotic thrillers as the disreputable offspring of film noir and hardboiled pulp on the male side and gothic romance on female side. (However, class envy played little role in the genre’s success. The characters’ luxurious lifestyles were just a further dimension of its voyeurism.)

Indeed, voyeurism often factored very directly in the storylines, but they were not X-rated. They were “naughty” rather than “dirty” movies. Yet, many of the actresses who frequently appeared in these films have had to push back when they were unfairly labeled “porn stars,” like Amy Lindsay (whose credits also include guest shots on Star Trek: Voyager, Silk Stockings, and Pacific Blue), who explains what it was like to be smeared with the “p” word when she appeared as an average voter in a commercial for Ted Cruz. Give Penta credit for covering this incident fairly.

You Don’t Nomi: Defending Showgirls

Only a certain kind of film can sustain a documentary of its own. Usually, they are good films that either support strange interpretations (as with Room 237 on The Shining) or were the result of notoriously dramatic production shoot (like The Exorcist). Paul Verhoeven’s Showgirls stands in a classless class by itself. Initially reviled, it has developed a weird cult following, with Midnight screenings in the tradition of Rocky Horror Picture Show. Several of its most vocal champions explain why the 1995 bomb was better (or at least more interesting) than people thought in Jeffrey McHale’s You Don’t Nomi, which releases tomorrow on VOD.

There is probably more nudity and sex in Nomi than maybe any other documentary ever reviewed here, but that makes perfect sense if you know anything about Showgirls. It was conceived as the deliberately NC-17 follow-up from director Verhoeven and screenwriter Joe Esterhas, who scored a big hit with the risqué thriller Basic Instinct. It was Hollywood going full frontal and then some. The problem is the dialogue and characterization were even more outrageous, but in the wrong kind of way that invites use of the “c” word: “camp.”

Although none of the cast or crew appear in sit-down interviews to justify themselves, McHale’s experts clearly sympathize with lead actress Elizabeth Berkley. They clearly establish it was Verhoeven who pushed and prodded her to go bigger, broader, and crazier in her portrayal of Nomi Malone—and then basically left her exposed to the withering critical reception. They even make compelling connections between her striving teen character on Saved by the Bell and her often inappropriately manic performance as Malone—which April Kidwell explicitly alludes to (and satirizes) as the star of the Off-Broadway musical adaptation.

ICFF ’18: Compulsion

Forget the lurid sex. Clearly, the most fun anyone had on this film was during the location scouting. Somehow, they were able to shoot exteriors at Sacra di San Michele and interiors at what looks like the Palace of Venaria and the Villa della Regina. One would think such places would have some pretty rigorous permit processes, but somehow an S&M horror movie gained entrée. The sex and violence are the same old same old, but the locations are pretty awesome in Craig Goodwill’s English-language, Italian-produced Compulsion (trailer here), which screens today at the TIFF Lightbox in Toronto, as part of the Italian Contemporary Film Festival.

This is Sadie Glass. You will be seeing a lot of her naked. She barely survived the weird games her former lover Alex liked to play, but she used the experience to pen her thinly veiled autobiographical first novel. True blue Thierry is the right man for her, but he doesn’t always come through at crunch time, so when Alex crashes her book party (a bizarrely dressy event for a Fifty Shades potboiler, at what looks like the Palazzo Madama), she lights off with him, back into the seamy underside of Turin nightlife.

It turns out Alex is staying at his business partner’s boffo villa, where he will be hosting one of his notorious parties over the weekend. Naturally, he wants Glass to attend, but he gets a bonus when she invites erotic dancer Francesca along on a whim. Everything is cool when they are just doing their Skinimax thing, but as soon as the party starts, the vibe turns creepy. Glass gets woozy, starts losing time, and has visions of ritualistic killings. Everything is a game Alex tells her, but the blood stains she finds the next morning suggest otherwise.

It still just boggles the mind that a bodice-ripper-and-slasher like this could shoot in such grand venues. Essentially, the tone is a lot like Eyes Wide Shut, but with the liberal addition of overt horror elements and far less symbolically charged subtext. Jakob Cedergren is a classy actor in respectable, crossover Scandinavian films like Across the Water, Guilty, and Terribly Happy, so it is quite surprising to see him playing (credibly enough) the smarmy Alex. We feel bad for Analeigh Tipton, because the film often leaves her hanging out there, naked and haggard-looking, in a really ugly and exploitative way. It is somewhat kinder to Marta Gastini, who plays Francesca as a Holly Golightly from Hell. However, Jan Bijvoet does right by the horror tradition with his scenery-chewing turn as Minos, the cadaverous butler.

This is a complete change of pace from Goodwill first film, the hit-or-miss dystopian allegory Patch Town, but it is far more derivative of prior works. Brian Clark’s screenplay is a rat’s nest of weirdness and howlers, such as Glass’s practice of reading her final chapter at all her publicity events, which any experienced author will tell you is the best way to maximize sales. The film is a mess but the stunning backdrops often serve as a welcome distraction. If you watch Compulsion, you will have a strong desire to visit the Piedmont region, but you will probably never want to see it again. Not recommended, Compulsion screens tonight (6/16), as part of ICFF in Toronto.

NYAFF ’17: Wet Woman in the Wind

There were hard and fast rules for the making of Nikkatsu’s so-called Roman P*rn* series of films, sort of like a sonnet or a haiku. They had to be under eighty minutes, with a sex scene due every ten minutes. Having saved the studio from financial ruin in the 1970s, they have recently dusted the tried-and-true formula for old times’ sake as well as potentially lucrative territorial sales and back-end deals, so to speak. This time around, they have recruited some surprisingly well-known filmmakers, including Akihiro Shiota (Dororo), whose Wet Woman in the Wind (NSFW trailer here) screens during this year’s New York Asian Film Festival.

Shiori is trouble with a capital “T.” Where she goes, her elevated pheromones cause irrational sexual behavior, but Kosuke is determined not to play her game. The former womanizing playwright has sequestered himself in a remote cabin to detox and maybe find himself. Shiori is not part of his plans. Of course, she takes his resistance as a challenge. As fate (and Nikkatsu) would have it, his former theater troupe will come blundering along, bringing plenty of unwitting accomplices (of both genders) to help stir Kosuke’s jealousy.  Of course, he is not about to take all that lying down.

So yes, Wet Woman in the Wind is screening at the Lincoln Center, home of the Metropolitan Opera, The New York City Ballet, and the New York Philharmonic. Seems fitting, right? You could say there’s a lot of choreography in the film. There are certainly plenty of bodies in motion and physical comedy aplenty.

Frankly, Wet probably could have passed for brilliant cultural criticism in the early 1970s. It feels like it stepped out of 1969, with its lead character, a sort of nymphomaniacal Amélie breaking down square sexual inhibitions and Kosuke going back to nature to get in touch with his true feelings or whatever. However, as a throwback, it is more honest about its horndog proclivities.

Regardless, Yuki Mamiya is just an indomitable, irresistible force as the seductive pixie. To her credit, she throws herself into all the chaos and what-not her character unleashes.  There is no doubting her energy or commitment. Wisely, Tasuku Nagaoka opts for a more restrained approach as Kosuke, but he is still getting naked just the same. Recommended for nostalgic fans of the original romans, Wet Woman in the Wind screens at the Walter Reade on the Fourth of July, because obviously. However, if that all sounds fun to you, you really have to check out the ribald but endlessly inventive Suffering of Ninko, which screens on Sunday, July 9^th, as part of the 2017 New York Asian Film Festival.

Fantasia ’16: In Search of Ultra-Sex

Canal+ has long offered full service programming to a wide spectrum of customers, including special scrambled overnight broadcasts. Those were exactly what you think they are. As a result, the venerable media company had quite an extensive archive of soft-core and not-so-soft-core naughty movies for filmmakers Nicolas Charlet and Bruno Lavaine to plunder. The resulting hacked-together and over-dubbed Frankenstein’s monster of a supercut takes the narrative shape of a psychedelic science fiction film. The Earth is in trouble, but nobody is complaining in Charlet & Lavaine’s In Search of Ultra-Sex (trailer here), which screened during the 2016 Fantasia International Film Festival.

Part of the fun of watching Carl Reiner’s Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid with friends comes from showing off your recognition of the incorporated film clips. Here, you’re on your own. Fortunately, there were more than enough bargain basement Star Trek and Power Ranger knock-offs to supply the skeleton of Charlet & Lavaine’s narrative. Some nefarious force has stolen the Ultra-Sex, the mystical mojo holding Earth’s collective libido in check. Now that its gone, there is actually a halfway credible cause for all the hanky-panky breaking out in public places.

Naturally, various teams of naughty starship crews, private detectives, and superheroes take up the case of the missing celestial inhibitor. Yet, perhaps not so ironically, the cheapest, goofiest looking footage comes not from the Skinimax spoofs, but from the notoriously cheesy but “legit” Samurai Cop.

If you are not prudish or a color correction professional, Ultra is an amusing exercise in cult movie eccentricity. Mercifully, Charlet & Lavaine wrap things up in exactly one hour, because this concept could easily become a case of “too much of a good thing.” Although they arguably have a greater narrative through-line than the films they are sampling (mostly from set-up and foreplay scenes rather than consummations), it is still pretty loose. Of course, any meaningful attempt at characterization is necessarily impossible. It is literally a gag reel.

Be that as it may, it is pretty bizarre to see what some blue movie makers thought viewers would find titillating and even more mind-blowing that Canal+ apparently aired them at one point (granted, in the early a.m., but still). We’re definitely talking about the sexually explicit puppets here.

Yeah so, Ultra. There are plenty of opportunities to chuckle and shake your head at the wacky barrage of images, but there is no danger of anyone busting gut from laughter. Frankly, Charlet & Lavaine probably cobbled together the funniest film they could, but their source material might just be inherently limiting. Nevertheless, it is never dull. Recommended for cult fans who like to be able to say they have seen films of notoriety, In Search of Ultra-Sex is out there someplace, following its Canadian premiere at this year’s Fantasia.

NYAFF ’16: HK2 Abnormal Crisis

Basically, Kyosuke Shikijo is the fetish version of Peter Parker. Yes, he from Japan. Why do you ask? Like Spiderman’s alter-ego. Shikijo is a sad sack college student who moons over his goody two-shoes girlfriend. However, his superpowers flow from used panties rather than radioactive spiders. With great perversion comes great responsibility in Yuichi Fukuda’s HK2: The Abnormal Crisis (trailer here), which screens during the 2016 New York Asian Film Festival.

In HK1, Shikijo barely held off the evil supervillain Tamao Oogane. There was an explosion and Oogane was presumed dead, but any manga reader ought to know better than that. Flashing forward a few years, Shikijo and his girlfriend Aiko Himeno are now in college. There have not been any costumed villain sightings lately, so Himeno insists Shikijo hang up his panties (technically, they would be her panties). Of course, this leaves Japan vulnerable when Oogane’s transplanted head lets loose a campaign of terror, abetted by a vacuum cleaner-man and a giant man-crab mutant.

Shikijo will try to make do with the panties of his femme fatale biology professor, but they are just not the same. Things really look grim when Oogane latest invention starts vacuuming up all of Japan’s previously worn panties. Can this be the end of the Masked Pervert? Have faith, true believers.

It is hard to find another franchise as ludicrously tasteless as the HK series. Think of it as American Pie raised to the power of five thousand, crossed with the Marvel Universe. At times, the humor approaches the wildly inappropriate. However, it also holds to the endearing belief that true love and virtue will triumph in the end. You will be similarly hard-pressed to meet a hero as earnest as Shikijo. He just has his quirks.

You have to give Ryohei Suzuki credit for having the physique and lack of self-consciousness to don Shijiko’s panties. This time around, Ayame Misaki adds some actually sultriness as Prof. Ayata, but there is no point in pretending HK is more than what it is. The naughty, over-the-top goofiness is not just the main point, it is pretty much its only reason for being. If you enjoyed the bulging outrageousness of the first film, Fukuda and company give you even more in the sequel. Recommended for fans of wildly tasteless fare, such as HK1 and R100, HK2: The Abnormal Crisis screens tonight (7/6) at the SVA Theatre, as part of this year’s NYAFF.

BG: A Modern Love Story

These French teens make Larry Clark’s kids look cautious and prudish. They start with a game of Truth or Dare that is only dares, but they quickly dispense with the bottle. Pretty soon, it is all orgies, all the time for this group of largely unsupervised upper middle class high school students. However, there will eventually be a price to pay in Eva Husson’s unsubtly titled Bang Gang: A Modern Love Story (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

George is the school’s sexually confident queen bee, who takes the more reserved Laetitia under her wing. They become fast friends and just as fast frienemies when the well-heeled Alex spurns George in favor of Laetitia. Not used to be on the outs, George responds by going nuclear, inspiring the first drunken happening she vernacularly dubs a “Bang Gang.” Yet to her surprise, Laetitia, Alex, and the rest of his vapid circle acclimate themselves much more readily to the Bob & Carol & Ted & Alice lifestyle than she does.

In a nearly complete role reversal, Alex is soon throwing Bang Gangs nearly every day, while George commences a cautious courtship with Gabriel, the rumpled aspiring electronica composer Laetitia has been carrying a torch for. Things will be further complicated when George is publically shamed by an online video-posting outside the group’s admittedly loose guidelines.

A film like BG needs to be excruciatingly honest about its emotional consequences or just say the Hell with it and double down on titillation. Rather awkwardly, Husson spends most of the film trying to be half-pregnant, which guarantees it will fail on both scores. True to form, the resulting film manages to be simultaneously boring and smarmy.

Husson is in fact a talented filmmaker. Her short film Promises, essentially an alternate music video for The Presets’ tune of same name, featuring sexy bloody vampires, is entertaining, in a shamelessly slick way. When considered alongside BG, it rather suggests Husson is recovering from a Bret Easton Ellis influence, which is always dangerous. Regardless, she way over-indulges in the pseudo-apocalyptic portents of a rash of commuter train derailments and the scorching hot summer’s mounting death toll from heatstroke. That would probably be a Lars von Trier influence, which is also a tricky business.

Nevertheless, she coaches her young, mostly unprofessional cast into some very good, depressingly believable performances. Marilyn Lima and Daisy Broom, who swapped their natural blonde and brunette hair colors, are especially engaging as George and Laetitia, respectively. They actually get at some truths regarding high school social dynamics, but it all just gets buried under the film’s excesses and languid pace.

Let’s be honest, we have been here before and seen plenty of similar porn-obsessed borderline sociopathic teenagers frittering away their advantages. This time they happen to be French, but there is nothing intrinsically special about them. Furthermore, when the promised consequences finally crash the party, they are so ambiguous, it leaves viewers baffled regarding Husson’s intentions. A pretentious mess from any perspective, Bang Gang is not recommended when it opens this Friday (6/17) in New York, at the Village East.

EU Chicago ’16: Last Summer of the Rich

Fascists and fetishists share a similar taste in shiny black clothes. Hanna von Stezewitz’s old National Socialist grandfather was the former, whereas she has the latter covered. With the old man on his death bed, she has already taken the reins of the multinational he built in rather unsavory ways. Arguably, she is sort of a more engaged Paris Hilton. However, von Stezewitz’s hedonism might finally lead to her undoing in Peter Kern’s Last Summer of the Rich (trailer here), which screens during the 2016 Chicago European Union Film Festival.

Despite a well-earned reputation for her lavish orgies and lesbian S&M sessions in brothels, von Stezewitz has made herself a kingmaker in Vienna politics and a patroness of its art scene. Its because of her money. Like John Gielgud’s Hobson in Arthur, the loyal Boris tries to smooth over her scandals as best he can, but the family of a sixteen-year-old model roughly molested by von Stezewitz is being difficult. Of course, she refuses to give it much thought.

Instead, she decides to hasten her ailing grandfather on his way to his infernal rest. However, through a rather dubious O.Henry-esque twist, she also finds herself in the hitman’s crosshairs—or at least she thinks she is. It is not clear just how firm her grasp on reality becomes, as the film progresses. Regardless, she will not let such matters dissuade her from romantically pursuing Sarah, the young nun who tended to her grandfather during his final days. In fact, von Stezewitz has rather fallen head-over-heels, which is out of character for her.

So, obviously Last Summer is about three parts Rainer Werner Fassbinder and one part Tinto Brass (the worst part). Kern (who also has extensive acting credits, including Fassbinder’s Despair) apparently never met a taboo he couldn’t put in a film. That probably makes Last Summer unreleaseable in American, unless a distributor can somehow remove the scene with Stezewitz and the under-age model, while maintaining narrative cohesion. Good luck with that.

Clearly, it is all rather ridiculously over the top, particularly the masked assassin stalking von Stezewitz like the Pink Panther. Seriously, these folks spend more time in brothels than the characters of Game of Thrones. The tacked-on fig leaf of class-consciousness just makes it all even sillier.

At least, everyone understands what is required of them. As von Stezewitz, Amira Casar vamps it up like a poor man’s Asia Argento. Nicole Gerdon’s Sister Sarah seems almost ethereally unreal, but she still has her moments. Yet, it is Winfried Glatzeder who steals the show as dour, vinegary Boris.

Last Summer is not a great movie, nor is it bashful or apologetic, but there are still reasons to see it. You should know by now whether those are your reasons. Ludicrous and lecherous, Last Summer of the Rich follows in the tradition of Teutonic art house exploitation, so fans of Brass’s Salon Kitty can have at it when it screens this Friday (3/25) and next Tuesday (3/29) at the Siskel Film Center, as part of this year’s Chicago EU Film Festival.

Slamdance ’16: How to Plan an Orgy in a Small Town

What else are you going to do in a quaint little Canadian burg that still only has dial-up? Watch hockey or read Anne of Green Gables? Actually, the good townsfolk of Beaver’s Ridge are more partial to the virtuous YA novels of local luminary Maureen Cranston. Make that the late Maureen Cranston. Her black sheep sex columnist daughter has returned for her funeral, getting an even more awkward reception than expected in Jeremy Lalonde’s How to Plan an Orgy in a Small Town (trailer here), which screens during the 2016 Slamdance Film Festival.

Back in the waning days of high school, Cassie Cranston decided to seal the deal with her boyfriend Adam Mitchell during a party. However, he wasn’t quite ready. Through an unfortunate chain of events, Cranston was forced to do a near naked walk of shame through town, while Mitchell curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor. That was kind of it for Cranston and Beaver Ridge. She moved to the big city and unloaded on the town’s prudery in her first Carrie Bradshaw-esque column. They still remember that one.

In fact, the town’s paragon of Puritanism, Heather Mitchell, Adam’s wife and Cranston’s old nemesis, sort of over-compensates. She tries to enlist Cranston’s help organizing an old fashioned Marin-county orgy. Cranston is incredulous and slightly appalled, but she agrees anyway. She happens to be in a bit of a fix. She is due to deliver her book to her publisher, but she hasn’t written a word. Honestly, she is a bit of a fraud. Despite some research in sex clubs and what have you, Cranston is still technically a virgin. If nothing else, a Beaver Ridge orgy should be good material.

Of course, there are about half a dozen colorful characters who agree to participate in the swinging bash for their own reasons, including her trampy bestie Alice Solomon, Solomon’s ED-afflicted ex, Bruce Buck, his suave new realty partner Spencer Goode, and the ill-matched Mitchells. Some look good in various states of undress, others not so much. Generally, the on-screen action is mostly somewhat frank rom-com stuff, but that title is not metaphorical.

Plan is generally amusing, but it is nowhere near as clever as last year’s Canadian underdog, Big News from Grand Rock. Stargate: Atlantis’s Jewel Staite is an engaging screen presence, who finds just the right attitude for Cranston. Katharine Isabelle certainly will not jeopardize her growing cult popularity with her vampy work as Solomon and Lauren Lee Smith is rather spectacularly prim and shrewish as Heather Mitchell. However, Ennis Esmer, who was terrific in Grand Rock, underwhelms as her doormat-like husband. Likewise, the realtors and the other assorted orgiers are not so subtly drawn or nuanced.

Go broad and slightly naughty was clearly Lalonde’s strategy. In general, it works okay and he earns bonus points for not chickening out down the stretch, but it doesn’t have much staying power, so to speak. For those who are looking for something easy with no emotional entanglements, How to Plan an Orgy in a Small Town screens again this Wednesday (1/27), as part of this year’s Slamdance in Park City.

Sex in the Comix: Not Approved by the Comics Code Authority

Yes, R. Crumb is still alive. In fact, he seems to be doing better than ever. Of course, he should be in a good head space when discussing his favorite topics: sexually explicit comics and his own life. The two subjects are often deeply intertwined for the artists profiled in Joëlle Oosterlinck’s Sex in the Comix (trailer here), which releases today on VOD.

They are not kidding about the “x” in Comix. Explicit Comix make X-rated films look restrained and prudish. You can find just about every transgressive hang-up given free rein and you can thank the 1960s counter-culture. As Crumb explains, the underground press would publish anything he submitted, no matter how shocking, but they paid a pittance.

So there you pretty much have it. Oosterlinck basically gives viewers a breezy survey of some of the leading lights of redlight district comic book history, essentially introducing their major themes and motifs and then moving on to the next participant. It offers a reasonably broad cross-section, including the classical eroticism of Milo Manara and the macabrely baroque work of Suehiro Maruo (a favorite of John Zorn). However, there seems to be a slight bias in favor of homoerotic and feminist artists and storylines.

Rather tellingly, only the late Tom of Finland and Alison Bechdel’s work are still discussed even though they do not appear as an interview subjects. Yet, it is ironically debatable whether the film passes the Bechdel Test (probably, if we count French autobiographical comic artist Aude Picault discussing her work, presumably with Oosterlinck).

It is hard to really get bored by any combination of sex and comic books, but the fifty-two minutes of SITC never has sufficient time for any truly revelatory analysis. Burlesque performer and comic artist Molly Crabapple’s coquettish persona is not particularly well suited for hosting duties either. Still, it is nice to see Robert Crumb and Aline Kominsky-Crumb looking well, especially considering how much convincing it took for him to consent to Zwigoff’s film.

Having previously co-directed Art of Spiegelman, a documentary profile of Maus creator Art Spiegelman, Oosterlinck clearly has a passion for comic book art as a mature adult form of creative expression. However, the earlier documentary worked better because of its greater focus. Basically a time killer that might have greater meaning for passionate fans of Crumb or Crabapple, Sex in the Comix is now available via VOD platforms, from Doppelganger Releasing.

Back Issues: Milos Forman’s Favorite Publisher Does His Thing

Unlike many of his predecessors and contemporaries, Larry Flynt is still making money from naughty pictures. His were always the naughtiest, as prosecutors sometimes noticed. Michael Lee Nirenberg, the son of longtime Hustler art director William Nirenberg, tells his publishing success story in Back Issues: the Hustler Magazine Story (trailer here), which is now available on VOD.

Thanks to Miloš Forman, we already know the general trajectory of Flynt’s story. He started with a club that produced a tacky newsletter that eventually evolved into the granddaddy of tacky magazines. He showed more than his competitors and was prosecuted as a result. However, he won his cases on First Amendment grounds.

Look, we might well be sympathetic to Flynt’s 1^st Amendment arguments and completely believe his readers have a right to buy his magazines. However, neither Forman nor Nirenberg ever make a persuasive case Flynt’s victories prevented the storm-troopers from shuttering any other sort of press that was not in the dirty picture business. It is therefore difficult to enthusiastically celebrate him as a free press champion or fret that we were spared a tumble down the slippery slope.

On the other hand, both Nirenbergs will convince viewers Flynt is quite a challenging boss to work for. While the senior Nirenberg has undeniably found memories of the overall zaniness, some incidents clearly still rankle him. Evidently, working at a permissive, zeitgeisty magazine is still work. In fact, the elder Nirenberg seems to be one of the few who could actually get things done.

The junior Nirenberg’s interviews with his father are pleasantly chatty and occasionally revealing. Perhaps even more candid are the sit-downs with Flynt’s brother Jimmy. In contrast, the notorious Flynt always seems to be consciously playing a scripted part. There are also plenty of reminiscences with the talent that appeared within his pages, whose names would surely mean nothing to any of us, right?

There is maybe a thimble full of revisionism in Back Issues and a whole lot of gawking. Ironically though, Nirenberg is reluctant to show many of the images that caused such consternation, which is an indirect commentary in itself. Breezily distracting, but mostly rather shallow, Back Issues is best left to those who are fascinated by Flynt’s world. It is now available on VOD from Filmbuff.

Premature: Déjà vu High

Yes, what really is a Hoya, but Rob Crabbe might not get that. He is under extreme pressure from his alumni parents to get into Georgetown, but he keeps blowing the interview—and everything else he tries this very bad day—over and over again. For some cosmic reason, his high school angst fest keeps resetting whenever he can’t hold his horses, which happens pretty frequently in Dan Beers’ somewhat naughty high school genre comedy, Premature (trailer here), opening tonight at the IFC Center.

Crabbe is a diligent kid with all the right extracurriculars for a college application, but the wrong ones for impressing girls. He only has two real friends, the sex-obsessed Stanley, who seems to be on the cusp of graduating into a Kevin Smith movie and his conspicuously cute platonic girlfriend, Gabrielle. He also tutors a fake friend, Angela Yearwood (a.k.a. Afterschool Special), the school’s promiscuous hottie. Crabbe is to be interviewed by Georgetown alumnus Jack Roth, but he always starts off on an embarrassing foot, because of a bullying incident (by the volleyball team of all people). On the upside, Yearwood finally invites Crabbe over to her house for a tutoring session, which is where Crabbe’s cosmic Etch A Sketch usually gets cleared.

There is no denying the obvious: Premature is a fluid-obsessed teenage sex comedy co-written and directed by a guy named Beers. Tailor your expectations accordingly.  If perchance you are looking for some relentlessly shameless laughs, it aims to please. Beers and co-screenwriter Mathew Harawitz rather cleverly adapt the Groundhog Day concept to high school, finding fresh ways to make sex jokes, while still maintaining a relatively innocent heart.

As Krabbe, John Karna is clearly trying to be the next Jason Bateman, but he is way too low-key and reserved. You’d probably pick on him too, if you had the opportunity. However, Craig Roberts makes amends for walking around looking so sad-eyed and sensitive in the annoyingly precocious Submarine with his wonderfully foul-mouthed and energetic turn as best-bud Stanley. Katie Findlay also displays a winning screen presence as Gabrielle—almost to a problematic extent, far outshining the campus bombshell-temptress. Yet, perhaps the film’s MVP should go to Alan Tudyk as the wildly unstable Roth. Just as he did in Tucker & Dale vs. Evil, he shows a real knack for creating outrageous characters that are still profoundly decent.

If you consider “juvenile humor” a term of derision than good luck with Premature. On the other hand, if you enjoy a good boob joke as much as the next horny adolescent than its time to stock up. Recommended for fans of films with the words “Pie” and “Lampoon” in the title, Premature opens tonight (7/2) in New York at the IFC Center.

NYAFF ’14: Golden Chickensss

A lot has changed in Hong Kong over the last twenty years or so, but it remains a high-flying city. There is still plenty of exclusive partying going on and that is good for Kam’s business—the oldest business. HK’s Happy Hooker turned Madam adjusts with the times, but it is harder for the ambiguous love of her life in Matt Chow’s Golden Chickensss (a.k.a. Golden Chicken 3, trailer here), which screens tomorrow on the first day of the 2014 New York Asian Film Festival.

Kam has gone from labor to management, but she still not too snobby to do her share of field work. After all, she still has her conspicuous assets. There are younger madams out there, but she can work the phones and stroke a client’s ego like the best of them. She will even take her girls on a field trip to Japan to pick up some tips the world’s preeminent hummer expert. However, things start to get serious when Brother Gordon is finally released from jail.

While they were never a couple, per se, Brother Gordon had her back and there was always a certain something between them. There is still a spark of something between them. Unfortunately, the gangster does not understand how much Hong Kong has changed. Kam tries to gently guide him towards a quieter life, but she is afraid too stiff a shot of reality will hobble his spirit.

Evidently there are a lot of puns in Chickensss that kill with Cantonese speakers, but are mostly lost on the rest of the world. On the other hand, Sandra Ng’s chest prosthetics require absolutely no translation. Would that be the costume designer’s responsibility or a special effects artist? Regardless, they look impressively genuine (and you will be looking).

In fact, there is something relentlessly appealing about our indomitable heroine. Ng is one of the few comedy specialists, who can effortlessly segue from physical comedy to sultry naughtiness and then back to straight-up melodrama without ever looking awkward or embarrassed. Not for nothing will she be the recipient of this year’s NYAFF Star Asia Award (the Queen of Comedy edition). However, most of her co-stars have trouble looking so classy when acting so goofy.

Speaking of looking uncomfortable, Brother Gordon is not exactly Nick Cheung’s best role this year or even his greatest performance at this year’s NYAFF, but he sure seems to be working a lot these days—and you have to respect that. There are a host of in-joke cameos, including Ip Man’s Donnie Yen spoofing his Grandmaster competition (okay, that really was funny) and Louis Koo playing the lookalike gigolo version of himself. As you would expect, there is a gorgeous ensemble cast playing Kam’s employees (including Michelle Wai and Cantopop singers Fiona Sitt and Ivana Wong), but they are not given much to do except look decorative.

Even if you do not get the jokes—or if you get them only too well—it is impossible to dislike such an irrepressible, fabulously dressed film. After watching it, you will have confidence the sun will definitely come out tomorrow in Hong Kong. Upbeat and unapologetically horny, is largely recommended for Ng’s fans looking for some broad comedy and a dash of nostalgia. It screens tomorrow (6/27) and Tuesday (7/1) at the Walter Reade Theater as part of this year’s NYAFF celebration of Sandra Ng.

Embrace of the Vampire: Fencing with the Undead

There’s one thing vampires dig almost as much as blood.  Lurking about a hormonally stoked college campus is as good a place as any to find it.  It isn’t even spring break yet, but college life is distinctly feverish for one innocent freshman coed. There will be blood and nudity.  The details will sound vaguely familiar to those who fondly remember the erotic cult favorite that forever changed how film geeks thought about Alyssa Milano.  Remade for a new generation, Carl Bessai’s unrated Embrace of the Vampire (trailer here) releases today on DVD and Bluray (where it so obviously belongs).

Right, if you’re still with me after that, then sweet, let’s do this.  Like so many disadvantaged orphans before her, Charlotte Hawthorn is determined to fence her way to a better life.  However, the scholarship student feels out of step with the hedonism enjoyed by her trampy roommate, Nicole and her mean girl BFF, Eliza.  At least Hawthorn has a nice barista job lined up, working for her sensitive frat boy café manager.

Strangely, as soon as she arrives, Hawthorn starts experiencing sexually charged dreams and visions.  It gets so bad, so quickly, she soon has trouble distinguishing reality.  The fencing team hazing rituals do not help either.  However, one upper class teammate is willing to shield her from the worst of it: Sarah Campbell, the bisexual nymphomaniac.  Every fencing squad should have at least one.  Meanwhile her coach and mythology professor seems to take an intense interest in her “stance.”

Add in a bit of warmed over vampire slayer mumbo jumbo and there you have it.  Except, Bessai’s execution is better than you would expect.  Granted, the flashbacks to the old country look like outtakes from a Syfy Channel original movie, but the contemporary campus sequences sort of work.  The location is perfect.  Every building seems to have an exterior staircase and surrounding woods encroach on every corner.  It is a bit unusual for the women’s fencing team to be at the top of the school’s social pyramid, but the film’s student power dynamics are as well realized as that in the overrated All the Boys Love Mandy Lane.  The new Embrace is also less of a tease, pretty much delivering what it promises.

Be that as it may, this is not the film that will establish Sharon Hinnendael as the screen thespian of her generation.  It is not really her fault though.  Most of her scenes involve her groggily coming to after falling into various states of altered consciousness. Unfortunately, Victor Webster’s Prof. Cole is a pretty cheesy excuse for a Byronic brooder.  Still, C.C. Sheffield, Chelsey Reist, and Olivia Cheng play the catty fencing femmes to the hilt.

Embrace commits one cardinal sin.  At one point, Cole refers to Hawthorn’s foil as a “sword.”  That is a big no-no.  Still, the target market is not apt to notice and even less likely to care.  Bessai has some legit credits to his name (most notably Emile starring Sir Ian McKellen) and keeps the silly indulgences moving along at a decent pace.  By now you should know what you’re getting, but it is still more entertaining than many of the genre underachievers limping in and out of theaters this month.  Recommended for those who enjoy horror movies with plenty of naughty bits, the new Embrace of the Vampire is now available for home viewing.

TIFF ’13: R100

Even though filming has not even begun on the questionable movie adaptation of Shades of Grey, Hitoshii Matsumoto has already mashed-up the S&M melodrama genre beyond human recognition.  From Japan, we have a cautionary, surreal meta-meta postmodern bondage conspiracy tale, while Hollywood is banking on a dude who wears grey ties.  How quaint.  In the mean time, Matsumoto subverts perversion throughout R100 (trailer here), which screens as part of the 2013 Toronto International Film Festival.

Takafumi Katayama is a drab and depressed working drone who needs to unwind a little.  He thinks he has found just the ticket when he joins a mysterious club for submissive men.  At first, he gets the release he is seeking when the black-clad women meet him at their scheduled rendezvouses to beat him about and smash his sushi rolls (that’s not a euphemism).  However, when they start showing up at his home and work, matters turn a distinctly charcoal shade of grey.

As each dominatrix escalates their encounters, Katayama starts to fear for his life and the safety of his young son and father-in-law.  Then things get really weird, but not do bother complaining about logical inconsistencies.  The film will provide that commentary itself.

Strictly speaking, there is no nudity or sex in R100, but it is absolutely, positively not for kids.  The title is a play on the Japanese motion picture rating system that could be roughly translated as NC-100 for American audiences—and not for nothing.  However, the film definitely seems to suggest you are begging for trouble if you go out looking for something on the deviant side of life.

Yet, R100 careens so defiantly over the top, it becomes a dicey business parsing its symbolic layers and potential take-away teachings.  If any of this film sounds problematic to you, then you should probably avoid R100 because there is way more of whatever it is than we’ve covered so far.  On the other hand, cult cinema connoisseurs looking for a new and distinctive head trip will find it here.  Imagine Eyes Wide Shut transported to the world of Quentin Dupieux’s Rubber and you will start to get the idea.

Nao Omori perfectly anchors the film as the existentially put-upon Katayama.  Just looking at him sort of makes you want to smack him alongside the head.  However, he handles the character’s strange evolution with understated power.  As his son Arashi, Haruki Nishimoto distinguishes himself an unusually engaging young actor.  Fortunately, his classmates will not be able to see R100 for a while and hopefully he will not have to take much taunting over it in later years.

R100 pushes the envelope, but it never skitters into irredeemably disturbing territory.  Indeed, at some point the game-playing ends and the macro insanity takes over.  Although decidedly one-sided, there is also some decent fight choreography in the first act.  Recommended for exclusively adventurous viewers (but rather forcefully for them), R100 screens again today (9/13) and tomorrow (9/14) as part of this year’s TIFF.

Sunny Goes to Bollywood: What was that Title Again?

Yes, it means “body” in Hindi, but c’mon.  It’s not like they don’t understand the possible English meanings in Bollywood.  Factor in the “mainstream” Bollywood debut of western porn star Sunny Leone and you’ve got the perfect storm of exploitation.  However, nothing is perfect in Pooja Bhatt’s utterly tame J2 (as we shall call it) that nevertheless should not be allowed to ignominiously slink out of theaters unremarked upon (disappointingly safe for work trailer here).

Dear me, where to start.  Perhaps with the plot that can be rather easily dispatched with.  Sunny Leone plays Izna, a porn star (shockingly), who is recruited by a double secret counter-terror agency to lure the dreaded assassin Kabir into a trap.  She had a steamy relationship with Kabir back when he was a crusading cop, but he threw her over when he defected to the dark side.  Needless to say, their feelings for each other remain unresolved.  Simultaneously, Izna’s handler, the tightly wound Aayan Thakur, falls for her hard.  Thus begins a love triangle that endlessly repeats itself, like a turntable needle skipping on a scratch.

Even though she is playing a porn star, Leone is not very convincing as Izna.  Perhaps she was confused by how early all the love scenes ended.  It is not like she isn’t trying.  When called on to act scared, she shivers like she has hypothermia.  Maybe Bhatt had her stand in a walk-in freezer before filming big dramatic sequences.  Okay, so she’s not great, but she knows how to jut.

Frankly, the real embarrassment in J2 is Arunoday Singh’s ridiculously over the top turn as Thakur.  It may well be the most overwrought, awkward screen performance of the post-Ed Wood era.  While he torpedoes his dignity, somehow Randeep Hooda manages to keep his intact as Kabir.  It helps to have that piercing psychopathic stare to fall back on.  It means he can shut the heck up for a while.

J2 commits many cinematic sins, but over economizing is not one of them.  At one hundred thirty minutes, it will tax the indulgence of those who ordinarily dig on bad movies.  Clearly no expense was spared on lush sets, exotic locations, and curve hugging costumes.  However, about twelve cents were spent on script development, relying instead on some of the most shopworn clichés.  The pacing is rather poky, but cinematographer Nigam Bomzan seems hell-bent on recreating the vibe of Prince’s “When Doves Cry” video.

The dirty little secret of J2 is that it is not that dirty at all.  Keep in mind, India has a strict censorship board.  Had it been submitted for a rating here, it might have earned an R, but would have had a puncher’s chance at a PG-13.  That is all well and good for us, but it is profoundly unsatisfying for the film’s target market.  Sorry dudes.

It is not like there is much to miss out on here.  Yet, like a clumsy child, it is hard to judge J2 harshly.  The plain truth is it was just made by people who have no business being on either side of a (mainstream) camera.  Those who know their Bollywood will not be surprised.  The J franchise was written by Bhatt’s father Mahesh, who has a rather sensationalistic rep he has apparently passed along to his daughter.  In case you were worried about not having seen the first installment (wisely re-titled Body for its American DVD release) the films are only thematically related and stand alone, such as they are.  Evidently, the Bhatts figured why let deceptively racy title go to waste.  Not really recommended, but for those who want the weird bragging rights of seeing it in a real honest to gosh theater, J2 plays through Thursday (8/9) at the AMC Empire in New York, after which time they will presumably bounce it out of there, post-haste.

The Babymakers: Broken Lizard in a Family Way

Three years of marriage have evidently taken a toll on Tommy Macklin.  He paid for his wife’s wedding ring by making “deposits” at the sperm bank, but now that they are trying to get pregnant, his stuff has lost its get-up-and-go.  Obviously, the wisest course of action would be to break-in and steal the last of his vintage brew.  That is indeed the plan in Jay Chandrasekhar’s The Babymakers (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Macklin might strike viewers as more of an Apatowesque man-boy than good potential father stock, but his wife Audrey Macklin is ready to give it a shot anyway.  Unfortunately, it just doesn’t seem to take.  Given his secret moonlighting in the past, Macklin is convinced it cannot possibly be him.  However, when he finally agrees to a check-up he learns his mojo has left him.  Tracking down his potent samples, Macklin learns there is only one test tube left—and that is slated to be shipped out in a manner of days.

Not to worry, Macklin’s doofus-buddies have a plan.  They will hire the sketchy Ron Jon, allegedly a former second story man for the Mumbai mafia, to mastermind their heist.  Complications arise.

Directed by comedy troupe co-founder Chandrasekhar (who also appears as Ron Jon), Babymakers is sort of, but not really a Broken Lizard film, featuring co-member Kevin Heffernan and several regulars from their previous films, including Nat Faxon (who is fusion drummer Stave Gadd’s son-in-law, according to imdb).  It is certainly similar in tone to The Slammin’ Salmon, combining some tasteless gags with a soft-hearted affection for their characters.

Paul Schneider and Olivia Munn look the part as the Macklins and also handle their sexually charged banter fairly nicely.  Heffernan’s big lug Wade is certainly game for all manner of physical comedy, while in a Cosmo Kramer-ish turn, Chandrasekhar goes all in, heedless of political correctness or good judgment.

Frankly, Babymaker’s naughty humor is amusing, but it is hard to be shocked by supposedly outrageous discussions of this or that act anymore.  The result is a diverting but slight comedy, best suited for drunken giggles after a long night out.  Recommended for those who prefer their comedy broad and blue, The Babymakers opens this Friday (8/3) in New York at the AMC Village 7.

Hysteria: Does Blue Cross Cover That?

It was a moment in history worthy of the Niall Ferguson treatment.  However, instead of explaining how the invention of the vibrator served as the coup de grace for the Ottoman Empire, gender politics and naughty humor are the agenda items for Tanya Wexler’s slightly risqué historical comedy Hysteria (trailer here), which opens tomorrow in New York.

Though his wealthy guardians, the St. John-Smythes, would support him, the appallingly middle class Dr. Mortimer Granville has that famous protestant work ethic.  He is also up-to-date with the latest advances in medical science, which brings him into conflict with most of London’s frighteningly backward hospital directors.  Fortunately, he secures a position with Dr. Robert Dalrymple, the city’s foremost specialist in “hysteria,” a sort of catch-all diagnosis for women’s nervous tension, but mostly applied to straight-up horniness.  Dr. Dalrymple has built a thriving practice manually stimulating women to what he calls a “paroxysm.”  Yes, that is exactly what it sounds like, as the film makes abundantly clear.

Dalrymple also has two daughters, the prim and proper Emily, whom Granville is supposed to be interested in, and Charlotte, the rabble-rousing progressive settlement house proprietor he is increasingly attracted to, against his better judgment.  Granville seems to finally have his life mapped out for him, until he is undone by a hand cramp, but together with the St. John-Smythes’ dissolute son Edmund, he invents a little mechanical device of destiny.

Hysteria milks its eye-brow raising material for snickers well enough, but the tut-tutting at Victorian hypocrisies quickly becomes tiresome.  Frankly, the film’s best chemistry is the bromance between Hugh Dancy’s Granville and Rupert Everett’s St. John-Smythe, whom we are clearly led to suspect will only be satisfying women through his tinkering.  Conversely, the film is often undermined by big-name miscasting, particularly that of Maggie Gyllenhaal as the sister leading Granville astray.  Can we believe she is annoying? Yes.  Intelligent?  Sort of, but it’s a stretch.   Alluring?  Not really.  Yet, the milquetoast Felicity Jones is hardly more attractive as the bland Emily.

The only real surprise in Hysteria is the extent to which Wexler is willing to show the various “paroxysm.”  Have no fear, our views are always safely obstructed by volumes of petticoats, largely making the film a tease for some potential audiences.  Those wishing to see a slightly ribald edition of PBS’s Masterpiece that wears its feminism on its sleeve will find Hysteria perfectly fits the bill, but everyone else will consider it mostly pleasant, but lightweight and predictable.  For Anglophiles, it opens tomorrow (5/18) in New York at the Lincoln Plaza and Landmark Sunshine Theaters.  As a final note, if you go, stay for the closing credits, featuring cool stills of vintage “Granville’s Hammers.”

Elles Belles

Sex for money can be so liberating.  At least, that is what some guys always say.  A similar position is staked out in a rather mature new film produced and directed by women and featuring a largely female cast.  Even if they adore Juliette Binoche, this is not a film to watch with your parents.  However, a lot of people saw it with other people’s parents when it screened at the 2012 Tribeca Film Festival.  Mere days later, Malgoska Szumowska’s Elles (trailer here) has opened its conventional theatrical run in New York.

Anne is a wife, a mother, and a freelance writer.  Her latest story is a confidential profile of student prostitutes.  The assignment came at an awkward period in her marriage, around the same time she busted her husband for a certain kind of net surfing.  As she talks to these confident young women, she becomes obsessed with their explicit stories.  According to Charlotte and Alicja, their approach to sex is healthier, because there is no hypocrisy.  They make a comfortable living exploiting men’s weaknesses of the flesh.  Maybe so, but liberation never looked so demeaning.

Films exploring the jujitsu empowerment of prostitutes are nearly as old as the profession itself.  One obvious comparison is Steven Soderbergh’s The Girlfriend Experience, which also screened at Tribeca three years ago.  Yet, that film, starring an actual pornstar, is far more circumspect in what it depicts.  In fact, there is no on-screen sex and only a spot of nudity is to be seen here or there.  It is the emotional entanglements surrounding sex that concern GFE.  In contrast, Elles jumps right into some of the more explicit scenes you will see in a public theater.  It was not tagged with an NC-17 rating for no reason.

Frankly, Soderbergh had the right idea.  Even if Szumowska had a razor sharp analysis of sexual politics to offer, it is hard to get past some of the things she shows the audience.  However, the film’s feminist themes are pretty threadbare and the drama is more frustrating than absorbing.

Normally a bedrock of reliability, even Binche seems a little off here as the journalist.  Her reactions to everything often seem wildly disproportionate to the circumstances at hand.  Still, Anaïs Demoustier and Joanna Kulig both bring smart, attractive presences to bear on this material.  For the record, I briefly met Kulig on the way to a post-screening Q&A and she seems like a lovely and engaging person.  I imagine the audience had a lot of questions for her, but whether they had the guts to ask them is another matter entirely.  It is also worth noting, the legendary Krystyna Janda (whose credits include Andrzej Wajda’s Man of Marble and Ryszard Bugajski’s The Interrogation) also co-stars in the largely thankless role of Alicja’s mother.

Something about Elles simply does not click.  It is not necessarily because of the subject matter, but it makes the lack of depth and cohesion more conspicuous.  Due to the accomplished cast, cineastes should have on their radar, but it is not recommended as a satisfying theater-going experience.  After its high profile Tribeca screenings, Elles is now open in New York at the Angelika Film Center.