Ode to Brigitte Lahaie

When my girlfriends invited me to go see a midnight viewing of Pirates last night, my first thought should have been: "Arrrrrr," followed by brash enthusiasm; but all I could think was 'God, and stare at Keira Knightly for nearly three hours?' Now I know, I know, that the main draw of the movie is Johhny Depp, followed closely by both swash and buckle; but what happened to the days when this kind of crowd-pleasing fluff included some cheesecake? Why even have a female lead if she's going to look like a 12 year old boy?

Now, I believe that the trend towards slim models and actresses has about as little to do with teen eating disorders in America as Metallica has to do with Columbine, or whatever nonsense people spew about that sort of thing. My problem with Keira Knightly and, for that matter, every other plain faced stick figure on the big screen today is not the example they are setting for the youth of America. Their presence in big budget Hollyood productions says something terrifying about America's relationship with women. And I'm not even sure what it is.... but I know it has to be negative. The sexuality exuded by Keira Knightly in the Pirates movies is...non-existent? Completely! And what is a pirate movie, really, except for treasure, violence, and heaving bosoms in hot corsets? (also rum) At least in the era of Russ Meyer, Jayne Mansfield, Brigitte Lahaie, Barbarella, Isabel Sarli, and Reiko Ike, female sexuality was celebrated. Russ Meyer's movies are joyful; filled with bouncy, big breasted, oversexed women who can be badasses too. Brigitte Lahaie and Isabel Sarli shared with us two of the most beautiful naturally occurring human forms in history. Mansfield and Ike are flawed women that we love to love anyway, because of their ability to go to extremes, to touch us where we haven't been touched (giggle)...and, well, you get the idea. In essence, we were at one point getting off on women getting off. And that's hot. So whatever happened to cheesecake? Where is the Brigitte Lahaie of 2007? Jenna Jamison? Seriously? I'd rather take the GRE again than watch her take her clothes off. And what is the Barbarella of recent years...Aeon Flux with motherfucking Charlize Theron? Is that what we've been reduced to? What are all these joyless, sexless hags doing on my screen?

I think that one of the causes of this problem is that there's no joy in filmed sex anymore. Russ Meyer loved tits, and it's his genuine enthusiasm and fetishism, as well as the burlesque-esque writing style and tone he adds to his films, that made them great. Brigitte, Isabel, Jayne, and Reiko were in movies because they had presence and were physically representative of the ideal woman; and not because they were made of plastic and willing to do double penetration. Or, alternately, whatever it is that makes people hire Keira Knightly. It sure as hell isn't talent, or screen presence, or physical attributes. The best thing I can come up with is that as a celebrity, her name is a marketable attribute, and will draw a certain number of viewers. Or something. Really, I just don't know, it's totally beyond me. So what happened in between the late 80's and today that made us stop valuing female sexuality? Why don't we feel comfortable with celebrating joyful, overblown vampiness anymore? Why aren't we actively demanding the return of the sex-kitten?

I just hope Rodriguez's remake of Barbarella will remind America of what we once had, and how silly it is that we don't have it anymore.




Update: Dolly Parton is the shit. Linked is a decent article about why, exploring some of the female sexuality related issues I'd like to have something bright to say about.

P.S.- I got no beef with skinny girls, or androgynous girls, just the role Hollywood MAKES them play in representing female sexuality (although, Shane from the L Word, you rock it Japanese pillow book old school and make that skinny, androgynous look wicked femme positive). Seems to me that typically these girls are made to represent women who do not embrace their own sexuality, which I got beef with. I know it can be a thin line to walk, in between exploitation and celebration when it comes to female sexuality; but especially in a medium where female sexuality is not just the icing but the cake( I'm talking 'bout pirate movies...): somebody's gotta try! And, as is evidenced by the L word, when you put forward genuine representations of female sexuality, it's legit even though it's hot! In fact, it's more legit because it's hot! Whatever, ask Dolly Parton, she's smarter than me.....

Double failure

Possibly even triple.

So I know I'm not doing Acephale anymore, but some things just gotta get said. Basically, I just had the most amazing sex ever, twice, followed by a brief cuddle session that lasted exactly the right amount of time so that I didn't have to ask him to leave. I let him out, still feeling that glow, took a hit and hit play on my computer, and it's fuckin' Elvis's 'Do the clam" on my itunes. If anyone in the world is in a better mood than I am right now, I'm really happy for them.

Failure!

I'm a total failure at writing about movies right now.

HOWEVER- my new apartment has an ant problem, and I was about to be really bummed about it, when I remembered what Richard Feynman wrote in Surely you're Joking, Mr. Feynman, about ants. They navigate by smell, and confusing their scent trail will...well, confuse their trail. So I dosed my kitchen sink liberally with some perfume someone gave me at some point, and what do you know: now my kitchen is ant free, without the use of pesticides; and it smells like that French girl I made out with in high school. So I guess reading that book wasn't a complete waste of my time after all...

Grindhouse cinema

As we are all being forcibly made aware of grindhouse film by the illustrious Mssr. Tarantino, I'd like to put in my two cents about this genre, which is near and dear to my heart. While I have yet to see Tarantino's (or Rodriguez's) nod to one of my favorite kinds of movie, I am reasonably sure that Tarantino's attempt at emulating this will be a failure, since the elements of exploitation cinema that interest him appear to be those stylish, cool-factor bits and not the raw ugliness that comprises what is really interesting in these films. Additionally, Tarantino's dialogue heavy format and bent for pseudo-philosophical content will not lend itself well to the genre, and I seriously doubt he can manage to broaden his scope. I might be wrong, but I'm willing to bet that I called this one.

So I will review one of the ugliest, one of the worst, and one of the most representative grindhouse features that I'm aware of: Lucio Fulci's New York Ripper.

New York Ripper is barely a film. It barely has a plot, it barely even has a premise, but of all the messed up junk I enthusiastically show to whomever will watch, this is the one that most frequently elicits: "That changed me," and I certainly will go back and watch it, and watch it change people, again and again. The film opens with an elderly gentleman tossing a stick for his golden retriever in a recognizable, NYC location(a classic feature of grindhouse flicks, which were predominantly shown in the 42nd street grindhouses). In a trite, cheap shot moment, the obliging pooch return to it's owner carrying not a stick, but a severed human hand. And it only gets worse from there. The basic, overarching premise of the film is that there is a serial killer on the loose, targeting women in the manner of Jack the Ripper, antagonizing the police, and generally being up to no good. Character development is achieved largely through the assertions of other characters in the film, and "she has an IQ of 142," is supposed to be enough to convince us that some simpering blonde nitwit who behaves like she couldn't put her pants on by herself is smart. Similarly, much of the police work/mystery unraveling is necessarily made by a leap of faith; "After reviewing these tapes, it is clear to me that the killer is well-off, from a cultured background" (after listening to a tape of a man saying "you're stupid" in a donald duck voice). Like many grindhouses, this film exists as a vehicle for two or three truly shocking set pieces, and the rest of it is poorly connected, compulsory plot-furthering situations. So I'll review this film how it should be reviewed:

Set pieces:

1) Razor to the nipple

2) Razor to the eye-ball

3) Broken bottle to the crotch, w/ crotch POV shot

4) Foot rape

Themes/gimmicks:

1) SM

2) Voyeurism/exhibitionism

3) Donald duck. You heard me.

Grindhouse films are ugly. These films were made to deliver a blow, to touch something in members of society who wanted to feel: anything. I think things like this are worth seeing because they are a naturally occurring phenomenon that I find fascinating. Those things that are most telling about them now, (their emotional salience, themes of misogyny and violence against women, one of the only glimpses into the lives of certain fringe elements of society, one of the truest glimpses into the real fantasy life of at least one section of Americans...), came from someplace true and important to understand. This particular type of escapist relief, this particular kind of head trip, is deeply interesting but a sad and curious artifact of deep hatred and loneliness; of film-makers and film viewers. If Tarantino delivers as much emotional scope and complexity in his polished, kick-ass retro piece as I take away from New York Ripper, I'll be very surprised.

The Host part II

Or 'insomnia part 80 billion' or something.

I still don't have the energy to really say anything about 'The Host,' but I will relate this anecdote to those of you who have seen it. So I work in a Children's Hospital, and right outside the door to my office is a wall where the feeding disorder kids hang their art therapy projects. These kids are between the ages of 2-10, I'd say, and were probably almost all born prematurely. At any rate, I am always largely impressed by these projects, and am particularly enamored of the work of a young girl of about 4 named Claire, whose last project "snazzy feet," I actually considered stealing before I realized what I was considering. This week Claire has painted a large, watercolor mural; of a river flowing, and the sun, and some plants, and.... a large, indiscriminate amphibious looking blob? And the word HAN scribbled in big yellow kiddie letters, with an arrow pointing to the river. Now I'm sure there's some perfectly reasonable explanation for this; if you figure it out, let me know.

Science!

Hi all, sorry for the shocking lack of content in recent weeks. Tomorrow I am off to IMFAR (International Meeting for Autism Research) to present a paper; this is why I haven't had any time to write about movies. Although I haven't managed to stop thinking about them... At any rate, wish me luck, it's the first thing I've ever been first author on.

Feminism, apparently

Alright, let's talk about vagina. In film. I'd like to preface this by saying that I am by no means a feminist, educated about feminist theory, or even really a huge fan of feminists as they appear to me to exist today; nor am I really very similar to most women and therefor close to being able to understand how they feel about gender roles and all that jazz. So here goes what looks to be pretty much a shot in the dark.

I specifically want to talk about feminism in the context of two films: Catherine Breillat's 'Anatomy of Hell,' and Peggy Ahwesh's 'The Dead Man'. Both of these films purport to be explorations of female sexuality, sans "the usual patriarchal-porn trimmings" (Jonathan Rosenbaum, Chicago Reader, on The Dead Man). Both are adapted from literary sources (The Dead Man from the short story by Georges Bataille, Anatomy of Hell from Breillat's own novel Pornocracy). And both are very focused around one overwhelming mood: revulsion.

I didn't choose to talk about these movies because they are good, and, in fact, I'm pretty sure Breillat's movie sucked, but they did make me think.

'The Dead Man' was interesting in that it has been heralded as a feminist film, as is evidenced by the above quote, but damn if it isn't absolutely true to the Bataille story. In the story (and the film) a young woman discovers her lover's corpse. She leaves her country home and wanders, naked under a raincoat, out into a storm and engages in a series of acts that convey that she has completely relinquished her self control; the violent situation produces a series of violently unstudied actions. Our heroin, naked, soaking wet and already at the edge of experience enters a bar and things escalate until she is engaged in raunchy public sex acts with the lecherous local yokels; falling down drunk and not above squatting on the bar and urinating on one of it's patrons before being unceremoniously fucked on the floor. Ahwesh's treatment of the subject matter is pretty much verbatim, and I don't think Bataille would be at all displeased with her decision to include acting so bad it made the audience squirm almost as much as the image of one of her actors pulling on his limp dick, or the very long and simply shot sex scene on the floor, with all the drunken grunting and thrusting that that involved. As the original story was written by a man, and the film is, in fact, shockingly true to the tone of the story, it is interesting that it is considered a feminist film. My best guess would be that this is a reflection of the perception that works that are violently confrontational and have female characters that make us uncomfortable are feminist works. Exactly why it is important, to the end of establishing gender equality, that we be made uncomfortable, that we be confronted with a revolting woman, I can't say I know. Needless to say, I thought the dead man was the most awesome movie ever.

The Anatomy of Hell, on the other hand, was deeply flawed and at times obnoxiously preachy. It did, however, leave an impression, as some of the images are burned into my retinas until the end of time, or at least the end of this week. In this confused head trip, a gay man(aging Italian porn star Rocco Siffredi) happens on a woman, in a gay bar, slitting her wrists. They enter into an agreement in which he will be payed to watch her while she sleeps at her isolated country home. What follows is a lot of terrible dialogue about how revolting women are, and how (straight) men want to possess them. The heart of the film, however, is the imagery and without the dialogue obnoxiously spelling out what must have been basically the entirety of 'Pornocracy,' the mood in this film is basically the same as that of 'The Dead Man.' Important differences are that the female character in Anatomy of Hell is in no way rooted in psychological realism, in fact I'm pretty sure that as this was in conception and execution a feminist film, she must necessarily be less specific than that and be representative of women. In addition, she has complete control, and although she's asleep for most of the action (and she's quite a deep sleeper), appears to constantly be doing things to poor Rocco. Rocco does an excellent job of being deeply affected by all this, and calmly drinks the reddened water she prepares for him by infusing it with her used tampon, but I have trouble buying the importance of the shit that he's so deeply affected by. Also of note is that Rocco's big, hard, beautiful cock makes a number of appearances in the film and female anatomy is, well, made revolting. I guess we'd have to ask Breillat how this forwards the feminist agenda. The film is absolutely violently confrontational, although when coupled with the explicit feminist 'men want to own me period blood is OK' dialogue it seems as if we are being asked to feel guilty for thinking the disgusting, confrontational imagery is gross rather than being asked to push ourselves to the limits of experience, perception and understanding as I feel we are in 'The Dead Man.' Overall an interesting idea in that it's violent and confrontational about sex, but, well.

So those are my thoughts on at least this one specific aspect of feminist film.

Anatomy of Hell available through netflix, The Dead Man available for rental(16mm) from the NY film makers coop